cigarette butts ➸ michael clifford

08. Ruby

Traffic watching, at night, was one of my favourite things. The sound of it is so calming, sort of like waves, and the variation of lights are so pretty. I probably come out here every other night, but this was the first time I had seen Michael.

I had noticed he was starting to look sick and tired, but I wasn't one to pry, knowing how that feels. I knew Michael was going through detox and I wanted to be there for him, but I felt like a misshapen puzzle piece - I didn't fit - and I was definitely not going to force myself in.

"What do you consider beautiful?" he asked, voice barely above a whisper.

"This highway, the sound of the rain, the moon," I listed off, pretending to think. "And you."

Michael readjusted how he was sat, leaning back against the wall, but keeping eye contact with me.

"Why?" he spoke softly.

"Why, what?" I frowned.

"Why am I on that list, but you're not?"

"Because it's my list and I'll do what I want."

"Okay," he started, nodding. "You can do what you want, but it doesn't mean you're right."

"I'm always right, I mean, you're on that list and Harry Styles isn't, be grateful."

"But it's wrong."

Everything became silent, even the traffic. He rubbed his hands over his face, slightly messing around with his hair. He gave a muffled sigh and closed his eyes.

"When I see myself, fuck, I wanna punch me," he shrugged. "My nose is wrong, my eyes are wrong, my voice--I'm wrong."

A lump had formed in my throat, a sick feeling brewing in my stomach. It scared me just how alike me and Michael were. It made me realise how complicated this hazardous boy was. He shifted once more and looked me straight in the eye.

"I'm all wrong," he whispered.

Getting on my hands in knees, in the most innocent of ways, I crawled over his leg and sat in the gap between them, facing him with my legs covering his. It was awkward at first, I could lock my legs around his waist if I wanted, but that wasn't my aim. Pulling on the white duvet, I tucked it around the both of us, giving him the most serious glare I could muster.

"Your eyes are broken," I say.

"What?"

"Your perception of you is off; you're looking through broken eyes," I explain.

Something changes in Michaels face and I don't think I'll ever know what it is exactly, but he wears the ghost of a smile.

"Don't let any list, even your own, define you," he says, leaning in to my ear.

I bite my lip to keep from smiling, my head making its way to Michaels chest. Sleep was pulling me under and I was hardly putting up a fight. My nose slightly grazed the side of his neck. He smelt of oranges and cologne, something I wasn't opposed to. My hands, that dangled lazily at my sides, brushed against cool, calloused fingertips, but they withdrew quickly, before my exhausted brain could fully process it.

"Sorry," Michael mumbled.

I feel my hands skim across the gravel roof, searching for what I lost. Once our fingers make contact, they automatically become intertwined.

"Shut up."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A stinging sensation spread throughout my cheek, prompting me to groan and open an eye. Michaels right hand was resting on it, his left still grappling my right. Becoming more aware of my surroundings, I realised I still had my head on his chest, but we were now lying down. I pushed his hand off my cheek. It was bright red, partly because it hurt and partly because of our close proximity, but either way, it was because of Michael.