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“Calum,” Michael says, walking into the bunk area and stopping in front of Calum’s bunk. “Cal.”
“What?” Calum asks, not looking up from his phone.
“I think we should get married.”
“Right,” Calum says, not sounding fazed at all. “How much fanfic have you been reading recently?”
“No,” Michael says, “I’m serious.”
“Mikey,” Calum sighs. “I don’t like dick.” He pauses. “Well,” he amends, “I don’t like dick enough for that. I think.”
“Okay,” Michael says easily. “We should still get married, though.”
“What kind of a marriage doesn’t have sexual benefits?” Calum asks, typing out a reply to a tweet. “I’m not marrying someone I can’t fuck.”
“You can fuck me,” Michael says.
“I can, but I don’t want to,” Calum says. Michael pouts.
“A lot of people would pay a lot of money for this body,” he says, and it comes out slightly sulkier than he’d intended.
“Don’t sell your body for money,” Calum hums, but it’s almost absent-minded. Michael huffs, displeased with the lack of attention and affection Calum’s showing towards him today, and makes to walk away. “I’ll buy it back off whoever buys it,” Calum adds, and Michael stops.
“You say shit like that and then you say we shouldn’t get married?” he asks.
“I never said we shouldn’t,” Calum points out, putting his phone down (finally).
“You said you don’t want to fuck me,” Michael says, “and then said you can’t be in a marriage with no sex. That’s just a roundabout way of saying ‘I don’t want to marry you, Michael Clifford’.”
“I wouldn’t fuck Luke either,” Calum says, like that makes it any better.
“Is that meant to console me?” Michael says. “Does that mean to say you’d fuck and marry Ashton?” Calum considers it for a moment.
“I have to think about this strategically,” he says. “Since this is a situation where I’m marrying someone with a dick, it’ll have to be someone who’s equally opposed to dick and therefore will let me go and fuck people who have vaginas. And Ashton’s the second-straightest guy in the band, so.” He shrugs.
“You’re not straighter than Ashton,” Michael says. “You blew me in Year Eleven. And Ashton’s dating Luke.”
“That was one time, Mikey,” Calum huffs. “Let it go. You’re not getting this mouth again.”
“Fine,” Michael sulks. “I’ll let it go. I’ll let you go. You’re moving down on my list of Best Friends In The Band. You’re not even on the list. I’m going to go and cuddle Luke.” He spins on his heel and walks out of the bunk area into the back lounge, only to realise he’d left Luke and Ashton in the kitchen area meaning he has to walk past Calum again. Calum catches him as he walks past, an arm slung around Michael’s chest, and pulls him against the bunk so the wood is pressed uncomfortably into Michael’s collarbone and his head is buried in Calum’s stomach.
“Nice way to try and win me back,” Michael deadpans.
“Shut up and get in here,” Calum says, so that’s what Michael does.
-
“Morning,” Michael yawns one morning a week and a half later, walking into the kitchen area.
“Afternoon,” Ashton corrects, because he takes great joy in pointing out how late Michael gets up. Michael just rolls his eyes and flips him off, used to it by now.
“Tea?” he asks Calum hopefully, hooking his chin over Calum’s shoulder.
“It’s mine,” Calum whines, drawing the mug into his chest protectively. “The mug even says ‘Keep Away From Clifford’.” Michael hates those mugs. A fan had given them a mug decorating set and whilst Michael had put effort into his, drawing cute little kittens and guitars and stuff, Calum, Luke and Ashton had simply scrawled ‘Keep Away From Clifford’ on all of theirs. Which was not only rude, but a total waste of a good place to display Michael’s amazing artwork.
“This is another reason we should get married,” Michael declares. “That mug would no longer apply and you guys could all stop depriving me of my tea.”
“Are you suggesting you’d become Michael Hood?” Calum says, bringing the mug up to Michael’s lips so he can have a sip of the delicious tea.
“Mhm,” Michael hums when Calum moves the mug up to his own lips. “Calum Clifford sounds horrible.”
“Why don’t you double-barrel it?” Luke suggests. “Michael Hood-Clifford. Calum Hood-Clifford.” Michael pulls a face.
“That sounds even worse,” he says. Luke pouts.
“Better than Calum Clifford or Michael Hood,” he says.
“Talk to me when you become Luke Hemmings-Irwin, my friend,” Michael says, removing his chin from Calum’s shoulder and patting Luke’s shoulder.
“That’s a terrible name,” Ashton says. “We’re not double-barrelling our surnames, Luke.”
“Luke Irwin sounds fine,” Calum points out. “You don’t have the problem of a one of you having the name of a ninety-year-old man.”
“Excuse me?” Michael asks. “Are you talking about me?”
“Yes, Michael Gordon Clifford, I am,” Calum says, and Michael scowls.
“I’m changing that,” he says. “I’m going to be Michael I-Hate-Calum Clifford.”
