Deception (Michael Clifford)

Fourty One

***

2 days.
That's how long we've been back 'home'. The way Ashton says it makes it sound like it means something. And it does. It means a hell of a lot of things. None of them good.
The last 48 hours have been torture of a different kind. In and out of radio stations and interviews, TV and news programs, being swarmed by hundreds, or thousands? Who knows, I should be used to it by now. But it doesn't matter, its just a huge sea of faces to me now. Nothing matters. Not after the way she looked at me on the plane. I can't get it out of my head.
We are now sat in one of these over glorified news studios, those late night ones, 4 presenters are throwing questions at us, laughing like they know us, like we are friends. I stare at one in particular. Boring brown hair gelled back into a boring style. Plain dark blue suit, not too dissimilar to the other 2 sat next to him, and the woman, her cackling laughter is making my nerves twitch.
Why am I here? Of course, I wanted to stay behind, but the streets here are more swarmed with them than the other cities, as Ashton felt inclined to remind me. They'd recognise me too easily. Which would be an inconvenience to them, apparently.
I snort. Ashton doesn't take notice, he's too busy giggling at the camera.
I look at him next to me, swinging around in one of the news chairs. In front of us we are confronted with more faces. A live audience. They laugh too. I feel a muscle in my neck twitch as I try to maintain what's meant to resemble a dangerous smile. It satisfies them enough.
Michael's the bad boy.
"So," one of the presenters leans forward, still smirking at whatever Calum and Luke had said. He hasn't changed, at least. Luke's the same everywhere he goes. "You boys were in London not long ago, weren't you?"
"Yeah, yep, good times." Ashton pipes up.
"You played two shows at the O2 is that right?"
The boys agree, still giggling amongst themselves at something.
"Hey, I got a question." The females presenter interrupts, quite loudly I might add, which catches Ashton's attention. "Michael," she starts, and catches my attention as well. I try not to narrow my eyes at her, "something's happened over the last few weeks that still hasn't been addressed."
The crowd ooo's like a classroom full of children, excited that one of their classmates should be called to the office. I roll my jaw lazily, feeling Ashton stiffen beside me.
"So there's been a lot of rumour on the Internet lately, particularly on twitter, I don't know whether you guys are aware-"
"They must have, you must have," an older presenter interrupts, "I mean your young boys, always on your Twitters and your Faceybooks. Am I right?" I feel the urge to slap that look of assumed arrogance off his face.
"Well like I was saying, there were lots of tweets, opinions, theories," the female continues, her features looking more hollow and boney under the bright lights, "and then came the pictures."
More ooo's. Inside I am snickering. They are pathetic. Just like the paparazzi and magazines, they'll make a story out of anything, take a flickering ember and fan it into a full on bush fire.
But I look around at them innocently, playing up like I know they want me to, not aware of the silence that has fallen over Ashton.
"Do you guys know what I'm talking about?" A presenter addresses the crowd. There's a muffled response.
"All right so for those of you that haven't been paying attention like we have, or have been living under a rock for the last month, this happened." And a picture appears on the screen behind them, the crowd gasps in excitement. A wolf whistle. I don't bother looking. They're just after the views, if they've got a question for me, I'll answer it. But Luke and Calum go silent, and Ashton clears his throat, making me look at him. His eyes flick between me and the screen, and for the first time I see uncertainty in them. Something in my stomach twists, making me wonder what could bring that out of Ashton. He's always the collected one. I frown at him, and reluctantly turn my head to look at the screen behind me.
I don't know what I expect to see.
Some badly cropped photo of me and a scandalous celebrity, stumbling out of a club drunk at 3am? But that's not what I see. The picture is of me and Scar, her hand locked in mine as we sprint away down a night lit street, lights glaring off the tarmac, pinning us under its blinding gaze.
Ice forms in my chest as I'm thrown back to that night, our breath forming clouds in the chilly air, the panic throbbing in my chest, our proximity as we hid behind the tree, the trembling rise and fall of her chest against mine, her warmth. I scold myself for those being the things remember.
I should have known, honestly, I knew they had taken photos that night. But I don't care for the claims they stab at me. I was worried how they'd use the picture of her. I knew what they were like online, it would be relentless.
I don't realise until Ashton touches my arm that I've formed a deadly grip on the edge of the desk, and my knuckles are turning white.
"-few weeks ago, but we're wondering, Michael," the world swims back into focus again, and I realise they are talking to me, "who is that lovely young lady on your arm?"
The boys are staring at me, as is everyone else in the room, except for Ashton. They know who she is, they've seen her enough times, but they don't know what happened that night. As for the rest, they don't even know her name.
My grip hasn't moved from the desk. I'm worried that if I did I wouldn't be able to control myself.
"Could it be that Michael has a girlfriend?" The presenter pokes, smiling secretively, and my heart contracts. Beneath the burning anger is a spreading sense of cold. Girlfriend. They keep asking that. Why do they keep asking that? I don't deserve a girlfriend. I don't deserve her, and she certainly doesn't want anything to do with me. That much was clear by the way she backed away from me on the plane, like my touch stung her, the hurt in her eyes. The vision hurts me more than any fist ever could.
Ashton still isn't moving, he's trying to say something to me, something about safety, but I'm not listening. I fix my stare on the presenter, and he must have caught the look on my face, because a flicker of doubt crosses his. The look seems to say, maybe I shouldn't have asked that.
I want to spit back at them, the tension making my neck twitch. Who do you think you are? I think. That's all you care about? Who she is to me? Not the fact that there is sheer terror in this picture? Or what we are running away from?
But the only word that gets out of my mouth, is, "No." A short syllable, and I'm surprised by how calm my voice sounds, as if speaking from a distance. They look disappointed, "I don't have a girlfriend. But if I did," and I turn to look at the camera, "I think our fans would have a little more respect, than to chase us through the streets of London." And I close my mouth.
The tension seems to leave Ashton immediately, a sigh escaping him, Luke just looks gently curious, Calum confused. They throw more questions at me but my lips are sealed. I've said too much already.
Ashton takes the opportunity to change the subject, for which the crowd seems glad, and I release my grip on the desk. Red lines form across my palms. I look down at them, and remember faintly the way she held them as she dabbed the gauze, dim light reflected in her eyes, her hair colourless in the dark of the apartment. I'd wanted to hold her, to let her fold into me, feel her arms around me again, like a child seeking safety. But the terror that welled up in my chest was too strong. I know what I am. I'm undeserving of having someone by my side. Nothing I've done has earned that title. I've kissed her without permission, placed my hands on her. A shiver crawls up my spine. But the way she looked at me, I'm stabbed by the image of her retreating from me on the plane, arms crossed. That, I tell myself, I'm deserving of that.

***