center stage :: malum

: ten :

Michael sits across the dining room table from Alex, who's eating the chicken and pasta he made with the hankering of a thousand men by the looks of it, digging right in the second it was set on the table. He can barely will himself to eat right now, his stomach nauseous and his heart heavy.

"Think I'm gonna get that promotion I was talking about." Alex says, mouth full of food but words still distinguishable. His job at some office place seems to be working out just fine, his degree in marketing even more reliable than Michael's horrible excuse of a GED.

"Yeah?" Michael smiles a little, they could use the cash.

"Mhm," He nods, then goes back to his food, the tv in the background is faint but he can hear some broadcaster talking about Calum Hood's latest outburst. His eyes flicker to see what's on the screen, green eyes widening, mid-chew as he freezes.

On the screen is a sequence of photos that switch back and forth every few seconds, one of him holding the sweatshirt he had given him, the other of when they were laughing and hanging in the booth after his panic attack. The memory has his heart sinking in his chest, eyes dropping back down to his plate. He can feel Calum's hand in his, an occurrence that's been happening all day, and it makes his gut tighten and his smile fall.

"You seem tired," Alex notices his change in demeanor, eyes skimming over his appearance, "What's wrong?"

He had come home just barely past midnight, slipping into bed with Alex already asleep, he cautiously laid beside him with no exhaustion or slumber coursing through him. Eyes wide open, a blank stare constantly glaring at the ceiling.

I had the same dream, Michael.

That couldn't be right. Ashton had to have told him. But he said things that he didn't even tell his best friend. Like the journal, the twenty songs within them, the fact they were engaged. His brain felt so fizzled out and drained that he eventually crashed, curled into Alex for some form of comfort.

Michael shrugs, unsure of how to explain the fact his lips still have a lingering spark on them, how his hand feels empty, how his eyes can't look at anything other than the tv. He hasn't had the guts to look at Alex, he's scared he'll see right through him. Michael hasn't told anyone, he can't even will himself to tell Ashton. The guilt and remorse burns a hole in his heart and it must be spilling through his chest because Alex's jaw clenches.

"You're mad, I can tell." He takes in Michael's distant body language, how he hasn't eaten anything on his plate yet. The air feels cold and dangerously still.

"M'not." Michael mutters.

Alex follows the bleach blonde's stare and finds the screen casting Calum's face all over it, the lady talking about his whereabouts and activity on social media at the same time he tosses his fork onto his plate in defeat.

"Jesus Christ, that guy, again?" He groans, eyebrows drawing together in fuming anger, it builds inside, layer by layer. "Y'know I'm sick of him, just because he's famous you're all over him."

"That's not-"

"Oh, yeah?" He grits his teeth, "You think I didn't notice you came home late? In his sweatshirt?" He gives a grim laugh as the blonde shrinks in his chair, unable to denounce that statement. He stands up from his side of the dining room table and makes his way to the pale boy.

"Ever since you went to his party you've been all over him." He wears a wry grin, back broad and muscles tense. Michael's heart hammers in his chest, knowing this routine all too well as he shakes his head.

"I don't like him, babe, I like you- I love you." He knows for a fact that's true, his hand finds his boyfriend's chest in an attempt to stop this, he clutches the fabric of his shirt in a desperate plea, "I'm sick of him, that's why I was looking at the tv. I can't stand him."