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gothgovernment · 4 years

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In Bed With Geo (Louis Tomlinson One Shot)

December 2015

"Hi friends and welcome back to in bed with Geo. As you can see, today I'm in bed by myself. This video has been a long time coming, which makes filming it right now absolutely terrifying..." I trail off with a nervous laugh. "Because I was so nervous, I spent three hours getting ready just to avoid this for as long as possible." I smile into the camera before taking a moment to collect my thoughts.

"As I'm sure you've all heard, One Direction announced their hiatus today. I've known this was coming for a few weeks now and it breaks my heart to see this all come to an end. These guys are the reason I have a career. These guys are some of my best friends. These guys are the reason I'm still here. And I am so proud of them for doing what's right and taking a break now before they all burn out..." I start to tear up. Fuck this video is going to be a rough one to edit.

"So, this is my story of how One Direction, and one member in particular, impacted my life in the best way possible."

September 2011

"Welcome Mr Tanaka," the petite lady at the door said as she let my father and I into the party. It was packed with important looking people wearing their nicest suits and dresses. One Direction signs littered the walls as everyone celebrated the release of the boy bands first single 'What Makes You Beautiful'. My dad is a musician with Syco. He helped write and record the guitar for One Directions upcoming debut album. I've always admired his work and I am so proud of him for helping aspiring musicians to realize their dreams.

Dad turned to me and smiled while throwing his tattooed arm around me, "you look so beautiful tonight, honey." He always knew how to ease my nerves. I tucked a piece of hair behind my ear as I responded with a soft thanks. "I've got to go congratulate the boys, want to come meet them?"

"Of course! I've only been asking you to introduce me since your first session with them," I giggled as Dad stuck his tongue out at me. I quickly grabbed a glass of champagne from a tray a waitress was carrying before following dad in the direction of 5 young lads. As we approached them, beautiful blue eyes locked with mine. I smiled politely at the handsome boy as Dad and I came to a stop in front of the group. He returned the smile and stuck his hand out for me to shake.

"Ahh so you're Geo. Izuki here has not shut up about you! I'm Louis," he said cheekily, giving my dad a playful nudge on the shoulder after our hands parted.

"Oh really? What has he said about me? All good things I assume," I bite back a smile as I see Dad rolling his eyes at us. Dad has told me a lot about the boys, but especially Louis. He seems to think we are destined to be friends.

"Alright, give it a rest," my Dad huffed with a smirk, "Boys!" My dad called to grab the attention of the remaining four band members. "This is my daughter Geo. Geo, this is Zayn, Harry, Liam and Niall." They all took turns shaking my hand with Harry even giving me a hug. "Right well, I'm leaving Geo with you while I go and talk business." Dad quickly turned and walked away, leaving me with these strangers. I watched Dad walk away before slowly turning back to the boys, immediately locking eyes with Louis again.

I spent the next 3 hours being dragged around the party by Louis, being introduced to countless important people. Something about this boys carefree and almost childish nature made me feel instantly attached to him. He is just so unapologetically himself all the time, it's almost contagious.

We had just finished raiding the food table when Louis asked me, "so, Geo... what are your plans for the future? Izuki has mentioned you're an incredible drummer." I should have known my Dad would talk about my drumming. It is, after all, his greatest achievement in me. Instilling me with a passion for music is the reason we are so close to each other. After my mother suddenly passed away, connecting through music has gotten us through our grief.

"Well right now my dream is to work as a drum tech but I also have an idea for a YouTube channel where I interview musicians, in my bed, pyjamas on, and ask them real questions. I want to talk to people about how their lives have influenced their music. How being in the industry impacts them. I want to know about their families, their hopes and dreams. I want to talk to artists like real people. Get to know why they are in this industry and if it's worth it. If the pros outweigh the cons... But that's just a fantasy. I would have no idea where to even start. I mean, the only musicians I really know are my dad and now you." I fiddle with the ring on my middle finger, realizing I just gave a much longer than necessary answer. Louis' silence causes me to look away from my ring and toward him. He is looking at me, mouth agape. His face suddenly splits into a smile which instantly helps to ease my slowly growing anxiety.

"You're a very interesting girl, Geo. Very interesting indeed..." He trails off as he quickly pulls out his phone, texting someone rapidly.

It's now close to midnight and Dad has decided to call it a night. As I bid farewell to the boys in the form of hugs, I reach Louis last.

"So..." I made eye contact with the Doncaster boy. "is there any chance I could grab your number? Ya know, in case you ever feel like making that dream a reality?" The cheeky glint in his eye makes me nervous.

"What? You want to come on my imaginary show?" Surely he was just being polite. No way would he actually want to waste his time on an interview that would maybe get 6 views.

"I text the lads about it earlier and we're all on board. It sounds like a brilliant idea. I fully believe in you, love." Okay wow, this feels like a dream. THE X Factor boy band One Direction want to be interviewed by me?

"If you're trying to make me swoon, you've achieved your goal," I giggle, pulling my phone out of my purse and handing it to him. When he returns my phone I see that he had text himself 'sup u sexy fuck'. I burst out laughing before giving him a long hug, whispering a goodbye in his ear.

December 2015

"I met One Direction in 2011 at the single launch for 'What Makes You Beautiful'. My dad was the guitarist for all of the recording and writing of Up All Night. All the boys instantly accepted me into their lives. Especially my now best friend Louis Tomlinson. After talking to Lou about wanting to start this channel, he immediately encouraged me and we set up the first ever 'In Bed With... One Direction'. That video gained 400,000 views within six months and affectively created my career. My whole life as I know it is owed to Lou. If it wasn't for his complete and utter faith in me, I don't think I would be here today." I start to cry, reminiscing on beautiful memories. I take a sip of my tea and think for a moment. I really wish L was here right now, but I know we would both be blubbering messes. I need to do this alone. For once, I need to do something without relying on him.

"Since my first interview with One Direction my channel has blown up. It has afforded me this house, my friends, the opportunity to meet some of my biggest idols and most importantly it has moulded me into the strong and powerful woman I am today. So I want to take this opportunity to thank you boys. Louis, Harry, Zayn, Niall and Liam. I love each of you more than I can put into words."

My phone buzzes beside me and I pick it up. 'Big Louser' sent me a text.

baby g, you okay? youve

not text me in a week :(

I sighed as I put the phone back down. I should have known he'd pick up on me semi-ghosting him. I have been so nervous around him ever since he and Eleanor split up about 9 months ago. It's like, I finally have my chance to tell him how I feel but I am so scared of losing the best part of my life. That's why, when he called me about a month ago to say the band had finally come to the conclusion of going on an extended break, I knew I had to make this video. So that the world can know and remember how important Louis and the rest of the lads are. And so that Lou can finally know how I feel. I pick my phone back up, knowing I should reply.

I'm sorry L. I promise

I'll make it up to you.

I'm filming a new video

right now that will be up

later tonight. I'll send

you the link when it's up!

Love you x

I turn my phone onto do not disturb and return my focus to the camera. "I want to talk a little bit about each of the boys from a friends perspective. Firstly, I would like to talk about Zayn. Z, you are one of the gentlest, kindest people I have ever met. You have dealt with so much during and after your time with the band. The constant racist and Islamophobic tweets and comments really wore you down a lot more than you'd let on. But Z, you would always rise above them, knowing that your culture made you into the incredible person you are today." I pause, hesitant about what I am going to say next. I would hate to overstep any boundaries here.

Choosing my words carefully, I continue. "Leaving the band must have been the toughest decision anyone could make. I remember you texting me about two months after you left to ask if I thought you'd made the right choice leaving behind your friends, your brothers. Your concern wasn't about if this would affect your future career, it was if it affected your friends. That's the epitome of the Zayn I love." I knew I would edit in a few videos I have of Z and I over the years throughout this mini speech.

I have a video of Zayn and I napping together on the couch in the green room before their show in Sydney in February of this year. He'd been really anxious about the first show of the tour and the nerves wore him out. We were originally sat together, talking about how huge this tour was going to be when he drifted off to sleep with me in his arms. I soon followed after and we napped for two hours before he was woken up to get his hair done. Who would have known that just a few weeks later he would crumble under the pressure and quit. I wish I noticed the warning signs.

"Liam 'good game' Payne, where do I begin? You are my brother, my teammate, my friend. You have always been my favourite person to play Fifa with. I remember a week after my Dad died, I heard the doorbell ring and when I opened it, you were standing there with a dozen of my favourite red velvet cupcakes and your PS4 controller. We played together in silence for hours. Once I was finally ready to talk, you stayed awake with me until 6am, sharing stories about my Dad, our lives and talking about our futures. I will always cherish you, no matter how frustrating you can be." Again, I know exactly what videos to edit in of Liam and I. One of them is him, wearing a crop top and skirt voguing after I did a full glam makeup look on him. He's going to hate me for posting it.

"Haz. My love. My guiding star. I would be a complete disaster without you. Although you are the worlds worst replier and you never answer when I call, you always seem to text me or show up at my house right when I feel like I'm falling apart. It's like the universe has linked you to me. You're my crisis line, and I am yours. I cannot even begin to count all the nights we have lied on the couch together just crying. Happy crying, sad crying, angry crying... It would almost have to be as many nights that we have spent laughing together. H, you were destined to be a rockstar. I can't think of any other job you could be more suited to. I know this is just the beginning for you, and I honestly can't wait to see you grow." I still cannot believe that my baby H is only 21 yet has achieved more than most people do in their entire lifetime. "I love you almost as much as I love apple pie." I am full on crying now. That last sentence really broke me. He and I have an inside joke that nothing in this world is better than a homemade apple pie. We would often text each other about incredible/rare/unique moments and rate them on an apple pie scale.

"Horan. I don't really have much I can say here because 90% of our conversations are inside jokes but I will say this; you have changed my life in such a unique way. I know we've had our differences, but I wouldn't change any of it. You're the one person who can make me laugh no matter what mood I'm in. You are such a light to this world. Without you in this band, I think the boys would've collapsed under the pressure a long time ago. Without you, this industry would've swallowed up every bit of joy they have. You have kept all of us sane with your stupid, loud laughter and irritatingly optimistic attitude. Please never, ever change for anyone you precious wanker." I know that I might seem a bit harsh towards Niall, but this is how we speak to each other. We've always been way too honest and, at times, cynical with only each other. He truly is one of a kind. Niall and I haven't shared as many moments together as I have with the other boys, but the moments we've had are definitely special.

"And last but certainly not least, Louis 'dumb fuck' Tomlinson. I don't even know if I can put into words how you have changed my life. You are my favourite person in this entire universe. Without you, there's a good chance I wouldn't be alive today. You are the reason I have so much self-worth, confidence and happiness within myself. You have single-handedly gotten me through some of my deepest depressions. I can't imagine my life without you. I've been trying to think about what story best represents how you're truly an incredible friend. I decided that although everything you do is a testament to how amazing you are, I would tell the one that made me cry the most.

"The year was 2013, I was 20 years old and I experienced my first heartbreak. My girlfriend of 2 years cheated on me with multiple people. I called you up, crying so hard I couldn't form a sentence. You sat patiently on the phone with me for an hour, never knowing what was wrong, just waiting for me to calm down. When I finally just hung up because I couldn't string two words together you text me that you love me. Six hours later and you walked into my bedroom, pulled me into your arms and laid with me for two days. You flew home early from your press tour without any idea of what was wrong with me. You just knew I was upset and you pushed everything aside to be there for me. When I finally told you what had happened, you hugged me tighter, looked me in the eyes and said, "you are the most perfect person in the world and you deserve to be with someone who recognises that." I think it was then that I realised that I'm completely and utterly in love with you. But you were with Eleanor, whom I adore still to this day. I would never have wanted to ruin what you two had. Because all I've ever wanted since I met you is for you to be happy. And El always made you happy." A sob escapes my mouth as I think of how broken hearted I have felt over the last few years, knowing that my true love would never be mine.

