Chapter Text
Michael's focused on the movie or the fact that he's digging his nails so hard into his palm he thinks he might bleed, or even Calum and Luke who really need to get a room. He's definitely not focusing the way the light from the screen reflects on Ashton's face or how nice his jawline is or how his stupid fucking mouth is just hanging slightly open or the fact that Ashton's thigh is pressed against Michael's own and the way that feels. Nope. He's thinking about the talking snowman in the movie that he practically begged the others to watch and not the shadows that define Ashton's already perfectly defined arms.
Michael tells himself that it's the beer he had earlier, even though it was one beer he had four hours ago, that's making him like this. He's not interested in Ashton. Not remotely. Ashton is his best friend (particularly ever since Calum and Luke lost the ability to keep their hands off each other), and Michael doesn't want to date him, or fuck him, or whatever. He's just a little lonely and a little out of it and Ashton just so happens to be there, so Michael's thinking about him. That's it.
Ashton's shifting and now he's got his faced pressed into the curve of Michael's neck and his arm draped across his waist and Ashton's lips brush against his collarbone, and shit, Michael really wishes he hadn't done that, because now he's thinking about Ashton's breath against him and the way his lips felt for that half a second and—
And fuck, Michael's so screwed.
"Mikey, I'm sleepy and no one's watching this anyway, can we go to bed?"
Michael glances at the ground where Calum and Luke are sitting — or were, when did they get up? — and back at Ashton. Or at least, his body, because their current position makes it difficult for Michael to see his face. "You're capable of going to bed by yourself."
"But I want to cuddle and I can't do that by myself," Ashton whines.
Michael sighs. "Fine, I'll go then, you big baby."
Ashton sits up and gives him a smile that's all teeth and dimples, and Michael rolls his eyes, but it's actually adorable, and Michael hates himself for even thinking it. Ashton grabs Michael's hands and pulls him off the couch, and fucking drags him to his room.
Then Ashton's pulling off his shirt, and Michael is trying not to stare, but he likes the way it looks when he can see the older boy's muscles moving under his skin, so, ultimately, he fails. He considers doing the same, to feel Ashton's skin against his, but Michael doesn't think he'd be able to handle that. Ashton flops on the bed, and stretches his arms out to Michael.
"You're so lame," Michael says. He likes it, though, the cuddling, so he lets himself melt into Ashton, legs and arms and fingers all tangled together, and Ashton's got his face in Michael's neck again, and, yeah, Michael decides he made the right decision, keeping his shirt on, because he'd rather be too warm then be only able to think about how Ashton's body feels pressed into him (which, he already is but the extra skin would make it worse, Michael thinks).
Ashton drifts off pretty quickly, but Michael simply can't. He's definitely focused on Ashton's breath on him and his jawline and the thigh that's against his own and the way it feels. Even in the dark, Michael can see Ashton. His cheeks and lips and nose and collarbones and just. Ashton's pretty. He is. Maybe boys aren't supposed to be pretty, but Ashton's really fucking pretty and it's keeping Michael awake.
It's stupid, Michael's crush, and hopeless, because Ashton's not interested in guys and he's certainly not interested in Michael. The flirting and the late night cuddles and the maybe we should date just to piss Calum and Luke offs are so completely platonic, Michael thinks the connection between him and the ground should he ever decide to fling himself out a window would be more romantic than the one between him and Ashton. It's shitty, it's indescribably shitty, how hopeless Michael feels. He knows Ashton doesn't like him and he knows that even if he did they could never be like Calum and Luke, Calum and Luke who are so in love and don't care what the world thinks because all they need is each other, it's just something that those two have that Michael and Ashton don't separately, much less together. It's so fucking stupid, and Michael can't do shit about it.
Well, he supposes could always tell Ashton, but he'd rather be sad and lonely than be sad and lonely and rejected. He could also tell Calum or Luke, but somehow Michael thinks either of their advice would be why don't you just tell him?, and that's not really what Michael's looking for, because it won't help.
