#the way cake snuck into this fic too.....that has never happened before i didnt know how to react i was literally michael

[clumsyclifford]

i would love to read a mashton fic based on vegas, which is an idea that has been in my head since you sent it in for the playlist! i particularly like the lyrics “from coast to coast, I’ll make the most / of every second I’ve been giving with this crowd, / without a doubt, you’re all I dream about” but i would be happy no matter what you wrote

right okay well i have plans to one day write a longer better vegas fic but im capitalizing on the fact that you sent me specific lyrics from the song and just writing around those lyrics so. for the moment this will have to be enough im sorry maggie u deserve more

-

Michael loves performing more than most things.

There are certain people who take precedence — his band, for one, although that feels a little bit like cheating because his band are the reason he can perform — and his family, of course, and a case could be made for Niall Horan, and there are also a few things here and there — a chocolate milkshake at an American diner at three in the morning smack in the middle of the Northeast, the signed-by-Billie-Joe Father Of All… limited edition vinyl framed on his wall at home that’s been played exactly once, a proper pint from the bar they went to when they first arrived in London.

By and large, though, performing beats all. 

There’s an energy that is absolutely unmatched, and no matter how many times interviewers ask, Michael will never be able to put into words the way it feels to play to a crowd who are shouting your lyrics at the top of their lungs. Nobody would understand how it’s possible to get onstage feeling tired and grow more alive the longer you play, feeding off the ardor of the people, entirely detached from the usual concerns of whether or not you’ll remember how to play your part. Michael’s a good guitarist, but onstage he becomes something else, something fucking massive, a piece of something much bigger than himself.

The high lasts only for about a minute after he comes offstage, and then everything else hits him at once; the exhaustion, the sweat, all the notes he’d missed, the pounding in his head from the screams that are dulled but not deafened by the in-ears. They all crash at different times but they always crash soon after the show ends, and Michael’s usually first.

So there are a lot of reasons Michael doesn’t want to come offstage. And if anyone asks, he can offer a wide range of these answers, anything about the rush of performing, about not wanting to feel the weariness of the tour just yet, about feeling more sure about this show than anything in his life, and those wouldn’t even really be lies. They just wouldn’t be the whole truth.

Most of the reason why Michael loves to be onstage is the person sitting at the drum kit.

Ashton is twirling his drum sticks, effortless the way he always is during shows, a broad smile over his face while Luke sets them up for their next-to-last song. Michael takes the opportunity to tune up a little bit and watch Ashton. It’s one of his most favorite things ever, just to watch; he’d stare at Ashton forever if he could and still not have had enough.

Ashton glances up, catching Michael’s eye before Michael can look away, so Michael saunters over to the drums.

“How are you feeling?”

Michael gives a thumbs up. “On top of the world,” he says truthfully. His fingertips are buzzing with what could be electricity, and his guitar feels so light it could almost be floating. “You?”

“Same,” Ashton says, without faltering in his grin. “You’re sounding great.”

“You messed up a few times, but we’ll discuss it after the show,” Michael replies, smirking. Ashton flips him off. “I’m kidding. You sound awesome. Amazing. Like always.”

“Not always. I sound pretty bad sometimes.”

“Only when you’re singing in the shower.”

“I don’t sing in the shower!”

Michael holds up an air-microphone. “Sweet Caroline, bah-bah-bah!”

“That was one fucking time!”

“Yeah, and I’m gonna remember it forever, and laugh at you whenever I hear the song. So thank you.”

Ashton rolls his eyes; somehow he hasn’t stopped smiling, and in fact his smile is even wider. “You should probably get back to your station,” he says. “I think Luke’s stalling to start the song.”

As if on cue, Michael hears, “Oi, Mike! Is it social hour? Are we playing a show?”

Michael grins and winks at Ashton, then slides smoothly back to his microphone. “Sorry, sorry,” he says. “Ashton and I were just plotting how best to destroy you.”

“We’re thinking of putting you on a cooking show,” Ashton puts in from his mic. Michael loves him so much.

