Chapter Text
The lump of water damage on the ceiling, protruding downward, gypsum, moistening the air all around it. Michael’s chin tilts upwards but his head stays angled on the charity-shop pillow. He’s meant to be asleep, most people are meant to be asleep around this time, but he can hear low music thumping from the hotel room next door. Calum plugging his phone into his speaker. He’s trying to keep it quiet but Michael can do echolocation.
He’s been able to do it for a while. Hum under his breath until the sound triangulates and hits everything around him. Makes it clearer. He’d had an idea for a song earlier but when he’d tried to hum it into his voice memos his brain had fried. Too much blue light. The bass isn’t helping either. He wishes he wasn’t alone. He wishes they’d booked double rooms. It’s a stupid thing to wish for, juvenile, he hadn’t known how to bring it up, originally, but now he wishes he wasn’t such a pussy. Can’t fall asleep without someone breathing next to him.
Knocking on the door. He forces himself up, wipes his palms on his flannel pajama pants, assumes it’s going to be Calum, apologizing, maybe, or are you up, mate, but instead he gets a face-full of sleep-rumpled Luke, leaning against the doorframe.
“Hi,” he says, his jaw begging to come in first, and Michael sidesteps. Lets it in. Luke still ambles. He smells like dryer lint and clean clothes. His nose looks like Tinkerbell’s. He rocks back-and-forth on the balls of his feet, jerks his thumb sideways into the blank hallway. “Is that—?”
“Calum, yeah,” Michael says, and wanders back inside to flop on his bed. He leaves Luke to close the door gently behind him, even as the rim of the door crackles at the plaster. Enough allocated funds for individual hotel rooms but only the ones conquered by fungal wallpaper. This is par for the course for their band’s priorities. “Can’t sleep either?”
“Nope,” Luke says, and hovers on the rug, door closed, which makes them alone, which makes Michael uncomfortable. He shifts around onto his stomach and presses his face into the pillow, except it, too, smells like Luke, because of the cleanliness. Not helping. “I’m still running off, like, fucking adrenaline. Feels like I was in active combat or something.”
Michael smiles into the pillow. “I don’t think you can say that,” he says, around a mouthful of cotton. He feels the bed dip, like a cat puttering on, and he tilts his head. Luke’s sitting criss-crossed and splaying his hands out on the thin comforter sheet. “It’s too fucking hot.”
“Too fucking right,” Luke echoes, and looks up at the water damage bubble, says, “That’s terrifying,” and Michael flops onto his back properly. They look at it together. Or actually Luke’s looking at the bubble and Michael’s looking at him. How long his lashes have gotten. Maybe it’s a serum or something. Girls use serums. They look longer and darker under stage-lights, actually. Everything about stage-lighting makes Luke look longer.
Michael realizes he’s been quiet for too long when Luke’s eyes shift back to his, and then both of them snap away guiltily, finding separate points of the room to comment on. Michael knows this game. He should be nice, right now. Luke loves attention, always preens under it, but that’s just the more general concept of attention, like being on TV or something—when it’s targeted he gets all shifty, moves around, doesn’t know what to look at. Maybe that’s the adrenaline. Pouring into the wrong parts of his body. “Wanna play something,” he blurts, and Michael shifts up against the pillow, “or, like—we can watch something, I dunno.”
“Yeah, let’s play something,” Michael says, because he can’t watch something, either, he—doesn’t have the same adrenaline. It’s weird. Post-show he goes kind of gooey. Smushes between two fingers. Usually he just needs to splay out somewhere completely alone but Luke counts as being alone. “Hold on, lemme set it up—wait, can I properly teach you Magic this time?”
“Literally anything but that,” Luke says, and they pass each other, Michael hopping off his bed and Luke crawling into it, and Michael doesn’t know what he can say to refute, actually, because he’s damaged goods right now, his fingertips are shredded and his vocal cords are even worse.
He clicks on the TV and starts fussing with the HDMI. He’s been dragging his PS3 in a suitcase for exactly this opportunistic reason, and Luke’s the only person who’s ever been grateful for it, even though Ashton uses it to watch YouTube more than anyone else does, but Luke is one of those people that’s, like, grateful to be alive, so it’s not saying much. Michael finishes plugging it in and tosses Luke a controller without looking. It smacks to the floor, per usual, and Luke has to scramble to pick it up. Per usual. Then they play.
