The day had already been monumentally shitty. The worst of the worst days. An absolute steaming-pile-of-crap day. So, really, it was only natural to finish it with a perfect cherry on top - his call from Death-Cast.
He was alone when the unmistakabl...
Oups ! Cette image n'est pas conforme à nos directives de contenu. Afin de continuer la publication, veuillez la retirer ou télécharger une autre image.
𝙼𝚒𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚎𝚕 𝙳𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛 𝟸𝟷𝚜𝚝, 𝟸:𝟻𝟹𝚙𝚖
The first time Michael saw Ashton, he was enamored. In an innocent, 'he's cute, but I would never do anything because hens my boss's son' kind of way. From the very first second, Ashton had smirked at him and winked, purring to Harry that 'I like the new help, Haz. He's much more interesting than those old fucks you had before.'
He'd had a red lollipop in his mouth, sucking at it carelessly and lazily. It hung off his lips, painting them a deep, cherry red. Sunglasses had sat on the bridge of his nose, mischievous, hazel eyes peeking out from behind them. The right eye had been covered with a bruise. Harry told Michael later that Ashton liked to find trouble but, looking back, Michael didn't know if that was true or not. It seemed that, instead, trouble liked to find Ashton.
He'd leaned in close when Harry wasn't looking and whispered in Michael's ear, 'I think I'll like having you around.' His fingers had brushed against Michael's skin, leaving goosebumps in their tracks, and his hungry gaze lingered on Michael a moment more before he crooned something inappropriate in Harry's direction and took his leave. All Michael could do was watch after him as he went, only half-listening to Harry's embarrassed apologies, promising 'he's not always like that, I swear.' He had been, but Michael never minded. Not really. Secretly, he'd always enjoyed when Ashton would slink through the front door well after midnight with a sloppy smile on his face and salute Michael where he was posted in the front corridor. 'Evening, Clifford,' he would say. 'All clear on the western front?'
'Just you,' Michael always replied, which made Ashton smile. Not smirk, nor grin, but smile like he was so completely happy that Michael perceived him. Just for the briefest second, he would smile and it would be so beautiful. And then he would stumble down the hallway until Michael pitied him enough to go help out, promising Harry didn't have to know as long as Ashton swore not to do it again. He always did, though, and Michael always let him.
He really wished he hadn't.
Things got bad. They got so completely bad, but Michael remained willfully ignorant. Ashton comes home so plastered he can't even form a sentence? No worries because it's a Friday night and he's just having fun. Ashton comes home with hand shaped bruises on his arms? He got a little rowdy at the pub in town. Ashton doesn't come home at all? Ah, well. He's like a cat. He'll wander back eventually.
And he always did. Until he didn't.
The pavement slapped against Michael's sneakers, each step heavier and more painful than the last as he ran away - anywhere but where he started. His stomach was cramping and his lungs were begging for air, but he couldn't stop. He was crying so hard, it hurt. It physically hurt him because he couldn't breathe. He couldn't do anything but sob for it all to just fucking end already because it hurt so fucking bad. Because it felt so fucking unfair and, goddamnit, what had he ever done to deserve this? He tried to be a good person. He smiled at strangers and he hugged his parents and he was there when his friends needed a shoulder to cry on, so why was this happening to him? Why not someone else? Why not someone who deserved it? Someone who hurt their children and beat up their loved ones and left bruises in all of the wrong places?
