The front door slams shut, shaking the whole apartment and jolting Michael awake. He blinks sleepily, glancing around the empty bedroom while a loud, angry voice starts swearing from the front room.
The clock on the bedside table says that it's two in the morning, which would explain why Michael is laying in bed alone, instead of with his boyfriends. Luke plays gigs every Saturday morning, from midnight to 1:30, at some seedy bar a few blocks away. Calum always accompanies him, claiming that the youngest of their group needs some sort of protection from the drunks that frequent the bar.
Ashton's probably in the second bedroom turned art studio, working on a piece for the gallery he has coming up. He's been working on it for a good month, now, always late at night or early in the morning.
His thoughts are confirmed when he hears the floorboards in the hallways creak, signaling that someone's walking towards the front room. Ashton, probably, going off to find whoever's yelling and carrying on. Michael lays in bed for a while longer, staring up at the ceiling, illuminated by the thin strip of light from under the door. Ashton's yelling chimes in then, so Michael sits up, blankets falling down his chest.
He's got a baggy shirt on, brushing softly against the curve of his breasts and making him cringe. He bites the inside of his cheek sharply and turns his head in an attempt to crack his neck. Long, dirty blonde hair falls into his face, making him cringe even more. He ducks his chin down against his chest and let's his hair fall forward, then wraps it up and ties it into a messy bun on the top of his head.
The yelling gets louder so he crawls out of bed, thighs tense and cheeks burning at how warm the bedroom is. He grabs the duvet as an afterthought and wraps it around his shoulders, leaving the bulk of it in front of him to cover his chest. The other three boys have seen him naked, they've touched him a million times, but he's still embarrassed. He doesn't want them to see his boobs. How disgusting they are. How big they are.
He pads down the hall and into the front room, squinting against the light from the bulb overhead. Luke and Calum are still dressed in their street clothes, matching skinnies with Luke in a flannel and Calum in a band shirt. Luke's guitar is still hung over Calum's shoulder, while Luke's arms flail around wildly. He's yelling at Ashton, who's in paint splattered blue jeans and an old shirt, trying to explain what had happened.
The floor creaks under Michael's weight and he tenses, pausing in his trek towards the others. They all turn to him, Luke with his arms still raised, and look at him expectantly.
"Everything alright?" He asks quietly, ducking down a little and hunching his shoulders to hitch the blanket up even more.
"Yeah, mate," Ashton says, just as Luke yells, "Fuck, no!" They glance at each other then and Luke shrinks back, snapping his mouth shut and flicking his eyes to the ground submissively.
"Yeah, everything's fine, Bell- fuck, sorry," Ashton stumbles over himself, tough exterior crumbling to a look of annoyance. "Michael, sorry. Michael," he says it one last time, to assure everyone that he'd meant Michael, not Michael's dead name.
Michael flinches, but suppresses it by looking away from Ashton. Calum shifts uncomfortably, while Luke runs a hand through his hair in exasperation.
"Fuck, I don't have time for this shit right now," Luke curses, giving his blonde locks one last tug before storming off, tossing his bag over the back of the couch as he goes. He skillfully swerves around Michael to avoid touching him, before ducking into the bathroom. The loud slamming of the door makes Michael flinch.
"Sorry, I-" Michael's not sure what he's apologizing for. Fucking everything up by asking them to change his name and pronouns. Walking into what was apparently a private conversation.
The shower flicks on in the bathroom before Ashton starts speaking again, addressing Calum this time. "You talked to the bar owner, yeah? Talent line up? There was nothing either of them could do?"
Calum shakes his head, readjusting Luke's guitar over his shoulder. "He didn't finish his set."
Michael's stomach drops. Luke doesn't get paid when he doesn't finish his sets. It's only happened once before, when Calum was sick and had to go home, and Luke didn't want him to walk alone. Something terrible must have happened for Luke to not finish his set.
He's so concerned about Luke that, for a second, he forgets Calum and Ashton are still in the room. He tunes back in, just in time to hear them arguing in hushed tones, something about money.
"Rent is due on the thirtieth," Ashton mutters. "That- that gig, the money from that was going to top off our rent. Now, we're down $150. Can he go back after he's finished showering or-"
"He threw up," Calum hisses. "On stage, Ash! He's sick and embarrassed and the freaks hassled him all the way out! We barely had time to grab all our shit!"
Ashton groans and runs a hand through his flat, greasy hair. "Fuck-"
"And," Calum adds, like they didn't have enough to worry about. "If they can't fix the fucking amp he threw up on, they might charge us for it."
Michael shuffles uncomfortably. He was never in charge of the finances, never wanted to make a budget or add their incomes together. He wasn't the best at math, so they didn't mind when he just handed over his paycheck from the clothing store and expected them to handle it. Ashton usually takes care of it.
"Fuck, I know you guys love your artistic jobs-" Calum starts and Michael cringes again. They've had this conversation a million times. Calum wants Ashton and Luke to get proper jobs, but they won't, no matter how much they need money. Michael refrains from calling them selfish, because they're trying. They're doing something they love and bringing in a bit of money at the same time. It's just not enough.
Ashton has maybe a few galleries a year and usually sells three pieces a month. It brings in a lot of money, but they usually have to stretch each sale thin. Painting and commissions take up all his free time, so he can't work a job with proper hours without loosing a few dollars from commissions.
Luke has a few gigs each month, but they're usually late at night or early in the morning. Between sleeping and busking, he hasn't got any time to even apply for a job, let alone work one in the daylight. He's a night owl, and his gig hours reflect that.
"No," Ashton says. "There's got to be another way."
Calum's silent, not even bothering to glance at Ashton's pleading expression. He pulls the guitar off of his shoulder and sets it onto the couch, next to Luke's bag. Michael's still uncomfortable, standing a few feet away and watching them converse like he's an outsider.
Ashton glances over at him, eyeing the giant blanket wrapped around his shoulders and the hair tied into the top of his head, and sighs. He must realize that Michael's going to start wanting things, boy things. Like a dick.
"Fine," he whispers.
((Hey y'all, this was more of an intro than anything! The chapters will be longer after this!
Anyway, I'm Mel and I'll be your friendly neighborhood writer))
YOU ARE READING
TRANS // ot4
Fanfiction"I'm, uh, yeah. A boy, I guess. I'm a boy." "Okay but you still like cock though, right?" Or the one where Michael's trans and the others are only worried about his lack of transition and whether or not he still likes them.