I decide to talk some time to cool down, so I walk to my kitchen to make another cup of tea. While I wait for the jug to boil, I rub my finger over my tiny teacup tattoo. Lou and I got matching tattoos not long after the boys finished recording 'Little Things'. He showed me the song and I fell in love with his verse, so we went out that afternoon and got our tattoos together, his shout. I walk back into the bedroom, press record on the camera again and get comfortable.

"When you called me up crying because you and Eleanor split up, I came straight over and returned the favour. I lived at your house for a week, doing anything I could to make you happy again. And then you went back on tour, and I returned home, and I've never felt so alone. After that week of us spending every second of every day together I realised that you're my soulmate. There's no one I want to be around more than you. And I know you're going to be so mad that I'm posting this video instead of texting you back but I want the whole world to know that you are perfect."

I finished the video with a few happier stories about my time with the boys, then wrapped it up. This was going to be an emotional afternoon.

Pressing public on that video was strange. I almost felt numb after all the emotions I had poured out while filming and editing it. I immediately text the link to all 5 boys and went to have a shower. The video was about 20 minutes long so I expected their responses would be a little while away. What I didn't expect was to walk out of the shower and into my bedroom to see Louis sitting on the end of my bed, tears streaming down his face.

We made eye contact once he realized I had entered the room. Frozen in my spot, Louis took the initiative of standing up and walking towards me. "Why didn't you tell me sooner?" His voice broke as he spoke, tears threatening to spill. I tried to form words but I was too scared of the impending rejection. "Geo. We're best friends. Why didn't you talk to me? I thought that... I..." His words trailed off as the tears streamed down his face. He looked down at his feet, he always gets embarrassed when he cries. I gently grab his right hand, causing him to make eye contact again.

"I am so, so, so sorry Lou. I didn't know what to say or how to say it. I guess I thought saying it indirectly would make this easier but it's so much harder than I ever could have imagined." I look away from his bloodshot, blue eyes and focus on my hand in his. "I'm in love with you. I think I always have been... And I'm sorry that this will make our friendship weird now. I don't expect you to ever want to talk to me again to be honest."

"How fucking dare you think that. If you think I could live without you, you're insane." Louis swiftly pulled me towards him with his free hand, kissing me with all the love he could possibly give.

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megatraven · 4 years

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Hi, I read your tags about Sydrian and!!! I didn't know you read the VA series and Bloodlines!!! Your tags gave me life and reminded me how much I loved them 😭 Thank you for talking about it qwq Can I ask what you liked best about their relationship?

Wait waiomg yes i read them all SO MANY TIMES and bloodlines is my favorite hgnhhgh

U CAN ALWAYS TALK TO ME/ASK ME ABOUT SYDRIAN!!!! altho i cant pick just one thing to like best about their relationship there’s SO MUCH,,,,,

I loved. How much they genuinely care about each other. Even from, like, the beginning, when Sydney still had her hangups about vampires.

She made enough of an impression on Adrian when they briefly met in Vampire Academy that he remembered her name!

But no, like. Sydney has no reason to help him out as much as she does. She doesn’t owe it to him at all to help him get into college classes, or to put a good word in to Lissa so she can tell his father, or to go out and meet with him when her responsibility is only Jill. But she does it all, again and again and again.

I love how she abandons her date at the dance to drive Adrian home and stays with him after that, because he’s having one of spirit’s episodes and he seems so vulnerable and afraid, and she can’t leave him

I love how Adrian notices when Jill’s magic starts to freak Sydney out at the mini golf course, and he gets her to stop. Or how he doesn’t use his healing on Sydney at the end because she’s too afraid of it, even if it’s frustrating.

I love how Adrian buys the Ivashkinator just so he has a reason to be around her, because he knows just how much she loves cars and how she wouldn’t be able to resist

Or how Sydney never thinks of him in that way everyone does. Where he screws up or gets drunk and she goes “Well, that’s Adrian for you.” She genuinely thinks he’s in control of his own life and it’s up to him to be better- not for some girl he likes, but for himself.

And in return, Adrian recognizes how capable and smart she is and loves it. He pokes a lot of fun, but he cares about her too- he wants to apologize to her after they argue because he realizes that she’s the only person who’s ever just.... believed in him. Supported him, truly.

I love how Sydney gets one of those awful sugary slushies for him and her, just because she thinks it’ll help him feel a little better.

I love how Adrian can’t continue their self defence classes, because in parallel to Eddie and Jill.... it hurts too much to touch her when he knew she didn’t feel the same as he did, not then.

I love that Adrian makes her an incredibly ridiculous shirt for their fake greek house, and how Sydney wears it when they know they’re about to go into a battle with a dangerous witch.

I love that he makes her a new cross necklace.

I love that he goes to her immediately when she calls him, even when they’re in the middle of an argument that hurts them both, because he would NEVER leave her in danger or leave her to do something dangerous alone.

I love that moment when Adrien rambles about Sydney’s eyes, about how he could paint them.

I love how fucking funny their dynamic is, how they complement each other so well.

I love that Adrian started medicating himself to fight off spirit, for himself but also for Sydney, so she didn’t have to worry.

I love how they talk about spirit in general- how Sydney admits that losing her mind is the most terrifying thing she can think of, because she thinks it’s all that she is

I love how Adrian would sleep with the lights on every night for the rest of their lives if only Sydney asked him to, if only it meant she never had to wake up and fear being back in reeducation.

I love how proudly Sydney takes his name

I love how they become co-parents to a little dragon-demon and feed him pie.

I just. I love all their whacky shenanigans and how much they care and how they just keep getting brought together. How they fully believe in one another.

I adore how Sydney was supposed to leave with Marcus and gang to Mexico for her new ink, but she couldn’t do it, and Adrian tells her how to find him and when she decides not to leave, it’s the very first place she goes. I love that he was sitting there waiting for her, hoping she would come.

i have to go to work but im----- I JUST HAVE SO MUCH LOVE FOR BOTH OF THEM I CANT PICK ONE THING I LIKE MOST,,,,,

#sydrian #bloodlines

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calumcest · 4 years

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i took a walk with my fame down memory lane (i never did find my way back) - chapter one

[ao3]

have i ever mentioned my britpop au? i don’t think i have :) this is quite literally the definition of self-indulgence like genuinely this is so self-indulgent that it probably counts as a deadly sin and i have literally no justifications for it

before anybody comes for me for starting another chaptered fic: i have 50k of this lined up and i’m still going at the speed of light (as sam can attest to) fear not we’re going to get there with this one i promise also for anyone still waiting for the soulmate au thats going to get finished too once this is out of my system

i have an inordinate number of people to thank for putting up with me/this fic so let us begin: @tirednotflirting deserves every single ounce of praise and love i have to offer for reading this whole thing, listening to me talk about it, bouncing ideas with me, being so patient and kind about it, coming up with such brilliant ideas and for just generally being an all-round sweetheart. @calumftduke also deserves excessive praise and thanks for reading a big old chunk of this and being so sweet about it. @killingangels genuinely breathed life into this fic and cheered it on to the place it is today thank u for diving into a britpop phase with me. @ashesonthefloor and @clumsyclifford listened to me whine about this fic even though neither of them care and i truly owe them for that. @kaleidoscopeminds lets me thirst over the gallaghers but keeps me in my place about it which is truly the vibe check i need and also listened to me talk about this fic over the past few weeks and is just generally such a joy to speak to. i’m certain i’ve forgotten someone my brain has not been switched on in weeks now but anyone who’s listened to me talk about this over the past few weeks deserves a ticket straight to heaven honestly

quick bit of vocab: our kid is a term used by siblings in manchester. not sure why i don’t understand mancunian culture myself but the gallaghers are always saying it in interviews and my mancunian friend concurred that it is correct so idk what goes on up there

warnings: heavy drug use (its oasis and blur in the ‘90s theres a lot of coke/weed/alcohol) and lots of swearing (including the c word because they’re british)

He’s here, in England, not in Sydney, and he’s twenty, not seventeen. That was then, and this is now.

But for a moment - just for a few seconds - he could have sworn that then and now were the same thing. Just for one moment, he could have sworn he’d seen Michael Clifford.

or: calum's in oasis and michael's in blur and it's the height of the 1990s britpop war

Liam had once asked Calum if he believed in fate.

“D’you think it’s all real?” he’d said one day, out of the fucking blue. Calum, though, used to Liam beginning conversations in the middle after two long years of knowing him, had just looked at him.

“Do I think what’s all real?” he’d asked. Liam had indicated up at the sky with his eyes and cigarette.

“Fate, and all that,” he’d said, lifting the cigarette back to his lips. Calum had watched as his cheeks hollowed around it, turning potential answers over and over in his mind.

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” he’d said eventually, and Liam had raised his eyebrows and nodded as he’d exhaled a cloud of grey smoke that had blended in with the sky and the council houses.

Calum thinks he probably should have known then. Maybe Liam had been trying to make a point, in that strange way he sometimes does - what are the odds you’d end up here, with us? Calum hadn’t given it a second thought at the time, just rolled his eyes and nudged Liam’s foot with his own and said Noel’s going to do his fucking nut if we’re not there in ten, and that had been that. The conversation never even crossed his mind again until it was too late, until fate had already had her way with Calum.

In Calum’s defence, though, fate never showed her hand. She never threw him any hints, no flashing neon signs that said Calum, your destiny is this way. Fate came piecemeal, came in short snippets of conversations or flashes of familiar faces or, on occasion, Liam and Noel swearing loudly at each other as they stomp up the stairs in Calum’s house.

“I’m arsed,” Liam’s saying loudly, when he barges into Calum’s room. Noel’s hot on his heels, midway through a spiel he’s clearly prepared which Liam’s having none of, and he turns to Calum when they get through the door, an annoyed expression on his face.

“Tell him he’s a prick,” he says.

“Why?” Calum says, setting his magazine aside, because he needs to know what he’s supposed to be endorsing before he picks a side in an argument between the Gallagher brothers.

“Our kid wants us to miss the match tonight and go to some fucking gig,” Liam grumbles, throwing himself down on Calum’s bed and picking up his magazine.

“It’s not ‘some fucking gig’, Liam,” Noel says irritably. “It’s the fucking Boardwalk. We’ve got to hear what else is out there right now.”

“I told you, I’m fucking arsed what else is out there right now,” Liam says, flicking about five pages on from the article Calum had been in the middle of reading. “I don’t write the fucking songs, do I? Go on your fucking own. You’re a big boy, aren’t you?” Noel rolls his eyes and opens his mouth, and Calum’s Gallagher Explosion Incoming senses start tingling, followed swiftly by his Peacekeeping Skill Set activating.

“Look,” he says hurriedly, before Noel can say something that’ll lead to a couple of black eyes, mostly because neither of the brothers have ever cared much about collateral damage and Calum values his bruiseless skin. “What if we start the match, and if City look like they’re going to lose, we go to the gig?” Noel closes his mouth, and then opens it again, and then closes it again.

“Fucking whatever,” Liam grumbles, which is the closest they’re going to get to acquiescence from him. Calum stares at Noel beseechingly, because this is the best idea he’s got and pretty much the only one he thinks Liam’ll agree to, and Noel rolls his eyes, sighs dramatically, but then nods reluctantly.

“City won’t fucking lose,” he mutters, as he sits down in the chair at Calum’s desk. “Not to a bunch of Scousers.”

“Lost to Liverpool not four weeks ago,” Calum reminds him, and Noel scowls.

“That second goal was fucking offside,” he says.

“Ref was a fucking wanker,” Liam chimes in, from where he’s lying on Calum’s bed, still thumbing through the magazine. “‘Ere, what’s this, then?” he adds, with a grin, and turns the magazine around, tapping on the page. It’s a picture of a (very pretty) boy spread across a motorbike, and Calum rolls his eyes, snatching the magazine out of Liam’s hands.

