Work Text:
The air is still. Everything around the room is tinted grey; the splatters of rain on the window echoing in the silence along with the tinkling sound of stainless steel against ceramic.
On most days, this would be the kind of atmosphere that Calum would be able to find his solace in – it gives him a peace of mind and a moment of clarity for him to think better. But today he is restless, a feeling of anxiety choking up his airways. He concentrates on the stirring of his tea to pace his breathing with every circle he makes with his spoon along the rim of his mug. There are stormy clouds of fatigue in the creases under his eyes, dark shadows encircling them, he's got a headache and he’s slouched over the kitchen counter, like he's physically tired apart from being well worn-out mentally.
It's just that he's been doing a lot of thinking.
They're not the type of thoughts that would prompt him to pick up a notebook and start scribbling, though. They’re the type of thoughts that wear him out, that run around endlessly in his brain until he's managed to lose at least five hours of sleep last night. The only two he got turn out to be filled with glaring images and thoughts conjured by his inner demons. By the time he wakes up and hurls himself out of bed, he's just successfully made himself all the more tired, and that is why he's called in sick today. There's absolutely no way he can concentrate on anything besides simple tasks like making himself tea to soothe his pounding head.
Rainy mornings are usually his favourite type of mornings. He used to be able to draw inspiration out of the looming chill in the air, or the beads of moisture on the window, or the faint rumble of thunder or the occasional flash of lightning he'd see from outside the balcony.
As of late, he's been wildly unimaginative. He's unable to come up with words that sum up his feelings or his surroundings and all his muse is lost. It’s as if he's gone through a tragic life-changing event that somehow managed to wipe out every bit of his usual amount of creativity. It's a sickening feeling, not being able to write anything on paper, but he carries on with life anyway, hoping that it will come back soon enough.
This time, he wants to try. He wants to make an attempt, because it's been far too long.
The last time he'd successfully written anything and completed it was about two months ago, and there's a strangling feeling in his chest that's urging him to get something out of his system before he explodes with delirium. He goes over to his work desk, finding his tattered, dog-eared notebook amidst the mess of scattered pens and rough paper, along with a black pen. He sits down and flips open to a brand new page. He takes a deep breath and his hand, gripping the pen, hovers over the white surface, and he's waiting for a good starting to jot down. The tip of the pen comes into contact with the paper and he slowly writes out one word.
Blank.
He sips his tea. He spends another few minutes thinking. To no avail.
In frustration, he jams the pen in between the pages and goes off to get dressed into something more appropriate for the cold weather outside. His grocery supplies have run out, and it’s about damn time he heads to the supermarket for some. He figures if he can't remedy one problem in his life, he might as well try to fix the other, smaller ones beforehand.
On second thought, as he grabs his keys and goes out the front door, a stop at the pharmacy for an Advil would be good, too.
*
The day passes on dreadfully slow after he gets back home – a horrifically boring cycle of watching TV and turning it off then absentmindedly plucking his guitar strings and getting up to force himself to a meal and killing time with aimless, unproductive things that make him feel like absolute shit. He ends up dozing off on the lounge at about four in the afternoon.
The doorbell rings halfway through his nap, waking him up with a jolt and he's actually half-glad that it did, because the monsters from last night were haunting him again. He walks up to the door with an urge to thank whoever it is that's kindly (unknowingly) rescued him from them. He rubs the sleep from his eyes first, and does a quick check at the mirror to see if he looks decent enough.
(By 'decent', he means 'not looking like he could scare little children off with bloodshot eyes and dark circles under them to match.)
He swings open the door.
There's a stranger – no, not a stranger – with a baggy hoodie on and an equally saggy pair of jeans, a backpack slung over one shoulder and on his pale face, a pair of green eyes that Calum has grown to know all too well in his previous years.
"Michael?" he blinks.
