Archive of Our Own

When Michael woke up, he was surprised, because David was still sacked out next to him under the covers. He’d grown so accustomed to David being the one in the driver’s seat that it felt a little weird to be able to look at him like this: not unguarded, exactly, but just… gone.

(Dead to the world was a dumb pun, even when he was looking at those hollowed cheeks and shadowed eye sockets, the pale skin without the immense personality animating it.)

He knew, on some level, that his own preoccupation with David was an excuse not to think about everything else, although it didn’t really work all that well since David was sunk deep into all of it.

It had been so strange, though, to have the best and worst things happen back-to-back-to-back like that, to jump from joy to terror, from grief to love and safety. And the closer he’d gotten to David, the less he understood of him.

It didn’t make sense, how David had taken that hit--the most awful thing Michael had ever seen until ten seconds later--and shrugged it off like it was nothing. How he talked about protecting Michael while revealing the most horrific shit about himself offhand.

“Is it always like that?”

“No. Most of them don’t bother.”

Why, and how, and who--how many--hadn’t bothered?

If he brought it up now, David would probably brush him off like they'd done the emotional version of a drunken one night stand. His only option was to chase another high and hope that David held him through it. Over and over, until he had some pieced-together understanding of the man who'd changed his life forever. 

David’s chest was still, Michael realized. He put his hand on David's ribs, then his neck, pushing fingers into the skin harder and harder in search of a pulse. Nothing. Was he imagining the numbness in his fingers, or--

Get a grip. He shook himself. He was dead. David had told him that, not in so many words. But there was knowing it and then there was feeling it. He wondered if he'd looked like David half an hour ago: an empty suit waiting for the wearer to come back. He tried to stop breathing, but his body still remembered when panic should sink in. It was like a phantom limb.

"Hey." David's hand fisted itself in Michael's curls and tugged, forcing him out of his unraveling thoughts. With me.

The effect of David's skin against his was dizzying in its speed. His nerves settled, his breathing evened out, and the ideas he'd been obsessing over sounded small and stupid.

“Sorry,” he said, trying to duck his head but held by the grip on his hair. “Didn't mean to wake you.”

“No problem,” David said, and then hit him with that incredible smile. “Means I get to look at you more.”

“C'mon…” He felt flustered at the compliment, and tried again to hide his face until he realized he didn't feel the warmth of a blush on his cheeks. “I'm just some guy.”

“You're beautiful, Michael,” David whispered in his ear after releasing that grip. “I think you know that. You put a lot of time and effort into getting that way--”

“No, I--I wasn't--”

“And I, for one, am very happy about it.” Your hard work paid off, he heard inside his head while David’s lips took his, while David’s hands traced the shape of his arms and shoulders and dipped down to his chest. “Did you want to fool around more, or something, before we hit the road?”

At least there was one question Michael knew he’d always say yes to. 

***

It was the third night since they’d left Coronado Bluff; roaring up to the Ironworks now was like stepping onto foreign soil. It prickled along Michael's skin as he held tight to the Triumph's handlebars. 

“For a triumphant homecoming.” David had chucked his chin, once again handing him the keys. Just like…

“Was that a pun?” Michael turned, but David was already on the back of the bike, waiting to hold him.

He realized he hadn't asked David when and how they should bring up the… well, that was why he hadn't asked. What did they even call what they were? "Boyfriend" didn't seem big enough to cover them. Michael wondered if the other guys (and Star) would feel weird about it. Like he was Yoko swooping in to ruin the band. Better or worse, he didn't have long to wait. 

Marko, Dwayne, and Paul were waiting, all clustered together. Michael’s awareness of them was eerily prescient, touching him before they ever came into view; their absence was a muscle cramp he hadn’t even felt. It was like he'd let an entire limb fall asleep and only just realized now he’d moved and that pins and needles were spreading through him. He needed to be closer.

The bike had barely rolled to a stop before he stumbled off, flinging himself into his brothers' arms as they crowded just outside of the ruins’ entrance. They smelled like grease and dirt and blood and salt, and the feeling of their skin on his was soothing like a cool hand on a fever. 

"Knew you had it in ya!" Dwayne was trying to wrestle him down to give him a noogie, and they scuffled on the ground for a minute before Paul whacked them both on the head with his drumsticks.

