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be-ready-when-i-say-go · 3 years

Text

Real Life

Previously uploaded on my old blog, calumh-excess. Since edited and revamped.

The aftermath of Calum has left the rest of South’s people in a nasty spot. And Michael’s in an even nastier. Still needing to help his mother, he continues pushing. The only thing he doesn’t heed warnings and Marissa’s watching the aftermath of such choices. She loves Michael, but can she save herself?

Gang!MichaelxLatina!OC. CW: Gangs, descriptions of violence, brief smut/NSFW content. (18+)

A Two Part Series. Part One: Purple and Blue.

Masterlist (on a semi-hiatus)

The pool hall is cloudy, cigarette smoke filling Michael’s vision and nostrils. He watches his two ball roll down the green wool before clinking against the other balls in the pocket. He straightens and hands the cue to his baby, Mars–short for Marissa. She proudly rejected his first attempt at a nickname, Doll, stating she’s ‘no one’s Doll’ but she ‘would happily be his baby.’ So that’s his baby, tan skin glowing in the harsh lights, huffing as she lines up her next shop. They’re playing a couple’s game, him and Mars against Calum and Penelope. It’s pretty even between the two of them, but Penelope’s shockingly good and Mars’ still pretty new to the game. So Michael’s picking up the slack. He’s set her up for seven, not too far and not too difficult. It should only take a minor adjustment to the left of the cue for her to sink it. She moves too far to the left and it bounces off the wall.

Michael knows all too well the pout that’s about to settle onto her face. He rubs her back before wrapping his arms around her waist and pulling her into his chest. “Next time, Baby. You’ll get it next time.”

She huffs, flicking her wavy hair over her shoulder. Her words fall with a twinge of an accent. “You’re just saying that, amor. We all know I’m shit at this.”

Michael kisses the exposed skin of her neck. He loves it when she calls him that. He likes listening to her phone calls with her mother. The conversation moves fast, English and Spanish mixing midway through sentences. It’s a reminder of just how comfortable she in around him, that in some part she’s never felt like she had to hide who she was. Though Marissa wasn’t quite the type to keep too much quiet. She inhabited space and didn’t care who didn’t like it. And Michael wanted her too, he wanted to be herself.

But right now, he’s a little too focused on the smell of her perfume and the three balls that Calum and Penelope just sunk. They don’t really have stakes on this game. But it still sucks to loose, or be loosing. They haven’t lost yet. “Fuck,” he huffs. “You guys are fucking cheating.”

Calum chuckles, readjusting the hat on his head, keeping his head pointed slightly downward. His face is still pretty messed up, the skin still hues of blues and purples. Michael already knows how bad the damage was. They made him throw some swings, offered him one too many times the switchblade. He didn’t take it--not at first. But he could tell the heated gazes would only need one more sign of disloyalty to go on a rampage and throw him into the woes with Calum. And while Michael would do a lot for Calum, he wasn’t quite in a position to take a beating too. That’s what hurts the most--the shame in knowing that Michael could’ve done more but didn’t.

Michael looks away when Calum glances up. Calum doesn’t blame Michael. He gets it. Michael had to do all that stuff. No sense in both of them being beaten into a bloody pulp. He’s tried to tell Michael to not worry about it, that he’s long since forgiven him. But whenever Michael catches a glimpse of the bruises, sees Calum moves a little too slow, face twisted in pain, that lump grows in his throat again. Michael doesn’t have enough mouths, enough time on this earth to apologize for what happened. But Michael had his own family to consider, his own debts, and the choice is never fucking easy. But Michal wishes shame wasn’t such a heavy burden.

Penelope senses the tense moment happening. They happen all the time now between the two of them. She pops her gum loudly before speaking, “The last things we are, are cheaters. Just admit it Cliffo, you can’t hang.”

Michael glances over to her, a small smile lifting his lips. “Nah, I still vote cheaters. You can go first, Mars.”

“Rather not,” she mutters, stepping away from his warm embrace.

“Baby, you can get the 5. I know you can. Let me help.” She sighs but nods. Michael guides her to the pool table. She lines up, bending over the table. Michael slides in behind her, moving her angle a bit to the right. “Remember to follow through. You stop sometimes too soon,” he whispers into her ear. She shivers a little against his chest.

With a gin, she whispers, “I hate you sometimes Clifford.”

“Oh, but you love me.”

She laughs, pulling back cue stick. Michael guides her direction, pushing the cue stick almost like trying to push it through the middle of the cue ball. The five ball glides down the wool and taps the ledge with just enough speed and angle to fall into the pocket. “Mira, maybe you’re right,” Mars chuckles quietly. “But only this time.”

Michael guides her around the table, shot after shot sinking into their respective pocket. They clear the board, solids, stripes, and the eight ball. “They’re the cheaters,” Penlope states, her tone dripping with sarcasm. Mars flips her off, both girls laughing at the action.

A phone starts to chime. Calum pulls it off the countertop next to the table and kisses Penelope on the cheek. “Duty calls,” he laughs. Calum moved out of town and works at the pool hall and bar. It’s a hike for Michael, but he understands the distance. He’s not entirely sure what’s going on with Penelope considering her affiliation still with Block. But from what Michael’s gathered, some sort of legal battle’s going on so she can get guardianship of her siblings before moving in with Calum or least into the same town as him.

“We’ll straighten up,” Michael states, one arm snaking around Mars’ waist.

“Thanks,” he nods, sliding to the back, ID in his hands, ready to clock back into work. Michael picks up the plastic case the balls rest in and starts slotting them back into place. Staring down the black tray of the pool halls, all Michael can think about is how much blood was already staining the floors to the point some puddles looked black. A chill climbs down his spine when the memory takes over him.

Calum was already pretty out of it, one eye already was swollen shut. Michael didn’t want to hit him. But then South grinned, his brow quirked up. “We got a deal, son. You telling me you’re backing out now.” Michael hated that debt was hanging over his head. He hated, even more, he was still so young to the gang. Maybe it could make things easier. But South was really putting in on Michael to show loyalty. If his mother hadn’t needed the surgery, he wouldn’t be here. And it’s not like he blames her. He blames South for making such an appealing offer. He blames South for swooping in when he was vulnerable. Michael really hates himself for opening up to South. He knew South was no good, but he had been cornered, played like a fucking fiddle.

Michael threw some swings. He tried to make them look harder than they actually were. South handed him the switchblade, the first one to swipe over Calum’s flesh. His hands trembled. He and Calum were close, even though he was a newcomer. The last thing he wanted to do was harm his friend. He’ll admit Calum took the beating well, never cried out, never said a word to plead them to stop. He sat, groaning and grunting with the punches. One particular blow landed in his gut and the curse that fell off Cal’s lips still keeps Michael up at night sometimes. It’s not so much the curse it sound, but the howl that followed. The echo of pain and yet the silence from Calum. There was a strange peace with him. Michael’s not sure he could’ve reached that point--if he could’ve found a peace in the midst of all the pain.

“Hey, don’t tell me my boyfriend machine has broken?” Mars teases, gently placing a hand onto Michael’s back.

He shakes his head, trying to rid himself of those thoughts. It’s done. It’s over. He’s been forgiven. “Sorry, I’m alright, Baby.”

She nods, knowing that far away glaze to his eyes. He’s not okay. But she doesn’t push it. Instead, she rubs his back, and finishes putting the rest of the balls away. Mars splits the check with Penelope and they pay for the games. Michael leans into the table and lets out a shaky breath. Keep it together, Clifford. But it’s hard--it’s hard to keep it together when he knows for a fact that he should be letting it all fall apart. He should be sobbing. He should let the guilt overtake him.

