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Michael hates sleeping on buses. It’s the one thing he had been grateful for the pandemic for. A chance to actually be home, in the comfort of his own bed with his dogs. Darkness and peace and quiet.
He’s forgotten, in the last three years of being on his own, just how much he hates sleeping on tour. Michael loves touring itself, don’t get him wrong. But he will never get used to sleeping in a bunk, small and cramped, on a moving vehicle that shakes and rocks with each movement, faint light constantly streaming through the curtain. Michael’s a light sleeper on the best of nights, with a noise machine at home to help, and having to hear every little creek, groan, and noise of his bandmates is starting to drive him crazy. He hasn’t had a restful night since they started, and now, almost two months into touring North America, he’s so tired he might cry.
Michael’s staring at the ceiling of his bunk, willing himself to close his eyes, when he hears a rustling outside. He groans, hoping it’s not Calum or Ashton trying to sneak into the other’s bunk and keep him up even longer.
Instead, the noise gets closer, coming from outside of Michael’s bunk. The edge of his curtain is pulled back slightly as the intruder makes himself known.
“Mikey,” Luke's voice whispers through it, voice scratchy and rough. Michael groans, giving up on getting any sort of sleep tonight. If he passes out from exhaustion on stage during the show, he’s blaming Luke for it.
“What?” He whispers back, fully committed to being awake and miserable now that Luke knows he’s up. Luke’s probably going to con him into watching a movie or playing Mario Kart until he falls asleep, leaving Michael up and alone to suffer.
“Are you awake?”
“Clearly I am now,” he grumbles, as if he hasn’t been awake for the last hour or so.
His response seems to spur Luke on as he pulls back more of the curtain. Michael squints as the brightness from the front of the bus streams in through the crack made. He can make out the fuzzy halo of Luke’s curls, the pout on his lips, the broad stretch of his shoulders. Michael doesn’t know how he’s wearing a tank top on the bus right now. Michael’s wearing three layers and he’s still shivering, but here’s Luke in his tank top specifically to torture Michael’s sleep deprived brain. He licks his lips, biting the corner of them as he gazes at Michael. The movement is doing fuzzy things to Michael’s brain that should only be left for the darkness of his dreams in his own home.
He thinks Luke might be trying to shift his weight, a near impossible task on the tiny ladder that he’s standing on. Luke’s been too large for their bus since he was 18, a fact he seems to keep forgetting. It’s charming, if a little sad, watching this boy who he still thinks he’s small and 13, afraid of the world, but bright eyed and earnest anyway. Michael wishes he could hold onto Luke forever, remind him that he’ll always be their Luke, no matter how old they all are.
“I can’t sleep,” Luke pouts, whining just a little. Michael’s gaze is glued to the shine in the dip of his collarbone. He looks sweat shiny and damp, curls sticking to his forehead. It makes Michael sweat just a little.
“And?”
“Can I sleep with you? Like we used to?” Luke asks. He widens his eyes, even though he must know Michael can’t see him in sharp detail, just blurs and colors, fuzzy at the edges. Michael swallows, find himself helpless to do anything but nod at Luke’s request. Luke beams, a detail easy enough to see as he pulls the curtain back to fit himself into the bunk. Michael scoots back, swallowing again as Luke’s foot brushes his leg.
Michael would have to be silly to not realize he’s in completely love with his best friend of close to 12 years. He might have been able to deny it before as a hormonal, angsty teenager, insisting that all the times he and Luke were caught cuddling were strictly platonic. Despite the way they would cling to each other on couches, in hotel beds, the way they would fit together like puzzle pieces, they always insisted it was as just friends. Luke used to go limp in Michael’s arms after shows, curling into Michael’s space and holding tightly. Michael was just as touch starved as Luke, barely letting him dry off after showers before dragging Luke into his arms, his beds, pressing kisses to his hairline. It was easy to play it off as lonely, homesick, teenagers, needy for touch.
But, Michael’s an adult now. He’s man enough to admit that Luke Hemmings, in all his blonde haloed, blue eyed glory, makes his heart flutter. His palms sweat and his stomach tightens and neither time nor quarantine has reduced any of those feelings. If anything, he loves Luke more now then he did years ago. Learning all of his bad habits, the way he snores and leaves water puddles everywhere and burns food and pouts when he doesn’t get his way have only made him more charming to Michael. More human. Everyone else sees perfect golden boy Luke Hemmings on stage, but Michael sees the real him. And he loves him.
Luke’s warm, still a furnace of heat as he wiggles into place in the bunk. He has to curl up, between his own height and the cramped space, tucking his head beneath Michael’s chin. Michael sputters around a mouthful of curls, pushing them down as he wraps an arm around Luke, tucking him close. Luke giggles, pressing his feet against Michael’s, his hands under Michael’s shirt. Michael swears, kicking him lightly.
“Keep your icicles away from me! Or cuddle privileges are revoked!” he hisses, trying to keep his feet away from Luke’s, hitting the back of the bunk. Luke giggles into Michael’s neck, warm breath against his skin as he wiggles closer, trying to warm up.