“You pretty much already are,” Luke says.
“Why don’t you just both change your surnames?” Ashton suggests. “Michael Gordon I-Have-No-Concept-Of-Personal-Space and Calum Thomas I-Can’t-Watch-Horror-Movies-Without-Screaming-At-Least-Four-Times.” Michael scowls.
“Terrible suggestion, Irwin,” he says. “This is why we were reluctant to let you join the band. You have shit ideas.”
“You begged me to join,” Ashton says.
“I did not,” Michael argues. “I politely asked you.”
“On numerous occasions.”
“Break it up, boys,” Calum says, leaving Michael and Ashton glowering at one another.
“Why don’t you both just keep your surnames?” Luke asks, and everyone stares at him. Why the fuck hadn’t they thought of that before?
“This band is full of idiots,” Michael declares.
-
“Do you know why else I think we should get married?” Michael asks, and Calum groans, tipping his head back against the chair as if in despair. Which, rude.
“Not this again,” he says, and Michael pouts.
“It’s a good idea,” he says. “I don’t know why you won’t marry me.”
“Do you want me to make a list?” Calum asks. “Because I will. And I’ll have to drop out of the band because writing reasons on this list will take up all my time.”
“You’re such a dick,” Michael says.
“You’re the one who keeps saying we should get married,” Calum says. “Why would you want to marry a dick?”
“Because I like dick,” Michael says. “But I don’t want to marry the personification of one.”
“Stop talking about dick,” Calum says. “I can feel my heterosexuality slipping away. What do you want?”
“I want to talk about why we should get married,” Michael says. “I thought of another reason.”
“Go on,” Calum says. “Humour me.”
“I know all the bad things about you and vice versa,” Michael says. Calum stares at him.
“That’s hardly a valid reason for marriage,” he says. “You can’t just waltz into a registry office and say ‘hi, we’re here to get married because we know all the bad things about each other’. Plus, I know all the bad things about Luke and Ashton and I don’t want to marry them either.”
“You said you’d marry Ashton,” Michael says.
“Times change,” Calum says dismissively.
“That was two and a half weeks ago,” Michael points out.
“People change,” Calum says, waving his hands around. “Anyway. We’re not getting married just because I know you leave your dirty tissues everywhere when you have a cold.”
“It’s one of many good reasons we should get married,” Michael says defensively. “Who else is going to put up with you and that annoying thing you do when you jiggle your leg whenever you’re watching a movie?”
“Everyone does that,” Calum says. “You should be more worried about yourself. Who’s going to want a guy who licks the flavour off sour cream and onion Pringles before eating them?”
“Who’s going to want someone who listens to songs on repeat for days on end at full volume?”
“Who’s going to want someone who still can’t work a coffee machine?”
“See?” Michael says. “This is exactly what I mean. We already know all the bad things about each other, and we haven’t been put off each other yet.”
“Speak for yourself,” Calum says.
“You’re hurting my feelings,” Michael says, pouting. Calum scoffs, but kicks at Michael’s leg amicably anyway.
“Love you,” he mumbles.
“So marry me,” Michael retorts. Calum groans loudly, all drawn out and exasperated, and gets up, slinging his bass over his shoulder.
“I’m going to soundcheck,” he says, “and I am going to find myself a wife so you can stop pestering me about getting married.”
“I can work with polygamy,” Michael says, raising his voice as Calum walks out of the door.
“No you can’t!” Calum shouts from the hallway. “You’re too clingy!”
Exactly Michael’s point; Calum knows all of Michael’s pitfalls.
-
“Cal,” Michael says a week later. “Cal.” They’re spooning in Calum’s bunk, as usual, with Calum nuzzling into Michael’s neck and pressing soft, almost absent-minded kisses to it, making Michael slightly drowsy.
“Mhm?”
“Is the reason you don’t want to marry me because you don’t love me?” Calum stops kissing Michael’s neck, stops moving altogether until he sits up, resting himself on one elbow.
“What?” he asks. “Of course not. What makes you think that?” Michael shrugs.
“I don’t see any other reason why you wouldn’t marry me,” he mumbles. “You like dick well enough, I know you do. And we’d- we’d be good.”
“Mikey,” Calum says with a sigh. “Don’t you think, like. It’s just a bit fast, isn’t it? I mean, Luke and Ashton have been dating for nearly two years and they’re not planning on a mortgage and kids anytime soon. We’re not even together and you’ve been pestering me about marriage for over a month.”
“We don’t need to be together officially,” Michael says, sounding like a petulant child. “We already act like a couple. And if you love me, why won’t you marry me?”
“I-“ Calum cuts himself off with another sigh. “That’s just not how it works though, Mikey. Just ‘cause I love you and we act like a couple doesn’t mean I’m going to marry you.”