Later that night, Michael’s phone wakes him. He jolts at the sound of it ringing. He reaches to the nightstand and wipes the sleep from his eyes. What the fuck is going on? Seeing South’s number, Michael throws his feet to the floor. “What’s up?” he answers in a whisper, looking over his shoulder to Mars. She’s shifting, waking. He reaches out and runs his palm over her hair, to try and soothe her. Though he complains about the curls being pushed into his face first thing in the morning, he wouldn’t trade it for the world. He wouldn’t trade her for the world.

“I need to speak with you,” South states. His tone is cool, calm.

“Just tell me when and where.” Michael covers a yawn, as South rattles off the name of a small diner not too far from him. The phone call ends and Michael walks around to her side of the bed.

“Be safe,” she whispers, sitting up. More falls from her lips, a prayer he’s come to recognize and he holds still as she signs the cross over him. He’s not religious by any means, but it’s second nature to her in some respects.

Michael kisses the top of her head. “Always am.”

He slides into some jeans, sneakers and a jacket, throwing a snapback on before walking out of the door. Michael knows his appearance helps him. No one singles him out, no one questions him. The long fringe, the glasses, the clothes, it’s all him. But he’s conscious about it. He likes to keep up the appearance. And sure, Michael should be free to wear whatever he wants. But recognizes the edge it gives him and the edge it gives South too. Michael can get into places that a lot of the other guys can’t. South can push weight in a lot of places that would normally be off limit.

Though Michael wasn’t a fan of the three a.m. calls, they are fairly common. At first, he got to a point where he couldn’t sleep. Too afraid to miss a call from South and too afraid to sleep in case he somehow fucked up and needed to get away. Micheal was sure at some point he’d never sleep again. He’d always be looking over his shoulder. He’d always be waiting for the other shoe to drop. It never did. And getting comfortable was probably dangerous too.

But Mars made the thought so enticing. Coming home to a house full--either her family visiting or her cooking with the radio blasting. That’s enough to make him want to get too comfortable. That’s the life he’s always wanted and he can picture that with Mars. He can picture her teaching him the bachata or salsa and laughing when he fails miserably in front of her aunts, but knowing he was trying his best. That’s the thought, the picture, the dream, that he wants to give into. And yet this--this is his reality. Pulling into the diner parking lot.

Michael spies South leaning against his car. The neon signs reflect off the slightly wet pavement thanks to the evening rain. Unusual, the rain, but it was more than welcomed. Mars loved it, said she always dreamed of running in the rain with her lover. And though they missed this opportunity, Michael made a promise to himself not to miss the second one. The forecast was predicting more rain tomorrow.

Michael pulls up his sleeves, before stuffing his arms into the back of his pants and walks over to South. The diner is dark, the highway is fairly silent. “Going to my usual?” Michael chuckles.

South grins. “Someone’s happy.”

Michael shrugs. “I’m used to it.” And used to it doesn’t quite encapsulate the feeling. But it’s the only words he has, because he is used to his usual. Used to the early morning calls and the drives and the pushing. It doesn’t make it easier, just makes it more familiar.

Looking past Michael, South shakes his head, a small grin playing at the corners of his mouth. “No, you’re not going to your usual. Our smugglers got busted bringing in new products. We’re a bit strapped at the moment. The club needs its weight and I’m trying to make sure none of our asses get caught up.”

The question lingers in the air. Michael knows better than to ask why he’s out by himself with South at the side of the highway. So he waits, hands still in his pockets, watching the watery reflection of the cake in the sign underneath his feet. Michael is the pusher. If suppliers get caught, he’s a close second. Though, South is very good at keeping his good people out of trouble. Michael is hoping this conversation takes a good turn. He needs to be considered one of the good people right now.

“Don’t look so down. If shit gets any worse, you’re not gonna get named. On my word. But, look, tell me this isn’t true.” Michael looks up to South, nodding to signal that he’s listening. “I got some eyes saying they saw you hangin’ with Hood. Across the highway. He’s a traitor and I don’t give too many second chances.”

The only reason Calum got this chance was because of Block. The turf war yielded no new territory but it did create an interesting neutral ground within the city. Places that previously weren’t owned were split. Anyone could sell, anyone could use it as foot traffic. But they couldn’t fight. They had to keep it remotely cordial in those areas. It was area South was bound to loose of Block was pushed to the full extent of his manpower. And South didn’t really want to lose more men. So he had to agree to Block’s term. Calum couldn’t lose his life, but they could make a point. They could make him an example. And South used that leeway to the full advantage.

Michael wasn’t sure why Block cared so much about Calum--though Michael didn’t know about Penelope. But whatever the reason, South was quick to use it. And Calum was more than example, if Michael has anything to say about it.

Michael’s heart races. He’s glad his hands are in his pants now or else South would be sure to see the slight tremble. He doesn’t want to throw out accusations that someone is lying. That kind of accusation if turned up false is going to get someone else killed and them him. And Michael can’t lie to him either. South can smell a liar from 100 yards away. A hand settles onto Michael’s shoulder and squeezes. Hard. Michael blinks, jaw tightening to hide the pain. South knows.

Michael finally speaks. “He’s not one of ours. He chooses that hot piece of ass bitch over us.” God, he hates saying it. But it’s what’s going to save his ass. Right now, he needs that--he needs to save his own ass.

“All women are good for is fucking and trouble. You should know that better than anyone,” South continues.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” The words fly out before Michael can think about the consequences. But he hates the way South grins, the quirk of his brow.

“Oh, you know exactly what I’m talking about. While I mainly fuck with black women, I’m no stranger to a mamacita here and there.”

Oh God, Michael’s stomach tenses, turns into a knot. It wasn’t exactly a secret who he was dating. An unfortunate side effect of his job is that close ties eventually got found out. But that didn’t mean he wanted Mars to have to be dragged into this. And for sure, he didn’t want her to be disrespected. His fists are clenching. This is South, he reminds himself. This will not go well for him if he does anything. Hell, he really shouldn’t say anything either. “That’s really fucking disgusting,” Michael spits.

South closes the distance between them, the shit eating grin replaced by a chaotic and devilish smile. “Make my fucking day. Say something else, please.”

He’s dead in the water now. But he doesn’t want to apologize. He shouldn’t have to and he won’t that’s for damn sure. It’s completely disrespectful what he’s insinuating. That somehow Mars was a stereotype, a fucking doll, not a complex human being with a rich and sometimes saddening background. She was not just her ethnicity, she was not just a woman. She was a person, she loved animals and was struggling with her waitress jig to find a way to attend school. It was just hard, she was sending so much money back home to help with her siblings. Michael offered up his apartment because he saw how much being at home was hurting her. That saved her some cash since he never asked for any type of composition, but she always snuck a couple hundred into his wallet for electricity and water.

He stopped fighting her about it when it seemed her retaliation was to only sneak more money into his wallet with a very pointed pink sticky note on it, daring him to try again to make her stop.

“All I’m saying is that maybe the women you associate only want to fuck, but not everyone is like that. For fuck sake.”

“A man of respect. I like that,” South says, loosening up his grip on Michael’s shoulder. “I want you to know, I really do like you. But you gotta keep to us and our business. Calum had interesting circumstances. But I’m sorry to report, those don’t pertain to you. So no more running around behind your man crush or whatever. If I hear about it happening again, I won’t be so nice.”

The slap to his back is firm, way too firm. Michael’s skin lights with a stinging fire. He nods. “Understood,” Michael answers softly. South gives a soft tap this time and then slides in through the driver side door of his car.

Michael steps back, watching the low rider glide over the asphalt. Was Michael going to completely stop hanging out with Calum? Probably not. But now he had to be smarter. He needed to be safer. The prayer Marissa gives everytime he leaves rings back against his ears. Safer, smarter--that’s all he needed to do. He was still his own man at the end of the day. He was only it with South for a little bit longer.