Michael starts on the floor. FIFA 2013 because he only likes playing Arsenal. Luke plays Bayern Munich, and they only bicker about it for ten minutes instead of fifteen, until Michael gets the first goal.
“Wait, did you come here because you felt like losing,” Michael says, which is a genuine question, and Luke says, “Shut up,” and smacks him on the back of the head. They play, quietly, for a while. It’s hot enough that Michael can pretend he’s in his childhood bedroom with no fan on. He can feel Luke fidgeting, huffing out of his nose every few seconds.
Michael drops his head onto the bed behind him, looking up at Luke. They make eye contact. Like Spider-Man. “What?” Michael says, but from here he can’t tell if Luke’s smiling or frowning. “Why are you pouting?” Another huff. “Oh my God, you’re so fucking dramatic. Just play the game already.”
“I am playing the game, you’re the one leaving your goalpost open,” Luke says, and Michael says, “Huh,” and swivels his neck, but it’s too late. Luke’s scored. He makes a tiny yes noise that Michael immediately mimics.
“Yes,” he mutters under his breath, ignoring the very cold cut of Luke’s side-eye. “Yeah, enjoy it. It’ll be your only one this round, mate.” Luke shoves him in the shoulder. Michael wants to tell him how good it feels, how nice this is, but he’s never really been a person who expresses that sort of thing, never bothered to learn how, so he just says, “Wanna smoke?”
“With you?” Luke says, brightening, and sits up. “No.”
Michael rolls with a cone because they have a manager who puts spending money in their pockets now, so he doesn’t need to use gum wrappers. Luke cracks the tiny window, struggles at the bottom because American windows don’t have a handle. They lean against the wall. “Holy shit, did you bring this all the way from California,” Luke says, when Michael starts burning the end.
Michael grins at him. Passes it over. “You know I did,” he says. “Ash did too. Tom would have a bitch fit, probably, if he knew.” Luke nods, fast. His shoulder rubs against the drywall. “I really liked California,” he says, unprompted. Luke hands him the jay back.
“It’s pretty,” Luke says. Rubs at the underside of his nose, where there’s little eczema flakes peeling off from the dry air. One of their makeup ladies told him to never, ever, ever get his nose done. Luke told her he’d never even considered that as an option. Which had been the right answer, apparently. “I don’t like the mountains, though. The hills.”
“The hills?” Michael says, sucking in a breath the same time as his voice goes, and Luke just nods. Michael’s actually great with weed, which often surprises his loved ones. But right now he’s getting higher a lot faster than usual. Still standing. Still staring at Luke. He has the smell of his body memorized. Not in a bad way, or a creepy way. “Maybe you just don’t like the people in them,” Michael says, feeling himself grinning, slightly.
Luke’s grinning back, wryly, but he’s not really looking at him. “I like the people,” he says, a moment later. And then furrows his eyebrows. “Weird, right? That I—I don’t feel scared at all.”
Michael knows what he means. “It is weird,” he says, and then realizes his throat is closing up and he coughs into his fist and shakes his head. Quit while you’re ahead. There’s this thing, that happens, every time Luke starts thinking through his thought processes aloud, with the exact level of sincerity Michael’s never been able to replicate. Michael just wants him to keep going. Hear what it’s like, to be a real person. Become one via osmosis. “I’m fuckin’ terrified. Couldn’t sleep all night. Our first solo tour,” he says, and then tastes the words aloud and winces.
Luke makes grabby hands at the joint but Michael just clicks his tongue. “Yeah, no,” Michael says, stubbing it out against the windowsill, which has a matching cigarette butt he certainly did not put there. “No more philosophy. Let’s keep playing.”
“That wasn’t even the level of philosophy I can get to,” Luke says, full of scorn, but still wanders close behind. This time instead of getting onto the floor Michael sinks down next to him on the bed.
Luke gives him a look, and Michael says, “What, it’s my bed, technically,” and Luke rolls his eyes and unpauses the game. They’ve swapped controllers. He’s playing the German team. Michael stares at the flickering hotel TV. What was that look supposed to mean? Is it—should he have gone on the floor? Is it, like, passé to physically migrate? He looks up again, Luke’s tongue sticking out from the corner of his lips.