"Hi," Michael replies, lifting his hand and waving a little, a slow grin spreading across his face. He's exactly how Calum had remembered him, except that his hair is no longer a vibrant shade of blue. It's back to his natural hair colour, back to the same straw-coloured strands before the hair-dyeing frenzy that had started halfway through high school. He's a whole lot taller now, though, but so is Calum.
"What – what are you doing here?" Calum asks, laughing with disbelief and when Michael drops the bag he’s holding, he falls into Michael's open arms like it's a natural thing to do, like it hasn't been half a decade since they last saw each other. They fit nicely, the hug lasting for more than a couple of seconds, absorbing each other's presence after not feeling it for so long. Michael’s familiar scent prompts Calum to bury his nose into the crook of his neck. They stay on that spot for some time, wordless, both evidently struck with awe.
"Got lost in London. Just thought I'd drop by," Michael shrugs, once they're free of physical contact. He walks into Calum's apartment, eyes surveying the entire space, and Calum gestures for him to sit at the lounge he'd been sleeping on. “I thought you’d be at work?”
Calum shakes his head. “Didn’t feel too good today.” He settles down next to Michael on the lounge.
Michael’s looking at him with certain awe on his face. “Geez. I can’t believe you’re this tall now,” he laughs, in the slightly condescending way that Calum knows he would. “You used to be so small.”
“I know. Puberty hit me last,” Calum says, “Everyone we knew was like your current size back then. I’m only just starting to grow a beard, see?” He rubs at his obviously smooth jawline, grinning.
“Barely,” Michael says, pretending to squint. “Do you want anything? Um, a drink or something?”
“Nah,” Michael shakes his head. “I’m kind of tired, though.”
“Great. I needed a cuddle buddy,” Calum reaches to grab him around the wrist and he pulls Michael up and all the way to his room, where the sheets are still unmade from earlier that morning. He watches Michael flop onto the bed without much hesitation, leaning against the headboard and pulling the covers up to his chin.
It still feels a bit surreal, seeing Michael after so long like this.
“It sure is fuckin' cold, huh?” Calum asks, attempting to be light-hearted.
Michael doesn't seem to quite register his words, looking distracted and droopy-eyed. He just looks up blankly at Calum, then mumbles, “What're you doing standing? C'mere. You said you wanted a cuddle buddy.”
Calum smiles, stumbles into the bed next to him and closing the gap between their bodies. "This is like old times," he laughs into the fabric of Michael's jumper, “Remember when we skipped school and we just ended up getting high in Ashton’s car instead? No one suspected anything.”
“We were so sneaky. I mean, I give props to Ashton for knowing how to cover up the smell, though. My parents would’ve killed me if they found out.” Michael chuckles, and the vibration from the depths of his chest sends a surge of placidity in Calum's body. “Hey, you know that one time–”
He conjures up a memory from the past, the humoured tone in his voice indicating that it was most probably a pretty silly one. “Nope. I don’t remember that.”
As Michael launches into a full narration of the event, Calum listens, with no guilt whatsoever towards the fact that he had, as a matter of fact, lied. He does remember it well, but he really just wants to hear Michael speak to him like this, hear the rise and fall of the melody in his words and the mellow tone of his voice that’s almost like a long gone symphony to Calum’s ears. He anticipates the subconscious brushing of Michael’s fingers against his bare skin, and when he feels it, he breathes out a sigh of relief. Calum knows Michael like the back of his hand – from every little quirk in his behaviour to every inch of his bare naked body to every strand of hair he's seen changed colours like leaves in the fall. Having him here is like finding an old piece of memento from a buried memory box, one that he's treasured all throughout his adolescent years and only now just rediscovered.
This shred of thought stirs up a question in Calum’s head.
When Michael’s done with his recount and they’re done laughing at the absurdity of the story, he takes his opportunity in the moment of silence that comes thereafter.
"How'd you find me?" Calum asks, quietly. “I didn’t leave my address with anyone.”