The crowd laughs. Luke just rolls his eyes, fond and unable to be cross when they’re playing a show, when this many people are here just for them, to hear their music, and across the stage Calum blows Michael a kiss. He catches it in the air and presses it to his heart; Calum grins and gives him the OK sign with his fingers.

“Anyway,” Luke says pointedly, and then he carries on with the show, introducing She’s Kinda Hot with very little additional preamble, and Michael starts to play it — the riff had been hard the first couple of times but now he could do it in his sleep, so instead of overthinking every note, his eyes roam the crowd, several thousand — a number Michael doesn’t remember but is absurdly high — people here to see them, to see him, some who have put in countless hours listening to their album and making signs and buying merchandise from them already. Michael feels like he’ll burst from the love, and wonders if it’s coming from him or from them. Or if there’s even a difference. They love his band, but not as much as he loves his band.

Ashton’s solo is his favorite part of this song. Not because he has a crush on Ashton. Musically, it’s the most fun, and Ashton has a really great voice for it, and he likes the little call-and-response part, and, okay, also because he has a crush on Ashton and this is basically his free chance to gaze in wonder while Ashton sings.

When the solo rolls around Michael turns his body to watch Ashton, shamelessly drinking in the sight; Ashton, a bandana barely keeping back his sweat-soaked hair and a glistening sheen of perspiration all down his face, neck, and arms, muscles tensing as he plays, tank top sticking to his chest. The lights from the stadium reflect strangely off his skin, giving him a gleaming aura that has Michael blinking sight back into his vision. 

Ashton is everything. He really, really is.

Halfway through the solo he catches Michael’s eye for just a second, and Michael doesn’t look away, caught up in the moment. Ashton smiles so wide his face could break from it and Michael feels that smile right down to his toes. The warmth stays in his chest, unbroken, untouchable.

They stumble off-stage, all four reaching out for full water bottles before they have to go back on for the encore. Michael’s off last — he’s standing farthest from where they come on — and the three others are already gasping out breaths between long chugs of water as he takes his own.

“Well, you all sound terrible, and I sound great,” Calum declares, one arm so tightly around Luke’s shoulders that Michael would be hard-pressed to try and separate them. Not that he’d ever feel compelled to. Ashton comes over and slings an arm over Michael’s shoulders, too, and Michael immediately squirms.

“Gross,” he says, “you’re all sweaty.”

“That’s how you like me,” Ashton says, pressing a kiss to Michael’s cheek.

“No PDA before we finish the encore,” Luke says loudly, pointing an accusing finger at the two of them.

“You’re just jealous that Ashton kissed me and not you,” Michael says. “Ashton, go kiss Luke. He’s feeling left out.”

“I don’t want to kiss Luke,” Ashton says, affronted. 

“I’ll kiss Luke,” Calum says. Before any of them can say anything about it, Calum pulls Luke’s face towards him and kisses him square on the mouth.

Luke looks like he’s been hammered between the eyes when Calum pulls away. “You’re such a sneaky little shit,” he says. “I have to go sing, you know.”

“I have to sing too!” Calum protests. 

“Wait a minute,” Michael says, feeling like perhaps he’s missed something. “How — what?”

“Does this mean I have to kiss you now?” Ashton asks Michael, a glint in his eye. “Because I’m not strictly opposed.”

“Stop it,” Michael says. “They just kissed!”

“They’re adults,” Ashton says.

“You’re not strictly opposed?” Michael says belatedly. “The fuck’s that mean? Are you for or against?”

“Shit,” Luke says, handing off his water bottle. “Gotta go back on. Encore time encore time encore time!” He races onstage, Calum in tow, and Michael groans.

“Worst band in the world!” he says as Ashton gives him one final, cheeky look before sliding away and returning to the stage. Michael follows after, playing the intro to She Looks So Perfect, which is as natural as breathing at this point.

The song goes well, and Michael remembers, having temporarily grown distracted, how fucking good this show has been, how the energy of the crowd is building up under his skin, making him practically vibrate with it despite the steady hands on his guitar. When the song ends, they take their bow and then head backstage. Michael finally takes a towel to wipe himself clean of sweat; the other boys do the same. Ashton gets two towels, because he’s always the grossest.

