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He looks nervous. You watch him fiddle with the buttons on the wrist of his suit sleeve before you reveal yourself to him, endeared by this secret show of vulnerability. He’s stood at the base of the front steps of your porch, his dark hair gently tussled by the evening breeze, black suit form-fitting across his chest, and– forgive your grossly sentimental internal monologue, but he’s the most enchanting thing you’ve ever seen.
“Wow, I think I spent almost as much time on my hair as you did,” you tease. Michael's head jerks up, a smile involuntarily spreading across his face at the sight of you. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t notice the faint blush dusted across his cheekbones through the feigned disinterest of his following scoff.
“I think you got me beat on the dress budget, though,” Michael drawls. “Seriously, it’s the prom, not your damn coronation.”
“What, this ridiculous thing?” You grin as you let the skirt swish around your ankles. It’s a floor length ball gown, with delicate frills trailing up your shoulders and a satin body that hugs your waist and cascades like a waterfall around your hips. It’s a delicate, pale pink and you’ve never felt so ethereal in your life. It gives you the confidence to lean up and plant a kiss on your boyfriend’s cheek. “Don’t tell me you’ll be embarrassed to be seen next to me.”
“I, uh, didn’t say that.” Michael clears his throat, clearly trying to one-up your confident attitude. He extends his arm for you to link yours with, standing erect. “Shall we depart, your highness?” You giggle obnoxiously before joining your arm with his and mimicking his posh accent.
“Why of course, my liege. Lead me to your royal Chevrolet.” The two of you walk all but five steps before he opens the door for you to step in, the poof of your skirt struggling to fit inside the frame. His decade-old 1970s Chevy Impala is a total shitbox, but you don’t mind, especially knowing the lengths he went to in order to afford it on his minimum wage paychecks. It takes four whole turns of the key for the engine to sputter to life.
“Only the best accommodations for the princess,” Michael jokes, though visibly relieved that the car didn’t choose tonight to die. He continues before you can respond. “Oh, I got you, uh, something–” he reaches into his suit jacket pocket and pulls out a corsage accentuated by a purple rose. “So we can match.” He motions to the purple rose pinned onto his lapel.
“Oh, Jesus, Michael, you didn’t have to…” You trail off, slipping the corsage onto your wrist. It complements your gown perfectly. “Seriously, this is too much.” Your eyes meet his, but your voice sounds entirely unconvincing.
“I know, I just figured, you know, it’s the traditional thing to do, and you deserve…” He exhales. “The best.” It feels distasteful to point out that it’s not exactly traditional to roll up to prom in an ancient Chevy with the front bumper peeling off, so you don’t. Besides, like you said, it really doesn’t bother you. Michael already puts way too much effort into you as it is, and luxury limo or shitbox, your heart melts regardless for your boyfriend. You’re entirely too aware of how difficult his godawful home life makes things for him.
“Uh, well, I already have the best, you dweeb.” You wiggle your eyebrows when you see Michael pretending to glower at you. “Thank you, though. This really is too much.” You know for a fact he’s going to continue to blow it off as ‘not a big deal’, that’s just what he does. To him, every act of kindness towards you is too small. Every good deed too insignificant. You’d nag him to get out of his own head for the millionth time, but you’d make no mistake to dampen the mood. Not tonight. Not with the way things are going for him recently. So instead, you reward his efforts. “It’s beautiful. It really is.”
“Don’t mention it.” He shifts the stick into drive, and the both of you are on your way.
—
The prom venue is Back to the Future themed, which you’re not entirely sure what is supposed to entail and seems to just be a desperate ploy by your school’s student government to appear “hip with the times”. You and Michael are greeted by a raucous scene of (probably already intoxicated) teenagers under the glare of blue and purple lights strung along the rafters of the ceiling the moment you step through the doors of the venue. Neither of you are party people, so it takes a minute of awkward shuffling on the outskirts of the room to get comfortable.
“So, we just… dance then? Do you know how to dance?” You turn to Michael, who snorts.
“No. Do you?” He’s leaned in a little closer to your ear so you can hear his low voice over the sound of the loudest rendition of Head over Heels by Tears for Fears you’ve ever heard.
“I get the feeling we should’ve practiced for this.” Michael grins at your words, promising trouble.
“No time like the present, princess.” He bows himself into a very overexaggerated curtsey. “May I have this dance?” You never get the opportunity to accept, because he’s boldly dragging you to the center of the floor despite your (loud) protests. Your sides ache from laughter by the time he gets you where he wants you, and begins to lead you through a six-step waltz that’s entirely unfitting for Papa Don’t Preach .