“I have my ways,” Michael says with somewhat of a sly undertone. He seems adamant on not breaching serious topics just yet, but Calum’s plagued with curiosity that he can’t seem to shrug off. Now that Michael’s here, he wants all the answers.
“No, really, how?”
Michael huffs, his breath stirring a few tufts of Calum’s hair. “I just got here, Calum. We’ll talk about it later, okay? I’m kind of tired.”
Calum frowns a little with dissatisfaction, but remains silent.
The conversation (reminiscence) continues till late hours of the night, but as fatigued as Calum was earlier today, he doesn’t feel at all the need to go to sleep. The drowse comes eventually, like an ocean wave rising over their heads, and they fall asleep like it’s the easiest thing in the world to do.
*
Calum wakes up to the smell of peppermint tea, and Michael sitting up next to him against the headboard sipping from his mug. The aroma is hugely comforting. It’s almost like a trance, how his train of thoughts are slowing down and his mind doesn’t seem bent on playing optical illusions on him anymore.
"Morning, sleepyhead,” Michael greets, “I made you tea. I searched around for a bit. It didn’t take long. You’re surprisingly organised."
Calum smiles up at him groggily. "Thanks, Mikey.” He slowly sits up and takes the mug on the bedside table, letting the heat from the surface warm up the cold tips of his fingers. “Didn’t think you’d wake up before me. You never wake up before noon.”
Michael shrugs. “I make exceptions.” He smiles. “You looked like you needed rest.”
“Was it that obvious?” Calum groans, covering his eyes in embarrassment and he hears Michael laugh.
“Yeah, you looked terrible. I just didn’t mention it yesterday because it’s our first time meeting after a long time, and all. It would’ve been pretty mean to just say, ‘Hey, you look like crap’, y’know?”
“Shit,” is all Calum can manage, shifting his hands to his hair to tame it from the mess it was in.
“You look fine, now, though, don’t worry,” Michael assures him, laughing a little and reaching to give his cheeks a little pinch. He slips out from under the sheets and pads across the room towards the bathroom.
Calum just quietly watches him – all six feet of him, hair also tousled and the obvious contrast between his pale skin tone and the dark jumper he’s wearing. He notices how comparatively prominent Michael’s bones seem to be when he sheds his jumper, letting it drop to the floor before disappearing into the bathroom.
*
Calum prepares breakfast for two, sets it on the table, with placemats and all (those which he normally wouldn’t bother with if he’s on his own) and sits on the chair as he keenly waits for Michael to emerge from the bathroom. He feels much better than the day before. Every breath he takes is a fresh one and the weight on his mind is lightened somewhat with his best friend’s presence in the house.
The sounds of Michael moving around, even when he’s not in sight, rids Calum of the sense of emptiness he sometimes feels when he’s all alone in this flat he’s living in. His head has stopped aching and his throat feels less constricted, though he does feel a tiny bit nervous about what Michael would think about the breakfast he’s set up on the table, because he’s really no master chef after all.
“Aw, you're so sweet,” Michael says when he reappears from the bathroom, sitting opposite of Calum and looking at everything on the table with wonder, “You really know how to make a guest feel at home.”
“Just happy to have you here,” Calum beams at him, and then there’s a fond look on Michael’s face that makes his something in his stomach stir.
“You’ve improved,” Michael says, after taking a tentative bite at the omelette on his plate, “At least you didn’t set fire to the potholders again.”
“Hey, that was one time,” Calum says defensively, reaching over to give him a playful shove, “Besides, it’s not like you’re any better.”
“True. My field of expertise literally only ranges from making cheese toasties to putting milk on cereal.” Michael nods, picking up a slice of bread practically dripping with Nutella and munching down, his evident appetite surfacing, leaving a chocolate stain on the side of his face as he chews.
“Hey, you’ve got a lil’…” Calum says, pointing to it and laughing at how much of a messy eater Michael is.