“Fuck off,” he says, but Liam’s just laughing, head tipped back on the bed, all full lips and bright blue eyes and long, dark lashes. If Calum hadn’t been doing lines with Liam for half of last night, he could almost believe the angelic innocence the boy gives off.

“Looks like our kid,” Noel says, sitting down on the chair at Calum’s desk. Liam raises his head far enough to give Noel a two-fingered salute, but he’s still grinning, and Noel’s grinning too when he flips Liam off in return.

Fucking hell, Calum thinks. It’ll take more than his three O Levels to fucking understand those two.

-------

City end up conceding three goals in the first twenty-five minutes, and Liam’s the one who stands up, voice already hoarse from screaming at the TV, and demands they go out. Noel, never one to resist pressing buttons that only he can find on Liam, makes a snide comment about it, and Calum, to keep the peace, makes a comment about United, giving both brothers something to spend the entire bus journey to the Boardwalk ranting about.

Noel gets them in for free, because he knows someone who knows someone who’d been a roadie with a band who had been on tour with the Inspiral Carpets for like, half a second, or something. Calum doesn’t really care how they get in for free, whether Noel gets them in by knowing someone who knows someone or by hiring a hitman on the bouncer, as long as they do get in for free, because he’d rather save his money for weed.

The band that’s playing are immediately declared to be boring little fuckers by Liam, who beelines for the bar and only has to flutter his lashes twice before the pretty girl behind the bar sidles up to him with a coy look on her face. To his credit, though, he doesn’t linger after getting the drinks, weaving through the crowd to Noel and Calum with a mixture of shouted insults and threats at anyone in his path, three overfull pints balanced precariously in his hands.

“You’re paying me back for these,” is how he greets them again, taking a sip from Noel’s before handing it to him. Noel just rolls his eyes, turning back to the stage and raising the pint to his lips.

“Am I fuck,” Calum says, taking the other beer out of Liam’s outstretched hand. Liam scowls, but lets him take it, taking a sip from his own glass.

“I’ll just smoke your weed, then,” he says, like he doesn’t do that anyway. Calum just shakes his head and turns back to the stage, where a new band are setting up, fiddling with their amps and mic stands.

“D’you even know who these pricks are?” Liam asks Noel.

“Don’t even know if they’re worth knowing yet,” Noel says. Liam shrugs, like that’s a fair point, and then a squeal of feedback makes all three of them (and the rest of the crowd) jump, causing loud swearing from at least eight people in the vicinity as their drinks slosh over them.

“Fucking hell,” Noel mutters, shaking his hands off.

“Evening,” the lead singer says, voice deep and rich. “We’re Blur, and this is Popscene.” They immediately launch into something that’s all guitars and overdrive and beat, and Noel’s soon tapping his foot along in interest, spilled beer forgotten, as the singer starts jumping around enthusiastically. They’re not standing anywhere near the stage, and the distance and bright lights combined with the movement are making the singer look more translucent than opaque, which is making Calum’s head hurt. He chooses to focus on the bassist instead, because Noel’s kind of got a point that they should be listening to what else is around, although he’s probably just looking for more people to nick ideas off.

By the third song, though, Calum realises he’s really stood far too far away to get any benefit from watching the bassist - he can’t even tell whether he’s using a plectrum or not, and his eyes are already starting to hurt from squinting - and lets his gaze wander across the stage. There’s a guitarist wearing glasses, which Calum’s pretty sure Liam’s going to have a comment about that’ll involve the words ‘fucking’ ‘not’ and ‘rock ‘n’ roll’, with maybe ‘cunt’ chucked in for good measure. The drummer’s so far back that all Calum can make out is a shadowy figure behind the kit, and when the singer stands still long enough for Calum to see more than just a hazy figure all he can vaguely make out is what looks like very pretty features and blonde hair.

It’s the other guitarist, though, that makes Calum stop, his heart stilling in his chest for the briefest of moments.

He looks so familiar, messy blonde hair sticking up at all sorts of angles that Calum’s only ever seen on one other person, that it makes Calum’s stomach lurch. He’s got his face down, focusing on whatever they’re playing, so Calum can’t really see - not that he’d be able to tell from this distance, anyway - but there’s something that’s so achingly known to Calum that it makes him swallow, mouth suddenly dry. Even the guitarist’s posture is familiar, a little tense, a lot focused, with an edge of something cool and relaxed.

Calum’s so mesmerised by the guitarist, heart hammering in his chest, that he barely even realises three more songs have come to an end until the band all stop, gather together at the front of the stage and do an awkward half-bow-half-wave to the crowd. There’s a smattering of applause as they straighten up, and the lights are too bright for Calum to see properly, but he sees a flash of a smile that looks so much like one he hasn’t seen in almost four years that it makes something electric shoot through him before he’s even processed it, and then they’re turning around and heading off the stage.

“Fucking shite,” Liam says, over the sound of the crowd’s growing murmurs. “Would’ve rather watched City fucking lose.” They all know he’s lying. Liam’d probably rather cut off his limbs one at a time than sit at home to watch City get thrashed.

It reminds Calum where he is, though, as he takes a sip of his beer with slightly shaky hands. He’s in fucking Manchester, in a dingy bar with two of the biggest pricks he’s ever met in his life, watching shitty bands play mediocre songs to avoid having to watch his football team get massacred by Everton. It grounds him, shakes him out of it, makes him remember that he’s here, in England, not in Sydney, and he’s twenty, not seventeen. That was then, and this is now.

But for a moment - just for a few seconds - he could have sworn that then and now were the same thing. Just for one moment, he could have sworn he’d seen Michael Clifford.

-------

They stay to watch three more bands, and then Liam’s in a fucking mood and even Noel’s had enough of the music, so they head back to Noel’s flat to drink and get high. Liam and Noel bicker the whole way there, first about whether or not Liam should be paying for all the weed Noel buys that he smokes, then about whether or not Liam had actually slept over last night or whether he’d been at home, then about whether or not the shirt their mam had bought Noel for Christmas had been green or blue. Calum offers his input on all of them, siding with Noel twice and Liam once, but gets snapped at to shut the fuck up by the both of them each time, making him roll his eyes as he kicks stones along the pavement.

(“Noel’s a fucking cunt,” Liam had said to him once, fuming, after a particularly nasty argument that had ended in every bag of frozen peas being dug out of the freezer.

“Yeah,” Calum had said. “So are you, though, mate.”

“Don’t call my brother a cunt,” Liam had said, and Calum had rolled his eyes, picking up the now-defrosted bag of peas on the table and taking them back into the kitchen, where Noel was nursing his own black eye.

“What the fuck is his problem?” Noel had said furiously.

“You’re both twats,” Calum had said with a shrug, tossing the peas back in the freezer.

“Hey,” Noel had said sharply. “That’s my fucking brother.”

Calum’ll never pretend to understand them.)

They spend the night lying on Noel’s living room floor, pleasantly drunk and so stoned that Liam and Noel forget to argue for about three hours. Calum drifts in and out of sleep, listening to Liam and Noel mumbling to each other and remembering to speak once every twenty minutes or so, until Noel nudges him at what must be about five in the morning.

“What’d you reckon?” he says, looking thoughtful.

“About what?”

“That band, tonight.” They saw five bands, so Calum would be well within his rights to ask which one, but somehow, he knows.

“Good,” he says. “Interesting. Sounded new, y’know?”

“Yeah,” Noel says, rolling on his side to face Calum. He hums, like he’s thinking Calum’s words over. “Liam reckons they’re not rock ‘n’ roll enough.” Calum rolls his eyes.

“Liam reckons the fucking Stones aren’t rock ‘n’ roll enough,” he says, and Noel snorts, and it sounds so fucking ridiculous that Calum giggles, which makes Noel burst out laughing, and soon they’re cackling on the floor, tears streaming down their faces as they gasp for breath and clutch at their stitches. Liam, who’s been sleeping soundly, looking peaceful and tranquil and not at all like the guy who’d threatened to knock Calum’s teeth out for suggesting City should have played a different formation not six hours ago, stirs and opens his eyes, blinking blearily.

“Shut the fuck up,” he mumbles, and then rolls over, and goes back to sleep. Noel glances at Calum, flushed and panting from laughing, eyes bright and gleaming, and that one look is enough to make the both of them collapse in laughter again, cheeks and sides and throats hurting.

The next morning, when Liam wakes Calum up by nudging him in the ribs and saying get up, lazy bugger, we’re late for work, that’s what Calum remembers from the night before. He remembers laughter, Noel’s living room going blurry around the edges, and the pleasant buzz of alcohol, weed and two of his best mates thrumming through his veins. He doesn’t remember the boy on guitar in the Boardwalk.

-------

The next time fate has her way with Calum is a good year and a half later.

They’re recording their first album, which Noel seems to think means he’s recording his first album and everyone else is just there to complement his fucking genius. He’s not managed to stop being a cunt for about six months now, and, not one to let Noel beat him in anything, Liam’s getting equally insufferable. The studio is a fucking battleground, and Bonehead always takes Liam’s side and Tony’s just fucking useless, and Calum thinks to himself at least twice a day: is this really worth it? Maybe I should’ve just stuck with construction.

They’re getting there, though, and when it’s good, it’s fucking good. They can all sense that there’s something there, something new and bold and, as Noel in all his endless humility declares it one night, groundbreaking. They’ve recorded Supersonic, a song that Noel somehow wrote in about half an hour, recorded a video for it on the roof of some warehouse in London, and there’s something about it that none of them can quite put their finger on, something that feels almost overwhelming, feels like it’s bigger than them. They’ve even been on the radio a few times, been playing bigger and bigger venues, got a contract and management and all that nonsense, and for all the flaws that combine to make up the Gallagher brothers, Noel’s got a fucking knack for songwriting and Liam’s voice is unlike anything Calum’s heard before.

The problem is that lately, it’s been bad more than it’s been good. They’d done sessions at Monnow Valley which had sounded like absolute shit, too clean and thin, and with every day that passed and every track that couldn’t be used Noel got more and more frantic, snapping at everyone who dared speak to him. Liam, never one to resist a fight with his brother, had risen to the challenge, and the fallout had been messier and dirtier and involved more collateral damage than even Calum had expected. It had culminated in a trip to Amsterdam which had ended before it even began after a fight broke out on the ferry. Calum remembers seeing Liam zooming past, a happy grin on his face, heading right for the middle of the action, and then twenty minutes later zooming past again, bruised and bloody, still grinning, being chased by a policeman. It had ended in Liam being deported, handcuffs and all, and a screaming match between the brothers in which both of them quit and were fired by the other at least twenty-three times.

Since that, though, things have got a little better. They’ve started recording in Sawmills in Cornwall with Noel as a co-producer, and Noel and Liam have started talking again, and everyone had breathed out a collective sigh of relief when Noel had announced he was going to head to the shops and Liam had wordlessly got up to join him. Slowly but surely, things have started looking up.

It’s in the middle of one of those sessions that everything changes.

“Eeyar, Calum,” Noel calls, from the corridor outside. “Your mam’s on the phone.” Calum sighs - fucking hell, what does his mum not understand about we’re recording an album and I’m twenty-two years old, I’ll call you when I fucking call you - but puts his bass aside and gets up grudgingly, trotting outside to see Noel holding out the receiver for him.

“I want you back in in ten,” he says warningly, like he’s Calum’s dad and they’re eating dinner soon, and Calum rolls his eyes and flips him off, which is as good of a yes as Noel’s going to get. Noel sticks his tongue out at him and heads back into the studio, probably to yell at Bonehead from the soundboard for being too loud, or maybe too quiet, or maybe too middling. He’ll find something.

“What?” Calum says, a little irritably, lifting the receiver to his ear.

“Hello to you too, Calum,” his mum says smartly. “I haven’t heard from you in over a week.” Calum rests his arm against the wall, and his forehead against his arm, and stares at his shoes.