“Yeah, but how much longer?” Michael asks himself aloud into the quiet night.

When he returns home, Mars is splayed out on the couch, the comforter from their shared bed wrapped tightly around her. She looks cute with her lips slightly parted, a soft snore falling from her mouth. She never believes Michael about the snoring, even with video evidence. But he never complains seriously about it. Sliding out of his Vans, and pulling the jacket off his shoulders, he fishes for his baby under the sea of cotton before sliding in behind her and pulling her into his chest. He’s too lazy to carry her to the bedroom. It’s sure to wake her anyway. He throws the comforter back around them and lets his eyes close. South may be heated about his affiliation with Calum, but they’ll just have to be more careful then. Michael’s not going to let him ruin one of the few genuine relationships in his life. Lord knows he doesn’t have many.

__________

“What time do you have to leave tonight?” Mars asks, tending to the eggs.

“No delivery tonight,” Michael says, removing the last of the pancakes. “Hey, easy on my eggs with that heavy hand you got.”

“Ay Dios Mios. You baby. It’s not that much, see.” She shows him the pan. “And what do you mean? Why else would South call?”

“Just wanted to talk. It’s nothing.”

She knows it’s nothing. When Michael changed shirts, she noticed a pink spot on his back. He didn’t have any other injuries. But clearly, the force of the blow was enough to leave something behind. That’s not a ‘nothing serious’ conversation. That’s a fucking warning. She knows one when she sees one.“So things are good?”

He hums, snaking his arms around her waist. “Things are good,” he whispers into the crook of her neck, the stubble tickling her.

Marissa gives a smile, but the fear trickles down. It prickles her spine. How many warnings would he get before he wound up dead in a ditch?

“Can we please add those strawberry shortcake creamsicles to the grocery list?” Michael asks as he grabs plates from the cabinet.

“Would those even be out at this time?”

“Not sure. I just really have a taste for one.”

“Having one does sound good,” Marissa notes. It’s like the summers she had in the backyard, the pools and slip and slides slick with water to beat the heat. Coolers were full of melting ice and just cold enough drinks. The whir of her grandmother’s ice cream machine blurs in with the speaker that someone brought to play music

Water hoses would spray them, or fill balloons and water guns for the games to be played later. She forgets the name of the icepops that came in plastic tubing and they’d freeze days before. But grape was always her favorite, staining her tongue and lips and even her fingers if she didn’t eat it fast enough.

“Baby?” A squeezes her waist and Marissa blinks. Her hands are still wrapped around the jug of orange juice but not yet pouring.

“Yeah?”

“You alright?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. What were you saying?”

Michael shakes his head. “No, no, what were you thinking about?”

“Just my summers. I sort of miss them. How things used to be back at home. Like as I kid you just never notice the bad because there’s always that next thing--birthday parties, going to school. After high school, it was clear what my parents wanted for me and I was trying you know. But there’s six of us and yeah.”

“The recreation center up the street has an indoor pool. We can invite a couple friends over, hang out. Bring your sisters too of course.”

The words almost fall, she almost asks who he plans on inviting, but she doesn’t. She nods instead. “I’d like that. What were you saying earlier?”

“Oh, just asking what time you wanted to go grocery shopping and if you picked up the extra shift on Saturday? Nothing major.”

_________

“Something on your mind, Baby?” Michael asks, stopped at a red light. They’re supposed to be heading up to see Calum and Penelope. But it’s in Mars gut that trouble is still lurking.

“South knows, doesn’t he? This is why we’re going so far out.” Mars doesn’t even look at Michael. She knows the truth. “He told you to stay away.”

Michael reaches out for her knee, but the second his hand lands on the denim covered skin, she pulls it away. “Yes,” he sighs. He’s not sure what her deal is, why she’s pulling away from him. But he’s not going to piss her off even more. So he settles his hand back on the steering wheel.

“You’d do this for Calum? Break rules?”

“I’d do it for you too if that’s what you’re wondering. I have done it for you.”

She huffs a chuckle, finally turning her gaze back to his face, the scratchy beard making a shadow on his face. “I wasn’t. I’m just concerned.”

“About?”

“Su vida,” she whispers. “South will not back down. I know you care; I know he’s your friend. I know your life isn’t exactly risk-free. But can you risk it even more? I-I worry enough as it is about you leaving late at night. My rosemary looks like it belongs to my grandmother. I have prayed so many times for you.”

Michael’s chest starts to ache. She cares. He knows she does and that she cares--he didn’t quite know to this extent. But to just leave one of his best friends all alone. To completely upend and cut off contact to one of the most consistent and loving people in his life–he can’t do that. No matter the risk.

“I won’t lie to you, Mars. You’re asking for the improbable there.”

“So not impossible?”

“No, I could stop--the possibility of me stopping is there. The risk is high and I know I should. I could cut off all contact. They’re all possible. They just aren’t probable. It’s highly unlikely. Besides, South needs not see me or have anyone that sees me. My mom now lives up in this area. If anyone questions things, I’ll have cover.”

“So you’d lie? On your mother?”

“No.” Michael turns off, taking the exit that will lead straight into his mother’s neighborhood. Mars watches as his jaw clenches for a moment. “I’d never lie about seeing her. I’ll just omit our pitstop afterward.”

Mars exhales, watching the houses fill out around her. The front yards, the kids playing footie. Maybe she ought to drop this, let him make his choices. But she can’t help but think about what could happen. She can’t bear even the imagined sight of Michael with a busted lip and bruised skin. She is not Penelope; she won’t be that strong. She won’t be able to put pressure on a knife wound. Her skin crawls at the thought of his blood staining her skin. She wouldn’t be able carry that weight and though it was a silly thought, because she does love Michael, she feels like she shouldn’t have to carry it. She shouldn’t have to be subjected to this.

And though it it feels like she should stick it out. She should stay with Michael through the inevitable end. She was her own person. She deserved someone to understand that she shouldn’t be on the second end of the equation. How many more times could she pray for a soul that didn’t necessarily want to be saved?

“Just know I’m concerned,” she states. She leaves it at though for the time being, seeing as they pull into the driveway of his mother’s house. And she doesn’t want to start an argument, but she doesn’t want to end the conversation.

Michael, turning off the car, looks as she pushes up from the seat and opens the door. She’s quick to pull the dish of buñuelos out from the back of the car. That’s a lot more than concerned, Michael knows. A lot more--but he steps out of the car and meets her at the front.

“Hey, look at me. What is it?”

“¿Acaso te preocupas por mí? Estoy muy preocupada constantemente.” Marissa exhales, feeling a bit better to get it off her chest. But Michael’s look let’s her know he didn’t catch it all. He’s learned a few things, but is still slow to translate sometimes. “Look, I want to have a nice visit with your mother. I do, I really do. But we have a lot to talk about.”

Michael nods. “Whenever you’re ready, I’m all ears, Baby. I’ll listen.”

She takes another deep inhale and exhale. “I really want to stuff my face. I hope your mother doesn't hate me for it.”

“She’d be happy to feed you with whatever she has.”

The visit with Michael’s mom goes by just like all the rest. She offers them tea, biscuits, any and everything in her fridge. She does not take no for an answer and she’s even more delighted at the addition of Marissa’s buñuelos. “Oh, you have to send me the recipe,” she gushes, grabbing another from the tin.

It’s nice, even though initially, Marissa is still tense. The laughs come easy and the treats don’t stop. For a moment she’s able to forget. She’s able to see Michael as the man that she knows he is, someone who loves his family, and is goofy, but so kind. That’s what she wants him to always be. Not the man she has to pray for, not the man that’s stubborn, not the man that she feels like sometimes doesn’t listen to her. And she knows initially she didn’t voice her concerns. But maybe after she did, things would change just a little. Maybe she wouldn’t feel like she’s fighting an uphill battle, which she knows she’s doomed to fail at.