The room feels stuffy all of a sudden, and Michael can't think straight, at least, even less than usual, and he needs to get out and breathe, but he also doesn't want to leave Ashton, because he likes being with Ashton even if he's not technically with Ashton; still, he untangles his limbs and walks into the kitchen. He just needs to clear his head is all.
The clock on the stove says it's 3:12 in the morning and Michael mentally slaps himself for being so lost in Ashton he's still not asleep at three in the morning. He wishes he could say it's jetlag, but it's not, and he knows it's not, and he really needs to get over it. Michael doesn't even really do anything, he just stands there, glass of water in hand, leaning against the counter, trying to distract his brain, or get tired enough that he'll pass out on the floor. He might crack his skull open should that happen, but honestly, he's okay with that. At least — assuming he doesn't die — he'll have something else to think about.
"Mikey?"
If he didn't have a death grip (albeit one he didn't notice) on his water, Ashton's voice ringing through the hall would've resulted in a trip to the emergency room to get the glass out of his foot.
Ashton pads into the kitchen, squinting even in the dim light Michael's got on, still shirtless and his hair is messy and—
"What're you doing out here?"
Michael's thoughts have now shifted from Ashton's looks to Ashton's voice, which is rougher and an octave lower than usual, but at least it's not— no, Michael's not going to let his brain finish that sentence.
"I dunno. Thinking, I guess," Michael tells him, shrugging. Which is true, he is thinking. He just won't tell Ashton about what exactly. Nothing wrong with that.
"That's not very exciting, give me detail," Ashton pries. Ashton's walked closer now. Michael liked it better when he was on the other side of the counter.
"Just thinking."
"Well, if you're not going to tell me, come back to bed."
"You know when people say that? People say that when they're trying to get laid and the other person isn't having it." Michael quirks an eyebrow.
"Michael Gordon Clifford, I am absolutely appalled," Ashton says. He laughs, and Ashton's laugh is cute and stupid and contagious, which makes Michael laugh.
There's so little distance between them, and Michael thinks this is the perfect opportunity to kiss him, but he doesn't. He wants to, but it'll make things weird between them and he can't deal with that. But fuck, he really wants to kiss him. If he didn't have so much to lose—
Michael shakes that thought out his head. Thinking about kissing Ashton is not going to help.
"Michael?"
"Uh?" You could do it.
"You okay? You just, like, zoned out there for a second."
Michael clears his throat. "Yeah. 'm good." You could kiss him.
"Have you slept at all?"
"No." He's right there.
"What are you thinking about that's keeping you up like this?"
And he almost does it, too, but he stops himself because he knows he shouldn't. Shouldn't kiss Ashton. Shouldn't kiss his best friend. He shouldn't even want to kiss Ashton. He does, though. He fucking wants to kiss Ashton and he wants Ashton to want him to but that's just not the way it is.
"Dunno," Michael decides. "Just stuff."
Ashton looks worried, looks like he wants to ask more, but he doesn't. Instead, he reaches out and laces his fingers through Michael's that are resting on the counter. It's a gesture that, really, doesn't mean shit, but that doesn't mean it doesn't feel like a million volts shooting up Michael's arm. It doesn't help the whole temptation to kiss Ashton either.
"Get some rest, Mikey." Ashton's voice is soft, borderline inaudible, and full of concern.
"Yeah. Yeah, okay." Michael sets his glass down and lets Ashton lead him back to his room.
Honestly, it's one of those nights where Michael just feels kind of sad. Whether it's the time or the rain outside or the thought of Ashton doesn't really matter. It is what it is.
They're lying down, and Ashton's got his arms wrapped around Michael and even though he's used to it being the other way around, he's okay with it. He feels Ashton press his lips to the back of his neck, and Michael's so aware of it, and it sends a shiver down his spine, and god, does he want to turn around and kiss him. But he doesn't.
"I love you, Mikey," Ashton mumbles. And Michael doesn't know if Ashton thinks he's asleep, or if Ashton himself is falling asleep, or if he really means it (which he probably doesn't), and Michael's heart skips a beat.
"Yeah. I love you too, Ash."