“I’m beating you, focus,” he snaps, and Michael goes, “Yes, genius, that’s how games work,” and Luke says, “Shut up,” and this could spiral out of control quickly so Michael lets it rest. That’s one thing he’s learned how to do. He’s very educated. He learns every day. Sometimes it feels like Luke was born knowing everything from day one.
“Can I ask you something dumb,” Luke says, and doesn’t wait for him to answer. “Can I sleep here tonight? In your bed?”
His tongue’s back in his mouth and then back out again, moving over and over on dead skin. Michael stares. Promptly stops himself. Can’t stare at people while you’re both stoned, a girl told him that once. Gives the wrong impression. “Yeah, whatever,” Michael says a moment later, breezy, and the licking-and-biting stops. “But I’m not a fuckin’—I dunno. Massaging your lymph nodes or something.”
Luke rolls his eyes. “You couldn’t point out a lymph node to save your life.” Michael stays quiet because this is true. “What the fuck is a lymph node?”
“Singers have it,” Michael says, and pokes at Luke’s neck without thinking, the pale underside of his jaw. Luke squawks and covers it with one hand, protectively. “I think that’s one.”
“You’re a singer too,” Luke says, and Michael tries to think of a way to stop blushing. He looks like a fucking loser. Something sweet lurches at the back of his throat, like swallowing a lump of sugar, and he drops his controller and jumps forward and fucking tackles him.
“Michael, what the fuck—“ Luke says, and Michael says, “Stop shouting, we have neighbours, you mong,” but he should’ve known that Luke does not get outdone easily. He’s laughing, wheezing when Michael shoves fingers into his ribs, but then his elbow comes flying sideways and crashes into Michael’s jaw.
“Ow!” Michael yelps, and presses backward for just a moment to touch his own jaw, which only thumps for a second. Just once, like a dying heartbeat, and then he’s returning to form, pouncing back against Luke’s hips, but Luke catches him this time. Hand smushing against his face.
“What the hell are you doing,” Michael says, against Luke’s palm, which is, actually, the first and only part of Luke’s body he’s tasted. He’s smelled it, though. His body. Maybe stared at it a bit too much for anyone’s liking. He’ll admit it. He’d admitted that to himself ages ago because he knew he’d never do anything about it. Luke moves his hand away and Michael’s head follows instinctively, but then—shifting.
Luke’s grinning, now, completely having rolled them over so he’s sitting on Michael’s thighs, pinning him down. Michael tries to fight it but actually for some reason he’s not that interested in doing so, which Luke can see, immediately. He starts frowning, in a weird way. Eyebrows doing most of the work. “Say I win,” he says, but his voice has deflated. He’s like a fucking cat. They get bored when you set down the laser pointer.
“You win,” Michael says automatically, because Luke’s fingers are still on his wrists which means Luke can feel his pulse, which means he has to find a way to control it, but now Luke’s smiling, creepily, which is way worse than the frowning. Usually it would be the other way around. But. Michael tries to push back against the pressure of Luke’s wrists but it’s begrudging. “C’mon, get off, I wanna play the—“
“You’re not even trying,” Luke complains, and Michael squeezes his eyes shut, his hips lurching upward on their own volition. This is why—he literally told himself this at the beginning of tour, right before they left. Don’t fuck too much and don’t jerk off too much, you’ll make yourself crave it, and when you go without—stupid things like this happen. He opens his eyes and Luke’s making a fucking face at him. Disgusted. Like he’s seen a bug.
“Michael,” Luke says, in his voice, which is excessive and unnecessary. Michael grits his jaw and keeps his breathing level, tries to curl his fists up and move, but Luke’s still keeping him pinned. “Are you hard right now? What the fuck?”
“Do I actually have to answer that,” Michael says, between gritted teeth. He tries to bend at the waist again, no more funny shit, he could break out of Luke’s grip easily, but then nails dig into his skin. He winces. Luke thumps his hands against the mattress, once, proving—whatever point he’s interested in making. That Michael’s a pervert. Yes, everybody knew that already.
“Mate, are you, like,” Luke says, and Jesus fucking Christ, he’s using the same voice that his mum has, Michael recognizes it. “...Y’know?” Teacher-voice. He’s totally about to course-correct and say queer instead of gay.
