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Michael had a relapse. He knew he had relapses because his sleep lasted longer than usual and was more restless, with images of angels with thousands of eyes and a very bright light.
When Michael had relapses, no one was there to hold him back. No one brushed the hair from his sweaty forehead and put their fingers down his throat to make him vomit up the pills. He paid the exorbitant hospitalization and detoxification bills himself, with great effort and advances requested from his boss.
And on Monday, he would have to be well enough to work for hours again. Nobody knew that Michael had spent the weekend in the hospital, because his face was pale enough that they thought the lines on his face were just a failed attempt to look more tanned using makeup.
Calum would sometimes find out, and Michael would promise he would never do it again until his next relapse. Sometimes he would stay at Calum and Ashton's house so they could keep an eye on him. Michael would drink all the wine Ashton bought to make risotto and then leave, just like that.
This didn't mean they would catch him when he fell. For a few days, Michael would have his wings clipped and would stay with them until they grew back.
Someone catches Michael without his knowledge.
The hospital he was in wasn't cheap and unsanitary, like the one covered by the company's health insurance. When Michael woke up, he was surrounded by unmarked white walls and a more comfortable bed than his own.
The monitors attached to his chest and arms beeped incessantly, in sync with the drops of serum dripping into his vein through the IV line. On the bedside table, a half-empty teacup served as an air freshener.
Long, warm fingers swept Michael's dyed red hair to the sides, an unconscious movement. He wanted to go back to sleep, imagining he was in his mother's lap and was just a child again. He didn't know who was stroking his hair and drinking mint tea, but he didn't care.
Looking down, Michael noticed his arms were newly bandaged, the bandages slightly stained with dried, brown blood. He also had a boot on his leg, the kind used when a leg injury occurs.
Now, he was afraid he wouldn't be able to recover by Monday. Michael's boss would kill him. The fingers that had been running through his hair no longer seemed so comforting. Even so, he closed his eyes again.
“Hey, hey-” A deep but sweet male voice came from the room. "No, don't close your eyes again. Stay awake.”
Within seconds, the person who had given Michael the best affection he had ever received was now holding his cheeks. The bed started to rise on its own, as if it sensed the movement, but it was just a small pedal that the man activated.
Even with his vision blurred, Michael would recognize him anywhere: Luke Hemmings, from the company's marketing department. Besides being part of the marketing team, Luke was also the son of the corporation's owner, but they didn't talk about it because it would make him angry.
It's obvious that Luke took him there. He was always saving Michael from scrapes, whether it was a job he missed on time or the lack of an umbrella.
“Hey, dude,” Luke's hands traced Michael's face, who practically purred at the affection. "Do you remember me? It's me, Luke.”
All Michael could focus on was Luke's comforting touch, the way his fingers seemed to sweep away the dust that made his life a mess. Luke's face contorted as he watched Michael's heart rate increase on the monitor.
“Hey Mikey, are you okay?” He took a few steps back. "Do you want me to call a nurse?”
Hemmings' touch from afar instantly calmed Michael's breathing. Luke seemed to relax seeing that the boy was no longer nervous, and sat back down in the soft armchair.
Michael scratched his head, getting a little tangled in the wires connected to his arm. A few flakes of dandruff clung under his fingernails. He had been there longer than he realized. His hair never got dirty.
“I don't understand, Luke... You arrived here when I was already here?”
That's when Michael noticed that Luke had bags under his eyes, sunken cheeks, and rumpled clothes. Not only had Michael stayed there longer than he had imagined, but Luke had stayed with him.
“I'm the one who brought you here. I was delivering something you forgot at the company office to your house, and there were a lot of people around the door…”
Damn, that bunch of gossipy old women. Michael can't even trip without them all crowding around. He understands that it might just be a worry after he almost set the house on fire by putting an aluminum pot in the microwave, but it's not that necessary.
“You didn't need to do that, seriously.” He replied, embarrassed. He'd probably forgotten his cell phone or something. "I just don't understand what happened to me... I don't remember a damn thing.”
Luke pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing deeply.
