#macbethmichael

[hrina]

alright beebs this isnt even a blurb bc its like 3.1k words (whoops) but it’s for @alreadymissings and @clummyhood bc im a hoe for bff!5sos. i rlly like this so i hope u do as well! 

Thwack.

Your eyes flashed open at the sound, though you were unable to register the situation. There was a long pause, a heavy silence permeating the air, and for a moment, you thought you’d merely imagined the noise. Moonbeams spilled through the window, your curtains pulled back so that your room was illuminated with a faint light.

Thwack. 

You sat up in bed, swearing quietly. You squeezed your eyes shut as your vision failed you for a moment, leaving you with only a black landscape. Blinking rapidly, you finally regained your bearings before turning your head to the left, glaring at your window.

On cue, a small, dark object flew up—seemingly, out of nowhere—and hit the glass with a sharp knock. You flinched at the sound, quickly throwing the duvet off of your body and slinging your legs off of the bed. The hardwood floor was cold, and you shivered once your bare feet came in contact with the ground. 

You stood, walking over to your window and peering outside, looking down with furrowed brows. Immediately, you felt your lips curve up into a beaming smile, and a little gasp left your mouth.

“What the—?” you muttered to yourself as you grasped the bottom of your window sill, struggling to lift the pane. Once you finally managed, you stuck your head outside, your heart beating so quickly you thought it would burst from your chest.

“What are you doing here?” you called down, trying to keep your voice low. Despite your initial sense of shock, the smile still hadn’t left your lips. You rubbed at your eyes, terrified that you were merely hallucinating.

“Throwing rocks at your window at midnight,” Michael sang, his velvety voice being carried up through the air. You let out a loud laugh before your eyes widened, and you smacked your palm against your mouth to muffle the sound. 

“You’re a fucking nerd,” you scolded, but you were still grinning widely. Michael stuck his tongue out at you and cupped his hands around his mouth so that his message could be heard a bit more clearly, “You still got the key to the shed?”

You nodded, biting your lip before pulling your head back inside. You hurried over to your nightstand, accidentally stubbing your toe on the leg of your bed. A loud thumping sound rang out, and you cringed, suddenly very grateful that you were the only one occupying the house.

You pulled out the top drawer, rustling inside and feeling the smooth metal of the key brush your fingertips. Your face heated up when your hand slid against the multiple foil packets scattered haphazardly in the drawer, the condoms serving as a reminder of what had happened the last time Michael had crept into your room.

Your fingers wrapped tightly around the key, fishing it out before you shoved the drawer shut. You padded back over to the window, sticking your head out again and holding out the key, “Ready?”

“Yeah,” Michael squared his shoulders dramatically, making you chuckle and shake your head. You released the key, watching as it tumbled down through the air before landing squarely in Michael’s palm.

“Got it!” he held it up victoriously, looking satisfied with his abilities. You smirked, calling down dryly, “I can see that.”

He rolled his eyes playfully before turning in the direction of your backyard. You watched as he walked over to the wooden fence encasing the garden; he lifted his arms, grabbing onto the top of the boards and hefting himself up. An audible groan left his lips and you just shook your head.

As soon as he was seated atop the fence, he angled his body towards your window, smirking up at you and lifting his right hand to his forehead, performing a small salute. You giggled as you returned the action, observing as he jumped down onto the other side of the fence, disappearing from your sight and slinking back into the dark.

You sighed, pulling away from the window and waiting for him to return. Your feet moved back subconsciously until you felt the mattress hit your legs. Biting your lip harshly, you sat down, staring at your open window and listening for your best friend’s voice, signalling that he was ready to come up.

You couldn’t help but to glance at your nightstand, knowing that there were condoms in the first drawer. Your fingers twitched slightly as they fisted the bedsheets nervously. You allowed your mind to run wild with possibilities of tonight and memories of what had come to pass the last time Michael had been here.

You hadn’t meant for it to happen.

Michael had slipped into your room the night before he’d had to leave for tour, his cheeks wet and blotchy, his eyes red as he explained how much he was going to miss you. It had been an emotional first few hours, with you trying to hold back your own tears as you wrapped your arms around him and let him cuddle into your neck. Once his sobs had faded into mindless sniffles, you’d pressed a comforting kiss to the crown of his head, and he’d returned the action, planting his lips onto your collarbone.

Except he hadn’t stopped there. Things had escalated until eventually, he was groaning deeply as he sunk into you, and your eyes were rolling to the back of your head. The night had finished off with the both of you breathing heavily, naked and completely spent, random whispers being exchanged. Michael had tentatively asked you if anything would change, but you hadn’t been able to offer up an answer.

The next morning, you’d awoken to an empty bed, the smell of your best friend’s cologne lingering on his pillow, and a note that had thanked you for comforting him and had promised that he would contact you at least once a week. And yet…

You hadn’t heard from him since.

A clanging sound was heard outside of your window, snapping you from your thoughts. You shook your head and stood immediately, swearing at the fact that your vision had now blacked out for the second time that night. You took a moment, your hand flying to your head. Once the darkness had cleared, you rushed over to the window, seeing Michael hauling a ladder over the fence of your backyard. You smirked, waiting until he’d lugged the extension all the way to your window before speaking.