"Heads up." Paul jerked his own toward where their leader was approaching (was Michael part of ‘they’ now? Or was he still ‘and also’?).

"Relax." David had his hand curled over Marko's, the latter's arm around his shoulder and hand on his chest; their heads were bowed together as they walked. Michael tried not to feel about it. 

"Hey Paul," Marko kept his eyes on David as he spoke. "Isn't David looking a little thirsty?"

"Parched," Paul responded without missing a beat.

"Too busy taking care of us to look after himself." Marko's tone was light, but Michael saw his grip tighten on David's jacket.

"You jonesing, Boss?" Dwayne asked, peering at David with his arm still flung around Michael’s shoulder.

Jonesing? The word sent a shiver down Michael’s spine, even though he knew David had said nothing could hurt them any more. (Said that while telling him to huff solvent, but Michael had seen all of him and didn’t remember any marks outside the intentional.)

“David?” Michael asked uncertainly, feeling an odd tension rising, a desire to keep his eyes on David to see which way to jump. He shook Dwayne off. 

“S'nothing, Michael. Marko worries too much, don't you, baby?” He patted Marko's cheek with an odd mix of gentle and rough, almost pushing him back but clearly… fond.

“Wouldn't need to if you'd do it.” Paul’s voice was smooth and quiet, heard rarely enough that Michael instinctively wanted to listen. The moonlight was blue on his face, which looked more open without his Siouxsie Sioux brows.

“I said to relax.” David’s smile was wide, but a crackle of command shot through Michael, and he saw the others stiffen in tandem and release in compliance. “This is a happy occasion; we’re welcoming family.”

His eyes burned in their sockets which, two days ago, had been artfully painted in kohl, but were dark lavender-blue now without any enhancement Michael had seen.

Did he have me drive because--

It felt impossible, shameful somehow; Michael couldn’t even fully form the thought as Dwayne and Paul led him below. Only the fact that he could hear the low, indistinct murmur of Marko’s voice following close behind kept him from turning around as they descended.

The Ironworks had already felt magical the first time he entered, a shadowy paradise built on the bones of tragedy. Now it seemed alive around him; almost as though if he listened he'd hear the groan of bellows and the clink of hammers. The lower levels glowed like the furnaces were still lit (maybe they were, maybe the boys played with fire for fun), like he could almost hear whispers down below, and as Michael leaned out over a piece of railing he was struck by a wicked sense of vertigo. He felt a hand grab the back of his shirt and pull him back, and looked up to see Paul.

"Don't get Shining'd." Paul had a crooked grin but solemn eyes. "They quiet down after a while. Once they know you're one of us, not one of them."

"What--" the fuck does that mean, he started to say, but was cut off by a metallic rattling.

"Hey Mikey, check this out!" Dwayne flipped into the air like a goddamn gymnast, suspending himself upside down between two chains. "Pretty sweet, right?"

"How’d you do that?" It looked so free, so effortless. He'd tried floating a little before their trip back, but without David's guidance he seemed to founder once he got a few feet off the ground, body still trying to brace itself against a solid surface.

"You'll be able to do it too, in time." David called from the couch, and Michael's attention snapped back to him with a sense of something almost like guilt. For a moment, he'd forgotten about David.

Marko hadn't. He was still all over David like a needy cat, whispering and smoothing his hair and clothes, and when Michael looked over he glared.

"Oh, someone is in deep shit," Paul laughed.

"Baaaaad news." Dwayne jumped down to elbow Michael's ribs, his arm lingering loose around Michael's shoulder. "Hope you like groveling."

"I don't even know what I did!" Michael protested. "How--"

For the second time in as many minutes, his train of thought jumped the tracks, because Marko had straddled David's lap and was sticking his tongue down his throat. Michael started forward, knowing when he was being baited, but Dwayne's casual hold pinned him in place, and after a minute Michael saw (no, smelled) a trickle of blood escape the corner of David's mouth.

"Oh." He swallowed. The jealousy wasn't gone but now it felt diffuse and purposeless. Heartburn. His voice sounded faint in his own ears. "Vampire stuff."

“Thank you, Marko,” David said with a strange, quiet sincerity, eyes locked to the taller boy’s like they were alone in the world. Then he shoved Marko back and grabbed the scruff of his neck, knocking the hat askew. “But I told you not to worry.”

