Give Me Love (Muke)

The Only Reason You Breathe Is to Sleep through the Night

“The pharmacy?” Ashton says, blinking in bewilderment at Michael. “Don’t you think you should shower and get some food?”

“I need to get to the pharmacy,” Michael says, as if he’s barely listening. “If you won’t take me, I’ll get a taxi.”

Ashton takes Michael in, all mussed up hair and bleary eyes. “Did something happen?”

“I’ll call a taxi,” Michael repeats, fists curling by his sides with sweater paws, drawing himself up. His eyes darken and his shoulders tense up, ready to fight the matter--or Ashton--if he needs to.

“Relax,” Ashton says, putting his hands up, palms facing Michael. “Don’t bite my head off. I’ll take you to the pharmacy. I’m just curious what the hell made you want to visit a pharmacy in the middle of the night.”

Michael’s been waiting until everybody went to bed, but Ashton’ll do. He needs transportation anyway.

“Who cares?” Michael says, pushing past Ashton into the hallway. “Let’s go.”

Ashton shakes his head and follows Michael. “What the hell is even going on?” he asks, mostly to himself. Michael doesn’t bother answering, just grabs his Converse and yanks them on halfheartedly, tightening the laces but leaving them untied to save time, sweater sleeves pulled over his knuckles. He keeps a piece of paper crumpled in his hand.

Ashton tries one last time to dissuade him. “Seriously, Mike, it’s late, and you’re kind of a mess. You’re tired and hungry and we can go in the morning.”

Michael’s eyes blaze a little. “Thanks for reminding me I’m a mess. As a matter of fact, I’m not tired or hungry at all.”

“Oh, really,” Ashton says disbelievingly, crossing his arms. “Lie to me, Michael, I don’t care, it’s whatever to me, but you know that I can see through it.”

Michael stomps his foot a little in frustration and reaches up to rub his eyes, his sleeve slipping down. “You don’t even know--”

“Jesus, Michael,” Ashton hisses, hand darting out to grab Michael’s. “What the fuck did you do?”

Michael blinks down at his hand, four fingers striped once across with purple and blue, almost black in the dim light. He barely even seems to see it, a superficial understanding passing through his eyes. “I smashed my fingers in a drawer.”

“What the fuck do you and Luke get up to when Calum and I aren’t home?” Ashton marvels. “How long ago did you smash it?”

“I don’t know,” Michael says dully. “Hours.”

“Did you ice it?” Ashton asks, turning his hand over and holding it up in front of his face. Michael tugs his hand out of Ashton’s grasp.

“No,” he says. “Doesn’t matter. Won’t do any good now. Can we go?”

Ashton’s jaw tenses, surveying him. “Yeah, but you’re one hardass motherfucker. Stop banging yourself up when I’m not around.”

Michael shrugs. Ashton’s eyes bore into him for a second, and then he walks into the kitchen and grabs his keys by the ring. “Okay, let’s go.”

Ashton pulls open the front door and waits until Michael shuffles out before locking it behind him. “Why can’t you just take care of yourself, Michael? I don’t want to have to worry about you.”

“Well, good,” Michael says flatly, shoving his hands in his jean pockets to shield them from the night air. “Because you don’t have to.”

Ashton tilts his head, guilt flashing across his face. “Michael...”