As Michael and Mars go to leave, the hugs last twice as long as normal. But Michael and Mars just laugh and give into the older woman. They let themselves be rocked by her love, side to side, and whisper how good it is to see her. Michael promises before they leave that he’ll be by again very soon. Mars prays for his sake he does not get caught so he can keep to that promise.

The bowling alley is packed, kids screaming at the opposite end of the building. It looks like a birthday party wrapping up. The table’s a mess of paper plates, pizza boxes and a quarter of a cake left. Michael thinks back to some of his birthdays. “Next birthday, we’re having a party here,” he teases low in Mars’ ear, arms winding around her waist. “Complete with the ridiculous party hats.”

“Michael, please.”

He laughs and adds on, “I want an Overwatch cake.”

Mars rolls her eyes, laughter falling over her lips easily. “Fine, fine, fine. An Overwatch cake it is.” Normally she melts right into his touch, she slots in perfectly to his chest. But she keeps herself pushed forward, it’s hardly noticeable to anyone else on the outside. But Michael knows the difference--he noticed it at his mother’s house, though she eventually did settle into him. He can’t lose her. He squeezes at her flesh, willing her understand that he’s being smart about this. Or at least trying to be smart about it. But he can’t lose them both. There are very few genuine people left in his life and he needs them. He needs them desperately.

The bowling is the least of their fun. It’s the teasing. More than once Calum jokes about having to put the guard rails up for the girls. They decided to get boys vs girls. That earns Calum two sets of the meanest glares to land on him and the finger from both Penelope and Mars. Michael cheers as he lands his second strike of the night. He cheers, pumping his fist into the air, laughing as Mars glares at him. “We can get the guider too, the little rig for kids,” he offers as Calum wraps him up in a celebratory hug. Cal’s a couple pints in.

“You’re gonna need a ride home,” Mars huffs, holding the keys from her fingers. He’s had some drinks too. With the lopsided grin still on his lips, Michael walks over, bending over. He’s aware his breath is layered in beer but it’s okay. Her lips are soft against his, that’s all he cares about. Here with his eyes closed, fingers tangled in her hair, nothing else matters. She’s not worried about his safety, she’s not pulling away from him already. No, here, they are still the same. They give each other shit and the hugs, touches, and kisses are easy.

Mars wants to hang here forever, softly kissing Michael. Smiling as she does so because, god, is her boyfriend annoying but she loves him. She really does. She can love him even though others will say that his actions are morally wrong. She can handle that. He’s had to make his choices; he has to handle the consequences. She can be there for that. But would she ride this out even with her own destruction? Does this make her less than for having a limit?

Three games later and after the boys are a good five pints in, they leave. Michael giggles in the passenger seat. “You’re beautiful, Baby. You know that?”

A soft blush takes over her cheek, the heat rising fast. “You might’ve mentioned it once or twice.”

“But it’s very true. You’re fucking gorgeous.”

They don’t talk that night, not like they need to. Instead they give into each other. Marissa can’t help but give into the way Michael presses her against the door of the apartment and teases her over her panties. The material of her shorts thin and loose anyway. And Michael loves it when she moans into his ear. The curses to God because he’s touching her just right makes his whole body feel electric and that’s all he’s ever needed. To feel electric with Marissa. Because in that electricity, they are safe.

Marissa digs her nails into his shoulder, attempting to get closer in their heated kiss and Michael hisses at the pain. But he loves it. He loves this and he loves her. And there’s no way he’s losing her if she responds like this to his touch. There’s no way he’s losing her when she kisses down his stomach and takes him into her mouth. No there’s no loss here, just the sinking into the pleasure they both give each other.

“I love you,” he whispers into her skin. It feels like a prayer as it falls repeatedly, punctuating several thrusts.

“I love you,” she returns. It’s with a sigh, and a moan, but she looks at him when she says it. And for the moment that’s all he needs.

__________

The way South grins, Michael knows he’s fucked. The man doens’t even need to utter a sentence and Michael already knows the trouble he’s in. But South speaks anyway--and Michael for a brief moment wonders if South gets off on the knowledge that all he has to do now is look at someone a specific way and they shake in their boots. “How’s your momma doing?”

“Good,” Michael answers, “thanks for asking.”

“How’s Hood?”

Michael gulps. He wonders who the fuck is tailing him. South wouldn’t be bringing this up if he didn’t have proof. And one time is not enough. South’s always required pattern of behavior. He does not ask without a fair amount of evidence. “I wouldn’t know.”

“Bullshit! I told you he isn’t one of ours anymore. You think I’d come at you without evidence? Without something substantial?”

“No, I’m not saying that,” Michael opts. It’s still not the safe answer. But it’s biding time--that’s all he really has at this point.

“Then what are you saying? Because you’re implying someone’s a liar and I don’t take too kindly if you think it’s me.”

“I’m not saying it’s you.”

“You saying someone’s got it out for you then?”

“I’m not saying that either.” The only one that has it out for him is South, but Michael knows better than to say that.

“Then tell me what the fuck you are saying.”

“All I’m saying is that I wouldn’t know how he’s doing.” In fact, it’s been three weeks since they last hung out. Michael was trying to cool down the trail on him. So whoever was watching him was either delaying the reports or doubling up on them, and that would indicate either pressure from South for results or that whoever it was was going for Michael’s position or life.. But admitting that would mean again, admitting that he had gone against South’s initial warning. So Michael keps is mouth shut. Because the technicalities wouldn’t matter here.

In the silence, Michael steels himself for the first swing. He’s even ready for the second one. More keep coming to the point where he looses count. Not that counting them is like counting sheep. But keeping up with the blows, even with a small margin of error, meant he hadn’t fully blacked out. And that’s what he needed. In the end, it’s not too bad. He’s able to drive himself home, though his ribs are on fire. Breathing hurts, just sitting hurts too.

He grunts, opening the door and swinging his legs out. Inside the apartment, Michael catches the sound of some shuffling. He watches the shadows over the walls as Marissa walks into the bedroom. He sighs. He can’t face Mars. She’s going to flip, but this isn’t exactly the largest apartment ever. He grits his teeth and makes his way to the bathroom. Before he can get the door close, he hears a gasp. He’s been caught. Michael watches her look in the mirror, the wobble to her lip, the tears filling her eyes.

“It’s not too bad,” he reassures. “I’ll be fine in a couple days.”

“A couple days my ass,” she whispers. Her hands tremble. She wants to run. She can’t do this. She told Michael she was concerned. She knew it would blow up in his face eventually. South is pissed and there’s no stopping him now. “What-what can I do?”

Michael tries to tell her, he can handle it, but she orders him to sit on the closed toilet seat and he obeys the command. Her hands continue to shake as she helps clean up the busted lip and the bruise on his rib cage is bad, violently purple and red.

In bed, Michael resting on his back, Mars rests on her side, facing away from him. She understands why he does this. But how long will he defy South? How many more beatings are there going to be? This has to stop before it gets started. She can’t stand by and watch him get beat. He has to get out. She needs him to get out or maybe she needs to get out. And she wants to rip the thought out of her skull. She doesn’t want to leave Michael. But maybe she might have too. Maybe she might be forced to save herself.

Sleep does not find her that night or the nights after really. It comes in waves, for an hour or two and then she’s back awake, staring at ceilings or walls, or closet doors, wishing she could’ve done everything differently with him. Michael watches the bags forming underneath her warm eyes. He is doing this to her, not that he meant to, not that he wanted to. But yet, here he is, his actions bearing heavy burdens on her.