The grip looked strong, almost painful, and it made Michael feel--weird, inside, remembering that same hand massaging shampoo into his own hair. He shifted a little, realizing Dwayne’s hold had relaxed into a bear hug that didn’t seem to be ending any time soon.

“We all ate,” Paul said, stepping forward and slipping his own hand up under David’s, sort of prying Marko into his own grasp. “Michael, too. But did you?”

“Wasn’t right.” David shook his head. “Mind your business; Michael’s half an orphan, now.”

The air crackled, the other boys’ attention snapping back onto Michael in a way that made him feel exposed and revolting; he looked down at the crazed and soot-stained cement to avoid their gazes, and the thoughts he'd been running from found him again. You're happy he's dead. Monster.

“Hey,” Dwayne said, practically in his ear, and shook him softly. “Hey, man, stay with us.”

He heard boots on concrete, too many and too indistinct to tell for sure who was coming closer; he knew that their gaits would be familiar in time, but not yet.

You did the right thing, he heard, felt, somewhere below his heart. Maybe his gut, full to satiation with his own father’s lifeblood.

He didn’t know what he was expecting: Blame? Mockery? Business-as-usual dismissal?

What he got was three sets of arms around him, hands stroking every place they could reach as they shuffled him over to the couch as one, like some terrible malfunctioning Voltron. Three sets of lips murmuring softly, not mean at all, but not pitying, either.

You had to. It wasn't any one voice, or even a chorus. It was just a vibration of his bones, a truth shared bodily.

"We've got you." Marko pulled Michael back against his chest as they sank into the cushions.

"We're on your side. Every time." Paul's arm looped through Michael's as Paul leaned into Marko's side

"Nobody can touch you here." Dwayne settled on the floor in the vee of Michael's legs, holding him to earth. "Anybody tries, we'll kill 'em."

All the while their hands were on him like his body was an extension of their own. Fingers interlaced with his and slipped away only to be replaced. Skin pressed close to skin, and Michael felt the tension slowly leech from his bones. The ropes holding him together loosened one by one, unwound by a constant hum of reassuring voices; when the last one gave, a sob erupted from him with humiliating rawness. They held tighter as he tried to struggle away in shame, but did let him turn enough to hide his face against Marko's chest.

"We've got you." Marko repeated. His expression was guilty, his shoulders hunched as if to cradle Michael in his shadow.

"It's just like I promised, Michael."

Cold, gloved fingers stroked his face, brushing his bangs away from the tear tracks on his cheeks. David knelt in front of him, and his smile was still electrifying--but the glow had softened slightly, like hazy neon. Surrounded by his family, pulsing at their center like a heartbeat, Michael couldn't help feeling the arc-lightning concern that passed along the four of them.

"David." They hadn't done anything, gone anywhere, but his breathing was labored. "Are you really okay?"

“It’s fine, Michael.” He smiled, lips curling impishly, but face-to-face the skin over his skull looked tight. They'd left Thursday, and it was practically Sunday morning now. Had David been struggling all that time?

“You’re hungry.” Michael closed his eyes and swallowed hard, feeling his brothers’ comforting warmth. He reached his hands out blindly, like David’s bandana was still protecting him from the things he was scared to see, but it couldn’t stop him knowing. Couldn’t prevent him from making a choice. “Let me help.”

He’d fed well, after all.

Dwayne slid away from Michael's legs so that David could come in closer, deciding instead to prowl behind the couch with the same nervous energy Michael hoped he himself was hiding. David’s neck felt slender in Michael's hands, the edge of his jaw sharp and perfect to use as a handle--things, parts, that Michael had never really thought about before, but he didn’t do with them what his hands seemed to think he should. Instead he drew David up and nestled his beautiful face in the crook of Michael’s own neck, feeling his earring sway and bump.

That’s it, he heard from someone in the pack; there were hands in his hair, gentle and firm, and David didn’t ask if he was sure.

Michael went rigid at the sharp burn of David's fangs tearing into him, but the boys' hands held him helpless; that perfect mouth pulled the blood and guilt out in hungry mouthfuls as his spasms of fear melted or became indistinguishable from a writhing need to be closer to the body now inside him. The hands holding him down loosened enough to let him pull David into his arms, but they didn't retreat, and Michael found he didn't want them to.