“You know,” you mused, “You could’ve just opened the backyard gate.”

Michael’s eyes widened and his head whipped around, staring at the gate that he could’ve unlocked whilst he was inside the yard. You saw the realization dawn on him and he scowled, “Fuck.”

You laughed, reaching out so that you could help him angle the ladder against the wall of your house. Michael grabbed the sides, lifting himself up onto the first rung. You watched as he glanced down at the ground before angling his face up so that he could look at you as he climbed.

“You met me in your backyard that night,” he began to sing, and you just giggled, sticking your tongue out at him. He continued, not even fazed by your teasing, “In the moonlight you looked just like an angel in disguise.”

You stepped back from your window as Michael neared the top. He grunted as he placed his hands on the sill, lifting himself up and wedging his tall frame through the opening, “My whole life seemed—oof—like a postcard.”

Michael scrambled up from where he’d fallen onto the floor of your room. You just giggled again, reaching over and closing your window, cutting off the faint breezy sounds from outside. Everything was suddenly quiet, the silence palpable—it was as though being back in this room together had reminded the both of you of everything that had passed.

You took the opportunity to study your best friend, drinking in his appearance hungrily. He looked good—even better than before he’d left—and it hurt, it hurt so fucking much. His feet were clad in army-green flip flops, and he wore a pair of black basketball shorts that ended at his knees. A plain white t-shirt adorned his torso, allowing you to ogle the dark tattoos on his arms, the black ink contrasting beautifully with his milky skin.

“How was tour?” you blurted, desperate for even a sliver of conversation. 

Michael smiled at you, seeming grateful for the topic, “It was amazing. The fans were—and the arenas and—fuck I can’t even speak. You know that feeling? When something’s so fucking awesome you can’t put it into words?”

You laughed, nodding at how quickly Michael’s eyes had lit up, a bright smile contorting his face into an expression of sheer happiness, “Yeah, I get it.”

There was silence after that, that same sense of quiet that loomed over you and immersed you in a thick fog of suspicion. You hated it—before, silence with Michael hadn’t been awkward; rather, it was comforting, knowing that you could be around him without needing to speak. Now, the stillness only made you tense. It spelled out a danger that you’d fought so hard to evade.

“So,” Michael began nervously. His right hand came up to scratch at the back of his neck, “It’s your place now, huh?”

“What?” you said, but then you realized that he was talking about the house, “Oh. Yeah. My parents, they—uh—they got an apartment, and I got the house all to myself.”

“Nice,” Michael smiled softly, but for some reason you couldn’t find it in yourself to return the gesture. It was odd—before you hadn’t been able to keep a grin off of your face. But now? Now it was as though your insides were caving in, anxiety clouding over your brain. Helpless thoughts flitted around in your mind, your heart racing. You couldn’t bear it anymore.

Now you just wanted some answers.

“No,” you murmured to yourself, shaking your head. In your peripheral vision, you saw Michael cock his head to the side questioningly. With each passing second, anger bubbled up and grew inside of you, your eyes narrowing into slits.

“No,” you said again, this time a bit louder. Your head snapped up, your chin high in the air so you could face the boy that made the last eight months of your life a living hell, “You can’t do this.”

“Do what?” Michael spoke softly, his brows furrowing in confusion. Exasperatedly, your arms shot out, gesturing wildly to the space around you, “This! You—you can’t just come up here and expect everything to be alright again! It’s—it’s not—!”

With each syllable, your voice rose in volume. A panic surfaced in your mind, the words finally being released after months of retention. You couldn’t do it anymore. You couldn’t ignore what had happened, the humongous problem that wouldn’t dissipate. It was like the walls were closing in on you, limiting your supply of oxygen and making it hard to breathe.

“Why didn’t you call?” you demanded, glaring up at your friend. 

Michael’s green eyes were wide with shock; his mouth opened in surprise. You hated that expression. You hated how it accentuated his features so beautifully. You hated how much you wanted to kiss the perplexity right off of his pretty pink lips.

“I hate you,” you sobbed out when he didn’t respond to your question. Tears rushed to your eyes, your anger quickly giving way to distress. Defeated, you fell back onto your bed, pulling your legs up and wrapping your arms around your shins, wishing you could curl into a ball and wink out of existence.

Above you, Michael swallowed audibly, letting out a small sigh. He trudged over to you, tentatively sitting on the mattress and reaching out to take you in his arms.

“Don’t touch me,” you hiccupped, too broken to snap at him. 

Michael froze, pain flashing in his luminous eyes. Silently, he just nodded, bringing his arms back to his sides, his hands locking in his lap. You stared ahead at the window, your gaze trained absentmindedly on the navy colour of the sky. From the corner of your eye, you could see Michael’s thumbs twiddling nervously, his lips pursed as though he was contemplating something.

“I hate myself too,” he whispered after a moment. 

The words hung in the air, the quiet of the night only breached by your pathetic sniffles. Michael sighed again, placing his palm on the mattress and shifting so that he was facing you. He crossed his legs, his shoulders hunched like the old, insecure Michael that you hadn’t seen in what felt like an eternity.