“You don’t love me,” Michael says, and Calum wraps his free arm around him, pulling him closer.
“I do,” he insists.
“You don’t,” Michael says sulkily.
“Yes, I do.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I do, Mikey.” Michael bites his lip.
“Promise?” he asks.
“I promise,” Calum says earnestly. Michael rolls over, blinks up at Calum, because Calum knows that Michael takes promises from him very seriously.
“Okay,” he says, and he means it. “If you promise.”
-
Michael kind of gives the whole marriage thing a rest after that. He doesn’t drop it completely, obviously (he’s Michael Clifford, as if he’s going to do anything of the sort) but he dilutes it a bit. He still thinks they should get married and he still tells Calum and lists reason after reason to him, but he doesn’t do it at every given opportunity anymore. Only most.
It’s a Wednesday night tonight, which means absolutely nothing. Michael hates Wednesdays because they’re slap bang in the middle of the working week, meaning he can’t hate it because it’s too far from Saturday or Sunday or like it because it’s close enough. Plus, he’d already lived through Wednesday yesterday because he’d been in Berlin.
They’re in LA now, though, playing to a crowd of tens of thousands and it takes Michael’s breath away every time he looks into the crowd. There are thousands upon thousands of people screaming their own lyrics back at them, at those four losers from Sydney with bad hair and fashion choices (Michael excepted, of course) and Michael feels the pride and happiness like a blow to the chest that knocks all the air out of his lungs every time he thinks about it for more than a fleeting moment.
“So we wanted to say thank you,” Luke says, once they’ve only got She Looks So Perfect left to go, and Michael tunes out. Luke says some variation of the same speech every night and it’s boring, but a good opportunity to tune his guitar and have a bit of a chat to the other boys.
“Ash,” Michael shouts, walking up the little ramp to where Ashton’s drums are. Ashton twirls his stick in his finger, still caught in the gig feeling, but tears his gaze away from Luke to look at Michael. “Did you hear Calum fuck up in Eighteen?” Calum obviously hears it in his in-ears and shoots a glare at Michael from where he’s standing, stage-left.
“Don’t drag your fiancé’s name through the dirt,” Ashton shouts back, smirking like he knows something. Michael scowls.
“No need to rub it in,” he says. “Luke hasn’t proposed to you yet either.”
“We’re taking it slow,” Ashton says.
“Whatever happened to ‘YOLO’?” Michael asks.
“It got stuck in 2012,” Ashton retorts. Michael scowls for a good three seconds or so and then opens his mouth to make another comment, but Ashton looks at him pointedly and points at the crowd with his stick, indicating She Looks So Perfect is about to start.
“Wait,” Calum says into his microphone, and so Michael runs to his.
“No,” he says, looking over at Calum. “This isn’t your show, Hood. Stop trying to steal my thunder.”
“Always the comedian, this one,” Luke mutters, but it’s obviously amplified by his microphone so it booms and echoes throughout the whole stadium. Michael swears he can pick out the laughter from the screams in the response of the fans.
“What are we waiting for?” Michael wonders into his own microphone after a moment, when nobody moves. “I thought we were playing She Looks So Perfect. That’s what my set list says. It doesn’t say ‘Pause for Calum’s entertainment.’”
“Shut up, you dick,” Calum says, twisting his bass around so it’s around his side rather than his front. He wiggles his microphone around until it comes out of the stand, and walks over to Michael.
“What have I done?” Michael asks. “Why are you approaching me? Why can’t we play our song?” He’s never been this confused in his life.
“Michael Gordon Clifford,” Calum says when he gets close enough.
“Calum Thomas Hood,” Michael replies, and then Calum drops down on his knees. One knee, to be specific. Michael’s heartbeat seems to kick in again, thudding hard and fast like he’s playing his first show all over again.
“Are you going to do what I think you’re going to do?” Michael asks, kind of proud of the way his voice doesn’t shake. He doesn’t know whether it’s nerves, anticipation, tension or excitement that’s making him so jittery; probably a combination.
“Depends what you think I’m going to do,” Calum says.
“Suck my dick,” Michael says, and then he can’t hear anything for a good ten seconds because the screams, the goddamn screams – who knew the human voice box was capable of such feats?
“Maybe later,” Calum says once they’ve died down a bit, and they start up all over again. Michael glowers at him, because he doesn’t know how long his legs are going to support him anymore and his hands are suddenly really, really sweaty.
“So,” Calum says when the screams lull again. “Michael Gordon Clifford. You’ve been my best friend for an unspecified number of years now, and I don’t know where I’d be without you. And you’ve been bugging me for months about this, but I never really took the time to think about it in a way that’s- that’s us, y’know? Because obviously this wouldn’t fit with what people usually do but hey, we’re not doing what people usually do. And now I’ve thought about it properly, thought about it from an us perspective rather than a them perspective and I’ve made my choice.”