Let me help you. He'd tried to say it to David in their hotel room and David had waved him off, almost protective of the pain he wouldn't admit to carrying. Michael should've known he wasn't the first, but maybe he could be the last. He felt so much stronger with his brothers around him; David smelled like blood and dust and the lingering scent of sex, and if Michael could smell it the others could too. Teenage smugness was stupid, but he still felt it. The same way Marko had glared at him with possessiveness in his eyes.

But they were holding him now. Marko had led the charge. They were there as Michael's limbs grew heavy and clumsy from blood loss; when he grew too weak to do more than slump back onto the couch, a nest of hands was there to hold him up.

"We'll protect you." This close, Michael could see the moment when Marko bit down hard on his own tongue, smelled the iron-heady scent before it prodded at his lips and into his mouth, urgent the same way Marko had been when he fussed over David's jacket.

(Vampire stuff.)

Michael's heavy eyes went wide, the lightning-bright taste of blood still a discovery to him. He clung to Marko like he had to David only seconds ago, and the discomfort at that thought was quickly crushed by a warm wave of comfort and support. He let himself marvel at how Marko's hair poured through his hands, how Marko's spidery guitarist fingers were pressing bruises into Michael’s arms with the need to hold him. 

Sorry. Michael felt tears in his eyes again, overwhelmed at how his sharp edges were cutting into this warm, soft place. He hadn't noticed David needed help. He wasn't sorry for stealing him.

Don't waste it. Marko cleaned the tear tracks from Michael's face with a tongue that had already healed; this time when he cut it, Michael's mouth hung open in anticipation of the sweet, wet offering. Gotta listen to your big brother.

When they broke apart, Michael was winded. He looked for David, searching for stability. He'd flown to such dizzying heights that the ground had ceased to exist. 

Good, Michael.

 David was still between his legs, watching him with unashamed hunger. His nails stroked rhythmically up and down Michael's thigh, a steady scratch--scratch--drag that became a path for Michael's thoughts to follow. He was safe. He was home. He was with his family.

When Michael caught his breath Paul leaned in, slow like Michael might bolt if startled. (Might bite.) Paul's mouth was playful against his, his teeth nipping and tugging at Michael's lower lip before Paul gently cupped his face, so cautious that it was almost shy. Paul removed his sharpest cuffs, but as he did he pulled one spike into his mouth and sucked at it until the skin was raw. This time Michael jumped, throwing his arms around Paul like he might get away.

Pretty Paul. The thought floated through Michael’s mind, and though it didn’t feel like it came from him that didn’t mean he didn't agree; there was something so precise in how Paul dressed and moved, something intriguing about the teasing breaks in his aloofness, and his mouth tasted good. Michael forced himself to keep his hands out of the hair because he didn’t know whether it took a lot of work, so the washboard abs made for a pretty great alternative. Michael felt the small wounds closing right under his tongue and forced himself not to worry at them like a split lip. The sound of Paul's gentle laughter vibrated along his skin and into Michael's palms.

When Paul released him, Michael couldn’t even register surprise at seeing his Mona Lisa lips move to Marko within the next instant, their frames locking together with the ease of long practice.

It made him feel warm, basking in their glow, and Dwayne’s smile was warm, too, when he stepped up for his turn like Michael was one of those old-fashioned kissing booths.

His hands on the sides of Michael’s head were rough and jubilant, celebratory, and before their lips met he had the biggest smile--

Almost too big--

His nails were sharp, but just barely scratchy, and his teeth on Michael’s lip were–

Once Michael had put a fishhook through his lip, a little drunk and overwhelmed with the crushing nervous energy under his skin. It had punctured him like a tire, left him deflated and regretful; Dwayne's teeth shredding his lip felt the same, taking blood rather than giving it. Like Michael didn't deserve it after all.

”Dwayne,” David’s rich voice crackled again with that commanding aura, and Michael felt how his latest smooch froze at the sound. “Not the time.”

The ease with which David jerked Dwayne off him was kind of alarming, made a little worse by how Dwayne sort of cringed, too. Instincts almost as old as Michael's body kicked into motion. Get in the way.