This is the other thing Michael’s missed from isolation. Making music and cuddling. Luke’s always been the clingiest of them, homesick and lonely, begging for someone to hold him. Michael’s always been the most willing of them, climbing onto Luke on couches and beds, wrapping himself around the younger boy. He’ll do anything to make Luke happy, and seeing the way his face lights up when Michael holds him has always made Michael’s chest fuzzy and warm in a slightly alarming way. It makes his heart tighten, makes him feel out of breath, having Luke this close to him, wrapped around him. It’s something just for him and Luke.
Michael thinks Luke’s fallen asleep like this already, chest rising and falling against Michael’s, breathing slow when Luke taps him lightly. Michael glances down, Luke craning his neck back to meet Michael’s gaze. Michael goes a little cross eyed looking at him, blue of his eyes blurring, tip of his nose visible.
“I missed this,” Luke mumbles.
“Missed what?”
“The bus. The band. Cuddles,” Luke says.
The quiet you hangs between them. It’s honest, earnest. Luke’s always been the most open of the two of them. He wears his heart on his sleeve, willing to try and try and try again. Michael’s always admired it, wished he could be like that too. Maybe if he was, he’d have been brave enough to kiss Luke when they were teenagers curled up together on couches, yelling at each other in hotel rooms. Maybe he would know the way Luke tastes, if it’s like coffee or mint toothpaste or something else entirely. Maybe he would know how Luke feels against him, rough stubble and hands, but smooth everywhere else. Maybe lockdown wouldn’t have been so lonely with Luke by his side.
“Missed my octopus too,” Michael says. Luke giggles, nuzzling into Michael’s neck at the nickname. Michael can picture the pink blush on his cheeks, the way he squints when he makes that noise. Michael feels a burst of warmth in his chest at the sound.
Luke traces shapes on Michael’s chest, humming quietly as his fingers make loops over and over again.
“Are you upset with me?”
“Why would I be upset with you?”
“I didn’t tell you about my album. I sorta vanished for a while during the beginning of the pandemic. I just…I love you and I don’t want us to have a wedge between us and I’m worried there is,” Luke mumbles, fingers still playing with Michael’s shirt.
“Just because you waited to share your album doesn’t mean I’m mad at you. I always wait to tell you about songs. And the pandemic was weird for everyone,” Michael assures him. Luke hums, soft and sad. He whispers the next line, like he’s scared to put it into the world.
“Do you love me?” he asks.
It hangs in the air, stifling in its sincerity, its desperation. Luke’s asked before, if the boys love him, drunk and dramatic, giggling the words. But there’s something honest about it, open and bleeding, in the dark of the night, just between them. Does Michael love Luke?
They’ve had this conversation before. Michael’s not sure how much of it Luke remembers, but it’s ingrained in Michael’s memory from 2016. When Luke had been at his lowest, somewhere between the haze of his insecurities and addictions, raw from his breakup, he’d call Michael up in the dead of night. They hadn’t spoken in weeks, barely friends it felt like, Michael losing his best friend to the glitter of his new world.
But Michael had picked up because it was Luke. And despite everything, he will always pick up the phone for Luke. Especially when the first thing that had greeted him on the other line was a weeping, apologetic Luke, gasping for air and pleading with Michael to forgive him, to love him, to never leave him. He’d stayed on the line with Luke until he’d fallen asleep, whispering reassurances across the line and texting Ashton to go check on him. Luke never mentioned the night or the phone call and Michael’s all but pushed it from his mind in the wake of after. Luke’s safe now. He’s safe and healthy and happy. He’s not going to leave Michael.
“Yes,” Michael whispers back, softly. It’s never even a question. He loves Luke like it’s a need, a part of him. It’s just another fact about Michael. He loves pizza, his guitar, and Luke Hemmings.
Luke sucks a breath in, movements stilling.
“Oh,” he whispers, dazed, like Michael’s rattled something loose inside of him. Michael thinks that’s the end of it, another soft confession in the middle of the night, something for them to forget in the morning.
Instead, Luke tilts his head back, leaning up just enough to press a soft kiss to Michael’s lips. Just a brush, barely there, almost like it’s a ghost of a memory. Michael blinks, surprised, gazing down at Luke as he pulls back, tucking his face into Michael’s chest.
“Night Mikey,” Luke whispers, soft and even. Michael can feel his heartbeat against his own, rattling loudly in his chest as he shakes. Michael ducks his head down, pressing a kiss to Luke’s curls.
“Night Lu,” he whispers back, wrapping his arms around Luke, holding him close. He feels the moment Luke falls asleep, breathing even and body relaxing in his arms. Michael takes longer to follow him, light starting to peek in through the curtains Luke left open before Michael’s finally able to close his eyes and rest, swirling thoughts of Luke’s lips, his touch, his words filling his dreams. Wondering what it means, what he can do, with Luke pressed close to him, smelling of cotton and lavender, curls soft against his skin, breath warm and humid.
Michael wakes up much later, groggy and disoriented, body sweaty and cramped. He can hear Calum and Ashton arguing out in the kitchen area, Luke snoring in his ear. The sound rattles his chest, vibrating through him. Michael tugs him in closer, pressing a kiss to his temple, remembering last night in vivid technicolor. He feels Luke relax in his hold, sighing noisily as he snuggles in closer.
The timing’s never felt right before but, maybe this time it is. Maybe now is their chance. All Michael has to do is leap.