“No no no,” Michael says immediately, even though he has no idea, and tries to wriggle his hands through Luke’s this time, hoping the sweat between them will help him slink his way through, but it doesn’t work. “Let me go, Luke, c’mon, please.” Luke just folds his head down. Peering at him over invisible glasses. Michael’s hard-on throbs against his own volition, and he twists a little, dragging it against the curve of Luke’s ass in his sweats. He needs to be arrested. “I’m—no, I just, it’s a—you’re literally sitting on my dick, what did you expect?”
“I’m not sitting on your dick, I’m sitting on your body,” Luke says, insulted, and Michael glares at him and bucks his hips up, again, which makes Luke tighten his hold, and Michael can’t decide if he likes it or not. Well, he likes it. But he’s trying to figure out if he’s supposed to, based on Luke’s reactions. He’s just so fucking opaque. “Don’t—Michael, stop, don’t be fucking gross.”
“I’m not, ‘m not,” Michael says, and grinds his teeth. Focus. Cancer. Dead people. Dead babies. Vomit? Luke’s gross socks. Except that train of thought brings him to Luke again and his thighs are fucking shaking, fuck, just from Luke sitting on him. He’s pumped full of sensation. “Sorry, I—okay, it’s perfectly natural for boys my age to—“
“Do you have a fucking crush on me?” Luke accuses. It’s the first time Michael’s ever been intimidated by him and it’s because he knows there’s no correct answer to the question. But instead of jumping off, Luke’s still grinding down onto him, purposeful this time, leaning down so his sweaty fringe flops in front of Michael’s eyes. “Do you? Because I totally called it if you do.”
“You what,” Michael breathes, eyes widening. Okay. This is obviously happening and Luke’s not going to let it stop happening, so Michael should try and—memorize it. This is enough material for an entirely new genre of sexual fantasy. But he doesn’t get to retreat into his own head because Luke’s tightening his legs against Michael’s waist, grinning now. Fucking whiplash.
“I thought you did,” he says, sounding satisfied. The same tone he’d use when they were in school and he’d point out something Michael did incorrectly. It used to make Michael push him over until he fell on his big backpack like a turtle. “I had a feeling but Calum told me that I was imagining it. He called me crazy.”
“You told Calum?” Michael says dumbly, and Luke just rolls his eyes.
“I didn’t know if I was crazy,” Luke says, matter-of-fact. Michael’s never experienced this before. He’s, like, jumping through fucking dimensions or something. He wants to get out of the Calum-knowing-everything one immediately. “Wait, but do you? Is that why you stare at me all the time?”
“I don’t,” Michael says. Not sure what he’s responding to.
Luke’s grinning so hard his bottom lip’s being bitten into the smile. He finally, finally, lets go of Michael’s wrists, which turns out to be worse, because Michael doesn’t know if he’s allowed to touch anything, Luke’s thighs or his perfect waist. Probably neither. Which is for the better. “Oh my God, you absolutely do,” he teases, and grinds down against Michael’s cock. “You’re so fucking weird. We’ve known each other since we were, what, twelve?” Michael’s trying to move his head into the pillow but Luke reaches forward and grabs his face. Squeezes his cheeks so his lips pout out. “Have you liked me since then?”
“No, no, obviously not,” Michael says, voice all muffled, and wonders how, exactly, he could make that statement true. His elbows curl into the blanket but he’s not resisting, so much. If Luke’s going to dry-hump him, shit, Michael’s going to let him. Not like he hasn’t thought about it before. “I don’t know why I—“
“You don’t know why?” Luke parrots, and sits back. “You don’t know why you like me?”
“No, I do, I just—“
“Because you should know I’m not going to do anything about it,” Luke says, like he hadn’t spoken. Michael dry-swallows. This is the worst high of his life. “I’m, like…” he takes his hand off of Michael’s face but then just trails it. Down his throat. Smack-dab in the hollow of his chest, then all the way back up, drawing thin, pointed lines. “Yeah, no,” he says, like he’s made a choice. “I think that’s a terrible idea.”
“Yeah,” Michael agrees. But Luke’s still sitting on top of him. And then, with the bravery of phalanxes, he raises a precarious hand and plants it on Luke’s thigh. His eyes jerk to Michael’s hand. Back to Michael’s face.
“I’m not, like, gay,” Luke says, but his voice turns up at the end. Michael realizes he might’ve been asking a question.