“It’s okay!” Michael said, holding his hands up in a calming gesture. “I can take a joke--”

“Thank you, Michael. Your opinion has been noted. However,” (here David grabbed Dwayne’s chin, and geez, Michael hadn’t realized how… bizarre that must look.) “Dwayne, here, knows better than to act up like that.”

“S’true,” Dwayne said with a weird grin, blood (Michael’s blood) on his lips. “So are you gonna--”

“I told you.” David's eyes were cold. “Not the time. If you can’t behave yourself--”

Something electric hit Michael low in the belly, and he knew it wasn’t his own excitement.

“--you’ll have to take a walk.”

“...what?” (He sounded so, so disappointed.)

"He doesn't have to go!" Michael reached up out of the nest; his fingers curled in a little at David's withering look, but he kept his arm out. Tried to shrug at the same time in an attempt to clutch back some semblance of cool. "If you've got beef, I mean, whatever. Just. We're cool."

It felt weird to say that about the man who'd ripped his lip open. Part of Michael did want to go outside and solve it the old-fashioned way, fists flying until neither of them could stand. He felt better when his body was bruised and bleeding because of his own decisions, and the rush that came with battered exhaustion was a kind of high.

Yeah. Dwayne's voice shivered in his head, and when Michael looked up his pupils were blown wide. He still had Michael's blood on his lips, but his smile was somehow more inviting. Let's dance, brother.

"Hear that, Dwayne?" David jerked Dwayne's gaze back to him. "Michael's giving you a stay of execution."

Some understanding passed between them, a static in the air that Michael could feel but not quite hear. They shifted their feet and squared up, but David still didn't relinquish his hold on Dwayne's jaw. At some point Marko and Paul had each put an arm around Michael's torso and pulled him closer to them.

"Your baby brother has a better idea of how to take care of his family than you do." The indent of David's thumb had to be bruised into Dwayne's chin at this point. "You're wasting my time."

“Yeah…” Dwayne breathed, eyes glassy.

"Are you even listening--”

Marko's long, calloused fingers covered Michael's mouth, cutting him off. Paul made a sshh motion with his finger.

It's a game, Michael, Paul (or maybe Marko) whispered to him. His arm was warm but undemanding around Michael's waist. They always do this.

He's showing off. Marko (or maybe Paul) rolled his eyes. We all wanna get to know you, little bro. 

David’s lip was curling up, and his teeth. His teeth. Michael could see (or imagine or know) the short future in which David's fist reared back, the bruise and split lip on Dwayne's face that would follow. 

He stood up. There was still a space shaped for him on the couch, like a coffin, but he pushed forward until he stood between David and Dwayne. 

"I'm fine." He caught David's eye with steely determination, lifting his chin to show off his already healed mouth. He felt stronger. "Just drop it."

"Is that an order, Michael?" David had an unsettling gleam in his eye. He rolled his shoulders, preparing to take a step forward. 

"Does it have to be?' Michael straightened, and suddenly they were back where they'd been at the beginning of the summer: David sizing him up, feeling for weak points. Suddenly Michael was tired. 

The other boys breathed together. Once. Then--

"Come on, Mikey, don't start defending my honor. You'll wreck my reputation." Dwayne snuck up on him somehow even though he hadn't gone anywhere, planting a smack on his cheek like Bugs Bunny with half the brain. He put on a godawful twang. "Nice to know I've got a gentleman caller."

Marko and Paul were whistling, trying to call him back, but the prickling in Michael's chest wouldn't settle. What the fuck was he doing?

"I need to go." He pushed past David (to make a point, not to have a last excuse to touch him) and got as far as the door before his… killer? lover? friend? blocked his way. 

David leaned against the door jamb, a dark shape against the darker night. "You won't find what you're looking for out there, and morning’s coming soon.”

"Get out of my way, David."

"Alright." David held up his hands, and it felt less placating than patronizing. "Sure you're not feeling hungry?"

As he stormed out Michael heard a nervous rat-a-tat pattern on metal, building in speed; and the low, warm sound of David's voice. He forced himself not to look back.