“I’m recording an album, mum,” he says, hoping it doesn’t sound too annoyed. “We’re busy.” She makes a small hmm, a you should have stayed in a real job kind of hmm, but doesn’t push it.

“Are you eating well?” she asks, a stern undertone to her voice, like she knows Calum’s diet right now is entirely liquid.

“Yes,” Calum lies. He gets another disapproving hmm for his trouble which sounds like it might be the prelude to a speech about how he should stop wasting his time and come home and do a proper job and eat some vegetables, so he decides to change tack. “How’s home?”

“Oh, home’s good,” his mum says. “Janet next door’s got a new man, invited us to the wedding next month - can you imagine? A wedding in March? I said to her, I said ‘you’ll be wanting to move it to May’, and she said ‘oh, we want an indoor wedding anyway’.” Calum hums noncommittally, because he has absolutely no idea what that’s supposed to mean. What the fuck’s wrong with an indoor wedding in March? “Anyway, your dad and I have decided to go. Janet extended the invitation to you, too, but I said I didn’t know if you’d be back from your recording session.”

“I don’t know either,” Calum says. “Noel’s being a right cunt about the whole thing.”

“Calum,” his mum says reprovingly, like she wasn’t the one he picked the word up from in the first place. “Well, regardless, you’ll be home by April, won’t you? I told your dad you’d help fix the wall in the garden.” Calum groans, because that’s pretty much the last thing on the list of things he wants to do, including having Noel claw his eyeballs out for fucking up the bass on Supersonic again, and his mum tuts. “You’ve got experience in construction, Calum. You should put those skills to good use.”

“I’ve never fixed a fucking wall, mum,” he says.

“Well, the wall needs fixing,” she says, like that’s that. The wall needs fixing, so Calum’s got to suddenly develop the skills to do it.

(For her, though, Calum’ll do it.)

“What’s wrong with it?” he says, already mentally ringing up the cost of the bricks and mortar he’s going to need. “Looked fine last time I was home.”

“I think the ivy must have loosened the cement,” his mum says. “I was watching TV the other night - I saw Michael on Top of the Pops, actually - and then-”

“Hang on,” Calum interrupts, because he only knows two Michaels, and one of them’s here in Cornwall with him. “Michael who?”

“Michael Clifford,” his mum says, like it’s obvious. “Anyway, then I heard a huge crash outside, and I told your dad to go and take a look, and he said the wall had caved in. Just a bit, you know, near the shed, but-” she’s still talking, something about foxes and de-weeding the garden, but Calum’s not listening.

Michael Clifford, she’d said, like it was simple and obvious. Like it stood to reason that she saw him on Top of the fucking Pops. Like it made sense that Calum’s childhood best friend, his fucking everything from the age of seven to seventeen, was on a British music show.

“Michael Clifford?” he repeats, in the middle of whatever his mum’s saying.

“Yes,” she says, sounding a little annoyed that Calum’s not listening to her impassioned speech about ivy. “Anyway, your dad said he’d need some help with it, and that it can wait until you’re back. But I want it done as soon as you are, because I don’t like the idea of Janet being able to see into our garden. Oh, that’s the chicken done. Call me in a few days, let me know how things are. Give the others my best. Love you.” She doesn’t even wait for a response, just hangs up, leaving Calum staring at the floor with a dial tone ringing in his ear and a name bouncing around in his mind.

It can’t be him. She must have been mistaken. What the fuck would Michael Clifford be doing on Top of the Pops? What the fuck would Michael Clifford even be doing in Britain? The last Calum had heard from him, about a year and a half after he’d left Sydney, Michael had been sure about becoming a policeman. He’d seemed so dead set on it, had signed himself up for the academy and everything. Calum might not have heard from him in almost half a decade, but he’s pretty sure nobody would stray so far from ‘policeman in Sydney’ to end up at ‘musician in Britain’. No, he thinks, shaking his head and pushing himself off the wall with his arm, his mum must have been wrong. She hasn’t seen Michael since they’d moved from Sydney five years ago either, so it’s understandable that she’d mixed him up with someone else.

But, a little voice says, as he heads back into the studio and is greeted with the sight of Liam sprawled across the sofa, laughing at something Noel’s just said, both of them looking far too high-spirited for Gallaghers, she watched Michael grow up. She knew his face better than you ever did.

“‘Ere,” Liam says, interrupting the voice in Calum’s mind as it’s about to start reeling off a list of times Calum’s mum had spotted Michael in a crowd or down the road or in a photo before Calum had. “Noel says he’ll sprint around the house naked if Tony doesn’t fuck up his drums on this take. What d’you reckon?”

“I reckon it’s a good thing Tony can’t fucking play drums then, isn’t it?” Calum says, as Liam drops his feet to the floor to make room for Calum on the sofa. Liam snorts, and Noel scowls, but his eyes are still lit up with amusement.

“Well, I reckon you’re both cunts,” Noel tells them, and Calum grins, hoping they don’t see the way it doesn’t quite reach his eyes, and reaches over for Liam’s beer to try and calm his churning stomach.

-------

Calum can’t sleep that night.

He’s usually so drunk that Liam’s gentle snoring doesn’t even register to him as he throws himself down on his bed, often fully-dressed, and falls right asleep, only waking up to fumble around for paracetamol in the middle of the night when his throbbing headache overpowers his exhaustion. He’s not used to lying there, stomach still unsettled, mind racing, staring blankly up at the ceiling, growing more and more frustrated by the noise of Liam sleeping.

Liam rolls over in his sleep, mutters something under his breath, and then his breathing evens out again, and Calum times the minutes passing by the way he breathes in, out, in, out. The moonlight’s getting brighter - or maybe it’s the sun rising, he’s not sure - and eventually, when Liam rolls over again and smacks his lips in his sleep, Calum’s had enough. He gets up, pads out of the room and down the stairs, heading in the direction of the kitchen for a drink.

He’s surprised, though, when he pushes the door open, to find Noel sat at the breakfast bar, a sheet of paper in front of him, still wearing the same clothes from the day before. He turns around at the noise of the door opening and mumbles something that sounds vaguely like a greeting to Calum, who grunts back at him as he grabs a glass out of the cupboard and fills it with water.

“Can’t sleep?” Noel asks, and Calum raises his eyebrows over the glass of water he’s gulping down.

“No,” he says, setting the glass down on the counter. “You?” Noel shakes his head.

“‘S Bonehead’s fucking snoring,” he says, by way of an explanation, but Calum’s known Noel for five years now, and knows him better than that.

“And that’s why you’re still dressed?” Calum says shrewdly.

“Fuck off,” Noel mutters, raising a can of beer to his lips so he won’t have to say anything else. Calum sighs and shakes his head, but chooses not to push him on it, hopping up on the counter and swinging his legs.

“You writing?” he asks, and Noel looks down at the sheet of paper under his hand, and shrugs.

“Trying,” he says. Calum hums, and the two of them lapse into a comfortable silence for a while.

It helps, Calum finds, to be with Noel. He’s never been a man of many words - neither him nor Liam have ever been particularly gifted in that area - but Calum knows he’s always safe with Noel, thrives in the quiet comfort of Noel’s presence. Noel never asks, never pushes, but he’s always there if Calum ever needs anything, and even though they never speak about it, they both know the same is true vice versa.

(Calum can count on one hand the number of times he’s needed Noel, and can count on one finger the number of times Noel’s needed him.)

That’s not to say Noel doesn’t have his moments, though. He’s obstinate, brash, loud, arrogant, thinks his opinion is worth at least twelve times as much as anyone else’s, and takes himself far too seriously half the time. Calum’s had some of his most memorable arguments with Noel, edged out only slightly by how spectacular his arguments with Liam have been. Both of those, however, are eclipsed by how fucking nuclear the arguments between Noel and Liam are. The two of them bring out both the worst and the best in each other, grating at each other’s virtues and soothing each other’s flaws. They don’t know how to be happy unless they’re dancing along the line between love and hate, and Calum’s not sure it’d work any other way. He’s seen them in their brief, private moments of peace - Liam’s head on Noel’s chest, Noel’s arm wrapped around him, Liam murmuring something about a song or a memory that makes Noel snort, which in turn makes Liam’s lips curve up in a proud smile - but neither of their ships could sail anywhere without a restless sea to guide them. They need the fighting, need the bickering, even need the punches, to keep the wheels turning. A conversation’s not really begun if Noel and Liam haven’t called each other cunts at least twice, Calum thinks, and if Calum’s not been called upon by both of them to call the other a cunt within ten seconds of the inevitable argument breaking out.

It had been an argument like that a year or so ago that had led to them traipsing to the Boardwalk to watch that band play. Calum remembers the energy they had, raw and a little off-kilter but something there all the same, remembers the lyrical shouting of the singer and the way he’d bounced all over the stage, but not as much as he remembers the guitarist.

He’d looked so familiar, blonde hair and posture combining to make Calum’s heart ache like no music had ever quite managed to. It couldn’t have been him, though, he’d told himself. There was absolutely no way that Michael Clifford could have been playing in the fucking Boardwalk. Michael was in Sydney, back home, probably sunning himself on Bondi Beach and laughing at something Ashton was saying as Luke grinned at Ashton with wide blue eyes. Michael wasn’t in Manchester.

Except, a little voice in his head says, maybe he was. Maybe Calum’s mum hadn’t mistaken some guy in a band on Top of the Pops for Michael. Maybe it was Michael.

“D’you know that band we saw, a few years ago?” Calum says, out of the blue, before the thought to say the words has even crossed his mind. Noel looks up at him, thick brows furrowed.

“Seen a lot of fucking bands,” he says, a little slowly, like he’s trying to figure out what Calum’s actually asking. Calum half-considers dropping the subject entirely, but Noel’s been in the business far longer than he has, and if anyone’s going to know, it’s him.

“The one in the bar. After the City match.” Noel purses his lips, brows creasing further, before nodding thoughtfully.

“Oh,” he says. “Yeah. They’re famous now, they are.”

“Oh,” Calum says, and swallows. That’s not what he expected - or, he finds, wanted - to hear.

“Yeah. Heard their first record. Or maybe it was their second, I don’t know. It wasn’t all that.”

“What’re they called, again?” Calum asks, hoping the question sounds innocent, but Noel’s eyes narrow a fraction.

“Blur,” he says.

“Blur,” Calum repeats, testing the word out, letting it sit on his tongue.

“Why?”

“No reason,” Calum says. Noel looks at him for a moment, like he’s weighing up whether or not to say something, but then seems to let it go, shaking his head.

“You’re a fucking odd one, you are,” he says, which is the nicest thing he’s said to Calum in months.

“Cheers,” Calum says, with a grin. “Good-looking, too.”

“Don’t push it,” Noel warns, and Calum laughs, swinging his legs.

“What’re you writing, then?” he asks. Noel looks back down at the sheet of paper.

“Don’t know, really,” he says. “Just can’t seem to get it right.”

“Want me to take a look?” Calum offers.

“You?” Noel says sceptically. “You barely even play a fucking instrument.”

“Bass is a fucking instrument, you prick,” Calum says, only half-incensed.

“You’re up there with the fucking tambourine player,” Noel says, but there’s a smile playing at the corner of his lips.

“Fuck off,” Calum says, and Noel leans back in the chair, grinning. “You’re the one who bought him that fucking tambourine, anyway.”

“Little twat might as well do something worthwhile,” Noel says, like Liam’s voice isn’t one of the two indispensable elements they’ve got.

“At least I can play guitar,” Calum counters. Noel raises an eyebrow.

“Playing?” he says. “Well. If that’s what you want to call it.” Calum scowls and flips him off, and Noel just laughs and gives him a two-fingered salute in return.

“Go on, then,” he says, shoving the piece of paper to the edge of the breakfast bar. “Let’s see how much damage can be done to my genius.” Calum rolls his eyes but reaches over to pull the piece of paper towards him. There’s barely anything on there, just two lines: I can’t tell you the way I feel/Because the way I feel is oh so new to me. Fucking hell.