Michael reaches for a napkin to wipe it off, but fails to find the exact spot. Calum leans in, wagging his tongue out obnoxiously as if to lick the smear off of Michael's face. Michael laughs and pushes him away, successfully locating it and wiping it off before Calum has the chance to do it himself. “You're gross!”
Calum pouts, returns back to eating his own meal. “Would you still love me if I licked Nutella off of your face, Mikey?”
"Fuck no,” Michael says, giving him an incredulous look, before adding in a less aggressive tone, “’Course I would, silly.”
“Aw. Hey, it’s a Saturday. Whaddya wanna do?”
Michael lifts up his shoulder and lets it drop nonchalantly, looking down at his nearly empty plate.
Calum observes him, his own chewing slowing down as he waits for an answer.
His eyes flicker up to meet Calum’s. “Anything. Just wanna be with you.”
*
Calum takes Michael out and they walk around in bustling London, going sightseeing like a pair of tourists. It occurs to Calum that while he’s been here for the past few years, he’d never really paid much attention to the tourist attractions but with Michael everything seems clearer.
It’s another grey, rainy day, and everyone walks at a quickened pace towards their respective destinations, hurrying to get out of the cold. The blue umbrella Calum’s holding above their heads bobs through the crowd of Londoners and he can’t help but notice that they might just be the happiest people amongst the solemn-faced passers-by right now. They laugh and talk and poke fun at each other like they always do, except it’s a little strange when Calum considers that it’s just the two of them on a different side of the planet, away from home and the things they were used to.
It feels a little like a sweet escape.
Which is exactly what he’s been looking for here in London, he thinks, but with the back of Michael’s hand occasionally brushing against his as they stroll around the city, it feels more so than ever before.
By dusk, they end up at a local bar just around the corner near Calum’s flat – which, in the past year, has become his favourite haunt after work hours for a quick beer and maybe a little stress-relief in watching football on the flat-screen along with the few regulars there.
(He’d made quite a few acquaintances along the way – some are office workers, some are blue-collared men finished with their labour at the nearest construction site. Everyone’s open and ready to talk shit about their various jobs and horrible bosses while Calum’s content to listen and laugh. They like him as their faithful audience, and he doesn’t really mind it.)
“’Ello, Calum!” the bartender greets with a wide grin, using a dirty cloth to wipe the table top when Calum and Michael find a place to sit directly in front of him.
“Hey, Niall,” Calum responds, smiling. “This is Michael.”
“Hi,” Michael waves his hand, and looks taken aback when Niall reaches forward to grab his hand to give it a vigorous shake.
“Michael! Nice to meet you, I’m Niall.”
Calum just laughs at Michael’s slightly dumbfounded expression. That’s just like Niall – friendly as a Labrador retriever and all too ready to make friends with whomever steps in the bar that he’s been working at for about three years. He’s good company, even on nights where there isn’t a football match on – brazenly loud and a great conversationalist. Niall’s literally the closest Calum has got to a friend here.
“Where ya from? Fellow Aussie?” Niall asks, tossing aside the dirty towel and leaning forward against the table top.
“Yeah. London is great. Calum’s brought me around town the whole day.” Michael casts a grateful-looking smile, all soft around the edges, at Calum before looking back at Niall.
“Great? Gloomy, more like,” Niall scoffs, “It’s been raining for days on end. It’s terrible. You’d think there’d be more sun now that it’s almost end of May.”
“I quite like the rain,” Calum says, “I don’t really miss the heat in Sydney all that much, I think.”
“When you go back, you should take me with you,” Niall says to Michael, “I’d rather take the heat than stay here.” He then turns to Calum, looking like he’s just remembered something. “Oh by the way, Liverpool versus Chelsea tonight. I’m bettin’ ten quid on Chelsea to win.”
“That’s bold,” Calum raises his eyebrow at Niall’s sheer confidence. “I’m betting fifteen. Liverpool will crush ’em.”