“Yeah?” Michael says, breathless.
“I know what your answer’s gonna be, so I don’t know why I’m bothering,” Calum says with a grin, reaching into his pocket (with great difficulty, because the band has a policy of Don’t Buy Jeans Unless They Are So Tight You Will Never Get A Drop Of Semen Out Of Your Dick Again) and pulling out a little black box. “But Michael Gordon Clifford-“
“Stop saying my middle name, Thomas-“
“-will you marry me?”
The crowd goes fucking wild. Michael can’t hear anything as Calum opens the box, can’t hear a single fucking thing and his ears are ringing already with the screams he knows he’s going to be able to hear for the next week straight but he doesn’t care, he doesn’t care because Calum just fucking proposed to him.
Calum Hood just proposed to him. In front of eighty thousand people. After months of saying he’d never marry Michael.
Calum just proposed.
“Wow,” Michael says, and his voice is definitely shaky this time. He can’t stop staring at the simple gold band in the box, in the box that Calum is holding, because Calum just proposed to him. “I- fuck. Fuck. I really wasn’t expecting that.”
“I know,” Calum says. “I wanted it to be a surprise.”
“It fucking worked,” Michael says, letting out a breathless laugh.
“You still haven’t given me an answer,” Calum says. “What’s it gonna be, Mr Clifford?”
“You’re such a prick,” Michael says, shaking his head, but he’s grinning so much it hurts.
“I think that means yes, Calum,” Ashton intones, and Calum grins up at Michael.
“I know, I just wanna hear him say it,” Calum says.
“Yes,” Michael says. “Yes.”
“Say it properly,” Calum says.
“Yeah, I’ll fucking marry you, Calum Hood, you bastard,” Michael says. Calum grins again, drops his microphone, gets to his feet and flings his arms around Michael. He’s warm and familiar, and he’s shaking a little bit which is weird, because he’d known Michael was going to say yes, but Michael chalks it up to having to propose in front of eighty thousand people before their last song.
“Are we going to get a kiss?” Ashton asks.
“No,” Calum mumbles into Michael’s neck. “Tell him no. I’m not indulging his voyeuristic habits.”
“Cal said no,” Michael says into his microphone, but it’s too late; the crowd’s already started chanting kiss, kiss, kiss over and over again.
“We’re not leaving the stage until you kiss,” Luke says.
“Yep,” Ashton says. “I brought a Subway onstage with me. I’m sorted for the night.”
“Why?” Michael asks.
“In case I got hungry between songs!” Ashton says defensively. “Go on. A proper kiss, not just a peck on the lips. I want to see some tongue action going on.” Michael’s steeled for the crowd’s reaction this time.
“Jesus,” he mutters. “How are you not all hoarse from screaming?” He hears some people laugh and grins. He likes making people laugh.
“Fine,” Calum says, pulling away from Michael a bit, keeping his arms hooked around Michael’s neck. “But I want you to know I’m only doing this for the greater good, Clifford. I’m only kissing you because I want to leave and get food after this.”
“Okay,” Michael says, because he knows Calum’s talking shit but can’t be bothered to call him out on it, far too excited to kiss him publicly for the first time. “Put your money where your mouth is, Hood.”
“So impatient,” Calum mutters, but he leans forward and kisses Michael anyway, kisses him hard and fierce but still somehow making it the sweetest kiss Michael’s ever had.
When they pull away, they don’t pull apart, just rest their foreheads together and grin breathlessly at each other.
“Get this ring on your damn finger,” Calum shouts while the crowd screams, pushing the box into Michael’s stomach. Michael brings his hand up to take it and moves away a little, picking up the gold band from its plush bed and admiring it for a moment, twirling it between his thumb and forefinger. It’s got an inscription on the inside, which on closer inspection reads I promise, cuzmuffin.
“You’re such a sentimental bastard,” Michael says, laughing as he slips the ring onto his finger. It looks incongruous and he hopes it won’t be uncomfortable whilst playing but hell, it feels good.
“You fucking love me for it,” Calum says, kissing him on the cheek. “Let’s play this show.” He spins away, back to stage-left where he belongs and leaves Michael grinning at him in his wake.
-
“I want our wedding vows to be changed,” Michael says to Calum that night.
“We only just got engaged, Mikey,” Calum groans, and it sends a weird white-hot feeling coursing through Michael’s veins. He’s engaged. “We’re not planning our wedding yet.”
“I know, it’s just one little thing,” Michael insists.
“What is it?” Calum asks, all long-suffering and I’m-bored-of-your-shit-Michael-Clifford.
“Change ‘I do’ to ‘I promise’.” Calum’s silent for a moment.
“And you called me the sentimental bastard?” he says, but he’s grinning and his eyes are fond.
“Takes one to know one,” Michael mumbles, matching Calum’s grin with one of his own.