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Michael takes a deep breath as he pulls his leather jacket on. It gives him a good, comforting warmth over the chill of the November air around him. His earpiece is working, his guitar is tuned; he’s all ready to go. But something’s stopping him. Something seems to be missing. He doesn’t know what it is, but he’s not ready to go onstage. He looks at himself in the mirror, hair now a soft pink like the cherry blossoms. He allows a small smile. Luke said it matches his lips, and Michael reluctantly let him dye his hair pink.
It had been a messy ordeal, late at night the salon after Jack had left for the day, him and Luke singing along to Paramore as Michael tried every way to distract Luke and keep him from getting the dye on his hair, including kissing him multiple times. At the end, he absolutely fell in love with his new look, as well as the man who gave it to him. Why can’t he be back there in Sydney, music playing at full volume as he tries not to fall asleep in the comfy spa chair, feeling Luke’s long, dainty fingers move up and down his scalp with surprising strength and surety, massaging silky smooth gels into his hair and animatedly describing every customer he’s had that day, while Michael struggles to keep his eyes open and pay attention to Luke.
Instead, he’s backstage at Madison Square Garden, thousands of miles away from home, all alone, thirty minutes away from singing for twenty-thousand people. It’s times like these that he wishes he’d taken Ashton up on his offer to join his band back in middle school. He could really do with a best friend onstage with him. Then, again, Ashton’s band broke up after four rehearsals because they had a massive argument over the band name. Now Ashton was the guy getting a master’s degree in finance while Michael, of all people, was the singer. How the fuck do these fucking tables turn like this?
He peers out his dressing room door, hoping to find at least one familiar face. Even that annoying sound technician Logan will do. Just someone that’s not a complete stranger screaming his name and begging for a picture. Michael loves his fans, and is incredibly grateful for them, but he can barely pace his own heartbeat right now, so how will he deal with teenage girls screaming and crying at the very sight of him?
He takes a look at himself again, and all he sees is the fifteen year old writing songs in his room instead of doing homework. In place of his brand new, expensive guitar, he sees the pathetic old acoustic he found in his grandpa’s garage, battered from use and the wood chipping off at several places.
He’s just a kid. What is he doing here? What the fuck is he doing in New York City, playing the same set as the Jonas Brothers and Ariana freaking Grade? Is he really going to walk onto the same stage as Adele did an hour ago, sing to the same people who watched a queen like her move about like the stage was her second home, cradling the mic between her fingers like it was her very own child, and she was singing it to sleep, deaf to the several thousands watching her with eager eyes, some ready to tear her down at the first mistake she makes, others having waited months, even years for the opportunity to see her in the flesh and hear her voice in person. Does Michael deserve to be up there, with such legends? What if… what if he’s here by chance? Maybe someone else should be here instead; someone who actually deserves it. Like Ashton. Ashton should be here, not doing a stupid master’s course.
He sets his guitar down, pulling his phone out. He stares at Luke’s beautiful face, grinning back at him with his tongue between his teeth in the silliest Goldilocks Halloween costume. (Michael’s idea, and he’s proud of it to this day). The sight of his boyfriend calms him down, but only a little. It still can’t make him forget that he’s about to play his songs, that he wrote all by himself, for twenty thousand people who actually paid to watch him sing. What if he lets them down? What if he messes up? What if he- What if he’s just not good enough?
He exhales shakily, feeling like he might just throw up. His eyes are swimming with unshed tears, his head is spinning and his ears are filled with this sharp static noise. He rubs his hands against his thighs, only to find his jeans damp from his sweating palms. The temperature in the room suddenly feels like it’s a hundred degrees, and like someone’s pinching his nostrils shut. He wrenches his arms out of the leather jacket and throws it onto the floor. He crouches down, his hands finding the cold floor, chest heaving like he’s run a marathon around all of Sydney.
“Luke,” he chokes out, trying to console himself with the image of his boyfriend’s face, blonde curls tumbling down his neck in messy ringlets, blue eyes piercing through the curtain of golden strands falling over his face, just lightly tickling the tip of his pointed, upturned little nose, probably even more perfectly suited to his face than Barbie’s nose on her annoyingly perfect porcelain face. Well, plastic face. Whatever. Luke’s face is a million times better. It’s warm and beautiful and adorable and emotional and has the softest, most beautiful lips that Michael has the privilege of kissing. He imagines himself wrapped in Luke’s long arms, snaking around Michael’s back and pulling him into his ridiculously broad chest.
“Luke, help me,” he sobs, his voice catching in the lump in his throat, but he feels suffocated, like he wants to cry, but the tears just won’t come out. Like someone’s stopping his tears from flowing. It’s the worst feeling in the world. “I-I can’t do this.”
