suspect four ☯ muke

quatre

it starts with an annoying and incessant tapping on his foot, waking michael from his rather light slumber. the tapping gets harder before the boy finally opens his eyes, gaze meeting a pair of legs in front of him. it appears someone's kicking his foot, trying to wake him.

"oi, you need to move. don't anyone 'round here ask before crashing in someone else's spot?"

the voice is rough, the boy's eyes finally traveling up to find a rather haggard looking man belonging to it. eyes red-rimmed, bloodshot. scabs all over his face and arms, not a hint of lucid in his gaze. crack head, definitely.

he decides not to start anything when he doesn't have someone to back him up, rubbing at his eyes a little before sitting up from where he'd ended up crashing. dusting off his jeans, stretching out his rather cramped limbs.

"get a move on, would ya?"

"i'm out, i'm out. leave me the fuck alone,"

and so the boy would stand from his position, noticing the sun starting to rise in the sky. walking away from the alleyway, falling back against a storefront. his eyes still a bit squinted, not having adjusted quite yet to the sudden light change. reaching into his shirt for another cigarette, sticking it between his lips to light.

flick, flick, flick.

fantastic, now his lighter was empty.

flick, flick.

"mother fucking fuck, you piece of fucking shit lighter!"

throwing it roughly in some direction, the boy would again sink down the wall, hands rubbing at his eyes profusely in trying to fight back tears.

a breakdown before sunrise had to be a new record.

furiously scratching at his arms again, itching the area of skin that had scabbed over from last night's burn. now his arm is bleeding, he's crying. not that at this hour there's too much of an audience, but it's still a bit embarrassing. he's alone, he's got nothing. no one. no house, no phone, no purpose, and about 12 bucks and a half pack of cigarettes to his name.

wouldn't his parents be proud?

•

he's found a pay phone, digging into his pocket for change. placing a few coins in the slot, praying to god that this one works.

dialling a semi-familiar number, letting it ring.

once, twice, three times.

still no answer. halfway through the fourth ring, just as he's about to throw the phone and have another breakdown, someone picks up.

"hello?"

a rather rough and tired-sounding voice is on the other side of the line, the boy almost feeling bad for having woken him up.

"uh, hey mate, it's michael. would it be cool if i swing by at some point today?"

the boy would begin picking at a loose thread at the bottom of his shirt. fuck, he needs new clothes. he'd hear the man on the receiving end grumble a bit about nothing in particular, possibly also catching the sound of a yawn.

"you need to pick up, yeah?"

"yeah, man. i'm out and things aren't so peachy on the financial front,"

the boy would sigh, tugging at the thread until it snapped, leaving a trail of damaged fabric in its path.

"i've got enough to hold you over if you can sling it- which i know you can,"

the other's voice would pause, another yawn to be heard.

"now that i'm up, i'd guess any time is probably good,"

"sounds solid,"

"take care, dude. oh, and say hi to calum for me,"

michael would feel a slight tightness in his chest at the mention of his friend, chewing at his lip for a moment.

"you too, ash,"

hanging the phone up on the receiver, he'd let out another sigh and fish through his pockets for a bit more cash; he needed a new fucking lighter.

•

making his way up the steps of a rather expensive suburban house, michael's knuckles make contact with the door once he's finally reached his destination. shifting his feet a bit where he stood, he'd wait a good couple minutes for someone to answer it. when they finally did, he'd immediately be greeted by a flash of teeth, watching his expression turn from something resembling sunshine to a hint of concern.

"you look rough, mate. how's a free hit sound?"

••••

i'm not pleased w any of this but i'm too tired to fix it

-xo, elle.