***

Santa Carla at 3 AM had  a different feel than at midnight; softer, a winding-down. Although there were probably still illegal parties going on, the legal venues and bars all stopped serving at 2, and everyone made their way home to sleep until they had to work or party or--

He wasn’t hungry; he knew that had just been a cheap parting crack, but the problem was that cheap cracks worked.

He rode slowly down the main drag, sending the occasional empty popcorn bucket or cotton candy cone fluttering in his wake; the street sweepers were an hour or so away.

When he came to a rest at last, he swung his leg over the seat of his bike and stepped into a graffitied column of light. He dropped his two quarters in, had to re-insert one because it fell right through, and punched in Grandpa’s number without hesitation. (Funny, how easy it was to remember when he wanted to.) The metal-wrapped cord was neutral-cool in his hand, room temperature like David’s piercings had--

Ring. Ring. Ring. He looked out into the street while waiting for the answering machine to pick up, surprised by how well he could see through the gloom. He was staring so fixedly that he didn’t notice at first that the ringing had stopped.

When he did, he inhaled.

“Hello? Who is this?”

Mom. He fumbled the phone awkwardly.

“Who’s there? Ron, I swear to God, if this is--”

“Hi, Mom,” Michael gasped weakly, leaning against his elbow, hand in his hair. “It’s me.”

“Michael!”

"I'm--" 

"Where the hell have you been?!" 

Her voice came through so loud, even through the speaker, that Michael almost slammed the receiver down on reflex. He held the elbow of his phone hand to keep it still. 

"Honey, are you there?" She sounded like she was crying. Michael wanted to cry too, but if he did she'd ask why. "Tell me where you are, I'll come pick you up, we'll talk about it--"

"I was with some friends." The word was both too big and too small for his and David's...whatever it was. They'd known each other for weeks, and Michael had killed for him. They'd had sex, and Michael didn't know if David had a last name. "I--think I'm gonna stay with them for a while."

"Absolutely not!"

The almost-laugh in her tone stung. "I thought you'd be happy I actually have friends! 'Fresh start,' right?"

"Why don't you have them over for dinner?” She coaxed. “You still haven't met Max, and I can always make my famous--"

"Are you serious? You're making this about your new boyfriend?"

"He's not--honey, I just want to meet your friends." She sounded pleading; Michael's heart seized and didn't beat. 

"That's not a good idea," he mumbled. 

"I'm the kind of mom you can bring people home to." She said it too carefully to be a real joke. 

"They don't want to, okay?" He was terrified that they would. His image of David walking in and charming Mom and Sam hadn't changed (and the stab of jealousy hadn't either), but it kept going now. Now David was seated at the head of the table, a red smear on his mouth. Sam was collapsed over his plate, blood flowing from his neck and pooling like borscht. Michael sat a thousand miles away at the other end of the table while David offered his mother as second helpings; there was already blood dripping down Michael's chin.

Here, Michael. You can finally be free.

"Just drop it!" He snapped, half-aware that she'd been talking. 

"Michael Jonathan Emerson--"

"I'm 18. You can't stop me.”

“What is wrong with you? You're not really just going to abandon your family when we need you.”

“Need me for what? Now that Dad’s--” he felt the bile rise in his throat and swallowed it back down, torn between wanting to expel every part of his father he'd swallowed and terror at the thought of wasting food. Being hungry again, for some other person.

“I told you when we got here, honey, you're the man of the house now. That's a big res--”

“Maybe I don't want that, Mom. Especially since it sounds like you've got a better one lined up.”

“Where is this coming from?” she snapped, probably almost as shocked at his disrespect as he was, but he felt a powerful need to drive it in deeper; make himself so unlovable she wouldn't bother to chase him.

”You probably won’t want to be around humans you care about for a while.”

“One less mouth to feed, right? Sam can have his own room. You won't have to worry about me being a bad influence on your baby boy. It's perfect.”

She was making those shaky little gasps he recognized so well; with luck, this would be the last time he'd have to hear her try not to cry. And maybe the next man of the house wouldn't make her.

“...I'll call you.”

“Wait, honey--”

“Love you,” he said as he hung up, even though he knew he shouldn’t.

He wished he were in a phone booth so that he could crush himself into the corner until he was as small as he felt. But this was a beach town, so there was only the shoddy little awning overhead with a naked bulb. He crouched down while his vision swam and bubbled over, then started frantically wiping at his face when he realized his tears smelled like yet another waste. 

