starboy

Everyone has something that they think is fucked up. For Michael, that fucked up thing would be names. Names, labels, however you want to put it. Maybe it's because he's struggling with his identity, who knows? Ah, the life of an 'edgy' seventeen-year-old in a small town in 1994.

"Thanks, druggy," the girl - Lucie, Michael thought - said before walking off down the hallway.

Michael pocketed the money while mumbling, "I have a name, y'know.."

He'd obtained that nickname - druggy - by selling his parents' pills to the desperate teenagers at his school. The students don't give a shit about him otherwise. They were the real druggies. All bitches in need of Vicodin and cocaine.

Never mind that, Michael didn't care about what other people thought of him. He was fine as 'druggy', even though he sometimes wondered (worried) that that was all he'd ever be. Just a drug dealer. Once he came to that mentality, he'd have a small identity crisis after every sale.

The school was pretty much empty at that point, no teachers or students in sight. He leaned against the lockers behind him, closing his eyes and tipping his head back with a sigh. There we go again, pull yourself together, Ruth, he thought, taking a deep breath and walking toward the school's doors. He pushed them open, cold white air filling his lungs. Winter was usually very white, all snowed mountains and bright skies. Michael enjoyed it, though. Winter was the one time when the whole world was as cold as he felt. Almost as cold, at least.

All he could hear was brisk wind, laughing coming from some houses, and...violin? In the distance, there was the faint sound of a violin playing some sort of dramatic piece. It seemed familiar though, noticeable and sort of Christmas-y. Well, curiosity killed the cat and Michael wanted to die so he started to walk to the noise. It seemed to be coming from one of the hill-ish spots. Ones anyone could walk to but were hidden behind a wall of dark trees.

Pine sap and wood filled his senses as he made his way to the trees. Behind the wall was a clearing. Right now, this clearing contained a boy standing in the middle, playing the violin. He had short curly red hair hidden underneath a dark-ish red toque. His eyes were a yellowish green under round silver wire frame glasses. His skin was light and clear. Long-sleeved white shirt, dark gray scarf, red flannel, light blue jeans, dark blue Converse. The sleeves of the flannel were pushed up to his elbows to show the sleeves of the white shirt underneath.

Carol of the Bells. That's what he was playing.

Michael found himself staring, mesmerized, enchanted, fascinated. This boy...timeless, soothing, like an anesthetic. Beautiful, to some point. His back was turned so he couldn't see Michael staring intently.

Michael leaned against one of the nearby trees as the piece ended with a dramatic flourish.

An enigma. That's the word Michael was looking for. A person that is mysterious, puzzling, or difficult to understand. That's how he felt. He was mysterious, fascinating. You might be wondering, how could he feel like this about someone he doesn't even know? How could he describe someone like that?

Seeing someone so careless, just playing an instrument on a mountain without any sort of remorse, was strange for someone like Michael. Someone who's been forced to keep to themselves and not stand out of the crowd. Someone told to let everyone else take the stage and stand in the spotlight while all he's doing is managing the lights. Someone so insecure. He wasn't used to it. That's why he found it so fascinating, so enchanting, so strange. Seeing someone so free, careless.

The boy turned and faced Michael, causing them to make eye contact.

His gaze softened.

Sparks.

Suddenly, he heard something behind him and turned. A voice calling after him. Probably his sister, Billie. He glanced back at the boy - who was still staring at him - before walking back down the hill. He could still feel the boy's gaze burning into his head.

Once he got to the bottom of the hill, hallelujah, it was Billie standing there, seemingly annoyed.

"I've been looking for you, where the fuck were you?!"

"Wow, it's nice to see you too."

"Shut the fuck up, mom needs you."

"For once."

"Spiteful bitch."

"Me or mom?"

"Both."

Michael laughed, rapping her lightly on the head. She had their mother's straight blonde hair and sapphire eyes, contrary to his crowish hair and tree-trunk-brown eyes. She was the eldest child in the family with stereotypical dreams and expectations. She wanted to get out of the hellhole that they called a town and settle down with a nice husband and five kids. The middle child, their sister Olivia, wanted to get a college degree and become a scientist. Meanwhile, Michael had dreams that were 'unacceptable' in their family. He wanted to be a musician, join a band maybe. His whole family thought his dreams were unrealistic, especially when living in a town like this.

That never stopped him, though. He still played guitar and sang when his family wasn't home. No one ever heard him though. And he preferred to keep it like that. He wanted to keep his reputation. The quiet kid. Druggy. He never had the best family. His parents always pushed Billie and Olivia into the spotlight while he stood backstage, saying nothing and pretending like he didn't exist. He practically didn't exist in their world. He was just a side character to help with his sisters. He was used to it.

He'd want to keep it like that until he ran away, started a band, became famous, or some shit. He daydreamed like that since he was young, always thinking about moving to LA and finally being known. But those were just dreams, and he was too young for that. He was only seventeen.

Never mind that, he had more important things to worry about. Like interacting with his parents. He and Billie made it to their cabin-ish house - dark wood, few windows, red door - which happened to have some sort of yelling going on inside. Great, Michael thought. Yelling was common in their house, almost normal. But it was still annoying.

The two of them entered the house, immediately seeing their mother and father talking about something fairly loudly. They turned and saw their children staring at them.

"You," said their mother, tone angry and almost intimidating. The comment seemed to be directed at Michael, just like all angry comments. She pulled out various ten-dollar bills from her pocket. "Where did you get all of this?!"

Well, fuck, Michael thought. Seems like they found his money stash.

"I have my ways," Michael said, crossing his arms.

Billie decided to exit the premises and went to her room. His mother sighed, exasperated.

"Michael, I don't have time for this, how did you obtain this money?"

"I got a job," he said with a small shrug. Anyone within a fifty mile radius of him knew that was a lie.

His father knew it too, and he stepped up to him and slapped him across the face. The force caused Michael's head to turn, but he had no further reaction. He was used to it, after all.

"Don't you lie to us! Now, where did you get the fucking money?!"

Michael sighed, feeling tears prick at the corners of his eyes.

"Want me to be honest?" He shifted his gaze to make eye contact with his excuse of a father. "I've been selling your pills."

He quickly walked away from them, not wanting to deal with any more stupid shit like that. He went to his room, locked the door, and slid off his jacket.

He sat at the edge of his bed, head in his hands as tears started to slide down his face. He sniffed, heart racing as he wiped away the tears and ran his hands through his hair. He was tired of this shit. That's why he wanted to run away. It would never happen, but it was still a fun daydream. Just saying 'fuck you' to his parents and running off to California.

But, as said before, that was just a dream. Right now, he had to worry about his present problems. But, it wasn't that easy. Michael was always one to live in the future, always worrying about what he was going to do when he moved out or if his parents kicked him out. To be honest, he was still wondering how they hadn't kicked him out yet.

He lied down on his side, hand under his head, face wet and tear-stained. Though, that was a regular occurrence. He'd cry plenty, just in small amounts. He was never one to let out all of his tears at once. Somehow, that was how he got his nickname when he was younger. Back then, he was Crybaby.

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Good morning/late morning/afternoon/evening/night, my devils, angels, and everything else! Halle-fucking-lujah this took a while. If not already obvious, I very much project myself onto Michael. Also, check out the playlist on Spotify! It's literally just called starboy. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed/will enjoy!

(P.S - If you want an accurate image of what Michael looks like, just think Trevor from Ghostbusters: Afterlife in black jeans, a dark gray shirt, a brown faux leather jacket, black leather bracelets, and dark red Converse.)

- Evere (Ev)