“Y/N,” he mumbled, looking up at you through his eyelashes, “Please turn around. Look at me.”

You gulped, your lips still curved down in a miserable pout. Timidly, you shuffled around on the bed, turning to your left so that your knees were nearly touching those of your best friend. Michael let out a long breath, finally pulling his face up so that he could look at you. What you saw nearly made you gasp in surprise.

His eyes were red and shiny, pooling with tears. The skin right beneath his eyes was wet, a few droplets hanging from his eyelashes. Michael sniffled, running a hand through his black hair and mussing it; he closed his eyes, prompting a single drop to escape and trail slowly down his left cheek.

You didn’t know why you gave in to the urge, but you were suddenly reaching forward, your thumb outstretched so that you could wipe the tear away. Michael’s eyes flashed open at the contact, and the tiniest, cutest gasp escaped his lips. You swallowed heavily, your thumb stroking his cheek idly, never wanting to pull away. It seemed as though he felt the same way, because his left hand came up, fingers wrapping around your wrist and tugging gently.

You understood, quickly mounting to your knees and shuffling over to him. You inhaled sharply when you saw his arms reach out and felt his hands land hesitantly on your hips. Looking down at him shyly, you just nodded, using his shoulders to steady yourself as you inched forward, straddling him.  You placed you hand back on his cheek as he wrapped his arms securely around your waist, allowing you to relax in his hold.

“I didn’t call,” Michael began thickly, his green eyes boring intimately into yours, “Because I was scared. Fuckin’ terrified, actually.”

“Of what?” you said softly, feeling the tension leave your body.

Michael had always had this effect on you: you knew that when you were with him, you could let your guard down, grant him access to the parts of you that no one else was allowed to see. And though so much had changed between the two of you, you knew that this—thankfully—had not.

“I don’t know where to start,” Michael laughed bitterly, gritting his teeth, “I was scared that you regretted it, scared of facing you, of losing you. I was so fucking afraid that I’d destroyed our friendship and that you’d never want to see me again. Especially after—after I just left you the next morning.”

You leaned forward, pressing your foreheads together. Michael’s breathing sped up, little puffs of air washing onto your lips and making you crave his touch. He smelled of cinnamon, a strong, musky scent that you would’ve been able to recognize a mile away.

“You should’ve called,” you whispered, like the words were a secret that only he was allowed to hear. Michael sighed softly, his eyes closing briefly before they flashed open again, “I know. And I’m so fucking sorry. You’ll never understand how much I regret it.”

“The sex?” you asked, your eyebrows knitting together. You pulled away slightly, feeling your heart begin to break.

Michael’s eyes widened, and he shook his head vigorously, his fingers gripping your hips in an attempt to soothe you, “What? No, shit. The sex, it—fuck—the sex was amazing. You’re amazing.”

You immediately relaxed again, melting into him and giggling at his babbling. Michael let out a low chuckle too, bowing his head bashfully and smiling at his unplanned antics. You ran your fingers through his hair, gazing at him lovingly. Something swelled inside of you, lifting you up high and making you never want to come down. This was what you wanted—what you needed.

“I love you Michael,” you murmured, unable to hold the words back any longer. Michael looked up at you, his lips parted in surprise. For a moment, you thought that he wasn’t going to reply, but then his face split into a beaming smile, crinkles appearing at the corners of his eyes.

“Awesome,” he breathed before cringing, “Fuck, no, I mean—I love you too, dammit.”

You threw your head back and let out a loud laugh. Michael just groaned, burying his face into the crook of your neck, utterly embarrassed. Your laughs quickly faded, however, when you felt a pair of lips press a firm kiss to your collarbone. Your hands immediately twined in Michael’s hair, your eyes fluttering closed as he continued to sponge kisses up the column of your throat. “Michael,” you breathed, unable to form any other words.

“Yeah?” Michael pulled back, much to your dismay. You looked down at him, pressing your foreheads together again and breathing heavily against his lips. “You—you can touch me.”

“I am touching you,” Michael chuckled, his long, dark eyelashes brushing his pale cheeks every time he blinked. You swallowed nervously, shaking your head quickly.

“No,” you said, your voice hinting at an urgency that you hadn’t felt in eight months, “Michael. You can touch me.”

It took a moment, but finally his eyes widened with the realization. His fingers rubbed soothing circles into your hips as he nodded, and then you felt him moving. His hands roamed all over your body, up and down your back, down your arms, your thighs. He played with the baggy shirt that you called nightwear, his fingers toying with the hem before slipping underneath. Through it all, you merely stared at him, your eyes locked with his as you nodded, indicating that you wanted it off.

“Fuck,” Michael swore once your shirt had finally been discarded, revealing that you weren’t wearing a bra, “God Y/N, I love you. I love you so much.”

He kissed you for the first time in eight months, and you knew that you would never tire of kissing Michael, of touching him, of being with him.

And the best part of it all was waking up the next morning—your head on his bare chest whilst his soft snores punctuated the air—and smiling because you knew that he felt the same way.

congrats if u got to the end!! feedback is appreciated, and if u liked this, here’s my masterlist!