"Morning’s coming soon," David had told him as he left. That thought made him stand in a hurry, but left him with no destination. The Ironworks were out of the question. He could still see David's lip curling, feel the threat of violence choking the air like he had a thousand nights before. At least David had stopped. 

(This time.)

It's a game, Michael. Paul and Marko's voices came back to him, laughing while their brother was in harm's way. (And their arms were heavy and comforting around him.) 

A wave of anger moved through him and out, a dull ache radiating up his wrist. The dent he'd left in the side of the pay phone's casing was almost an inch deep. He backed away from it.  

He got back on his bike and drove nowhere fast, already feeling the drag on his bones that he'd known from those nights… before. Between, maybe. Even if he did go back to Grandpa's now, he might pop Sam's head off trying to hug him.

His pride wouldn't let him steer back toward the Ironworks, which left the only other place he'd felt welcome in Santa Carla. The billboard looked different this early-late; one of the lights illuminating the sign had gone out, so Michael stuffed a few pebbles in his pocket before climbing up. Not like he could make something broken worse. 

His aim was awful. The first three rocks dented the outer cover of the lights and bounced off into the dark, but the fourth hit home with an unexpected pop. Glass showered down like snow; he leaned out and caught a bit on his tongue. 

"Did you turn into a delinquent, Moonbeam?"

He sucked his tongue back into his mouth at the sound of the familiar voice. The bit of lightbulb went with it. (Would it stay there forever, just kicking around? Were all his organs like tonsils now? How much could come out before he slumped over dead?) 

"Michael!" Star's voice startled him back to reality. 

"How'd you find me?" he asked, leaning over the rail. 

"Can't it just be a beautiful, accidental collision of celestial bodies?" She crossed her arms, expression playful. 

"C'mon." He gripped the railing harder, because he desperately wanted to fall down into her arms. 

Her smile faded a little. "David asked me to check on you. He said you'd probably be somewhere we'd talked."

For a minute he was warm with the feeling of being known. Then he remembered he was angry with David, and that all of this reeked of him being a smug bastard. "So you're spying on me?"

"Spying on what?" She sounded confused, but the longer he took to answer the more suspicion crept into her expression. 

I need you to help her. Because I can't.

Michael looked down at Star's face, which was more than 20 feet below him and as clear as if she were inches away. Her deep, beautiful eyes were bruised with exhaustion; she looked thin in the coat she was wearing, even though it was a sweltering summer; Michael worried that if he held her, his body would still be warmer than hers.

He was too exhausted to say anything; he'd have to meet her halfway somewhere else. He climbed up onto the rail around the platform, swayed a minute, and then jumped. He heard Star scream, but faintly, his mind locked on trying to slow himself down as the ground rushed up. 

 If he didn't figure it out quick, he was going to have broken legs. Oh shit, she is gonna be so mad--

With only seconds to go, more sideways than upright, he slowed to a float long enough to find his feet. 

When he caught her eyes again, she looked close to tears. Her eyes darted from him to the road behind her, from the road to the horizon, and back to him. 

"Um." He looked down at his shoes. 

"Come on." She grabbed his hand and pulled him toward his Honda and climbed on the back. What she said next was muffled against his jacket--David would’ve been able to hear it, but Michael was still trying to filter out the crickets in the empty lot across the street.

"What did you--" he started to ask. 

"Turn where I tell you." He felt her readjust and rest her head against the broad of his back. He'd never been happier to take orders. They drove down the winding road into the outer ring of housing around the beach, the hacked-together summer apartments where the Boardwalk stored the extra bodies that powered it over the busiest months. He pulled up in front of an especially angled one, like the foundation had been pulled up by a giant and set back wrong. Pink was beginning to streak the horizon. 

She pulled a key out of her pocket and opened the door; he lingered by the threshold, uneasy at the idea of seeing where she slept. It felt wrong to make her give away that piece of herself because he was stubborn. 

She was almost out of sight in the gloom of the house when she turned back. They stared at each other across the boundary. 

"C'mon." She held her hand out to him. 

He stepped through and took it. Ten minutes later, he felt his muscles go, strings cut; heard Star swearing to herself and rushing around the room looking for something or other, but Michael was already gone.