“What are you worried about?” he asks, sitting across from her. The diner is shockingly dead for once, a harsh buzz from the lights above settles in around him. Though Michael figures in the next hour people will be leaving clubs soon; they’ll be gunning for something greasy.

The sigh is heavy from her lips. Michael reaches out for her hand. Her lips screw up, plump like he’s always known them to be, but somehow the corners are turned down. She does not quite meet his gaze. “I’m worried about you getting hurt again. I can’t handle that. I’m thinking about how much more of this I can endure. And I--I don’t even want to think about asking you to get out. Not if the result is you dead. I want you alive.”

“It’s a couple of bruises, Baby. I’ll be fine.”

“Por Dios, you say that now. But what happens when it’s more than just a couple of bruises. What are you going to do then, huh?” She slides her hands out from Michael, standing to greet the patrons that just walked in.

Michael wants to promise her there won’t be a next time. He wants to promise that he can handle the warnings. But he’s already got plans to see Calum later this week. And the bruises still hurt. He can bear them, should it be at the expense of her?

Michael cancels the plans--he can handle that. And maybe he hasn’t been playing this smart. He tries to see if Marissa wants to go to the movies, but she picks up a double and those plans never get off the ground. Instead, he makes sure to have a bath drawn for her once she returns. Her favorite is ready for dinner and for a blip in time things could be on the right track.

But she doesn’t kiss him the same as before. And Michael doesn’t know what else to do when she rolls over in bed, away from him. They don’t share silly stories about their childhoods. And Michael misses all those stories about the casitas hanging on the walls. Or how Marissa couldn’t turn around in any room of the house and didn’t find some picture of the Virgin Mary or Jesus staring down at her. Michael misses hearing about the parties she missed throwing in the summer time, knowing the music could crush her skull but she loved it anyway.

Michael misses the way when she got sleepy Spanish would slip out without her even thinking and rather than stopping her, he’d let her go on in the story. She’d be telling him about the birthday parties with family holding the pinata and the smell of food that filled the house for days. The whispers were all he really needed to feel close to her.

___________

It happens and he knows it's happening too when he walks into the house to not even the muffled sounds of music. It’s on most of the time, always a soft tempo in the background, the soundtrack to her life. He knew it was happening all along. She touched him less, she stayed out more. They felt more like strangers in the apartment now. They past like ships, but instead they were sitting right in the living room growing further and further apart.

He was losing her; he came home one too many times bruised and bloodied. But he wouldn’t stop. South wouldn’t get rid of him; he’d just make his life hell for sure. But he was too valuable. Though, occasionally, Michael feared his value would be of no use. At some point, South would get tired of the warnings and beat him for good. But at the same time, South needed Michael--they both knew under all this it was South keeping up appearances. Because as much as Michael was breaking the rules, South wasn’t one to normally keep troublemakers around longer than they’d prove they weren’t going to stop.

But would it save Michael forever?

It was stupid to attempt to ride the thin line until it cracked. But it was all Michael had. He thought South would crack first. Or maybe he had hoped that so much that he believed it to be true. When all signs pointed to Mars being the first to go, he somehow ignored it, assumed that she’d be there forever. But forever isn’t as long as he’d hope for.

Because Mass was on the losing end of it all, having to take care of him. Having to take double shifts sometimes because there was no way in hell Michael was in enough shape to get out and push his weight. Mars had to reached her limit. And it was right in front of his face.

He watches her from the bedroom door, on her knees, throwing things into a suitcase. “I can’t do this, mamá, mi corazón can’t take it,” she cries into the phone.

His eyes are blurry, his side still aches from last week’s run-in with South. The sob pressing at his chest lights his being with fire. Everything hurts. “Then go if you must,” he whispers, “but let me ask you one question. Can I convince you somehow to stay?” He’s positive she didn’t hear it but Mars snaps her head up at him.

The tears are streaking her face, light gray splotches of mascara dotting her cheeks as well. “What are you talking– No, no, Michael. Let me call you back.” She pauses, mother urging to her not hang up. But Mars is no longer listening to the frantic barrage of her mother. “Explain. What are you talking about?”

“Is there any way I can convince you to stay with me?” Michael asks, letting the tears slip down his cheeks behind his glasses. It’ll make a mess of his lenses. He doesn’t care though.

“Convince me to stay? Comó? How are you going to do that?”

“That’s why I’m asking you. Whatever I have to do, I will do it.”

Mars stands, running her fingers through her hair. Her exhale is long and heavy from her lips and mouth.“No, there’s nothing. You won’t leave. Not with the complications now and the medical bills. You can’t leave your mother high and dry. And I can’t sit here and watch him beat you! I can’t do that--I’m not strong enough for that. I-I didn’t sign up for that.”

He’s lost her. There’s no more fighting. But Michael still tries. He gives it one more push. “I’m sorry. It’s not easy for you. But there has to be something.”

“Michael, there’s nothing, nada,” she hisses, standing toe to toe with him. “A fat nothing, zip, nil. Nothing.” The last word catches in her throat. Her body trembles.

Michael hugs her to his chest. “I’m so sorry, Baby. I am so sorry.”

She cracks, fisting the cotton of his black t-shirt into her hands. She doesn’t want to do this. She doesn’t want to leave Michael. He’s caring, always listening. He’s there for the 2 am diner shifts when her feet feel like they should be falling off and her back is a mess of knots. He’s there for all the music she blares throughout their–well his– apartment. He’s there even when she can’t shoot pool to save her life. He’s there for the baking adventures, even though they end up with him covered in flour and cinnamon.

She wants to hate him. She wants to despise him for going against South. But she can’t. Marissa understands why Michael did it. But she wishes she didn’t. It would make leaving so much easier. Her chest wouldn’t ache this much. Her voice wouldn’t be hardly going if she didn’t cry, because she couldn’t empathize with him.

But she has to look out for herself too. She can’t keep sacrificing for a person that wouldn’t do the same in return, that won’t heed the warning she’s tried to give them. So she has to go. Staying would only destroy them both.

Michael breaks the silence first. “Dance with me? One last time?”

Her chest compresses even more. Her throat feels raw as the sobs fall over it. But Mars nods. One last dance with him. She can give him that, and she can take that with her. That even to the bittersweet end, there was still so much fucking love between them. She’d never think of this, that it would be possible for her to be leaving but still want to stay and still have love to give.

Michael guides both of them to the living room, the place where all other dances were shared. She remembers the first time she asked him to dance. He was a little stiff, completely unsure of how to move what was expected of him. So she guided, gently encouraging and with a few laughs at his tense, awkward nature. And it’s not to say he’s a charmer now, but the aunties don’t tease him any more at parties-that’s for sure.

It takes a few moments before his phone is paired with the Bluetooth speakers. But it’s as the cellos begin singing, and before the voice cuts in, Mars feels her knees go weak. The song she taught Michael to dance to, Esto Es Vida. It played on repeat for nearly an hour, but the smile on his face when he finally got it still makes her heart burst.

They fit all too well together, arms winding around the other, her nestled so closely and firmly to his chest. His scent is all too familiar in her nostrils, a mixture of their detergent and his musky cologne. She can tell it’s residual from the last time he used it. It’s not as strong, just a faint note in her nose as her ears are filled with soft strumming.

Michael’s face is buried in the soft curls over hair, the lingering floral scent of her shampoo somehow feeling like flames in his nose. He won’t smell that thing again, not in fresh post fresh wash hair. It won’t be covering his pillowcases anymore. He won’t be able to still it for his own hair when it’s far too lazy to replace his own shampoo. God, is he really going to let her go? Is he really going to let her leave? But if there’s nothing he can do to convince, he won’t force to her stay. That’s the worst thing to do, forcing her to stay in a situation that makes her uncomfortable. He’s never wanted anything but the best for her.