“This is obnoxious,” you yell over the music. “You’re totally obnoxious.”
“Oh, you love it.” You do.
It’s way too difficult to resist joining him in his antics, and soon you’re both tainting the dance floor with the most disgracefully uncoordinated dance moves Utah has ever seen. If you were with anyone else, you’d have half a mind to be embarrassed, but it’s impossible to be embarrassed with Michael. Not when you know every bit as well that he shows off this outrageously to only get your attention, which he vies for. You may as well give it to him. While you’re at it, you may as well meet him halfway.
“You should’ve told me you could dance when we met,” you quip. “I might’ve taken a liking to you sooner.” Michael exaggeratedly rolls his eyes.
“Remind me to try that next time.” You swat at his shoulder playfully and all but shriek in glee when he manhandles your waist to pull you closer.
As the final notes to Careless Whisper fade out, a song Michael had previously dubbed “entirely too corny”, he leans you back and dips you so low to the floor that blood rushes to your head. Before you can yelp, his lips meet yours, just for a moment, definitely to show off. It’s quite chaste as far as your kisses have historically gone, but that fact doesn’t hinder the deep blush that spills down your neck at his boldness. When he pulls away and lifts you back up into a standing position, you sputter before managing a, “are you drunk?”
Michael leans his head back and laughs at this. “Am I not allowed to enjoy myself? You know, it’s my prom night, too.” A fair point. It’s refreshing to see him be daring without the miserable personality of the daredevil Michael you once knew, so long ago– 14 year old Michael Afton, bold and unrelenting in every way. A damaged boy with a swarm of whispers and murmurs that followed him wherever he went. Some days, you wondered if you were the only one that saw that damage. All anyone else seemed to see were the horrific labels that were assigned to him before he even got to high school. He was so young. He’d certainly tried to shove you away like everyone else, but you weren’t buying his jackass persona. Not then, not now.
Now, four years later, you look at him and can’t even associate him with the word “jackass”. Sure, your peers at school might still look at him and see the asshole he pretends to be, but you know better. You almost feel bad for them. They’ll never have the privilege of knowing the Michael Afton you do. You take a guilty sort of pleasure in that fact.
Michael pointedly raising an eyebrow at you snaps you back to reality.
“Sorry, did you say something?” You ask.
“Uh, yeah, I said I was gonna go use the restroom. Are you drunk?” He teases, turning your words back on you. Whatever.
“No, just spaced out for a second. You’re really gonna abandon me on prom night? That’s low, even for you, Afton.”
“Relax, princess, I’ll only be 5 minutes.” He plants a quick kiss on your forehead. “Hey, grab me a drink while I’m gone? Pretty please?”
“Of course, princess . Have fun reapplying your hairspray.” You sneer. It takes some effort to pretend you don’t see him sticking his tongue out at you as he walks away.
—
It seems every single other upperclassman also had the idea of taking a break to grab a drink, because the refreshments table is mobbed. You try your best to wait patiently as people push and shove around you before you’re able to carefully work your way towards the massive punch bowls.
“All of this for some fruit juice?” A boy next to you cracks. “I think we’ll need to put up crowd barriers here soon.” You attempt polite laughter at the small talk. It takes a second of thought for you to place his face, but you eventually recognize him as Stephan from your Precalculus class. You mostly keep to yourself in class, so you don’t believe you’ve ever spoken one on one before.
“Right? Honestly, it’s on me for not predicting how bad traffic would be over here.” Stephan laughs a little too egregiously at that, but whatever. You reach for the ladle in the punch bowl and begin pouring two drinks.
“Oh, thanks!” Stephan says, grabbing one of the two cups from your hands. Taken aback, you blink. Did he really think that was for him? He wasn’t even offered it, but now it feels like clearing up the misunderstanding would just be awkward. “And here I thought I was supposed to be the gentleman.” He jokes.
“Right… Well, I should probably head back out. Have a good night, man.” You attempt to excuse yourself from the refreshments table, but Stephan grabs your wrist. Not at all forcefully, but you still grimace. Can this guy not take a hint?
“Wait! I’ll come with you. Don’t want you looking lonely on the dance floor, right?” Oh Christ. This is just getting ridiculous. You wriggle your wrist from his grasp, trying your best to respond lightheartedly so he won’t take offense.
“It’s fine, dude. My date’s just using the bathroom.” Stephan’s face falls. Distantly, you try to recall a time when he’s been this irritating in class, but you can’t pick out any distinct memories of him. Unfortunately for you, he recovers from the rejection all too quickly.