“So?” Michael asks, loping over to where Ashton is leaning against the wall, drying himself off. “For or against?”

“For or against what?” Ashton says innocently, but his face breaks into a ridiculous smile and he reaches to clap a hand around the back of Michael’s neck. “For, obviously.”

“Oh,” Michael says dimly, blood roaring in his ears. “Okay. Good. I mean, I hadn’t said for or against what, exactly. For all you know you’ve just agreed to my insidious plot to destroy the band from the inside or change our sound to EDM or something.”

“I’m in,” Ashton says immediately. “I’ll take down Luke, you get Calum.”

“I can’t take down Calum,” Michael says, forgetting momentarily that they’re not actually planning the downfall of the band. “He’s been my best friend for so long. I’m pretty sure that would be in violation of the bro code.”

“Okay, but taking down Luke wouldn’t?” Ashton asks, raising an eyebrow. “Fine. I’ll get Calum and you get Luke. Meet back here.”

“Wait, hold on,” Michael says, and picks back up the thread. “We’re not actually plotting the band’s destruction. You were going to kiss me, I think.”

“Was I? I don’t really recall.”

“You were. You said you were for it.”

“I believe my words were not strictly opposed.”

“You said for, obviously, like twenty seconds ago. Like literally twenty.”

“Hmm,” Ashton hums, tipping their foreheads together. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

Ashton gives his biggest smile yet. Michael feels the corners of his own mouth tug upward to mirror it, and Ashton leans in, presses a gentle kiss to Michael’s lips, and pulls away. Michael’s buzzing all over, head full of AshtonAshtonAshtonAshton.

“Oh, hmm,” he murmurs, a little speechless, midway between the adrenaline high of the show and the total post-performance crash. Heavily leaning into Ashton, he says, “I’m gonna fall asleep in like five minutes but we will definitely continue this when I’m not about to be dead on my feet.”

Ashton pats his shoulder reassuringly. “I’m not strictly opposed to that.”

Michael smiles and decides: there are few things he loves more than performing, but Ashton Irwin is one of them.

[megabadbunny]

For the DxR fic meme: Nine x Rose; 01 G ☯

(Nine x Rose, Jackie’s flat, midnight, Rose’s diary; from @doctorroseprompts )

***

He knows he shouldn’t, and yet, here he is.

(But it’s not exactly his fault, is it? If she didn’t wanthim to see it, maybe she shouldn’t have left it lying around all public in theopen, conspicuous and winking at him and daring him to take a little peek,wriggling its (figurative) hips like a minx in red throwing a perfumed kissover one shoulder. Never mind the fact that it wasn’t lying around in public somuch as it was in her room, that it wasn’t in the open so much as it was tuckedunder her mattress.)

The Doctor glances around furtively, even though he knows noone will catch him in the act; the flat is empty of any other living thing,save for him and the dust motes colonizing the space beneath the rug. Rose andher oddity of a mum have whisked off somewhere or other (“a proper girls’night”, Jackie might’ve said, or might not have, as the Doctor might not havebeen listening) and Jack is goodness-knows-where with goodness-knows-whom, sothe Doctor figures he’s got a good few hours to himself before anyone returns.And he’s got to find some way to occupy himself, hasn’t he?

(Besides, it isn’t as if he went snooping specifically for it.More like, he snooped, and there it conveniently was. Also, he’s bored.)

Plunking himself down on her bed—not nearly as soft or plushas her TARDIS bed, he thinks with a smirk—the Doctor opens the book to thefirst page.

Dear dairy readsthe first line.

The Doctor chuckles. There is no date scrawled anywhere onthe page, but the scribbles and misspellings amidst very careful and deliberatestrokes tell the Doctor these words were written by someone who had only recentlylearned penmanship, and was determined to do it well.

Dear dairy

Hello how are you? Myname is Rose Marion Tyler. It is my brithday today I am 6 years old.

