Polaroids || Muke au

o n e

     cold. cold. cold. cold. c o l d.

     that's all he ever felt anymore.

     well, that and dirty, blinding bitterness.

     the apartment just felt so empty without him there. everything was so dull and hollow and god damn did he miss him.

     he sat alone now, curled up in the corner of their- erm, his- bedroom, burning their polaroids. didn't really matter, though. the original copies were all pasted into photo albums, wrapped in plastic, and shoved towards the back of his closet because they were far too painful to look at.

     picking up another photograph, michael flicks the lighter on, pausing to look at the picture before lighting it on fire.

     it was one that michael had taken when they went on a road trip during spring break of year eleven. luke was driving, mouth half-open like he was singing. he probably was, because that was just so luke.

     scowling at the photograph, michael holds the flame up to the white-edged corner. watching as the fire catches, engulfing the picture so quickly that he had to drop it into the bowl of water beside him to keep from burning his fingers.

     why did luke have to leave?

     he just had to, didn't he? had to leave michael alone, forcing him into the utterly worthless state he found himself in now.

     michael hated luke.

     michael hated luke.

     michael didn't hate luke.

     he loved luke. loved him more than the sun loved the moon and the stars loved the sky. he loved him like the brazilian ocean loved summer storms. loved him like fall out boy loved ridiculously long song titles that hardly pertained to the actual song.

     and fuck, did michael miss luke.

   he missed him so much that sometimes it physically hurt, and other times it left him feeling completely hollow.

     why did luke have to leave?

    michael scowls again, getting back into the rhythm he'd built up over the months that luke had been gone.

     pick up. click. burn. drop.

     pick up. click. burn. drop.

     pick up. click. burn. drop.

   michael's pretty sure that he burned his fingers a couple of times, but he doesn't really care anymore. anything would feel better than the bitter cold he felt right now. anything would feel better than the bitter cold he felt all the time.

     pick up. click. burn. drop.

✿✿✿

     so there we go, guys!! first chapter's up and i'm actually kind of happy with the way it turned out???

     idk, what do y'all think?

    um yeah i think that's it.

     stay golden.

     -rebekka