“Oh, come on. It’s prom, aren’t you ladies supposed to never turn down a dance?” He holds his hand out insistently. “Just one, before your ‘date’ is back.”
Before you can respond to annoyedly point out that you’re not “supposed” to do anything, you feel a hand at the small of your back.
“Excuse me,” A familiar accent drawls from above you. “Is there an issue here?” You glance up to see that Michael’s snuck up behind you, eyebrows pinched in a scowl and lips sternly pressed together. Wait, that’s kind of hot–
“Afton?” Stephan’s mouth falls open and shut as he slowly puts two and two together. Michael’s glare is unrelenting, and Stephan considerably pales. “Fuck, you’re her date? I’m sorry, I didn’t know–”
“Boyfriend, yes.” Michael corrects curtly. The hand at the small of your back creeps around to your waist until he’s gripping you tight, pulling you close into his side. “I don’t see any reason for apologies if you weren’t trying anything. Which you werent, correct?” His eyes narrow even further. Stephan shrinks under his gaze. The situation as a whole feels ludicrous, it’s not like you were in any distress, but you’d be a liar if you claimed to not enjoy Michael’s possessiveness. (Or to not find it obscenely attractive.)
“No, I- of course I wasn’t,” Stephan stutters. “We were just– talking.” Instead of pressing further, Michael spares him with a low “hm”.
“Well in that case, I think I’ll be taking her back now.” A small, dangerous smirk works its way onto his face. “You stay out of trouble.” With that, he’s dragging you back to the center of the dance floor. You stifle a giggle and offer a faux apologetic smile to Stephan, but don’t bother looking back.
—
The mood lighting has shifted to red and purple, and it’s clear that the DJ has transitioned into the slow dance segment of the evening. Michael positions the two of you so his hands are resting on your hips and you’re swaying in time to the music. Neither of you speak for a while. It doesn’t necessarily feel tense , but you still feel the need to lighten the atmosphere.
“We, uh, left your drink back there.” You joke. Michael grunts.
“I don’t really care.” Another beat of silence. “What exactly was he saying to you?”
“Oh, you know,” you shrug. “Insisting that I owe him a dance, encouraging me to leave you on prom night. Real charming stuff.” Michael grimaces.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have left you alone.”
You scoff. “Jesus, Michael, I’ll survive if you go to the bathroom for a few minutes.” Guilt flashes across his features, and you freeze. The mood has noticeably sobered. Michael having a panic attack is the furthest thing you want to come out of tonight, but you’ve been with him long enough to recognize the warning signs. “Okay, then. Tell me what’s going on in your head right now.”
He sighs painfully, choosing his next words carefully. “I just– I need to protect you, _______.” The words come out hushed, barely above a whisper. “I should be there for you. So nothing can happen to you.” Completely unwarranted memories suddenly flicker through your head. Names neither of you ever mention. Elizabeth . Evan . If their faces are burned into your mind forever, when you never even met them, you can’t imagine the complete anguish any memory of them causes their older brother.
“Hey. None of that,” you command. Michael refuses to meet your eyes, opting to stare straight ahead. “You’re here for me, and I’m here for you, too. You are not… responsible for me.” At your words, his hands twitch at your waist. You notice yourself being pulled closer to him, the warmth of his body pressed to every part of yours. Goosebumps erupt all over you when you feel his hands slowly stroking up and down the exposed skin on your spine. You speak slowly, sensing his oncoming mental spiral that likely has very little to do with his encounter with Stephan and everything to do with whatever residual childhood trauma is still haunting his brain. “I’m not in any danger, Michael. I wasn’t just now and I never will be. Everything’s okay.”
“I need to get you away from this town,” He murmurs into your ear. “I need to get you out of here.” This is one of his favorite lines to reuse, and you’ve never been entirely sure what he means by it. You suspect it has something to do with his monster of a father. Nothing in this town was ever the same once he showed up, and you’re not stupid the way the incompetent Hurricane police force seem to be; you know his kids’ deaths aren’t a coincidence. And judging by what little he’s told you about his childhood, he suffered beyond comprehension under his father’s reign of terror.
You hum when the opening notes to Take My Breath Away by Berlin echo throughout the dance hall and tuck your head into his neck. It hurts when he gets like this, though you’d never confess that to him for fear of upsetting him further. You can almost see a slideshow of horrific memories of his childhood playing out behind his eyes when they glaze over.
“We’ll get out together, Michael,” you whisper against his neck. His throat bobs when you press a soft kiss against it. “We’ll get so far away he can never hurt you again.” Clarifying who “he” is feels entirely unnecessary.