Niall just shakes his head in disbelief. He turns to Michael. “What ’bout you? You a Chelsea or Liverpool fan?”
“I don’t really watch football,” Michael says, “And I don’t exactly have any money on me right now.”
“Ah, that’s alright,” Niall nods. “So what would you like for today, lads? It’s on the house.”
“Just the usual,” Calum speaks up on both him and Michael’s behalf, “But for two. Obviously.” “Coming right up!” Niall says, pushing away from the table top and busying himself with finding two bottles of beer, the specific kind that Calum’s gotten so used to that the initial novelty had worn off, but he still enjoys the taste of it anyway. The sense of familiarity that it brings to him is like a soothing massage to his tense limbs after a long day at work.
“I work at a video game store now,” Michael says casually after a while, sipping his beer, “The one near our old school? It’s not much, but the manager isn’t a bastard, and the pay isn’t too bad. Nothing spectacular, though.”
Me neither, Calum wants to say, moving his own bottle on the polished table top in circles.
“A few girlfriends… longest was probably about, I don’t know, eight months?” Michael continues in a lazy monotone, “Bet you get all the girls here, huh?”
Calum just shakes his head. It had all been a whole process of come and go, come and go, come and go.
“No one wanted to stick around,” he says, one corner of his mouth lifting to form a dejected half-smile, “I think they thought I was boring.”
“You? Boring?” Michael scoffs, “Yeah, right.”
“You know, I’m starting to think this whole not-seeing-each-other-for-years thing has turned you soft,” Calum jokes, “You would’ve agreed with me if I said that, like, five years ago.”
Michael just rolls his eyes in a way that shows that he thinks Calum’s just being ridiculous, and turns his attention to the TV. The news channel is suddenly switched to the sports channel, signifying the start of the anticipated football match. Approximately one and a half hours later, the game ends with Liverpool as the sure victor.
He’s not sure how it happened, but in the midst of all the excitement Calum ends up having Michael’s hand grabbed tightly in his, and it stays that way until a semi-inebriated Niall pushes the two of them out the door, loudly expressing his exasperation and begrudgingly paying Calum the promised ten quid before they leave.
*
It’s 1:45 a.m.
At this time of the night, they should be pretty worn out, but they’re wide awake, though lazily slumped on the couch in Calum’s flat. They’re in the middle of watching reruns of some British show that Calum had never cared to follow religiously, despite the fact that it looked pretty promising. It’s just the type of show Michael would get into too – the sci-fi elements and the abundance of weaponry and combat fighting akin to the type of video games that he’d play back at home. Michael oohs and aahs over the effects on the screen, while Calum watches him rather than the show itself, Michael’s childlike enthusiasm putting a smile on his face.
The smile fades when Michael chooses the ad break to make serious talk. It’s rather bad timing, considering how much fun they’d had earlier in the day, but then again, he figures it’s got to be done sooner or later. He thinks it is Michael’s penchant for unpredictability (along with the turmoil of emotions they both know are suppressed between them) that’s probably what’s triggering him to bring it up now.
"Everyone misses you, you know.”
"I know,” Calum replies quietly, setting his eyes on the screen, watching a man promoting some sort of brand of detergent, not quite hearing the words as clearly as he probably should. “You just… left. You never called. You never tried to contact us.”
Calum stays silent, not knowing exactly how to respond.
“But you know it’s okay, Cal. We… We all want you back.”
And there it is, the statement that gives Calum a sense of relief despite the fact that he’s somehow known it all along. Maybe he just needed a reassurance. Maybe he just needed some sort of promise that when he eventually comes home, there will be someone there to welcome him, even though he’d just left and gone off to London to chase his dreams – those that even until now he’d never been fully able to satisfy. He’s adequately content with what he does have at the moment, but the loneliness seeps in a lot more than he’d like to, and at those times he feels his sunny temperament slip away.