“I’m off to bed,” Noel says, like he can sense the questions bubbling under the surface of Calum’s frown, and pushes himself back from the breakfast bar. Calum looks up, catches the brief look of don’t you dare fucking ask me what that’s about that flits across Noel’s face, just the most fractional chink in his armour, and nods, hopping off the counter and tucking the sheet of paper into his pocket. He should probably try and get some sleep too, if only because he’s going to have to be in the best frame of mind possible to deal with how insufferable Noel’s going to be tomorrow on three hours’ sleep.

“I’m going to smother your brother if he’s not stopped snoring,” he tells Noel, following him out of the room. Noel snorts as he starts up the stairs, that strange mixture of derisive and fond that the Gallaghers manage so well.

“You’ve got more of a fucking chance of him waking up a bird than you do getting him to stop snoring,” he says. Calum sighs, all long-suffering, like this is news to him, even though he’s been sleeping in rooms with Liam since they were seventeen and sixteen respectively.

“Good thing the tambourine player’s expendable, then,” he says, and Noel laughs, soft and quiet in the stillness of the night.

“You’d be doing the world a fucking favour,” he says, but there’s a strong edge of pride and fondness that Noel only ever gets when talking about Liam, and Liam only ever gets when talking about Noel, and they never get when talking to each other. Calum thinks they’d probably both rather switch to being United fans than ever admit any semblance of love exists between the two of them, but it hums lowly beneath the surface, visible for anyone who bothers to look beyond the black eyes and hurled insults and weeks of refusing to even look at each other. No one can deny that the two of them fucking hate each other half the time, but without the push and pull of their relationship, without the back and forth and the give and take, the band couldn’t work. If the two of them ever lost that, if one of them ever pulled or pushed too hard, that’d be it. It should probably concern Calum more than it does that his entire career is poised on the knife’s edge that is Liam and Noel’s endless tug-of-war, but he's yet to lose the strangely settled feeling in his stomach every time Noel quits or fires Liam that tells him they'll be alright. You'll be alright. There are still better things to come.

“You’re just saying that because you want to sing,” Calum retorts.

“Nah,” Noel says with a grin, hand hovering over the door handle of his and Bonehead’s room. “I’m saying it because I want more royalties.” Calum rolls his eyes, but he’s grinning too.

“I’ll see what I can do for you,” he promises.

-------

As Calum had predicted, Noel’s a fucking nightmare the next day.

He snaps at everyone who dares come within a ten metre radius of him, and, when everyone stops going into the same room Noel’s in, he specifically goes out of his way to find Liam to start an argument that ends in Liam complaining that one of his teeth is loose.

(“It’s not fucking loose,” Bonehead says, and then decides to leave the room, presumably because he doesn’t want to deal with Liam’s moaning and whining. Calum can’t really blame him, and starts to shift surreptitiously towards the door himself.

“Since when are you a fucking dentist, you cunt?” Liam shouts after him, and Bonehead flips him off as he walks away. “You’re coming with me to the dentist, you are.” He’s rounded on Calum now, blocking the path to the door, and Calum sighs.

“If we get more beer on the way back,” he bargains, and Liam nods.)

That’s how Calum’s ended up in some posh dental surgery, spread out across a leather sofa and looking very incongruous in his oversized shirt and baggy jeans amongst the glass and the fancy-looking plants, waiting for Liam to come out of his appointment. It’s taking far longer than he’d expected - he’d thought it’d be a quick your tooth’s not fucking loose, you knob, you’ve definitely had worse, like everyone else had told him, but Liam’s been in there for a good fifteen minutes now, and Calum’s getting bored.

The receptionist keeps making eyes at him, and Calum can’t tell whether they’re I want to fuck you eyes or whether they’re you look like you’re going to try and rob this dental surgery eyes, so eventually he picks up the nearest magazine off the coffee table and flicks it open to a random page just for something to look at that isn’t her.

There’s a very pretty guy staring back at him when he looks down, blonde and blue-eyed and grinning inanely at the camera, and the caption reads BLUR: the cocky rebels you’re allowed to love.

Blur. That’s what Noel had called the band from that bar in Manchester last night. They’re famous now, they are, he’d said.

Calum barely even notices the way his heart speeds up as his eyes fly across the page, scanning the article for any mention of Michael before he really realises what he’s looking for. The author and the singer - Damon, apparently - keep referring to a Mike, an Australian Mike, which puts Calum right on edge, but Michael had never gone by Mike. He fucking hated it, corrected anyone who called him anything other than Michael, refused to respond to any teachers who tried to call him Mike, threw glowers at any classmates who did the same. He’d barely even let Calum call him Mikey in his most vulnerable moments, rubbing small circles on his back soothingly as he coaxed him to throw up all the cheap booze they’d nicked from the corner shop.

Calum’s fingers are slick with sweat as he’s turning the page and his eyes are starting to water from how little he’s blinking, and he’s not sure whether it’s a good or a bad thing, whether he wants Mike to be Michael or not. When he reaches the bottom of the second page, however, Calum’s heart stops.

There’s a picture of the whole band. Damon’s standing second from the left, right arm holding his left bicep, head tilted upwards, looking lazy and effortlessly beautiful, like he fucking knows he’s worth looking at. It reminds Calum of Liam a little bit, the way he plays into the camera, the way he knows that with a small tilt of his chin and a slight lowering of his lashes he’ll have half the fucking nation on their knees for him. Maybe that’s just the way singers need to be, Calum thinks, eyes flitting to the ginger guy to Damon’s left, who looks a little uncomfortable, and then to the guy directly on Damon’s right; tall, broody-looking, dark hair swept across his face. To his right is a shorter dark-haired man, looking tense and on edge, and to his right is-

Michael Clifford.

There’s no mistaking him. He’s got the same blonde hair still sticking up at all sorts of angles, the same sleepy, sea green eyes, the same pretty lips slightly parted in a pout. He’s holding himself confidently, miles away from the slightly scrawny teenager Calum had left behind, staring into the lens of the camera like it’s a challenge. Come on, Calum. Tell yourself I ever stopped mattering to you, go on.

Calum doesn’t need to read the caption to know it’s Michael, knows it from the way he’s clutching his right wrist with his left hand, but does it anyway, one final, desperate grasp at a straw - from left to right: David Rowntree, Damon Albarn, Alex James, Graham Coxon, Michael Clifford.

Michael Clifford.

The words seem to sort of swim in front of Calum’s eyes, like they’re not really there, like his mind’s superimposed them on the article somehow, but the picture’s still there, clear as day. Michael, a hint of stubble on his jaw, face more angled and figure fuller and shoulders broader and God, he looks so fucking good that Calum’s stomach flips and drops and flips again.

“-fucking hell, Earth to fucking Cal,” Liam says, sounding sort of muffled, and Calum nearly drops the magazine in shock, yanked back into reality so suddenly and jarringly by the sound of his voice.

“What?” he says, looking up to see Liam with an irritated expression on his face, cradling one cheek in his hand.

“Let’s fucking go,” Liam says, already halfway to the door. Calum stares after him for a moment, mind trying to process Liam wants to leave over the tangled jumble of Michael Michael Michael currently winding its way through every cell in his brain, before he jumps up, magazine still in his hand.

“Sir,” the receptionist calls immediately, like she’s had her eye on him the whole time. “You can’t take the magazine with you.” Calum looks down at the magazine, and Liam turns around from the door, a slight tension in his posture that Calum recognises as the one he gets when he’s spoiling for a fucking fight. Christ, he’s not about to deck the fucking receptionist, is he?

“Or what?” Liam says, a little menacingly. “You gonna fucking stop him?”

“I just-”

“What the fuck do you want with the fucking magazine, eh? Fucking paid enough for the appointment, buy yourself another."

“C’mon,” Calum mutters, rolling the magazine up and hurrying over to Liam, putting a hand on the small of his back. “Let’s go.” Liam hesitates for a moment, like he’s torn between going to get beer or shouting at a receptionist, but eventually the alcohol seems to win in his mind, because he settles for throwing her one final glare and letting Calum guide him out of the door.

“What’d they say?” Calum asks as they walk out, his hand still on Liam’s back, because he knows Liam better than to trust he won’t just change his mind on a whim and go storming back in to give the receptionist a piece of his mind for not wanting Calum to take a fucking magazine.

“Don’t fucking know,” Liam mutters, pushing open the door to outside. Calum shivers a little when the cool late-February air hits him, and decides that Liam’s probably safe now, letting go of him to wrap his arms around himself as they head back to the car that’s been waiting for them. “Sounded like he said something about my flaps.” Calum snorts.

“Bit forward of him,” he says, and Liam grins.

“Why’d you take that fucking magazine, then, eh?” he says, rounding the car without looking into the road and flipping off the car that has to screech to a halt to avoid running him over.

“What?” Calum says, a touch shiftily. “Oh. Saw a good article in it. Wanted to finish reading it.” Liam throws him a look over the top of the car, a look that’s unnervingly shrewd, but then shakes his head and ducks into the car. Calum does the same, taking a moment to tuck the magazine into his pocket and feeling it weigh down one side of him, unbalancing him just slightly. It’s kind of apt, he thinks as he gets into the car. Michael had always made him feel a little unbalanced, too.

“Let’s get some fucking beer,” Liam announces, and Calum grins, trying not to think about the way the magazine feels pressed between him and the seat.

“Let’s get some fucking beer,” he agrees.

-------

Calum doesn’t look at the magazine again until a good week later.

He’s drunk, and maybe still a little high, which is the driving force behind the whole evening. They all are, because Liam had scored some great coke off some guy called Neville, which Calum had declared to be the funniest dealer name in all of history, leading Bonehead to admit that his weed dealer used to be called Barnaby. Noel had sided with Calum, claiming Neville was far worse than Barnaby, and, predictably, Liam had jumped straight in on Bonehead’s side, and after about two minutes of shouting Tony had mumbled something about not being drunk enough for this and slipped out of the room.

“Fucking useless,” Liam says derisively, as Tony walks out. “I should fire him.”

“I fired you two days ago,” Noel says, pointing at Liam with the card he’s using to cut up the coke. “You can’t be firing anyone.”

“It’s my fucking band,” Liam says, incensed, like it’s not actually Bonehead’s band that Liam had wheedled his way into.

“Who writes the fucking songs?” Noel counters. “You just play the fucking tambourine and look mardy.”

“Fucking greatest frontman in the world, I am,” Liam says indignantly.

“You’re too fucking high to find the front of the stage half the time,” Noel says contemptuously.

“I know where the front of the fucking stage is,” Liam says, pointing at Noel with one hand and Calum with the other. “‘S between knobheads numbers one and two.” Noel rolls his eyes, too busy cutting lines to flip him off, so Calum does it on both of their behalfs, and Liam grins, swigging from his beer.

“Save us a fucking line,” Bonehead says to Noel, who’s just bent down to hoover up at least four of the thin white lines on the table.

“Get your fucking own,” Noel grumbles, like he’s the one who’d scored it, not Liam, but he lets Bonehead push him aside, slumping back against the sofa.

“Greedy cunt,” Bonehead mutters, and Noel swats him upside the head, handing him the card.

“We should have a fucking celebration,” Liam declares grandly, gesturing widely with his beer bottle.

“For what?” Noel says. “Album’s not even fucking finished yet.”

“Sounds fucking great, though,” Liam says.

“Well, you’ve clearly not heard it then, have you?” Calum says with a snort, accepting the card Bonehead holds out to him and leaning over towards the coke. There’s not much left, but Liam’ll fucking do one if he doesn’t leave any for him. “Fucking hell, Noel. You a fucking vacuum?” Noel just grins and shrugs at him, cocaine clearly starting to settle into his veins, and Calum rolls his eyes, cutting two thin lines for himself and leaving enough for the same for Liam.