And this is his life, Michael thinks as he helps pack the rest of her things. He should be crying, alone, shouting at her to stay. But instead, he lifts the suitcase into the trunk of her car. He watches the brake lights pulling out away from him. The house is empty when he returns inside. He curls onto the couch, ribs still screaming at him for being in such a position. He puts the song on repeat, a bad move for him as his chest finally cracks and the sobs shake his body.

It’s Penelope that comes by in the late afternoon the next day. She only forces him to shower, noting the takeout boxes she’s left in his fridge. But mostly comes by because she knows her presence should remain more neutral than Calum’s.

“I knew I was losing her. And I still did nothing to stop her.”

Penelope’s a reassuring presence, but even she doesn’t know what to say.

“I’m an idiot aren’t I? Just letting the girl I love walk away? But I want her happy more than anything. She deserves that, you know?”

“I know.”

“What do you think I should’ve done?”

“I think we make the best choices we can at any given moment. Something in you knew you had to let her go for now. Maybe it’s not forever and maybe it is forever. But either way, I think you made the best choice you could’ve in the situation.”

“But I want her back.”

“Wanting things ain’t a bad thing.”

“I should get ready,” Michael sighs. He needs to make a delivery. And if not for the fact that he wasn’t trying to be any further down on South’s shit list, he would continue his rant.

“Okay,” Penelope states, standing. “Now promise me tomorrow, even if it’s the only thing you do, you’ll take your trash out?”

“One small thing for myself,” he repeats back to her.

“Call me. Anytime.”

“Thank you.”

“Of course.”

On instinct, after dropping off the bag, Michael finds himself pulling into the parking lot of the diner. When he cuts off the car, he pauses, one hand on the door lever to let himself out. Mars doesn’t need a ride anymore. He shouldn’t be here. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. Michael strikes at his steering wheel, throwing his head back into the not too soft leather. His ribs are bruised, his Baby has left him, he’s cried his eyes out once already and he’s about to do it again. Michael closes his eyes, smashing his lips together as the tears roll.

There’s a knock on his window. When Michael snaps his eyes open, he sees Penelope standing, a sad smile on her face. He nods for her to slide in. Michael lets out a shaky breath. “I fucked up. Hard,” he whispers. “Like really fucked up.”

“I came here, just so you know, on a hunch you’d fuck up. Besides, this is real life. We fuck up sometimes.”

“You probably shouldn’t be here. Block and all”

“I’m not worried about him. He got his money. Anything else he wants is his problem. Not mine.”

Michael hums. Why did even talking hurt? Maybe it’s because he knows Penelope has more information that him. And he knows that she may not sure it even if he asks.

“She will always love you.”

Michael nods, staring out to the parking lot in front of him, huffing. He’s going to cry again. Huge sobs. He can feel it. “I’ll probably never stop loving her. But I can’t get out. Too much is on the line.”

Penelope gets it. He actively needs the money, his mother’s medical bills are still piling up. He can’t afford to leave now. “No one’s telling you to abandon your mother. This life just isn’t made for Mariss. And it’s okay that it’s not. In all honestly, I don’t think we’re meant for the shit we’ve handled. You and I don’t deserve the shit we were handed. But we all make our choices. Real life has real consequences.”

“I never meant to hurt her.”

“We never mean to hurt the ones we love.”

“She deserves better. I’m no good for her but I want to be better for her. I want to love her. I don’t think I’m built to love anyone else.”

“And if you think that, then you’re going to need a plan. And you’re going to need to get further than we did. That’s for damn sure. But right now, I want to know one thing. Did you get anything? I don’t know if you saw what I left in the fridge?”

He nods meekly. “Yeah. thanks for that.” There’s a moment of silence. “Where is she staying?”

“With Calum and I for the moment.”

That was a bad idea to ask. She’s not too far from him. He knows that way all too well. He can be there in fifteen minutes on a good day of traffic. But he just has to make sure she had a place to rest her head. Going back home would never be an option for her, he knew that much. “Do you think Mars will ever take me back?”

“You’d have to ask her and not do whatever you did that fucked this up..”

“I didn’t listen soon enough. I kept thinking I could have it all. Wanted me cake and to eat it too.”

“Sometimes we can, sometimes we can’t.”

“Should I even be worried about that? Getting her back right now?”

“Probably not, no. You should be worried about your ribs and eating. Keeping your place clean. Showering. Keeping a low profile. Your mother. Keeping your head down.”

“You said choices have consequences. And I don’t want Mars to be one. I don’t want her to be a consequence.”

___________

Marissa holds the phone to her hear, catching just enough of her mother over the ruckus in the background to understand that her mother’s talking about some from the church. “Don’t start this--not again. The last boy you tried to set me up--”

“Ahh-Marissa that was just that one who wasn’t all the way there. How was I supposed to know he was married? He had no ring.”

“I’m just saying your church boys don’t look like they’re going to make it to heaven. So I think I’d rather stick with my own bad judge of character.” She only needs to grab a card quickly and a couple bags of candy. The card for a family friend’s birthday and the candy because Marissa had been craving it for a week.

The card aisle is quick. But as she stares down the candy aisle of this pharmacy, she knows it’s going to take her a minute.

“What about--what’s his name? That white boy?”

She almost says his name but steps herself. “What about him?”

“While it beats me, you seemed happy with him. You ever think about reaching back out?”

Mars did--and she had. But it ultimately was ruining her so she had to stop for good. “I-I don’t even know if his number is still the same.” It was, but she didn’t tell her mother that. Penelope and Calum still had contact with him so that’s how she knew.

Mars carries on down the aisle, trying to see if she can spot anything that jumps out at her. But some of the shelves are bare. An associate’s working at the end of the aisle and she doesn’t want to be in the way. “They don’t have it.”

“Have what, mija?”

“The big bag blow pops. I see laffy taffy, but I don’t know.”

“Sorry ma’am, I’m working on restocking--”

Mars looks up just as the associate finishes with the box they’re breaking down. “Michael?” she breathes.

“Mars?”

“That’s his name!” her mother shouts. “Michael! I kinda liked him. Don’t tell your father that. But he always--”

Mars mutes the call--she can’t hang up unless she’s risking her life. “What-what are you doing here?”

Michael taps the name tag. “I kind of work here.”

“At a CVS?”

“GameStop never replied to my application. So I figured maybe they weren’t interested.”

And he’s still the same. A bit sarcastic, but easy going. “But wait, a CVS?” And she whispers it, like saying it too loud would cause a panic.

“It took me a couple years to get myself straightened out. But yeah, now at a CVS. And while it’s mundane and exhausting, I figured it was by time to get my life together.”

Marissa listens for a moment and her mother is still going. “Like him dancing at Jessie’s party. It still makes me giggle.”

“But, uh, about the blow pops. I’m 90% sure it’s on my car to reshelf. And I can make it 100% my next priority if you’ve got five minutes for me to find it.”

“Oh you-you don’t have to.”

“I mean they kinda pay me to have to, so it’s not a problem.”

“I guess then, I’ve got five minutes to spare.”

Michael smiles, turning back to the cart at the end of the aisle and crouches down. “I can feel you staring. So go ahead--ask away.”

There’s a lot to be asked. But Marissa’s more shocked than anything to get one of them to come out coherently. Like how did Michael get out? Is his mother doing well? Where was he staying now? Would South be looking for him? But instead all Marissa can do is stare. The glasses have changed, but he still looks the same. And she’s not even sure he’d aged at all in the time it’s been.

“Found it!” He calls tugging on the box to free it from the pile. He makes quick work to open the box with his blade and then hands a bag to her. “Also, if you don’t mind, maybe we could catch up over dinner? There’s this diner I used to go to all the time because of this really cute waitress.”