He really can’t do this. He’s not good enough. He’s not Michael Clifford, the Australian heartthrob that every teenage girl wants to date. He’s not Michael Clifford, whose debut album is in the running for almost every major award there is. He’s not someone who can stand on the same stage as Adele, and expect people to want to listen to his sad little songs. He’s just Mikey, the blonde kid from down the street who got bullied all through high school. He’s the loner kid that nobody wanted to eat lunch with, so he spent his lunch hours in the music rooms with his chunky old guitar. What is he even doing in New York? He should be in his parents’ garage in Sydney, drinking cheap beers with Ashton and yelling along to Deep Purple. This is some kind of fever dream. He can’t perform for twenty thousand people at fucking MSG, it’s just not possible.
“Luke!” he screams, tears now freely streaming down his cheeks in a way, it’s a relief, being able to feel his damp cheeks after so much trying, so taste the salty liquid he’d grown so familiar with. But he was also losing every shred of confidence that he had, going into this thing. “Where are you?”
“Right here.” The door clicks open. Luke? What the fuck? It can’t be. Luke’s back home in Sydney. Michael must be imagining him. He drags himself up from the floor, clutching his pounding forehead, squeezing his eyes shut and he hopes it will stop. All of this. He just wants to wake up in Sydney, next to Luke. Fuck MSG. Fuck New York. Fuck the VMAs. He just wants Luke. Michael’s trembling hand sweeps the floor around him in search of his leather jacket, as he feels goosebumps ride his arm all the way up to his shoulder and it feels like he’s sitting in freaking Iceland.
As if someone heard his plea, he feels the heavy warmth of his jacket as it settles over his shoulders and falls over his arms. Then, he feels a pair of arms creep up on him from behind, trapping him between them.
“L-Luke?” he whispers, scared to believe it.
“Right here, Mikey,” he feels Luke’s soft lips brush his jawline, and he musters the courage to open his eyes. He’s scared Luke will disappear if he does, the illusion that he is. But when his eyes flutter open, he sees two pale arms latched around his waist, and catches the familiar ringed fingers and neat, rounded nails painted a bright green. He turns around slowly, met by Luke in all his glory. Michael can’t believe his eyes.
“Luke? You’re-you’re here?” he stutters. “In New York? Wh- Why? What’s-”
He can barely comprehend what’s going on. One moment he’s crying into the floor of his dressing room, and the next, he’s got his gorgeous boyfriend Luke Hemmings’s arms around him. So it’s pretty self explanatory that he’s unable to string together coherent sentences. Fortunately, Luke shushes him and his racing mind with a sweet kiss. Luke strings his fingers through Michael’s hair, gently caressing it between his fingers like he did the first time Michael walked into the salon. Michael melts into the touch, clinging on to Luke, fastening his arms behind Luke’s neck like he’ll fall off into some chasm without him. He probably will.
“You didn’t seriously think I’d miss your performance at MSG, did you?” Luke says, and Michael soaks in every single word he says in that deep voice of his. His Aussie twang and the way he rolls his vowels drives Michael crazy. But now, it’s what gives him comfort. He clutches the soft fabric of Luke’s satin shirt tighter, holding onto every last bit of sanity that he can.
“I love you,” Michael says, in a hoarse voice. “I love you.”
Luke rubs circles on Michael’s back. “I know you do,” he replies, softly. “I love you, too. So much. That’s why I decided to surprise you on your big day.”
Michael pulls away and sighs. His eyes are puffy, he’s sure. They feel heavy after all the crying, and he’s definitely ruined his singing voice.
“I can’t do it,” he admits. “I can’t do it. I can’t play for all these people.”
“Hey,” Luke’s voice is soft and velvety in his ear. He feels a strong grip around his shoulders pulling him up firmly until he’s on his feet again. “You’ll do great. Trust yourself.”
He shakes his head. “That’s the thing mate,” his voice is downcast. “I don’t trust myself. I don’t trust myself not to fuck up, not to forget the lyrics to my own fucking songs, not to give all those twenty thousand people out there the spectacular show that was promised to them!”
Luke doesn’t say anything. He stays quiet, taking in Michael’s outburst. His blue eyes are sharp and alert, taking in the guitar lying on the floor and Michael’s phone carelessly thrown down beside it. He takes Michael’s hand and carefully leads him to a chair, and now they’re both facing the mirror; Michael, red-faced, on the chair, and Luke standing behind him.
“What do you see?” he asks, his voice no more than a deep, soothing rumble.
“Huh?”
“What do you see?” he repeats, stepping away from the mirror and Michael’s eyeline, leaving him staring at his reflection all alone.
“I-” Michael doesn’t know what to say. What does he see? He sees Michael, the singer. Michael, the man posing for Vogue. Michael, smiling for the cameras. But what is he, really?