“It’ll sound great once it’s mixed,” Liam insists, as Calum bends down.

“That’s what you said last time,” Bonehead points out.

“No I fucking didn’t,” Liam says, even though he’d literally spent about a week bouncing around saying it’ll sound fucking great when it’s mixed, just you fucking wait. It’ll be fucking biblical. Calum straightens, wincing slightly and pinching the end of his nose, and throws Liam a look.

“You fucking did,” he says. Liam scowls at him, and motions for the card. “Come over here. No way you’ll reach the coke from over there.” Liam rolls his eyes but complies, heaving himself up and then throwing himself down next to Calum, making a noise of outrage when he sees how little is left for him.

“What the fuck, Noel?” he demands, and Noel just cackles. Christ, he’s blitzed out of his fucking mind already.

“We should fucking celebrate,” Noel says, like he hadn’t shot down Liam saying it not two minutes ago.

“Celebrate what, you prick?” Calum says, wrinkling his nose as the bitter cocaine drips down his throat. Fucking grim. At least his mouth will be too numb to taste it soon.

“Fucking all of it,” Noel says. “Us. Recording an album. The fact that we’re going to be number fucking one.” Calum snorts, but he’s starting to feel a little giddy, a little warmer, and he leans back with a grin.

“Number fucking one,” he repeats, and Liam nods solemnly next to him.

“Fucking right,” he says, like it’s what they’re owed. Calum catches Bonehead’s eye and grins, knows he’s thinking exactly what Calum’s thinking - yeah, us two fucking deserve it for putting up with the both of you.

“Just wait ‘til we release Supersonic,” Calum says, shuffling up a little to rest his head on Liam’s shoulder. Liam’s arm comes around him, warm and comforting, and he squeezes Calum absent-mindedly as he hums contentedly. Calum lets his eyes flutter shut, euphoric and a little overheated, grinning to himself as he lets himself fantasise. Number fucking one, he thinks to himself. Fucking imagine.

��Knock those Blur cunts off the top,” Noel says, and Calum’s eyes fly open.

“What?” he says.

“Their new song,” Noel says scornfully. “Fucking, what’s it? Girls who like boys who like girls who like boys, something like. Fucking shite.”

“New song?” Calum echoes, mind trying to work around the cocaine to process what he’s being told.

“Am I the only one who fucking listens to the radio?” Noel demands. “That’s our fucking competition, that is. We’ve got to knock them off the top spot.”

“Competition,” Calum says slowly. Competition. Michael Clifford is his competition.

And, fucking hell. Does Michael even know Calum’s his competition? Does Michael even know Calum’s in Oasis - does Michael even remember Calum? It’s been what, four fucking years now since the letters had petered out, since Calum had got too caught up in his new life of Liam and Noel and drugs and music and Michael had been too busy with his family and friends and the fucking police academy. Michael might not even recognise Calum, might not even remember his name.

(Something tells him, though, even through the haze of drugs and alcohol, that they could never forget each other. After all, it says, who forgets their first kiss? Who forgets their first fuck? Who, it says, a little too knowingly for Calum’s liking, forgets their first love?)

Liam seems to have sensed something’s up because he’s frowning, waving a hand in Calum’s face, and Calum blinks, shakes his head abruptly and sits bolt upright. He stopped loving Michael. He fucking did, no matter what the churning in his stomach might be telling him. That’s just the fucking booze.

“What the fuck’s up with you?” Liam says, sounding annoyed.

“Don’t feel great,” Calum says, which isn’t entirely untrue. The high’s too high, and the alcohol’s making his stomach clench and contract, and he’s sweating a little too much, and his hands are clammy, and-

“Oh, fucking hell,” he says, a little faintly, and lurches to his feet, crashing into the bathroom next door and only just making it to the toilet bowl before he’s throwing up everything he’d ingested in the previous twenty-four hours. He’s glad he’s still high because it means he can’t quite taste the bile in his throat, can’t entirely feel the way his stomach’s heaving that he distantly registers is going to absolutely fucking kill tomorrow.

Halfway through his retching someone appears behind him, kneeling down beside him and rubbing small circles on his back comfortingly. Calum feels fucking pathetic, slumped over the toilet bowl with tears leaking out of his eyes, someone making quiet, soothing sounds behind him, all because of fucking Michael Clifford.

(That thought makes him retch once again.)

“Waste of fucking coke, that is,” the person says mildly when he’s finished, leaning up and flushing for him, and it’s Liam. Of course it’s Liam. No one else would willingly spend their short high in a tiny, cramped bathroom watching Calum throw up. Noel would probably lock him in and turn off the water supply, maybe grab a camcorder for good measure.

Calum huffs out something that’s supposed to be a laugh but sounds like more of a sob as he sits back, wipes his upper lip and forehead and rests his head against the cool tile wall. Liam sits down opposite him, legs pressed against Calum’s because they’re both too fucking big for the bathroom on their own let alone together, and blinks at him.

“Fuck brought that on?” he says, more curious than anything. Calum’s stomach lurches again, images of Michael smiling at him sleepily on a Saturday morning, of Michael with his head tipped back in detention, laughing at something Calum had said, and the picture of him in the magazine, so much older and yet so fucking familiar, flashing through his mind in rapid succession.

“Probably just overdid it,” he says weakly. Liam gives him a hard stare.

“A fucking baby would’ve had a hard time getting high on what you snorted,” he says.

“Baby wouldn’t’ve drunk five fucking beers beforehand, though,” Calum says, coughing slightly and wincing as he tastes the echo of acid at the back of his throat.

“Depends whose baby it is,” Liam says. “Pretty sure mine would.” Calum snorts, and lets his eyes flutter shut as he starts to come back to himself a little, shivering and wrapping his arms around himself as he realises how cold he is. Fuck, he’s all clammy. Gross.

Almost as though he can read Calum’s thoughts, Liam nudges Calum’s knee with his own.

“You’re fucking rank,” he says.

“Cheers,” Calum says, not opening his eyes.

“Take a fucking shower.” Calum pulls a face. He’s not in the fucking mood to shower.

“Tomorrow,” he says. It’s not like Liam’s never done the same.

“You’re fucking rank, ” Liam tells him again, like he’d not thrown up in the sink two nights ago and left it there overnight, but he puts his hand on Calum’s shin and pats it, and Calum offers him a weak smile.

“You don’t have to stay,” he says.

“What, go back in there and listen to our kid break his neck sucking his own cock? Don’t fucking think so,” Liam scoffs. “I’ll be fucking sober in five minutes, anyway, given the amount of coke you pricks left me.” Calum smiles again, a little less wobbly this time.

“Sober?” he says. “You drank twice as much as me.”

“Not all of us are fucking Aussies, though, are we?” Liam says, and Calum can hear the grin in his voice. “Might as well be a fucking southerner, you.” That makes Calum open his eyes a fraction, enough to glare at Liam.

“Piss off,” he says. “You and your fucking Irish blood. I’d drink anyone else under the fucking table.”

“Fucking right,” Liam says proudly. “Never met anyone who could outdrink me, let alone an Aussie.”

“You’ve never met any except me, you prick,” Calum says, and Liam grins.

“Well, most of you fuckers are smart enough to stay where it’s warm and sunny and the birds are fit, aren’t you?” he says. “Only the stupid ones end up here.” Calum scowls, and kicks at Liam’s leg half-heartedly.

“Fuck off,” he says. “Didn’t choose to move here, did I? Got dragged kicking and screaming.”

“But you’re still here,” Liam points out, and Calum finds he doesn’t have an answer to that. At least, he thinks, not one he’s willing to give Liam.

“You must miss it,” Liam says when Calum doesn’t answer, a little surprised, like the thought’s only just crossed his mind after five fucking years of friendship. Which, knowing Liam, is probably the case.

“Australia?” Liam hums his assent. “Dunno. I guess. I miss Vegemite.” He hesitates, before adding: “Mostly miss my mates, though.”

“Oh?” Liam says, cocking an eyebrow at him. “You still talk to them?” Calum shrugs, a little uncomfortably. After all, it had been him that had ignored the last letter Michael had sent him. He’s the one who hadn’t written back.

“No,” he says. “Phone calls are too expensive, and none of us are fucked writing letters.”

“Ah, well,” Liam says, stretching out on the tiles and sighing contentedly. “Just you fucking wait ‘til we’re number one. You’ll see them then. We’ll be touring Australia three times a year, and that.” Calum can’t help but snort.

“Three times a year?” he says. “There’s only five fucking cities worth playing in.” Liam grins.

“And you’d better have friends in all of them, mate,” he says. “Not bloody paying for hotels if I can help it.”

“My mates are all in Sydney,” Calum says, and there’s a little tug in his chest as he realises that actually, that might not be true anymore. He doesn’t know what happened to Ashton and Luke, either. If Michael can go from police cadet in Sydney to fucking famous musician in the UK then Ashton and Luke are probably, like, astronauts, or something. Maybe he should check with the ASA.

“What?” Liam says curiously, clearly seeing the expression on Calum’s face, and Calum hesitates.

He’s not sure whether he should tell Liam. What the fuck would he even say? My ex, sort of, is in the band Noel’s lining up as our competition? You know Blur? Yeah, I fucked one of the guitarists. Liam wouldn’t get it. Great, he’d say, eyes gleaming. Eeyar, you must have some good stories about him. You can embarrass him in the press. Or maybe, get in, mate. Infiltrate them, eh? Fucking good thought. Oi, that Damon’s alright, isn’t he? Maybe I’ll have it on with him. He wouldn’t understand the weight behind it, what Michael meant to Calum. Means to Calum. Fuck, he doesn’t know anymore.

“I think a mate of mine might have moved over here,” Calum says eventually, when Liam raises an expectant eyebrow. It feels fucking weird calling Michael a mate. The word doesn’t feel quite complete in his mouth, like maybe there should be a soul prefixing it.

“Oh aye?” Liam says, raising his other eyebrow too, like he knows what Calum might mean by ‘mate’. “Where’s he living?”

“I don’t know,” Calum admits. Liam hums, like he’s thinking it over.

“D’you want to know?” he says, in that strangely perceptive way he sometimes does. Calum shrugs, and hopes Liam doesn’t catch the tension in his shoulders.

“Maybe,” he says. “Dunno. Depends.” He doesn’t elaborate, and Liam doesn’t ask him to. Instead, his emotional capacity probably filled for the night, he claps his hand on Calum’s thigh.

“Want to see if we can get Noel to piss himself?” he says, eyes bright, and Calum can’t help but snort.

“‘Course I fucking do,” he says, getting to his feet. Liam braces himself on the sink as he pulls himself up, a little unsteady, and grins.

“Ten quid says he does,” he says, and Calum snorts. Noel had pissed himself once, three years ago, and Liam can’t fucking let go of it.

“You don’t fucking have ten quid,” he says, following Liam out of the room, still feeling a little light-headed and woozy, but no longer nauseous.

“Neither do you,” Liam counters, pushing open the door to the living room, and Calum has to concede there.

“How about the loser sucks the other’s dick, then?” he says, grinning, and Liam throws his head back as he laughs.

“You’re on,” he says over his shoulder, eyes twinkling.

“Who’s getting who to suck their dick?” Noel demands.

“You’re helping me get Calum to suck my dick,” Liam tells him, throwing himself down on the sofa next to Noel and resting his head on Noel’s chest. Almost instinctively, Noel’s arm comes around him, holding him close. Calum could almost be fooled into thinking they’re in some sort of a truce, that the booze and cocaine have broken down the barrier of hatred between them and left only the underlying love, until Liam reaches forwards, picks up a bottle of beer and holds it to Noel’s lips with a wicked grin.