“You tried to kill yourself, Michael. I don't know if it was accidental or not, but you drank so much that when I found you, I thought you were already dead.” Judging by the way Luke was slurring his words, the sight of Michael nearly dead must have been horrific. "You were purple, making a weird noise that seemed to come from deep in your throat…”
Luke's words were like ice refreshing his memory. Michael could only remember a few things now: some old distilled spirits he'd found in the cupboard at home after a difficult day at work, the ice cold hands gripping the sink while vomiting before he fell to the bathroom floor. He remembered some sirens and a moving vehicle, someone passing the fingers through his hair when the vehicle hit a speed bump.
Then, only darkness and moments when the bright light would hit his mind again, and that big-eyed angel would appear to say nonsensical things.
“How long ago was that, Hemmings? Was it yesterday?”
Luke looked at his watch and shook his head.
“I took you on Friday. Today is Wednesday.”
Calum should be tearing his hair out with worry right now. Michael's mother should already be preparing her son's funeral, buying flowers and everything else… If he was lucky, he wouldn't have been reported missing yet.
“I don't know what to say, Luke... I guess thank you is the right word. Damn, I might be dead now if it weren't for you.” Michael says as if it wasn't his intention.
Hemmings' pale skin flushed red, a deep blush rising to his cheeks. He shook his head as if he didn't care much, like someone saying "it was nothing" but he was buzzing with excitement.
“No, no need to thank me, I'm just... happy you woke up. I was already imagining the worst.”
Luke said he had already notified Calum and Michael's family, as they were his emergency contacts on his cell phone, but he didn't reveal the real reason for his disappearance. The excuse he made up was a business trip that they had both been assigned to, with no set return date.
While Luke was getting something to eat in the cafeteria and a nurse came to check on Michael, he discovered that Hemmings had been there the whole time, without leaving. He only went out to get a suitcase with clothes, but he showered at the hospital and ate there, or at a nearby restaurant. When that same young woman came to check on Michael in the early hours of the morning, Hemmings was asleep in the armchair next to the bed, holding his hand.
Michael returns to work at the office the following week, still with his arms bandaged and some stitches in his head; Nobody notices the bruises, just like nobody notices Michael's vibrant red hair. He catches a glimpse of Luke sometimes, and his heart races at those moments. Every day when he arrives at work, there's a blueberry muffin on his desk, inside a biodegradable bag.
He knows it's Luke who delivers the muffin for two reasons: 1) Michael told Luke he liked blueberry muffins when he was in the hospital, and 2) Luke watched him eat out of the corner of his eye.
It's Ashton who invites him for a beer on Friday with him and Calum. Michael reconsiders the invitation, afraid that mixing more drinks with those from the previous week, which still weighed heavily on his stomach, will make him worse. But it was Calum and Ashton; they wouldn't let him drink more than a few sips of beer, because they knew Michael was weak for it.
So, when Michael gets drunk after two pints of beer, they know it's normal. It was past midnight, almost one o'clock, but Clifford decided he would leave alone as soon as Ashton and Calum felt asleep at the couch.
He doesn't drive home because he doesn't own a car, and he doesn't call a taxi because the distance between his house and his friends' houses is higher on the meter than his monthly grocery bill.
The empty streets speak to Michael, whispering good and bad things in his ears. He sees the windows and doors moving like mouths and eyes, speaking to him, asking him to leave the sidewalk and enjoy the warm asphalt with no shoes, because it was in the center of everything, and it was the only way of him being at the center of everything.
One of the houses, large and imposing, with its big yellow eyes and white hair adorned with solar panels, catches Michael's attention. In the middle of the street – he obeyed what his concrete and brick friends told him – he stopped to admire it. Two large trees on either side of the property made the house appear to have two little hands.
It was two in the morning and Michael was still there, watching the house talk. He didn't understand the language of the houses, so he tilted his head like a puppy trying to understand.
The only car on the street approached Michael until there was no space left between them. The driver, clearly drunk, got out of the vehicle with a cigarette in his mouth.
“Don't you look where you're going, damn it?!” the man said, blowing smoke in Michael's face.
He looked back, and the house had opened its mouth. Michael heard it as if it were screaming, but it was actually just Luke coming out of it to scare the man. Michael didn't understand why the house had swallowed the boy.
Luke had some things attached to his head to curl his hair, he was wearing a leopard-print bathrobe, and he was carrying two eye massagers, one in each hand. He positioned himself in front of Michael, head held high and hands on his hips.