“I don’t even know where he is most of the time, these days,” Michael confesses. “I think something… awful is going to happen.” You can’t imagine what that could be implying, but his tone alone is enough to have you concerned.
“Your father isn’t your problem. I need you to understand that. You were a victim of his, too, and it’s not your responsibility to spend the rest of your life cleaning up after him.” Your words hang in the air as he mulls them over. For that brief moment, it feels like the two of you have been left completely alone in the room. In the universe.
“Fuck, ______,” He finally exhales. “I really– I can’t imagine where I’d be without you.”
“You don’t have to worry about that.” Michael kisses the top of your head as you speak, seemingly breathing the scent of your hair in. You continue. “You’re stuck with me, that’s a promise. I’m not walking away from this, and the minute we graduate next month, we’re getting the fuck out of here. Away from him. Away from everything.”
Words, after that point, don’t feel necessary. You understand that you’ve both reached a mutual agreement. Although neither of you have ever admitted it out loud, you know that you both have every intention of spending the rest of your lives together. Marriage feels way too sudden only a year into your relationship– and your face burns at the mere thought– but you know you couldn’t bear to be without this boy. You’ve spent almost every day with him for a year and at this point if you tried to wean off of the drug that is Michael Afton, you’re sure you’d suffer serious withdrawals. Parting with him when you already feel so intertwined with his soul itself is a thought you immediately banish.
Turning and returning to some secret place inside
Watching in slow motion as you turn my way and say
Take my breath away
You and Michael slowly return to reality as the song fades. When you take a step back to look at him, his eyes are brimming with so much unrestrained love that it makes your heart skip over itself. Very suddenly, you feel the need to be alone with him. You want to drown in him.
“Do you wanna get out of here?” His voice rumbles, smooth and low. Helpless under his intense gaze, you find yourself nodding in agreement.
—
Alright, sue you for ditching the prom early. You came to enjoy yourself with your boyfriend, which you did, so mission accomplished. Your second mission for the night is now to enjoy yourself with him in privacy.
Michael graciously opens the door for you again when you reach his car, which you intend on teasing him for before he makes a show of meeting his lips to your hand, eyes lingering on yours for a beat too long. It’s a struggle to get your breathing steady again before he loops around the car and joins you from the driver’s side.
“Where to, princess?” He drawls. You take a brief pause to think.
“How about the peak that overlooks Quail Creek? I don’t think we’re supposed to bring cars up there, but I seriously doubt anyone’s gonna check.” Michael lets out an over-dramatized gasp.
“Are you developing a rebellious streak, your highness?”
You grin. “You’re a bad influence.”
It’s a short drive to your destination, and you spend that time gossiping with Michael about the dozens of couples basically dry-humping each other on the dance floor this evening.
“I thought Pepper was dating that bloke on the basketball team? What was she doing rubbing up against Jacob Wolfe like that?” You cackle at his observation.
“They definitely won’t be dating for long after that display. Everyone saw.”
He snorts and flicks the headlights off once you reach the clearing at the top of the peak. The view of Quail Creek is underwhelming in complete darkness, but you’ll just have to cope. You didn’t come up here for the view.
“So, is this where we get our kidneys stolen by a masked man hiding in the woods, or–” You’re abruptly cut off by Michael crashing his lips into yours. Your mouths move against each other for a moment before you pull away.
“Rude. You don’t interrupt her royal highness like that.” Michael groans.
“I’ve been wanting to kiss you all night, and seriously, your humor is distasteful at best. I don’t want to be on high alert for a kidney stealer now–” It’s your turn to cut him off. You push against him, satin fabric of your dress rustling along the smooth fabric of his suit, and he lets out a pleasant groan when your lips meet for just a moment.
“Kiss me, then.”
At your encouragement, Michael’s hand immediately floats up to cup your face and pull you in. For the first time this evening, you really get to feel him. He tastes like warmth and cinnamon. He smells like sandalwood and coffee. His thumb is stroking gently at your cheekbone, and you all but melt. His lips are so soft, a stark contrast to the rough, calloused hand against your cheek. Energy thrums through your body and you allow yourself to get completely lost in him. Your mouth goes pliant at the sensation of his other hand carefully rubbing circles on your hip, and he takes the opportunity to deepen the kiss. Your breath hitches when your tongues slide against one another, causing an explosion of electricity to erupt between the two of you. He feels so unbelievably good.