“Drink up.”

taglist: @callmeboatboy @sadistmichael @clumsyclifford @angel-cal @tirednotflirting @cthofficial @tigerteeff @haikucal @queer-5sos @i-am-wierd-always @stupidfukimgspam @bloodyoathcal @pixiegrl @pxrxmoore @makaylaa1113

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chapter two

#malum #lashton #5sos fic #5sos fanfic #5sos slash #mate i seriously cant believe im posting this #what goes on in my head. or more accurately what doesnt go on in my head why dont i have a brain #i cannot believe i have 50k of this. 50k. i'm seriously going to hell

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ongaku-ato-kakikomi · 5 years

Text

s U R v I v E

Author’s Note: This is a series! So if you don’t want to be lost, please check if you read all the precedent chapters! :)

Pairing: Billy x Reader, Stu x Reader

Warning: Being captive; psychological violence

Word Count: 1081 words.

Summary: Your savior takes you to a wooden cabin in the middle of nowhere. It’s quite strange, but he wouldn’t try to do anything… right?

Masterlist

“Here’s your hot chocolate.” Roman puts down a huge cup full of the liquid on the table, then sits down in front of you. “Careful, it’s hot.”

“Thanks.” You take the cup in both your hands, letting it warm your hands as you look around the little cabin Roman took you to. “So… you’re living here?”

“Only for a couple days.” He takes a sip of his own hot chocolate, giving you a small smile. “It’s for vacation. I would have taken you to the police station instead, but I figured your kidnappers would beat us there and greet us.”

You shiver at the thought, not wanting to imagine what could happen.

“No, you’re right.” You shake your head, still a little trap in your mind. “You did the right thing.”

The silence engulfs you and you approach the cup to your lips. You stop when you see a strange glint appear in Roman’s eyes, putting the cup down back on the table.

Even if he saved you from two psychopaths, it doesn’t mean that there’s nothing in that drink.

“Can we go tomorrow, though?”

His eyes go wide. “Of course! First thing in the morning, I swear.”

You shakily smile back. “Okay, thanks.”

He looks down at your big cup, then bites his bottom lip.

“You’re not drinking...”

“Huh? Oh...” You awkwardly chuckle. “Sorry, I’m not really thirsty.”

“No, it’s fine.” His smiles seems a little fake, and you don’t like that. “Take your time.”

You’re not safe here.

Run away run away run away run away-

“Actually, can I go to the bathroom?”

Maybe there’s a window I can crawl out of.

“Yeah, sure.” He points behind. “It’s right on your left.”

“Okay… Thanks.”

You get up and walk towards the hallway. Once you disappear behind the wall, you hear Roman stand up and follow you, making your heart blowing up all your veins. You run just when he runs and you throw yourself in the bathroom, shutting the door and locking it just in time to see a glance of him with a knife in his hands.

“Hey!” You start to cry when the knife gets through the door and you step back. “Get out of there right now!”

You turn around, your face falling when you see the room.

There’s no window.

“Oh fuck...” You grab your head in panic, squeezing your hair as you try to think. “I’m gonna die, I’m gonna die, I’m gonna die-”

You scream when the door almost bolts open under Roman’s force.

“(Y/N)...” You don’t like how he’s using a sweet voice now. “Come out and play with me…”

“Why are you doing this?” You continue to look around the room, wanting to find some kind of defense weapon. “Why are you doing this!?”

You hear him laugh maniacally.

“Oh, (Y/N)...” You hide behind the door when you can’t find a weapon, deciding to rest your life on a possible dumb plan. “I’m the one who pushed your boyfriends to kill so many people.”

Your eyes go wide, and you hold back a scream when he pushes himself against the door.

“But see, they were supposed to kill someone for me… your little friend Sydney.”

You don’t know how much longer the door is going to stay shut.

“But it’s been two months now, and all they did was kill a bunch of people and staying in that house to take care of you. So I’ve decided to solve the problem myself and get rid of you.”

You close your eyes shut, tears falling down your cheeks.

“I’m pretty lucky that you’ve run right out in front of me and begged for my help… I guess you regret leaving those two boys now, huh?”

The door suddenly opens and he lunges himself in the room, but you get enough time to kick him down from behind him and you take the opportunity run out back into the hallway.

“Come back here, bitch!”

You scream when he grabs your arm, falling down unto the kitchen’s ground as you try to get away from him. He instantly gets on top of you, your eyes widening when he holds up the knife in the air.

“I fucking trusted you.”

“Never trust a stranger, sweetheart.”

The nickname makes your blood boil, and you use both of your hands to stop him from lunging the weapon into your neck. You groan in pain, feeling the metal cutting the flesh in your hands while Roman smirks evilly down at you.

“Say goodbye.”

You hit his head with your own, making his nose bleed. He lets go of the knife to hold it, his face scrunching up.

“Ow! The fuck-” You shove him away from you and try to crawl away, but Roman grabs your ankle and slowly pulls you back. “Where do you think you’re going?!”

You scream and take the knife in your right hand as you’re getting pulled back, your hands bleeding and silently screaming in agony from the cuts.

“This is my movie.” You turn your head slightly to see his crazy eyes and his wide smile. “And I decide who dies in my movie.”

Everything suddenly drop dead inside of your mind, the coldest anger you’ve ever felt rising inside of you.

“Not if I have a say in this!”

“Sluts don’t decide what role they play.”

You snap.

It’s Roman’s eyes that go wide this time as you throw yourself at him, lunging the knife inside his chest.

“I hate you! I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!”

You take the knife out and stick it back inside the man’s body over and over, not being able to stop.

“Just die… just die, just die, just die…!”

It’s not minutes later, when you notice that there’s no life left in his eyes, that you gasp and let go of the knife, hiding your mouth behind your hands and crawling away from the body.

“Oh my god...” You look down at your own hands. “What did I do…?”

Your whole body trembles under the shock, your hands full of your blood and Roman’s staring back at you in complete silence.

“No, this is… this was self-defense… I had no choice…! No choice.. no...”

Your words get stuck in your throat, a cry getting out instead.

“Stu and Billy were right... They were right...!”

You hide your face behind your hands, not caring if you get blood on your face…

“I never should have left them.”

#scream 1996 #billy loomis #stu macher #billy loomis imagine #billy loomis imagines #stu macher imagine #stu macher imagines #billy loomis x reader #stu macher x reader #scream billy #scream stu #stu scream #billy scream

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aidenzhous · 5 years

Text

in all these moments. (ajay x mc)

pairing: ajay x f!mc (cas rhodes).

word count: 3.4k.

genre: fluff / teeny tiny sprinkle of angst / romance.

summary: five times ajay backs out, and one time he doesn’t.

author’s note: i was rereading hssca bc i have Nothing else 2 do and i was thinking !!! why not !!!!!!! do a 5+1 !!! bc im super weak for those !!! anyways here it is it’s not Totally loyal 2 the chapters bc ~creative license~ but i Do hope u all enjoy it anyways for my first fic here owo !!!!

tag list: send me an ask or message me if you want to be added !!

i. auditions.

Ajay has always believed freshmen were all the same—too curious, too reckless—just too much everything. The world was their oyster, and they hadn’t learned the difference between questions to ask and questions to rein in.

That was what Ajay believed, until Cas.

She’s all cheerful eyes and open friendliness when she introduces herself, stumbling on her shoelace before righting herself with an embarrassed laugh. She doesn’t even look bothered after he’d brushed her hand aside and easily repeated his speech of ambitious projects and director responsibilities, smiling apologetically as she takes a half-step back.

“My bad,” she says. “I didn’t mean to bother you.”

“Thank you. But you’re still bothering me, Cas.”

He can’t help but notice her eyes carry that wide-eyed freshman wonder, intertwined with something that feels like sunshine and starlight and something he can’t quite name. Freshman optimism, maybe. He glances back to his scripts just as Danielle slides into the conversation like she had been there all along.

“Relax, Ajay.” Danielle barks a laugh. “She’s just trying to introduce herself.”

“Danielle, please.” He runs a hand through his hair and tugs the script closer, mindful of his pen. He levels her with a look, exasperation and exhaustion in one. “I can forgive interruptions from a freshman, but you of all people should know better.”

She shrugs, like he has a point but she stands too much on her own to care. “How about this?” Danielle says. “Cas can help me set up the stage, and you can take a chill pill.”

Ajay rolls his eyes and waves a dismissive hand. “Lovely idea,” he says after a moment.

Danielle turns on her heel and motions for Cas to follow, leading her backstage. Against Ajay’s better judgement, he lets himself get distracted, gives himself an interlude between work to watch as they leave. His eyes linger on Cas’s profile, watches as she says something to Danielle before breaking out into a laugh that he can clearly hear across the room. It sounds like a songbird at dawn.

He shakes his head before picking up his pen, twirling it between his fingers. She’s new, he reasons. She’s an undiscovered piece in the puzzle that Ajay hasn’t quite figured out yet, and he’s only distracted because it’s natural. Logical, even.

He sneaks another glance to the stage.

ii. the party.

This is what he knows: Ajay has always been good at separating his work from his personal life. Theater stays theater—everyone is a co-star first and a friend second, and romance is totally, absolutely out of the question. Success comes when everyone can focus, and butterflies, longing glances and crushes had no place in a production—especially one as important as this.

He’s lining up his next shot at the pool table, eyes focused. Emma and Sydney are hovering on the opposite end, their conversation distant and muted as he tunes it out. He inhales once, ready to secure the point, until—

“Ajay, thank God!”

His hands grip the pool cue tighter by a fraction, the only giveaway that her voice had startled him. It takes all his willpower to look nonchalant, to look like he’s absorbed in a game he knows he’ll score easy wins at, but the difference between being and looking is in the eyes. He waits until Emma and Sydney flit over to Cas, waits until they strike up a conversation of their own before he dares to look in their direction for a brief moment. He spots the faded blue of her jacket and the bright smile he’s gotten accustomed to seeing.

Ajay successfully sinks two solids into a pocket. He straightens up and pretends like he’s seeing Cas for the first time.

“Oh, hey Cas,” he says. She grins at the greeting, throwing a little wave his way.

“Took you long enough to notice I was here! I thought I would’ve had to start the preparations for my eightieth birthday if you didn’t turn around in the next minute.” She points to the pool table. “I didn’t know you were practically a master at pool.”

Ajay shrugs before turning back towards the game. “You only met me this Monday,” he says. “Besides, it’s not like pool is a particularly useful skill.”

“Maybe so,” Cas says, “but it makes for some impromptu bets!.”

Ajay raises an eyebrow at her, feeling the smile before he could stop it. He shakes his head and lets her have a short laugh, before he calls a pocket and easily knocks the 8-ball in.

“I win,” he says. He sees Emma’s shoulders slump in defeat as she sighs.

“Can I play against you?” Cas asks. “I have a good feeling I can snatch that pool-master title from you, easy peasy.”

He sets the pool cue aside, glancing her way. She’s all determined energy, coiled up into a tiny frame. “As much as I’d love to show you up, a bunch of jocks already called the next game.” He turns to her with a grin. “Find me later if you still want to play.”

She does find him later, when he’s leaning against the kitchen counter with a pizza in hand and a glass of cola in the other.

“Found you,” she chirps. “I believe you owe me a game of pool.”

“Can I at least finish my pizza first?”

“Nope! You can just eat on the way.”

Ajay figures out two things that night.

One: it is possible, even though he’d sworn up and down it wasn’t, that there was someone who was better than him at pool. He doesn’t know how to feel knowing that someone was a sprightly freshman with a knack for pulling out Ajay’s softer side.

Two: Cas’s hands are cold but soft. She also has victory dances, and Ajay thinks the cutest one is the one where she waves her body like she’s a piece of seaweed.

iii. the theater.

A quick glance to the clock tells him it’s nearing two am, and he’s been watching Cas nod off for the past twenty minutes, alternating between tipping over from sleepiness and jolting awake. He feels bad, because neither of them are in the beds they should be and it’s not like the theater comes with backup beds for events like this. A theater wasn’t built for overnight stays.

