Ghost ⇔ Cake ✓

Twenty: Family Comes First

A/N: this picture of luke... who gave him the right

Michael sat in an empty corridor of the police station, his wrists bound by too-tight handcuffs. He sat perched on a bench that felt like he was sitting on rocks. There was dried blood caking his left arm, and he couldn't open his right eye. Every time he tasted his lips, he tasted blood.

They had left him alone in the hallway. Well, partially alone. They had put a young-looking police officer to guard him while the one who arrested him made some phone calls, since Michael had refused to call anyone. The officer looked uncomfortable being in the same presence of Michael. He couldn't quite make eye contact. Whenever the officer did look over, Michael set his jaw and gave him a nasty look that caused the officer to quickly avert his eyes.

Michael hadn't ever been to the state jail before. When he got arrested, they just stuck him in the local cells and he was bailed out before going any further. Michael thought this one looked grimier, a little rougher. Not that he regretted anything. Getting Ashton's dad's face bashed in was hands-down the best feeling he'd had in a while.

Michael lifted his handcuffs so he could touch his lips. He hadn't expected Ashton's dad to be such a good fighter, though. He had plenty of practice using Ashton as his punching bad for the past five or so years.

The officer that arrested him came back into the hallway. He jerked Michael up and began leading him further down the hallway. "Your parents called."

Michael grimaced. "I hope you hung up on them."

"They paid your bail. You'll be spending some time here while they fly in to get you," the officer said. Michael rolled his eyes back into his head. Great. He and his parents never had gotten along well.

"That's a good thing, you know," the officer said. "Would you rather spend your time here, instead?"

"Gladly," Michael said. "You don't know my parents."

The officer chose not to respond to this. He led Michael into another set of doors, which opened up to a bunch of cells and a gated outside area. He took off Michael's handcuffs and opened the door to outside. "Go mingle."

Michael rubbed his wrists, shooting a look at the officer, but stepped outside anyway. The officer slammed the door shut behind him and Michael heard the lock click. Michael surveyed his new terrain. Men in prison uniforms scattered across the area. There was a large concrete area with ramshackle basketball goals, where a couple men were playing a game. The others were busying themselves around, playing cards at tables, anything to keep their mind off the sun beating down on them. Michael stuck out like a sore thumb in his clothes.

This turned out not to be a problem, however, because as Michael walked deeper into the area, men took one look at him and warily looked the other way. Michael figured it was because of the blood all over him. They knew that he knew how to take a punch.

Michael propped himself against an empty picnic table and rested his elbows on his knees, picking at the dried blood on his arm. He flicked off pieces, letting them fall to the ground, before realizing picking it off was causing fresh blood to swell underneath. Michael halfheartedly dabbed at the wounds with the hem of his shirt.

"Michael?"

Michael lifted his head. Across the courtyard, Michael saw Ashton, of all people. Ashton removed himself from a group of other men, who watched him head straight toward Michael.

Michael's heart panged when he saw him, and it took a moment to figure out why. Ashton looked... different. He was always kind of scrawny, and he usually looked like how Michael does in the aspect of bruises. But now he looked even worse than usual. His cheeks seem sunken. His eyes had lost the color and brightness that they used to have. His mouth formed a straight line, even upon seeing Michael, like he had forgotten how to make his mouth form the shape of a smile.