Michael's father always said that every drunk has a different perspective on life, which is why some became philosophers and psychologists, while others became patients. While Michael saw Luke as the very personification of Dionysus, with his leopard-print robe and eye massagers, the other drunkard turned pale and ran back to his car.
Michael was so intoxicated by alcohol and the sight of Luke, with his barriers so low and out of step with the identity he assumed at work, that he didn't even notice the burning pain. He hit the car's bumper hard, it was hot. The synthetic fabric t-shirt had a large hole where it had melted.
“Holy shit, Michael! You're melting!” Luke put the massagers in his bathrobe pockets. "Come on, let's go inside... And don't think I didn't notice you're drunk again.”
The house swallowed them up, so as not to spit them out again for hours. In seconds, Michael was in a living room with all-mahogany furniture and soft carpets. The pair of slippers Luke offered him when he came in provided some comfort, but Michael's skin still burned like hell now that he was beginning to realize what was happening.
Luke returned with a soft blanket and a first-aid kit. He draped the blanket over Michael's shoulders, even though he wasn't cold because alcohol warms you up.
“Can you lift your shirt? I'm going to put some ointment on to soothe the burn.” Luke sat down beside him, gently brushing the reddish strands of hair from Michael's forehead. “You're lucky it was only superficial. That guy was a son of a bitch.”
With Michael's t-shirt now set aside by the redhead himself, Luke began to work. First, he cleaned the area with some antiseptic before applying the ointment, forming a shiny layer over the red, hot skin. Using some gauze and adhesive bandages, he covered the area.
“Do you want to borrow one of my t-shirts? I don't know if they'll fit you properly, but if you feel uncomfortable wearing that, you can take one.”
Michael shook his head and lightly touched the bandaged wound. Luke placed a hand over Michael's, as if guiding the touch to avoid further injury. The burning sensation stopped instantly, and Michael couldn't tell if it was the ointment or Luke's touch.
He slept in the living room that night. Luke was on the front sofa and promised he would go to the bedroom as soon as he felt sleepy, but when Michael woke up in the middle of the morning, he was still there, asleep.
The sensation he had after waking up was of a struggle between bones and organs for space and power, some devouring others. Michael's head throbbed, his brain fighting with his skull. His heavy footsteps woke Luke from his light sleep, and for the first time, someone brushed Michael's hair away from his face so he could vomit.
“Breathe, breathe... Take all the time you need.” Luke repeated, massaging comforting circles into his back. Michael's head fell heavily into his lap, and Luke realized he couldn't leave him alone anytime soon. “You are okay, Michael Everything's alright.”
Luke and Michael started going to work together because neither of them had a car – one didn't have the money for one and the other hated the pollution – and Luke didn't like walking alone. Now Michael received the muffins in a biodegradable bag as soon as he passed by his friend's house.
Luke also became part of Michael's group of friends, something he hadn't had before. Calum and Ashton were welcoming and practically adopted him as a second son. Whenever things got difficult between him and his father, Luke could show up at Calum and Ashton's house at any time.
It was on one of those days that Michael Clifford fell in love for the first time.
It was three in the morning when someone pounded on Michael's door while he was playing video games. He crushed his cherry soda can and looked through the peephole.
Luke was there. His face was covered in bruises, with blood splattering from his nose. The spiky hair he sometimes styled had its spikes half-fallen out and undone, even dirty. Before he could raise his hand to knock again, Michael opened the door.
He knew Luke had problems with his father. He only worked at his company because his mother wouldn't let his father fire him. Michael sometimes noticed a bruise or something on Luke, which he would say was just a bump.
Michael knew that Luke had problems with his father, but he didn't know that they also involved physical abuse.
Luke practically fell into his arms, forcing Michael to kneel right there in front of the house. The younger man's tears mingled with the soda still soaking Michael's shirt. He kissed Luke's forehead tenderly, silently promising that it would never happen again.
Before, neither Michael nor Luke had anyone to run to. One was very far from home, and the other had a house nearby, but it was practically devoid of love and affection. As Calum always said, you could be on your last day of life and still be within the timeframe to find happiness, and that's exactly what happened to Michael.