“Cas,” he murmurs, tapping her shoulder. She makes a little snuffling noise, nose wrinkling as she blinks her eyes open. “You should sleep on the seats instead of here.”

“‘M okay,” she says, shaking her head. “Not sleepy.”

“You’ve been falling asleep for the past twenty minutes.”

Her next words come in a drawl, pulled by a tired lull. “No,” she says. “No sleep. Don’t know sleep.”

Ajay stifles a laugh. He ducks so her arm goes around his shoulder, and gently, he pulls her up. She goes along like a doll, which is to say, she doesn’t go along at all. “C’mon,” he says, though it’s mostly to himself. “The stage isn’t the best place to sleep.”

“Stage is good,” she murmurs, but she stumbles alongside him. “Detective C no lie.”

He doesn’t justify her with a response. She wouldn’t be able to snipe back, anyways, not with how tired she was. Instead, he shakes his head fondly as he lowers her onto one of the seats. She takes to it immediately, curling up on her side. After a moment’s hesitation, Ajay shrugs off his jacket and drapes it over her, patting it down. He hopes it’ll keep some of the chill away.

He takes the floor, sprawling against carpeted hardwood floor. His back immediately twinges in pain, and using his arm as a pillow only increases comfort by a marginal amount. This wasn’t how he imagined spending his Friday night, but a glance to Cas mutes his rationality.

If anything, getting to spend time with Cas made up for all the wrongdoings.

Her hand is hanging over the edge of the chair, fingertips barely touching the floor, and he lets himself reach over, his own fingers falling just short of being able to touch hers. Maybe if they were in a different situation, he could hold her hand the way he wants to.

But he’s a director and she’s a cast member, and Ajay has always been a stickler for his own rules.

He pulls his hand back, drops it onto his stomach and turns so he doesn’t have to look at Cas. She’s always been optimism personified, a burst of sunlight through cloudy skies.

Ajay’s just awful at not chasing the sun.

iv. homecoming dance.

Homecoming was many things. Crowded, for one, with memories from a time he’d rather forget. There’s a reason he had no plans on showing up, but all it takes is Cas and one well placed set of puppy-dog eyes and he crumbles like a demigod beneath the skies.

They’re dancing, slowly and surely. She’s clumsy at first, but she learns rhythm and steps quicker than he had anticipated, stepping where appropriate with only occasional glances to their shoes. Ajay can’t help but think of the what-ifs again.

“What’s that move?” She suddenly asks as the song nears its end. “The one they do at the end of songs.”

Ajay knows exactly what move she’s talking about, and it’s almost too easy to tighten his hold on her. “I got you,” he says as he spins her into a low dip. He smiles at the noise of surprise she makes, feels a little satisfied with himself when her grip tightens around him like she’s scared of falling. Her eyes are wide with alarm, but they carry a little bit of reckless joy too.

“A little warning would’ve been nice,” she says. She’s trying for annoyed, he can tell, but he’s starting to learn it’s never been in her nature to be annoyed at anyone. It only takes a moment before she bursts with a dazzling grin, another that Ajay files away in ‘expressions I’d like to see again’.

“Where’s the fun in that?” Ajay replies as he pulls her up. She does a little twirl under his arm and he lets himself hold her hand for a moment longer. The grooves and planes of her hand feel familiar under his; soft, sure, right. But he pulls away, doesn’t let himself think about that in too much detail because he’s not supposed to and puts a small distance between them that feels like miles. He doesn’t miss the way she deflates a little, doesn’t miss the way disappointment sits on her shoulders.

He figures there’s no way someone like her—all starlight, moonlight, sunlight—would like someone like him.

v. accusations.

Ajay looks over when he hears the soft thud of a lunch tray. Cas is sitting across Rory, her expression upset as she pleads with her to talk. It’s courtesy, he tells himself, when he stands and tugs her sleeve, pulling her to the occupied end of the table. He knows, really, that he has no right to do that, especially after what he had accused Cas of.

“She hasn’t spoken since lunch started,” Ajay explains, and her face falls.

“Is it because of—”

“Of course it is!” Danielle snaps, and Cas jumps in her seat beside Ajay. His eyes immediately fall to his plate, fingers gripping his spoon tightly. He’s done enough damage on his own, and the production was relying on him and he can’t have a repeat— “Just get out of here already, you’ve made things bad enough.”

“Danielle!” Cas’s voice is sharp in reply, but it loses its impact as it breaks.

“What you did wasn’t cool,” Clint says. “Not to any of us.”

“You should find somewhere else to sit, because you’re not welcome here,” Natalie adds.

Ajay winces. He doesn’t have to look up to know what their faces look like; their words hurt alone. Quiet falls on the table and he can feel the weight of Cas’s eyes on him. He keeps his gaze low, pushes around his food until she stands.

“Fine,” she says. “I’ll just go.”

He finally lifts his eyes when the squeak of her sneakers grow fainter, turning to watch as she shoulders open the door towards the courtyard. He’s suddenly lost his appetite, and pushes his tray away from him.

A moment later, Erin and Skye hurry up to the table carrying trays of their own.

“Where’s Cas?” Skye asks, and Ajay points to the courtyard.

“She got kicked off the table,” he replies, and Danielle’s glare switches its focus to him, turning icy. He doesn’t dignify it with a response.

Skye rolls her eyes and marches off towards the courtyard. Erin looks towards the table, eyebrows furrowed before she says, “I’m really disappointed you’d all believe Cas could be capable of something so cruel. She really thought you guys were her friends.” Her words sit uncomfortably on the group as she follows Skye, and Ajay’s eyes follow them, watching as they take a seat at Cas’s table.

He watches as Cas shivers against the wind, and he feels the inexplicable urge to put his jacket over her shoulders, like they were locked in the theater together again.

But they’re not.

They’re on two different sides of a serious argument and Ajay has monumentally screwed up his production and his friendships again. He stands up and clears his tray before disappearing to the theater, where no one else has to follow him except his own ghosts.

vi. cas.

Cas has successfully avoided Ajay for the duration of the cast party. She’s ducked into her kitchen, hid in the bathroom, shoved a handful of fries into her mouth and bolted for the living room as soon as Ajay had spotted her. It’s a never-ending game of hide and seek, and she doesn’t intend to lose.

It’s backed by pride, she knows that, and hurt too.

As the party winds down, she lurks near the front door. Ajay had disappeared at some point, and it’s easy to assume he’s just gone home. It’s a relief, she thinks. The game is over, and she can return to moping by herself. She doesn’t know how much longer she could’ve lasted trying to hide from him.

“Cas?” Ajay’s voice comes from behind her, and she throws her arms up in surprise.

“Woah, did not see you there,” Cas says, turning around to face him. “You’re still here. I thought you went home or—or something. I haven’t seen you for a while.”

Ajay raises an eyebrow at her. “Yeah, someone’s been hiding from me all night.”

“Gosh,” Cas replies, “who could that be?”

She doesn’t want to fall back into a rhythm with him. He makes it too easy. She pulls at a stray thread on her sweater before Ajay sighs.

“Can we talk, actually?”

“We’re talking right now, aren’t we?”

“I mean privately, without anyone else around.” Ajay runs a hand through his hair before he says, “just to my car?”

And Cas, well, she’s never been the greatest at saying no to Ajay.

“I wanted to apologize,” Ajay murmurs. They’re leaning against his car, and Cas occupies herself by staring at her shoes. “Back when everyone accused you—I should’ve stayed neutral, or at least been more thorough in making sure the facts checked out. I let you down, and I’m sorry.”

“That’s not what…” Cas pauses. She wants the right words, but she’s never been like Ajay—never has been eloquent or as level-headed as him. “Ajay, I don’t care about the fact-checking, or the staying neutral. I care that you said I could’ve been capable of doing something like that, I care that you said it was ‘logical’ and that it made sense to you. I care that in the heat of the moment, you decided that the cleverness you liked meant that I could’ve done it.” She sucks in a breath, hands rubbing her arms. “I care that my friend turned his back on me, and he did it so easily.”

Ajay doesn’t respond. Cas glances over in his direction to see him with his face buried in his hands.

“Ajay?” She prompts. “You okay?”

“No,” he says. His voice comes out all muffled. “I asked you out here to apologize—I was so confident I had it all right and that I knew what I was apologizing for but I still—” He cuts himself off, hands falling to his sides. “I still messed it up.”

“You can try again, now that you know what I was actually upset about.”

“Would you hear it out?”

Cas gives him a warm smile. “When have I ever said no?”

Ajay takes in a deep breath before he turns to face Cas. His expression is determined and apologetic all at once. “Cas,” he starts, “I’m sorry, genuinely. I hurt you not just as a director, but as a friend. I shouldn’t have been so quick to decide which version of the story I believed, and I should’ve had more faith in you as a person. You were right, after all, and I’m sorry it took me so long to build up the courage to properly apologize to you.”

“I accept your apology,” Cas says. “And I forgive you.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

Ajay shakes his head, but the smile on his lips is warm and kind. Cas opens her mouth to say something before a cold gust of wind blows strongly, immediately bringing shivers from the both of them.

“How about we get into my car?” Ajay suggests. “I can turn on the heater.”

“I call shotgun!” Cas calls out, skipping around towards the passenger door.

“Sometimes I wonder where we would be if I didn’t audition for the play,” Cas says. She has her hands pressed up against the heater, fingers wiggling against the current of warm air. “Like, would we still be friends? Would we have gone through that huge theaterwide drama? Or would we just have been people with mutual friends?”

“Maybe we could’ve been something else,” Ajay replies. “That particular thought has crossed my mind a few times, even though it shouldn’t have, and I’ve probably rehearsed the next few words a hundred times.”

The words are so telling, and Cas pulls her hands away from the heater as she sits back against the seat. She glances over to him before her head tilts in a play of curiosity. “What words?”

“I don’t want to rush it, Cas,” Ajay says, but his eyes soften around the edges. “I just—don’t quite know how to say it.”

The smile Cas gives him is nothing short of encouraging, tinted with butterflies and longing glances. “Hey, take your time,” she says. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Ajay’s head thumps against the headrest. Cas snickers, before she schools her expression into something gentler. She watches as Ajay takes a deep breath, fingers drumming against the steering wheel before his eyes meet hers.

“I think you’re incredible, Cas,” Ajay says. “You’re incredible on stage, and offstage—every morning, I feel so lucky that I can say you’re important to me. I can’t imagine myself not caring about you.”

He pauses, before he says, “I like you, Cas. I like you a lot. Waiting for the show to end has been…” He trails off, letting the silence speak. “I liked working with you, and with everyone else. But I won’t lie and say that I haven’t been thinking of taking your hand every time an opportunity presented itself and asking if I could—” Ajay ducks his head, adjusting his glasses.

“Yeah?” Cas bites back a smile, eyes earnest as Ajay looks up with a smile of his own.

“Cas, can I kiss you?”

“That would be really nice.”

They share a laugh, a little break in the moment as they lean over the console. Cas zeroes in on the gentle touch of Ajay’s fingers on her hair, the feather-light affection when he tilts her chin up. It’s instinct when her eyes slide shut.

Their lips meet in a chaste, soft kiss—a brief touch that sends her heart racing. She feels her cheeks warm up intensely as Ajay pulls away, touching his forehead to hers.

“That was—wow,” she murmurs, and Ajay laughs, the sound soft as it suspends itself between them. “Your glasses are all fogged up now.”

“Small price to pay,” he replies.

She takes in Ajay, takes in all of him from the way his lips are tilted up in a smile to the expressions he reserves just for her to the way he’s always carried himself like he’s unshakeable. She sees him in all the ways that make her heart flutter, and all the ways he holds her steady.

“I like you a lot too, Ajay.”

#hssca #hssca ajay #playchoices #playchoices fic #ajay x mc #mc: cas rhodes #fics.#it's 4:30am im losing it how did i get here .

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