It’s almost impossible to imagine Rose ever being so young;far easier to picture her emerging fully-grown and stubborn-willed and jeopardy-friendlystraight from inception. But the Doctor tries, and in his mind’s eye he canalmost see her sitting on the bed—no, lying on it, stomach-down, her sock-cladfeet kicking idly in the air. Her hair, unbleached and light brown, would be pulledback into a ponytail, held in place by one of those what d’you-call-it’s. A scrunchie. Her head would bend down inconcentration over the diary as she clutched her pen tightly in her small fist.The Doctor imagines the pen to be pink, glittery, one of those gel-things, hopelesslyand wonderfully childish and girly, and his grin broadens.

Mummy and me had aparty in the park and Lottie and Fred cud not come but Shireen was there andMickey to and his gran and my grandad Prentis. Grandad brung cake from thestore it has had a heart drawed on and my name and there were candels.We had ice cream to. And I had prezents there was a barby and shoes and a newbell for my bike…

The list continues and the Doctor rolls his eyes fondly.Clearly, six-year-old Rose had decided to commit only the most pertinent ofdetails to memory. He flips through perhaps the first quarter of the diary, pausingat a mention of Mickey here, a drawing of a flower there, and watches as Rose’shandwriting grows more confident, her entries more substantial. Her diary is amicrocosm of her adventures with mates, days at school, developing crushes, thelikeability of some of Jackie’s boyfriends and the caddishness of others. Atrandom, the Doctor slips a finger between the pages and opens the diarymid-entry, perhaps a year or two along its timeline.

and it felt awful butI didnt say anything bc he was right I dont have a dad but Keisha got angry andtold him to butt out and mind his own business. So then Nick laughed and madefun of Keisha bout her mum and I thot Keisha might cry so I punched Nick in thenose and it bled and the head teacher says I cant come back to school for aweek. Mum says Im in trouble but she didnt stop granddad from buying me a 99 onthe way home and she said next time do a slap its easier on the nuckles.

The Doctor can just picture Rose, eight years old, eyesflashing and stance wide as she bloodies some little twerp’s nose with herfist. Now that—that is a Rose he has no trouble imagining. Laughing, the Doctorshakes his head and flips to a later entry.

8 Nov 1996

Dear diary,

We went to go see Dad yesterday.

The Doctor pauses, hesitates. He knows what the words mean—they’refigurative, not literal, because it would be another eleven years before Rose sawany more of Pete Tyler than old photos and a grave—but the memory of the daynine years earlier still sends a shiver down his spine, clenches something inhis gut in a guilty-sick feeling he can’t quite explain.

Mum told me the storyagain. She seemed all right definitely better than the last time. I think thephotos help. Granddad came to and I don’t think he rly liked Dad very much buthe was nice about him today nicer than on other days. Afterwards Mum went todrop me off with Mickey but he said she needed me so I went on home and she seemeda little happier but she still cried a bit.

The Doctor wrinkles his nose. Something about Mickey theIdiot doing a good turn makes him grumpy. Who does that idiot think he is,anyway?

We had tea and fellasleep in front of the telly. I wanted to make her dinner but there was nothingin and I couldnt find anything in her purse so I went down to Ms Nodd’s bc she’sout seeing her grandson and I got the spare key from under her flower pot and Ilooked in her bedroom and found a few pounds and took them. I bought Mum aChinese from her favourite place and she didnt ask where I got the money so I didnttell her. I dont think Ms Nodd would know it was me that took it but I stillfeel bad I just didnt know what else to do. Ill pay her back when I get somemoney for my bday.

Nice old bird, that Ms Nodd. Much nicer than some of theother tenants on the Estate, with her blue-tinged hair and cheerful smile andwithered old hands that freely distribute home-baked biscuits to errant TimeLords who just happen to be handy with a squeaky front door. The Doctor makes amental note to liberate an ATM of a couple hundred-pound-notes at his earliestopportunity and slip them into her flat.

He reads a few more pages—comfortably silly stuff, all ofit, more crushes and rants about school and discussions of celebrities andfashion and Rose’s favorite things on telly—until his fingers land on an oddlybrittle page, warped in places, buckling. Several of the words are nearlyimpossible to discern, smudged as they are, and it takes the Doctorapproximately .003 seconds to identify the water marks as tears.