Mars grins. “I think I know the place. What time?”

“I’m off Thursday evening. Say seven?”

“Sounds perfect to me.”

#michael clifford #michael clifford imagine #michael clifford fic #michael clifford blurb #h writes #5sos fanfic #5sos blurb #5sos #5sos imagine #5 seconds of summer #5 seconds of summer imagine #5 seconds of summer fanfic #5 seconds of summer fic #michael x latina oc #michael clifford fanfic #michael clifford AU

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irwintry · 5 years

Text

House of Pizza

Warnings: swearing

Author’s Note: this is based on a real place in cambridge, mass fyi but i haven’t been there in a year lol

Word Count: 3k

A slice of pizza should never, ever be fifty cents. At least, that was what Michael believed for the longest time. If the pizza were any good, it would be at least one dollar. But, the House of Pizza by Michael’s apartment had no sense of what qualified as ‘good pizza’; it was easy and cheap, and the perfect combination for a college student with a low budget. And, by senior year, he was a shift manager.

His apron had seven individual stains on it, and if anyone asked, he could tell them their origin. Stain number one was obviously grease from his first few shifts at the House of Pizza. It was a large splatter that coated nearly the entire bottom portion of the white cloth, and he later had to dispose of his jeans as well. The second stain came from Margot’s lipstick. She often ran the register, and he could not tell you how that lipstick stain came to be; he just knew it was hers. The third stain, tragically, was a dot of blood from the time Michael cut his hand with a pizza cutter. The fourth, fifth, and sixth were all grease stains again. Lastly, the seventh stain had the biggest name for itself, for it was the one that came from you.

He noticed you every time you walked into the tiny restaurant. Often, you had a coffee in one hand, your keys and wallet in the other, and the time always read 9:40 pm. Michael wondered why you drank coffee so late and how you always managed to show up at the same time every Monday and Wednesday. Nevertheless, he was fascinated by you. The fifth time you made an appearance, you ran headfirst into him as he was making his way out for a smoke break. Therefore, your coffee splattered against his hardly-white apron. You apologized profusely while Michael grinned, an expression he found himself doing more and more around you. So, he brushed it off and added it to the list of remarkable stains.

He never saw you on campus. Michael partially assumed it was because the majority of his classes were in the morning while yours were most likely at night. Sometimes, he sat on the steps of the library in hopes you’d casually walk by so he could casually stroll up to you for a casual conversation. He liked to think he was somewhat good at casual things. You never did walk by of course. Maybe you weren’t even a student. If you were, he imagined you majored in Art Therapy. The later the class, the more convincing it was.

Every Tuesday night, he’d close up with a great big smile on his face. Tuesday night meant that tomorrow was Wednesday, and with tomorrow being Wednesday, that meant he would see you again. Michael tried to convince himself to stop thinking about you as much, but he’d later attest of his crush the moment you walked through the door again.

His crush.

Michael hadn’t had one of those in three years. He assumed he would never find love until your sudden love for fifty cent pizzas came to be. Well, truthfully, he didn’t believe in love. He never felt it, so why should he? He believed in lust, and he had felt it before, too.

So, with Michael unable to believe in love, he had no way of understanding how hard he was falling for you.

“Care to explain this, Cliffo?” your voice sounded through the small space of the restaurant, and luckily, there were no current customers to be disturbed. It was you, him, and Margot. You made your way over to him, your paper plate pushed out in front of you as if the content on the dishware was repulsive. And, quite honestly, it was.

Michael raised an eyebrow at you, his arms coming unfolded from his chest as he stalked slowly to where you were standing in front of the register. “Something wrong, Chili Pepper?”

You returned his eyebrow gesture and handed your plate over to him. “Notice anything?”

He shook his head, taking the plate from your hands to examine the greasy, cardboard-esque pizza himself. He honestly saw nothing wrong with it except for the fact that it looked and tasted fucking disgusting.

“Seriously?” you chuckled. “There’s no chili peppers, Cliffo.”

“Why didn’t you put any on?” Michael was confused and concerned; you always put chili peppers on your pizza.

You rolled your eyes, clearly agitated with his bewildered expression. “I wanted to,” you stated, “but, unfortunately...”

Michael had no idea how to catch onto what you were saying. All he knew was that you were teasing him, but he was frustrated about it.

“You didn’t refill the shakers, Cliffo!” you exclaimed, letting out a loud laugh as your arms flew up beside you. “How can you call me Chili Pepper if there are no chili peppers? An honest travesty if you ask me.”

His eyes widened, and his cheeks flushed. Without another word, Michael handed your plate back over to you and ran to the back to find more chili peppers to refill the shakers with. He was, at the least, real damn embarrassed. Not embarrassed because he hadn’t refilled the shakers, but embarrassed because it took him that long to catch onto what you were saying. The last thing he wanted was to make a fool of himself, and boy, he sure did that. To be honest, every time you were around, Michael somehow managed the make a fool of himself. It all started because of the coffee incident.

“I-I’m so, so sorry,” he spurted as he rushed back into the dining room to your specific table. He felt your presence behind him as he fumbled with the lid. The heat in his chest and his cheeks had exceeded a healthy temperature.

“Cliffo,” you chuckled, reaching your hand out to rest on his.

Michael’s hand could catch fire. He truly thought he would combust right then and there all because you were close behind him, and you were touching him. He had never felt this good before in his life. Crushes were fucking terrible, but sometimes, they could be amazing all at once.

“Ya realize I’m messing with you, right?” you wondered. “I do not care that much.”

He let out a shaky breath and stood tall as he faced you. Man, he loved the height difference possibly too much. He struggled to contain himself as you watched him closely, your eyes peering up into his with a gentle smile tugging at your lips.

“Okay there, Cliffo?” you questioned, placing a hand on his bicep to steady him. “Take a breath, my friend. I’m sorry.”

Michael nodded, then swallowed thickly. “I’m- I’m good. You’re the devil, Peppers.”

“The devil?” You let out a huff. “Think again, sweetie. I’m your worst nightmare.”

Yeah, Michael thought after you left ten minutes later, but you’re also my best dreams.

Michael knew he would remember the following Monday for a while. His hands smelled of “fresh” dough and mozzarella cheese, and no amount of soap or hand sanitizer could fix that. By the time you were meant to arrive, he was having a conversation with Margot at the front counter. He kept his eyes glued to his watch while he tapped his foot, and as 9:40 came and went, Michael felt nauseous.

Relax, maybe you’re sick.

Since you had this pizza twice a week, you were bound to get sick every once in a while. In fact, Michael was quite worried about you and your health because of how often you came here. Luckily, fifty cents hardly made a dent financially.

At 9:56, Michael took his smoke break. The night was warm and stale, but the gentle breeze reminded him of your laugh. If you were here, he assumed he would enjoy it much more. He rounded the corner, pulling a cigarette from the box in his pocket then placed it between his lips. Michael didn’t even get the chance to light it before he looked up and noticed your familiar figure hurrying down the sidewalk. You looked upset, even though your eyes were locked on your shoes. His heart sped up anyway.

He tried to greet you as you neared, but the moment he opened his mouth, your body collided into his. For a second, he thought it was on accident, however, your arms wrapped around his torso soon after. Michael complied to your hug, his own arms reaching around your shoulders to pull you in tight. He tossed his unlit cigarette to the side.

“Missed you, baby,” you mumbled loudly as a bystander glanced over at the two of you. You held Michael for a long while, and he swore his head was going to tumble off because of how hard his brain was working to assess the situation. After you let go, you looked behind him and let out a long sigh. “Sorry. I got freaked out because a dude was hot on my ass for a few blocks.”