“I missed you, Mikey. I miss everyone at home.” It’s a confession, one he’s kept inside without anyone to tell it to for so long.
“I’m not here to bring you home. It’s okay if you want to stay for a bit longer. I just wanted to see you. Wanted to see if you’re alright.”
“I’m alright,” Calum says, but he’s not sure if he means it.
“Yeah, okay. I’ll tell that to everyone when I get back.”
There’s a beat of silence as Calum uses the remote control to turn off the TV. Neither of them is paying attention anymore, each with their own whirlwind of thoughts in their head. He scoots closer over to Michael and places his head on his shoulder, leaning his weight onto him.
“It hurt, though. When you left.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I still drop by at your house every Christmas. I think your family just sees me as this, like, reminder of you and nothing’s the same. I think Mali actually misses you stealing the truffle like you used to. They always leave some unfinished. As if you would just walk through the front door any minute to eat it.
“And I would always find myself revisiting the places we used to go and stuff. Like, I go to that ice cream place with Luke and Ashton often enough but other places – like that old playground near my house? Yeah, I go there after my shifts sometimes. It’s calming. But it’s so fucking depressing. Just sitting on the swing without you there.” Michael continues to fill in the gaps of silence Calum’s left him, the bitterness in his voice more and more evident as he goes on.
“You were always so… bent on getting out of Sydney. And it kind of hurt me, I guess, because I was just okay with staying and doing nothing but you had big dreams. It was cool seeing you so happy talking about what could be – like that time we got so drunk, we ended up lying on the gravel at the playground, and you were ranting on and on about making it out there like this small kid and it was great listening to you but,” he pauses for a split second, and Calum can hear him swallow something (agony) down his throat, “But then I always think, ‘isn’t this enough?’ I never asked, obviously. I’d be happy if you were happy. And seeing you now, I’m thinking, maybe you’re okay. And I’m okay with that.”
All the words Michael had just spilled out collectively operates like a malevolent machine, tearing him apart and the sharp edges of realisations are like cold slaps to his already bruised face. He doesn’t notice that he’s crying until he feels his whole body start to shake with the heavy sobs he’d meant to hold back.
He feels small. Insignificant. He’s nothing but a flightless bird hoping for wings that’ll never be.
“I wanna go home, Michael. But I don’t know if I can.” His voice cracks as he’s saying the last syllable, and he finds himself holding onto Michael all the tighter, burying his face into the crook of Michael’s neck. The lump in his throat is so sore, making it hard for coherent speech. “I miss everyone and I wanna go home and I-I’m a fucking failure, and everyone’s gonna say ‘I told you so’ but I don’t care anymore, I don’t care, I just… I just want to go home.”
He’s sniffling and his whines are like a wounded animal’s; he’s a messy sight and he’s sure he’s close to cutting Michael’s blood circulation by now with the way that he’s holding on so tight, but Michael holds him and makes comforting noises that makes him feel less of a pathetic disappointment in human form.
Calum lifts his head up from Michael’s shoulder and looks into his eyes, possibly looking for more comfort in them, and instead finds something else altogether. They’ve been this close in the past, of course, but he’s never noticed how brilliant Michael’s eyes are up until now. Their greenish-grey hue with all the tiny cerulean flecks makes him feel like he’s looking into a vast, kaleidoscopic ocean, one in which he wishes he could just plunge in for as long as he wanted to.
“You have really pretty eyes,” Calum remarks innocently, albeit a little bit out of the blue.
The instant small smile appearing on Michael’s face makes him smile through his tears, too, and for a second there’s a moment of hesitancy before Calum shifts his head closer and their lips brush against each other. It’s not nearly a kiss so much as a slight encounter between two mouths, but Michael takes the initiative to close the miniscule gap in between and it happens.
A set of fireworks making a huge appearance in the vast sky, one that he remembers seeing on New Year’s Eve when he was eleven, when he’d wished for his dad to finally buy him his first guitar on his upcoming birthday.
