Hues almost as dark as sugarless coffee flutter open and are immediately blinded by an ambush of sunlight beaming through dirty window panes.
Fuck Michael for waking up so fucking early every fucking morning and throwing the light of the new day in Calum's face. He doesn't even understand how Mikey rises so early (he's as much of an insomniac as the four of them, it's bad) but no matter how hard Calum tries, he can never seem to force himself back to his black nothingness of his dreamless slumber.
Though he can feel the heat of his apartment radiating below his bed, he can see his breath in the cool, march air.
Is it morning?
Perhaps 3 in the afternoon?
He's not sure.
He's seem to lost track of time since the four of them packed in a tour bus and started to travel to places that he would've never imagined he'd go. It all seems so surreal, like he died in 2012 and floated up into heaven. As ridiculous as that sounds.
Growing up, Calum didn't have much besides the clothes on his back and food on the table (daily, but not as often as it should've been). Even now, when he can pay for so many things, his mother to go to college, buy his cousin a guitar, he still doesn't feel like he amounts to much.
Thing also seemed to go down hill after Noelle died. It's amazing how one person's cowardly trip to the afterlife can fuck with another. At least that's what he thinks. Morning blends with afternoon and evening creeps in just as slowly. Night cover him like a stuffy, hand-knit blanket from an Aunt too many times removed (not that he had any removed, or even Aunt's who knitted, but).
He's never too sure how long he's been asleep for. Shit, he doesn't even know he was sleeping until his body convulses and shakes him awake. Every morning.
He still hasn't changed her side of the room. Pink lava lamps, pictures of people he's never seen in his life and eccentric plants long dead occupy the otherwise empty room while his side, even after years of coming and going, remains a blank slate, as if he's preparing to leave whenever it's necessary. He's never been too much of a decorator and it shows with his white walls, scantily clad book shelf and colorless wardrobe.
He sits up, running his hair through his black locks (or as his stylist says, the darkest brown), eyes still sore from the brightness pouring in through the open window.
It's quiet.
Stiff.
Enormous hands push him from the bed and he lazily shuffles to the kitchen for fresh scotch.
Empty, empty, empty.
The fridge, empty.
The cabinet, empty.
The shelf where he hid his Pinnacle, empty.
The boys had cleared him out.
"Damn it!" the glads in his left hand makes contact with the floor and smashes into a million tiny pieces on the floor below him.
Shards fly into the flesh of his feet as he walks through it, but he doesn't care.
He /needs/ a drink.
Alcoholic?
No.
He's just thirsty. Thirsty for a drink that leaves his throat dry, thirsty for a drink that always disappoints him, yet at the same time, satisfies him. Like good head.
"Cal?"
Anna's voice breaks through the silence.
"I-I'm sorry, I didn't mean to--"
The apology is cut off by the back of Calum's hand and she staggers back. He's never hit her. why did he hit her? He swore to himself he'd never hit her. But yet, he did.
"I'm sorry."
"It's okay."
He steps forward, closing the gap between them and his fingers loop into her waist band. His lips immediately attach themselves to her neck and he hears her gasp as he presses open mouthed kisses, his teeth lightly grazing the spot.
"/Calum../"
Fuck, the way she said his name. It's his weakness.
"/Calum!/"
He lets out a frustrated groan, hands squeezing her butt with enthusiasm, hips jerking out of nowhere. He hadn't realized how much he yearns for her touch until this very moment as he feels his boxers tent against her panties and a dark flush spreads down his neck.
"Cal, fuck me. Fuck me like you hate me-- please."
Ah, that's all it takes and soon, the pair of them are a pile of tangled limbs and warm skin. Calum, like usual, is on the bottom and he feels her center press into his.
He raises his hips onto hers, but just as she presses more, he suddenly stops.
"Nope."
Blond eyebrows furrow in confusion.
"What exactly are you trying to do?"
An eyebrow raises and a smirk begins to play on the soft pink flesh of his lips. "I'm not trying to do anything, babe."
She doesn't seem to like that answer. Her hips are soon grinding against his, but just as soon as he's about to move against her, she suddenly stops and rolls off.
Anna's hands massage his thigh, getting dangerously close to touching his most intimate part and it is then when his toes curl, hands going to her head.
Olive skin flushed red as his head dipped further into the pillow, his hands yanking on a fistful of her hair. "You can-- you can touch me."
"I know I can. Touch yourself."
Her hand covers his own and he feels pressure on himself, his teeth clamping down on his bottom lip.
"Go on, Cal. Jerk off."
And he's soon doing just that, pace increasing when she undoes her bra and attaches their lips.
"Good boy. Now come."
As if on command, his hips convulse and breathy sounds of lust and erratic jerks start. A familiar burning rips through his body, stomach pulsating.
"I'm gonna-- fuck!"
White pearls explode and he's rendered speechless. He can honestly say he's never really been able to touch himself as desperately as he just did.
"Good. Now clean up and make me cookies."