“Fuck,” Michael breathes into your mouth. “You drive me fucking crazy.” Heat sparks in your lower belly. You swing your legs over to move into his lap, absolutely aching with the need to be closer to him. When your lips slot together again, it burns you from the inside out. You only pull away ever so often to catch your breath or murmur sweet nothings to one another. To your blissed out mind, this is what heaven is. Your thoughts center completely around the boy pressing you against him. You can’t even think.
Before you can even attempt to gather your bearings, Michael’s mouth trails lower and a warm tongue meets the junction of your jaw and your neck. In spite of yourself, you gasp out loud, voice raising into a whine when you feel his teeth collide with your skin and his mouth suck. A burning desire washes over you. It’s undoubtedly going to leave a mark.
“Michael–” you choke out. He hums nonchalantly in response before you feel another bite at your pulse point. It’s no less spasm-inducing when warm, gentle suction greets you again, and to your mortification you release a noise that sounds embarrassingly similar to a moan. His tongue presses almost apologetically to the mark he left, soothingly licking against your skin.
“Did you need something?” He teases, voice an octave lower than usual. You struggle to form words in your barely-functioning brain.
“No, I just–” you pull back to meet his eyes. A look of smug self-contentment glances across his features, no doubt in response to your disheveled state. That’s entirely too ironic, since he doesn’t look any less wrecked than you. “I want to, um. You’re always too nice to me. I want to take care of you, too.” Michael’s eyebrow shoots up in response.
“Watching you is more than enough for me, princess. I promise. I’m fine.” Oh, now that’s just unacceptable. It’s difficult for you to conjure up a response, but fuck, your inhibitions are already low.
“I love you,” you remind him. Michael blinks. It’s not like he hasn’t heard it before, but he’s so completely unwilling to accept it. Either his father or his own self– you’re not sure which; both, probably– has convinced him he’s undeserving of any love. If it were up to you, you’d beat his father to a bloody, screaming pulp for all the damage he’d done to Michael. It was the worst kind of torture to pour your love into a yawning void that couldn’t soak it up. Couldn’t so much as try without dissolving into sobs and trembling nerves while you held him through it.
“I love you, too,” He responds matter-of-factly. He doesn’t get it.
“No. Listen to me. I love you, Michael. I’ve loved you from the moment you let me into your world and I will always love you.” You straighten your posture, gaining traction. “I’m in love with you. I will be until the day I die, and there’s not a single thing you can do about it. So let me. Let me love you.”
Michael’s hands are trembling where they rest on your waist, which doesn’t surprise you. You patiently watch him slowly blink the confusion from his eyes. “I love you, I– where is this coming from?” He croaks out.
“What, I can’t tell my boyfriend I love him?” You smile. Now, that’s unfair of you and you know it. It’s just impossible to resist the urge to love him until he forgets what hating himself feels like. Until he stops feeling the need to exclusively put your wants and needs before everything involving his own desires.
You start by kissing his lips. Then his left cheek, then his right. His nose twitches when you kiss that, too, and you soothingly trail a hand through the soft nest of his hair when you kiss his forehead. “I love you. Never forget it.”
“I love you, too, ______.” Graciously, you pretend not to notice the way his voice wavers. Progress.
“Good. Now say it out loud. Say, ‘_______ loves me.’” To encourage him, you press a kiss against his jaw.
“________ loves me.”
“Good. That’s it.” You reward him with a matching bite to his pulse point, mirroring the one he’d given you. His breath noticeably hitches, hands grasping at your waist, but the tension in his body relaxes when you soothingly lick at it. Your ministrations end there. For now, you just want to hold him.
“I meant what I said before,” he admits into the quiet air after a prolonged bout of silence between the two of you. “When I said I don’t know where I’d be without you.”
“And I meant what I said, too. That you’re stuck with me. I’m not going anywhere.” Michael must be satisfied with your answer, because he doesn’t protest. Your fingers begin raking through his hair again to soothe him, and his eyes flit shut when you press his head onto your chest. His following sigh sounds genuinely at peace.
You just can’t help yourself. “I think if you were a cat, you’d be purring right now.”
“Shut up.” He’s really lost his edge, because that’s not convincing at all. When you point this out to him, he just snorts. “I’m plenty scary. Did you see that kid earlier? Broke a sweat just cause I glared at him.”
“Yup. Super scary, babe. Anyone that saw you now would run in fear.”
“Shut up,” he restates. You let it be.
In the back of your mind, you notice the radio in the Chevy Shitbox tenderly crooning the song you two had danced to earlier in the evening.
When the mirror crashed, I called you and turned to hear you say
If only for today
I am unafraid
It’s hard to not believe everything will turn out okay in the end when you feel this invincible.