“No, no, no, you’re not,” Michael rushes to assure, and takes that as permission to put his other hand on Luke’s thigh, even though his muscles are stiffening with the dual pressure of two hands. Michael sits up, slightly, so he can get a better look. Curls and far-away eyes, prettier than the rest of his worried face right now. “Hey. It’s fine. We’re—it’s just me.”
This is supposed to make Luke feel better. Instead it only seems to make him feel worse. He makes a face and shifts, slightly, his hands squeezing Michael’s shoulders for balance, and Michael hums his dissent low in his throat. Luke catches it, then rocks downwards, again, experimentally.
“Have you done this a lot,” Luke asks, which is a stupid question to ask while he’s still trying to figure out where exactly Michael’s cock is situated on his body. Not that Michael minds. He’ll be the experiment, he doesn’t care. He’s still not fully cognizant that this is actually happening.
“Uh, no,” Michael manages, and sits up, slightly, shoulders pressed against the headrest, fingers tapping restlessly against Luke’s thighs. He’s trying to guide Luke’s movements but his hips have a mind of their own. Which is unsurprising. Michael’s seen him on stage. “Only with, um, uh—”
“Only with um, uh, girls?”
“Yes, tosser,” Michael admits between gritted teeth, and Luke crinkles his nose at him and slows his movements. He reaches forward and taps his fingertip against Michael’s pouted lips, clink-clink, like he’s telling him to shut up. And then Luke says, “Can I try something,” and doesn’t wait for a response before his finger dips right into Michael’s mouth, smushes against his teeth. Michael opens his mouth, that’s what you do when you’re used to swallowing things, like he is, and then Luke’s working two of his fingers into Michael’s mouth, pushing deeper, hitting the back of his tongue—
Michael gags. Luke smiles. “You’re like Kirby,” he informs him, even though he’s the one that’s pink-colored, Michael’s too infatuated to think, and then he drags his fingers back and leans closer and hooks them on the underside of Michael’s jaw. Right behind his teeth, like a fishing rod. “Open up.”
He spits. Slowly. Michael feels it hit the back of his throat, but Luke’s still keeping his mouth open, eyes tracking the descent of his own spit, and then he’s leaning forward with his mouth just as open and they’re kissing, Luke’s tongue immediately trying to ransack his mouth like he’s trying to find it. The spit. Michael moans really loudly into his mouth, and their teeth clack when Luke smiles.
“You like it,” Luke says, which has no right to sound sultry, when he’s clearly full of genuine, pent-up excitement. When they were kids he always had the most elaborate ideas for games on the playground. You’ll be the husband and I’ll be the wife and Cal’s the dog. Then Calum’s being the dog wrong, you have to be the dog. “Yeah?”
“The kissing?” Michael says, and his voice cracks because he is, according to his bodily functions, currently experiencing puberty, and Luke laughs like it’s a dumb question and kisses him again. He’s still moving, slow, on top of Michael’s cock, but then one hand inches between their chests and down his own waist and he’s gripping Michael’s hard-on through fabric. Two layers, to be exact. Michael feels it on his flesh all the same.
“Fuck,” he gasps into Luke’s mouth, and Luke just laughs, meanly—actually he snorts, which is even worse. Michael swallows it down and then bucks up into Luke’s fist and cums, immediately, all over himself.
Luke’s mouth is still pressed against his, but Michael doesn’t feel it, too busy with his heartbeat thumping through his lips. Of course. Of course he came immediately. That thing he read about semen retention online did not fucking work. “Luke,” he says, even though his mouth feels numb like he’s at the dentist. He puts a hand up into Luke’s hair, which is weird—is he supposed to tug on it? Or does Luke tug on his hair? Or do they both tug on each other’s hair? He doesn’t try to figure it out. Luke kisses him until his cock softens underneath him.
When Michael’s done panting Luke lifts his face, slightly, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. His entire face is blotchy and blushed. He looks clean, still, even with the fine dusting of sweat on his forehead, and still smells like hotel shampoo.
“That girl I went home with after the show the other night did that to me,” he says, talking directly into Michael’s mouth. “Fucking crazy, right?”
“Yeah,” Michael says. His hands are still on Luke’s thighs because he hasn’t done anything about them, but then one of Luke’s clammy palms comes up, slowly, and pushes Michael’s hands clean off. “Crazy.”