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"I started seeing someone." The four words poured out of Ashton's chapped lips, attacking Michael's ears. Only seven syllables, but it seemed to smash through Michael's heart with the force of a freight train. No, scratch that, the invisible boy had once actually been hit by freight train and hadn't hurt half as much.
"Hey, let's go get some pizza," had the same number of syllables, "I like eating dirt," had the same number of words. Yet, Michael was breathing heavily, as if his heart had took off running and he'd been forced to follow at top speed. He was prepared to collapse, just utterly fall from the sky and explode against the pavement.
That's good, Michael said.
He wanted to cry.
What're they like? Michael's hand shook as he wrote, ice creating thin lines of frost across his heart. His bones ached, his head throbbed, and his skin felt like it was peeling off. Michael hurt. His heart was rampaging and his body was forced to cage it. Those four stupid words had brought so much pain his heart alone couldn't handle it, and was prepared to destroy Michael in an attempt to ease the utter torture.
"He's really nice!" Ashton said, his voice a few decibels louder than really necessary. Fake excitement oozed from his tanned skin, a shield to hide the whirlwind of emotion whipping through him. Ashton wanted Michael and only Michael, he wanted the beautiful boy's little giggles and cocky attitude. He wanted to touch his soft hair and kiss his pretty pink lips. Ashton hurt. A fire had started in an attempt to douse the ice cold lies he told, deep in his heart. Guilt ripped through his stomach and bubbled under his skin, licked at his mind and burnt every ounce of happiness into ash.
What does he look like? Michael's heart was a wild animal and he was a tired hunter who would much rather aim his rifle at himself. He wanted to cry, wanted to explode, wanted to run and never come back. Michael wanted to take out his emotions on a passing pedestrian, he wanted to keel into a ball and never come back. But most of all, Michael wanted the one thing he could never have: Ashton.
"He's adorable. Pretty blue eyes and this really dark black hair." Ashton's fictional boy was everything he didn't want. Black and blue, the hues of the bruises he was smashing into his heart. Ashton wanted Michael; green and white. The newly sprouted blades of grass poking up, a beautiful new life born into the world. Ash wanted to start anew with Michael, create a life where he felt complete. Fluffy clouds drifting through bright skies, free and happy. Ashton wanted that freedom, unweighted by the emptiness he'd always felt at the edges of his consciousness.
What's he like? Michael didn't want to know. He didn't want to watch the love of his long, long life gush about his new guy. He didn't want to know all about the boy who was better than him, who Ashton liked more. Because despite how confident Michael acted, he wasn't. He was insecure, about his stomach, his hair, who he was. The primordial boy was always worried that he seemed old, that the people he loved would reject him altogether.
"He doesn't like cuddles much, but he's really warm. He's laddish and he's really athletic, and he's a footballer," Ashton listed. It was everything Michael wasn't, and everything Ashton didn't want in a boyfriend. The young man wanted someone to hug him and pet his hair. He wanted someone who was geeky and had a soft little tummy, a boy who was content to laze around with Ashton, eating pizza and playing video games. Someone who always wanted hugs and kisses, who would openly admit their love. Ashton wanted Michael.
Aw, cute. Are you guys spending Christmas together? The holidays were coming soon, Michael knew. The festive season was full of family and love, Hanukkah or Kwanzaa or Christmas was the day or days spent with loved ones. Michael had spent all of his billions of holidays alone.
"I don't know. I want to spend some time with you, and Luke and Cal, and maybe Kai." Ashton pressed a hand against the window, searching for the compressed cold of Michael's fingers.
You could spend the day with Calum and Luke, and Kai, and we could meet at 4:13, Michael offered. 4:13 was their time. Whenever Ashton left his room, he always returned at 4:13. The two boys depended on it, they set their lives by it.
Michael stared at Ashton's large hand against the glass, sadly pressing his palm against the window. The new guy-Kai-had touched that hand, had actually made physical contact. Kai had done everything Michael couldn't, he was able to keep Ashton warm. He hugged him without burning up, he took Ash out on dates. Michael kind of hated Kai.
"Sure," Ashton agreed readily, gazing at the snow tumbling outside his flat. Fondness was blooming in his chest. A garden of love and affection, watered by the words of frost glowing on his window and the constant memory of Michael's touch and smile. The image of his fluffy hair and snowy pale skin. His little giggle and intoxicating accent. But a harsh shovel tore at the roots of Ashton's garden. A shovel of guilt and distance, a shovel made of the glass window separating him from Michael, and the lies Ashton spouted about his fictional boy-Kai. Ashton and Michael weren't gardeners. They didn't have green thumbs, Ashton had a heart of fire and Michael a soul of ice. Neither one was good for plant-life, but the sheer power of their love was enough to create a greenhouse.