(There’s no dear diaryhere, no date. The words simply begin, as if writing anything more than theabsolutely necessary would take too much energy. Like it would hurt too much.)

Granddad’s gone.

The Doctor sighs, and his hearts each break a little foryoung Rose, curled up in her bed and crying bitter tears into her pillow. Tenyears old is far too young to experience the cruelty of such a loss. But it isn’tas if it gets any easier at any other age. The Doctor knows that to be painfullytrue.

Had a heart attack.Doctors said he went in his sleep and didn’t feel anything. I hope that’s true.Mum said he’s with the angels now but that’s stupid. The angels don’t need him wedo. I already miss him.

Mum can’t stop crying.I wish Dad was here.

And there’s that feeling again in the Doctor’s gut, thesquirmy-sicky one. Almost as if his stomach knows he shouldn’t be doing this,like his body is punishing him. It was all well and good reading about the funfrivolities of a carefree primary-schooler, but this sort of thing—this issomething else. Something deep and personal, a compound fracture of emptinessand hurt. The Doctor knows should stop reading now. He really should.

(He doesn’t.)

It takes a few weeks for the mentions of Granddad Prentice tostart fading, but eventually, they do, fading away to be gradually replaced bythe normality of everyday life. Sometimes months pass between diary-entries;other times, years. The Doctor smiles as he glances over recountings of schooldays and formals and skipping classes, of Jackie’s eccentric cluster of boyfriends,of fights with friends and happy makings-up after, of holidays and gossip andhopes for the future. The day Rose and Shireen fall out over a boy is marked byan obscene amount of swearing and words crossed-out and pencil-punctures dugdeep into the page; the day Mickey asks Rose to be his girlfriend is noted withexclamation points and a lipgloss-kiss.

The day Rose meets Jimmy Stone is noted with a single heartthat simply reads Mrs Rose Stone.

Grimacing at the words, the Doctor forces himself to presson.

OMG met this bloke Jimmyyesterday n he was soooo fit reads the next entry. Shireen and Keisha and me went down the pub and he was playing in theband and I thot he fancied Keisha at first but after he asked for my number ♡ ♡ ♡I kno it doesn’t mean nothing so I didn’ttell Mickey cos no point in him worrying and he gets so jealous anyway lol

Awww, poor jealous ickle Mickey, thinks the Doctor. He snortsderisively. Human beings—so quick to such petty reactions. He’s very glad hedoesn’t have to worry about silly things like that.

Still, it’s a little surprising when, just a few pages later,things have already progressed by leaps and bounds. Jimmy kissed me! leaps out from the page, followed by things like Mickey and me had a fight and Snuck out to hear Jimmy play downtownand Went to the cinema with Jimmy and he puthis hand up my sk

Hearts hammering, the Doctor flips past that page before hiskeen eyes have a chance to read any further. For some reason, the thought ofJimmy putting his hand up anything of Rose’s—indeed, of Jimmy or some otherfool even thinking about touching her, anywhere, with anything—makes him burn abit under the collar. Unpleasant, that. Maybe he’d better take a look at Jackie’sthermostat, make sure it’s doing its job, because it certainly doesn’t feellike it.

(Still, he skips the several pages that follow, just to besafe.)

said if Iwalked out that door I’d better not walk back in and you know what screw her.She’s wasted her whole life crying about Dad and never doing anything withherself and never doing anything for me. I hate her I would rather die then belike her

Eyes widening in surprise, the Doctor quickly scans over thenext few pages, his concern deepening by the second.

love Jimmy andno one can tell me any different and if Mum really knew what love was then she’dunderstand

Im so glad I’mwith him now he gets me like no one else ever has or ever will, ♡ him forever

didnt want totake my a-levels anyway not like it means anything out in the real world

moving into aflat together next week can’t wait ♡♡♡

and I love himbut I wish he’d get a job cos the gigs don’t make enough n I can’t covereverything on my own

came home drunkagain last night n wouldnt tell me where he’d been

told me I’dbetter cough up the rest of the rent by next weekend or else he would

And then, nothing.