The sound of guitars strumming in sync, in perfect harmony, and joyous laughter he remembers were shared between him and Michael after months of looking at guitar tutorials on YouTube; the feeling of being young rock stars in that one single moment.
The feel of Michael’s shirt on his face that one time Calum had come crying onto his shoulder after getting rejected by a girl he’d wanted to ask to the school formal. The comforting cuddle he’d received all throughout that same evening, safety ensured around his scrawny, fifteen-year-old self.
It all happens in his mind, the amazing feeling of simply remembering flooding in simultaneously with how incredible Michael’s lips feels against his, every flicker of Michael’s tongue in his mouth like comforting kitten licks at his long-suffering wounds. He feels Michael’s hand cup his cheek and his thumb smudging the tear tracks on his face, his touch delicate and almost feather-light. His own fingers trace Michael’s sandpaper jaw, and it’s as if his formerly deadened senses are all simultaneously brought back to life. The overpowering sensation of it all brings on a fresh flood of tears under his closed eyelids, but they don’t get a chance to stream down his face this time.
They break apart after what feels like forever, Calum’s heart thudding faster against his ribcage. Everything is still, but the ringing silence doesn’t quite scream ‘lonely’ anymore.
*
The sun makes its appearance just as Calum awakens, but Michael's still fast asleep.
Calum sneaks a glance at his sleeping form, takes a moment to gently push a strand of Michael’s hair out of his face before slowly crawling out of bed and closing the bedroom door behind him quietly. He heads over to his work desk and picks up his notebook, just as he’d done a couple of days before. Testing out a pen on a scrap of paper for ink, he then starts off with a letter, the letters forming a word, collective words forming a sentence, and so on.
There comes a point when his thoughts start to race ahead of his scribbling, so fast he needs to take a moment to sort them out and harness them to synchronize with his own pace of writing. By the time he hears Michael shuffle around his room about an hour later, he's done six pages of messy ink scrawled all over the paper. They’re all random bits and pieces from his wildfire mind, all scattered, like blocks of Lego haphazardly built into a wonky-shaped house much like one created by a five-year-old, but there’s no denying that he's found his muse again.
When a bleary-eyed Michael steps out of the room with a blob of toothpaste on the front of his shirt, Calum laughs.
“You could lick this off if you want to,” Michael remarks.
Calum scrunches his nose and shakes his head. “I’ll pass. You make breakfast today. I’m a little busy.”
Michael raises an eyebrow and glances at the notebook on the desk. “Okay,” he says, and trudges back into the room to presumably get the toothpaste off of his shirt.
*
Calum has no idea when Michael would be going home, but maybe he doesn't want to know, either.
All he wants is to indulge in every moment while they're still together, because they're little tastes of home that he knows he's not going to feel for a long time after Michael's gone.
(When he thinks about ‘a long time’, he expects it to be at least a bit more than a year. But it could potentially end up being lesser than that. It could be six months. It could be five weeks, maybe less. He’s not really sure right now.)
Halfway through writing, Calum puts down his pen and gets up to walk over towards Michael, who’s using a spatula to attempt flipping the egg on the frying pan. He wraps his arms around Michael’s waist from behind, placing his chin on his shoulder.
“Hey, listen. I’m really glad you’re here,” he murmurs, placing a soft kiss on the nape of Michael’s neck just above his drooping collar.
Michael turns his head to give him a proper look. The softness within the depth of his irises manages to arise a warm, fuzzy feeling in Calum’s insides. “Me too.”
They carry on with breakfast like nothing’s changed. They laugh and flick bits of cereal at each other; feed each other food from their own plates; have a little contest of who-can-smear-more-jam-on-the-other. The hollow feeling Calum’s been having for the past few weeks is disappearing and he feels whole with Michael by his side.
And for now, that’s all that matters.