“I-I see myself, I guess,” he mumbles. Luke clicks his tongue.
“Wrong,” he announces, walking back over to stand next to him. Michael’s been so wrapped up in his own head that he hasn’t taken a moment to notice or appreciate the magnificent sight that is Luke in a pink silk shirt.
The only word to describe him would be regal, with the chain around his neck, and the sharp edge of his cheekbones softened by the soft curl of his luminescent golden hair; the smooth, silky, rosy fabric hugs his torso, taking to his gentle personality like a fish to water, hanging off his broad shoulders and parting at his chest to reveal a little more than you would normally see through a shirt, but enough that’s left to the imagination. There’s a dusting of pink on his cheeks and eyelids, so subtle that you’d nearly miss it, but giving his face this resounding definition. Bringing his delicate features to life. Michael almost forgets about his anxieties as he hungrily looks Luke up and down. It’s unreal for a human being to look this flawless.
“Like what you see?” Luke teases, with a smirk, but the blush creeping over his dainty face is unmissable. Michael can only nod, momentarily tongue-tied. Luke giggles, a sound that Michael’s longed to hear for the two months he’s been away from home. One that immediately gives him new life.
“Well,” Luke regains composure fairly quickly. “You should like what you see in the mirror, too.”
Michael just groans. “You don’t understand, Luke,” he protests. “It’s not about not liking myself, it’s just that- sometimes, I think… sometimes I think I got here by mistake.”
There. He finally put it out there. It hangs in the air ominously, threatening to swallow Michael whole.
“Oh, Mike-” Luke opens his mouth to speak, but once Michael’s gotten started, he can’t stop.
“Do you know how many legends have played MSG?” he asks, voice cracking. “Adele, Queen, MSG, Britney Spears, Madonna- need I go on? How am I supposed to walk onto the same stage as such greats, and expect people to like me as much as I like them? Take someone like Beyonce; do you know how hard the woman works? How much she’s done to get where she is? How is it acceptable for a kid from Sydney to stand at the same place? It’s- I… I’m a fake, Luke. I’m nothing but a fake.”
He feels the tears threaten to come up again, and buries his face in his hands.
“Mikey,” He feels Luke slowly pry his hands away from his face. “Are you listening to yourself?”
He holds Michael’s hands in his own larger ones, tracing the lines on his palm as he stares at Michael’s reflection seriously. His nails are glinting against the blinding lights in the room, and Michael catches his own reflection in them. Green, contorted. Green with envy. But who is he jealous of?
“You’re holding yourself back. You’ve worked so hard to get here, and you’ve talked my ear off about MSG, but now that the moment is finally, finally here,” he leans closer, and Michael can feel the warmth of his breath against the back of his neck, “how dare you drag yourself down like this?”
Michael has no answer to this, honestly. He’s just straight-up terrified.
“Look at my nails, Mikey,” Luke brandishes them in his face. “I painted them green, like your eyes, to remind me of you. I knew I’d miss you when you left for tour, and I wanted a piece of you to keep with me forever. And what better thing to think of than your eyes, greener than the prettiest forests, when I think of you?”
He feels Luke’s cold fingers against his hot, flushed face, and relaxes instantly. His heart still wants to break through his ribcage and run out onto the stage by itself, but Michael’s feeling a little less unsure of himself. Luke’s here, after all. Luke makes everything better.
“Michael Clifford,” he reaches for something in his pockets, and tenderly slides Michael’s eyelids shut. “You shine too bright to question yourself like this, and your tears are worth too much to waste over not wanting to do something you love so much. He feels Luke’s fingers brush over his closed eyes repeatedly, running down his sideburns and landing on his cheeks. He hears Luke step away, and allows his eyes to flutter open. His mouth nearly falls open as he stares at the golden glitter dusted all over his eyelids and along his cheekbones.
“Luke… what- what is this?”
His boyfriend just shrugs. “You shine way too bright not to be out there tonight,” he says. “It’s time someone told you that.”
“I- You really think so?” Michael is beyond words. Those are the nicest things anyone’s ever said to him. Luke just nods.
“I love you so much, Luke.”
“I love you more. Now, go on and give MSG the time of their lives. Come on, get up!”
Michael allows Luke to pull him up to his feet, the latter grinning goofily at him until they part ways, Michael heading for the stage, and Luke heading for the stands.
“Oh, and Mikey?” He hears Luke call after him. “I forgot to mention something.”
“What’s that?”
“You look really fucking hot with glitter, you know that?”
Michael just chuckles. Classic Luke. Trust him to ruin the moment every single time with a bad joke, or a comment like this. He just raises an eyebrow at Luke.
“Who knows, maybe this was my intention all along.”