The Doctor frowns. Whatever he would do is left unexplained, torn away along with a wholecluster of pages in the diary, leaving a ragged little scar behind where wordsand feelings used to sit. The Doctor runs a finger along the page-stumps leftin the spine, and wonders.

What could have happened that was so bad that even the memoryof it had to be ripped away?

The next entry picks up a few weeks later. It does notmention Jimmy. Instead, the page displays only a handful of lonely words:

He wasright. I’m so stupid.

It takes a moment for the Doctor to realize that the diaryis shaking in his hands. But that’s only because he’s gripping it so tightlyhis knuckles are glowing bright white in an attempt to jump out of his skin. Andsuddenly he’s glad, in quite a perverse way, that he has witnessed thedestruction of the Reapers firsthand, because otherwise the temptation to pilotthe TARDIS back in time to ensure that Jimmy Stone never hurt Rose—that henever so much as existed, never so much as blighted this planet with even asingle vile breath—would be so strong that he’s not entirely sure he’d be ableto stop himself.

Forcing himself to calm, the Doctor skips forward, hopefullyto an entry that won’t cause hisblood to boil angrily in his ears. Now phrases like moved back in with Mum today and applied at Henriks greet his eyes, and he feels the muscles in hisshoulders begin to relax.

and a sweet ginger boy’sstarted coming round, Mum named him Jonesy

but the new job’s notso bad

going out to the clubswith Shireen

Mickey stopped by withflowers today and it was like nothing had ever gone wrong

anyway we’re datingagain

nothing’ll come of itbut some blokes won in Bristol last week so who knows, maybe we’ll win a littlesomething n I could get Mum something nice

a little boring Iguess but prolly about the best I can expect for now

So my job blew uptoday???

Now a grin spreads across the Doctor’s face, lighting it upfrom ear-to-ear. Finally. Took longenough to get here. Now for the reallygood stuff.

Fingers tingling in anticipation, he turns the page.

Nothing.

The Doctor flips through the remaining pages, hunting forsomething, anything, but nothing buta sea of white greets his eyes, winking up at him obnoxiously without so muchas a single date or scribble or scrawl to capture his attention. The rest ofthe diary is completely, utterly blank.

Huffing in irritation, the Doctor sits back, flipping thebook closed with a scowl. It makes a certain sense, he supposes, but still.Really? She’ll write about ice cream and Barbies and school gossip and Mickeythe Idiot but no mention of the TARDIS, no asides about traveling through timeand space, no discussion of Dickens or Slitheen or bitchy trampolines or 900year-old Time Lords taking her by the hand to show her anything her littleheart could ever possibly—

CLANG.

“I just found it!” blurts out the Doctor without eventhinking, pushing off the bed and whirling round to face Rose’s open bedroomdoorway. But no one stands there; indeed, if his superior hearing is anythingto go by (and it usually is), there’s no one within several meters of him, certainlyno one in the flat. And the continuing ding-dang-dongbell’s sound, ringing at twelve lazy but significant intervals, informs himthat his nervousness was for naught—it’s just Jackie’s old grandfather clock,noisily (and unnecessarily, the Doctor thinks with a grump) proclaiming thetime.

It’s midnight. Probably Rose and Jackie will be home soon. Andprobably he shouldn’t let them know he was nosing through Rose’s diary.

(Even if it wasn’t his fault, seeing as they left him aloneand bored and unoccupied in the flat, and even if he didn’t find what he waslooking for—even if he’s not entirely certain what that was.)

As he slips the diary back into its hiding-place beneathRose’s mattress, it occurs to him that there are any number of reasons Rosemight not be writing things in a diary any more—she forgot it at home, or she’stoo tired after their adventures, or too distracted, or maybe she’s even got anew one aboard the TARDIS, hidden somewhere equally silly. But there’s anotheroption too, he realizes; that she’s simply too happy to see the need forwriting things down, that she is too busy living her memories to think of takingthe time to document them. The thought warms him, contentment blooming in hischest, and he leaves Rose’s room with a smile, closing the door behind him.

(He still checks her room on the TARDIS just in case.)

***

part ii