Michael frowned. “You’re safe now, Peppers,” he then smiled, hardly poking your shoulder. “Speaking of peppers, I refilled the– “

“Hey, Michael,” you said abruptly. “You give nice hugs.”

He gulped, then bit the inside of his cheek. Ohmygod. “Oh, thanks,” he muttered while trying not to smile as big as fucking possible. He failed.

You returned the smile, and its soft appearance made Michael wanted to run his thumb along the skin. “Did I interrupt your smoke break?” you asked, glancing down at the cigarette on the gum-stained concrete.

“Might’ve.” Michael shrugged. “But it’s a bad habit. If ya hug me every time I pull out a cigarette, I’ll never smoke again.” His chest felt heavy but in a good way. With the way you were gazing up at him tonight, Michael swore that he was in ecstasy.

You nodded. “That can be arranged,” you said. You began to bounce on the balls of your feet. “Ya smell like a weird mixture of cheese and cologne.”

He shuttered, pulling an odd face in reaction to your statement. A mixture of cheese and cologne? Sounded nasty.

You shook your head. “I like both cheese and your cologne, Cliffo.”

You had to be flirting with him. There was no way you were not flirting. Of course, Michael had a hard time acknowledging when people did flirt, but this was a little insane. His insides were catching flame. It took every ounce of him not to reply with “I like you”.

He bit his lip, grinning widely. “Come get your fuckin’ pizza, Chili Pepper,” he mumbled. Michael began to turn towards the restaurant again, but your hand caught his before he could walk any further. Ohmygodohmygodohmy–

You stood on your tiptoes to reach him. For a second, Michael had no idea what to prepare himself for, and then he felt your lips hit the scruff-free part of his cheek. You pulled back only after a second before you walked into the restaurant without another word. He could not stop smiling as he placed his hand on the spot your lips recently touched. Michael’s face felt numb. Oh my god.

He was so used to seeing you in his environment that the minute he stepped foot into yours, he had no idea how to function. A friend of his invited him to an exhibition on campus, and though Michael had been to the art buildings a few times, he got a little lost. As always, he was a good forty-five minutes early to the event, so wandering down endless halls only bought him some time. He never once thought about the possibility of you being here, too.

Somehow, red paint had found its way onto Michael’s grey converse. It wasn’t a big deal of course, but how it got there in the first place was a real bitch to figure out. After going in circles for a bit, he finally noticed the small puddle outside of a classroom along with hints of his footprints leading down the hall. Michael muttered a few curses under his breath and looked around, his eyes gazing into the windows of nearby classrooms. He nearly kept walking, but you were in one of those classrooms he had looked over, and you were alone.

Michael glanced down at his watch. Thirty-nine minutes until the exhibition, perfect. He knocked on the door, hopeful to catch your attention, though the headphones in your ears helped keep you in the moment. So, he walked on in with no intentions on spooking you. However, you jolted in your seat once you noticed his long figure beside you.

“Jesus!”

Michael burst out into a fit of hysterics. And, it was a good, genuine kind of laugh. The one many of his closest friends sometimes had trouble edging out of him. He could hardly stand up straight because of how hilarious your face was when you saw him.

“Cliffo!”

“Sorry, Peppers,” he said, holding his stomach, “that was fucking hysterical.”

“I’m never buying pizza from you ever again, you shit dick,” you mumbled. You brought your knees up to your chest, and he finally noticed how dressed down you were. Usually, you stopped by House of Pizza in at least jeans or leggings. Your outfit tonight consisted of zucchini socks, grey sweatpants, and a university sweatshirt.

Michael frowned. “I highly doubt that.” He looked down to the table in front of you. Papers were scattered, most of them notes while some were full-page sketches. “Whatcha doin’?”

“Could ask you the same thing,” you muttered.

“Friend’s exhibition.”

You nodded. “I’m, uh, putting together all of my notes. Big midterm tomorrow. Gotta get that last-minute studying in if ya know what I mean.” You shifted your chair to face him, and as you did so, Michael took a seat for himself.

“What’s your major?” he asked, trying his best to stay close but also keep a healthy distance. But, Michael didn’t want that. In all actuality, he’d prefer you sitting on his lap, and maybe even attempting to get yourself off on his thigh. “I didn’t even know for sure if you went here.”

“Art History, minor in Illustration,” you answered. You kicked your legs out and placed them on Michael’s lap, which, in a way, was sort of what he wanted. And, he was also sort of right when it came to your major. You did something with art. “I knew you went here, though. For a while, I thought you were Graphic Design, but then I figured I’d see you around more often. So, I heard from a friend of a friend that Michael Clifford was in her major, but I never heard what it was.”

Michael grinned. “History. I wanna be a teacher.”

“Wait, you’re also studying history?”

He nodded.

“Goodness me, we’re meant to be!” you exclaimed, clearly not caring how unimaginably sappy that sounded.

Michael didn’t care either, in fact, it was the last part that kept repeating over and over in his head until his temples ached. The feeling of your legs over his lap now suddenly tingled, and all he wanted to do was rest a hand on them or pull you in closer without it seeming weird. By now, he truly felt like his heart was about to burst.

“Hey, Peppers,” he murmured, poking your toes until a chirpy giggle left your lips. Michael could no longer feel the pain in his cheeks from smiling so much. “You might just be the cutest person I’ve ever seen.”

You shook your head, your own smile bright and evident. “That’s false. You look in the mirror every day.”

OhmygodohmygodohmygodohmygodohmyGOD. Michael was quite actually going to fall to pieces. His cheeks had never felt this hot before in his life, and now, there was no way to hide it. His hands were sweaty, and he tried not to put his palms down on your exposed calves.

“Peppers,” he chuckled and tilted his chin down into his chest. “You’re so fuckin’ precious.”

“Yeah?” You pressed your sweater paws against your cheeks, and Michael hoped it was to try to cover up your blush.

He nodded. “Yeah.”

For the next thirty-two minutes, Michael stayed with you until he had to join his friend upstairs for his exhibition. As much as he loved his friend, Michael did not want to leave you at all. The continuous flirting was a kick of adrenaline for him, and you were happy to flirt in return. He wondered if, after all of this time, you possibly liked him, too.

Once the exhibition was complete, he made his way to House of Pizza for the closing shift, though he knew not to expect you tonight as it was Thursday. He shimmied the newly washed apron (though still stained and yucky) over his head and fastened it around his waist. He was only there for a good ten minutes before the door chimed, and in you walked. Your lack of coffee disturbed him.

“Peppers,” he said, grinning from ear to ear. “It’s Thursday, you have no business here.”

You looked around the restaurant, quickly noticing the empty space along with the fact that Margot was nowhere to be seen. “Shut it, Cliffo,” you breathed. “You forgot something.”

He raised an eyebrow. “What did I– “

Before Michael could finish, you were leaning your body up over the counter and grabbing his cheeks to pull him closer to you. A moment later, your lips crashed onto his, and he easily melted into the kiss. He desperately wanted to reach out and grab your waist, but the glass counter separating you two kind of held him back. His fingers were itching to touch you, except he wanted to let the kiss play out before making any other moves. He felt every single nerve in his body spark with emotion at the feeling of your lips on his. Even then, he could hardly think.

The second his lips parted from yours, he’d reconnect them again, desperate to taste and touch you for as long as he could. You were so soft–– it was hard not to crave you.

You pulled away, breathless and still holding his cheeks with your hands as you settled back into your previous spot. Michael, however, was unable to move.

“Peppers I– “

The door chimed again, and a few teenagers walked in with film cameras dangling around their necks.

Michael glanced at you, chuckling at the spreading blush on your cheeks, then looked back over to the kids. “Hi, welcome to House of Pizza.”

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