teen+ ✨ michael x ftm!reader✨ hoard (2023) ✨ 16 mins
🔖 established relationship, hurt/comfort, not beta read, pov second person
✧ read all chapters on ao3 ✧
The sky is a low grey ceiling, the kind that promises rain but never delivers it, just hangs heavy enough to wash everything beneath it with a pale, sickly glow. The car hums along the motorway, tyres hissing on damp tarmac. You've been driving for nearly five hours, though you don't know where to. Michael hasn't said and every time you've tried to ask — softly or with a bit of a laugh — he's just tightened his jaw and turned the volume up on the radio.
The station crackles between songs. Late 90s pop, tinny and distant through the old speakers, all syrupy voices and lazy drum machines. Michael's cigarette dangles from his lips as he drives one-handed, window cracked open just enough to let the smoke out. The air inside the car smells like ash and petrol and his aftershave; the cheap one he always buys at the supermarket, musky and warm, clinging to the seats and the sleeves of your jumper. Well, his jumper. You always borrow his jumpers.
Every so often, he shifts in his seat, adjusts his grip on the wheel, exhales through his nose. You can tell he's thinking hard about something, the muscles in his forearm tight beneath the sleeve of his faded denim jacket. There's a paper coffee cup in the holder, half-finished, cold. You glance over at him. The profile you've memorised; stubble a day too old, hair half-pushed back from his forehead, lines around his eyes that look deeper today. He's been quiet since you left this morning, too quiet for it to be casual.
You'd woken up to the sound of him packing the boot, tossing in a blanket, a spare coat, the emergency torch in with the same restless efficiency he gets before a storm. When you asked what was happening, he'd just said; 'Holiday. We could both use one.' You didn't argue. You never really do with Michael when he gets like this; steady but unreachable, like he's carrying some kind of weight that you can't help with. You trust him, even when it doesn't make sense. So you picked up a couple of bags and shoved in the clean laundry from yesterday's wash. Whatever this is, he needs you with him.
The world outside blurs by in streaks of green, brown and grey, hedgerows thinning as you head further south. Every so often, a sign flashes by but you stop trying to read them. Michael's cigarette burns down to the filter; he flicks it out the window with a practiced snap of his fingers, then immediately lights another.
"Long way, isn't?" You say finally, trying to catch his eye. He gives a little grunt, not quite agreement, not quite dismissal.
"Nearly there."
You watch the way his thumb taps the steering wheel, the way his shoulders rise and fall. He looks older somehow today; less your boyfriend and more...something else. Today, with the road stretching endlessly ahead and no clue where you're going, it feels like he's slipping into that role again, the one where he knows best. You quite like that side of him. But not when he's quiet like this. Not when he seems...angry? Sad? Stressed? Whatever this is, you're worried. And you feel like you can't even talk about it.
The car rattles over a pothole. He mutters something under his breath, then glances at you, softening just enough to let a ghost of a smile through.
"You alright?" He asks, voice rough but careful. You nod, though your legs ache from sitting so long.
"Yeah. Just...didn't know we were going somewhere." He nods, eyes on the road again.
"Didn't know either. Just— needed to move, I guess."
You want to reach over and touch his arm but something in his posture, wound tight like a spring, keeps you still.
Outside, the landscape shifts again; hills rolling like waves, fields giving way to thin, wet woods. A gust of wind sweeps over the car, spattering the windshield with a few lazy drops of rain. Michael flicks the wipers on and, for a moment, the sound fills the silence, rhythmic and hypnotic.
You tuck your knees up and watch the horizon blur. His hand brushes your thigh briefly as he shifts gears, a small, grounding touch that says I'm still here, even if he doesn't have the words for why you're going.
You lean your head against the window. The air smells like cigarette smoke and rain. Michael drives on.
Finally, you notice Michael taking the turn-off into a campsite called Saltmarsh Holiday Park. It's full of static caravans; some new, some old. He seems even more tense now, eyes dark with some kind of...cold dread? There's no one around. Looks like the place is off-season. It feels like you shouldn't be here but he drives through as rain starts to spot on the windscreen. The car rocks slightly with the wind coming up over the dunes, whistling through the cracked-open window.
He pulls into a parking space in front of a weathered caravan, definitely one of the oldest looking you've seen here. It looks like it hasn't been used in years; paint peeling, chips and dings on the sides. He turns off the engine and just sits there for a moment, fingers tight around the wheel. Taking one last drag on his cigarette, he flicks it out then rolls the window up.
"Michael?" You finally break the silence, your voice soft, hesitant. You won't ask if he's alright; you know he isn't. He turns to face you, eyes slightly bloodshot from exhaustion, and reaches out to tuck a stray hair behind your ear, thumb brushing over your lip as he searches for the words to explain why he's brought you here. Your fingers coil loosely around his wrist, bringing his nicotine-stained knuckles to you lips. "It's okay." You tell him, giving him a small, reassuring smile that — you hope — says; you don't have to tell me, not yet. He leans into the touch before nodding and giving you a slight smile in return.
"Let's get settled in." He says quietly, gently pulling out of your grip to open his car door and step out into the open air. You do the same, suddenly hit with a wall of cool, bracing sea air. It wakes you up some. You wander to the boot of the car as he pops it open.
"Been a while since I've been to the seaside." You tell him but he doesn't reply, just pulls your bag from the boot and holds it out for you to take. He grabs his and his spare coat before closing the boot and heading to the door of the caravan, pulling out a pair of rusty keys from his pocket. His hands are shaking slightly but you can't tell if it's from the sudden cold or...whatever he expects to find inside. The key slides in with a metallic grating sound, twists. The lock clicks and he pockets the keys again, twisting the handle and opening the door to let you in first. You share a look before stepping inside and—
It's a caravan.
Small, sparsely decorated. With a kitchenette, a small living area, a little bathroom tucked away and a bedroom at the back with a double bed. It smells like damp and mothballs.
You slip in through the curtain of beads over the door and set your bag down on the faded cushions of the settee. Michael climbs in after you, closes the door behind him, puts his bag down and walks over to the window, looking out at the sea. The tide's out, wind whipping over the dark grey water as it spans out to the horizon. He takes a breath, runs a hand through his hair. You let your eyes wander; mugs on the sideboard with the campsite logo, a hi-vis jacket hung on the wall with some ear defenders and a pair of worn-out walking boots by the door.
Turning back to Michael, you walk over and wrap your arms around him from behind, pressing your forehead between his shoulder blades. He tenses momentarily before leaning back into you, just a touch. His hands come up to cover yours where they rest on his stomach. You stay there for a moment, silence hanging heavy, punctuated only by the sound of rain and wind on the windows.
"Dunno why we're 'ere." He admits flatly and you press a kiss between his shoulder blades, hoping he feels it through his thick, denim jacket. "Prob'ly a stupid idea." He mutters to himself but he doesn't pull away. Instead he leans back a little more, his head falling forward slightly. "Bloody freezin' in 'ere."
"You think the heater still works?"
"Dunno." He replies gruffly, stepping out of your arms to the old electric heater in the corner. He bends down, examining it closely before twisting the knob. It sputters and groans before slowly starting to heat up.
Turning, you wander into the kitchenette. There's a small fridge, a kettle and mugs but no milk and all the teabags are years out of date.
"If we're staying, we'll need to call to the shops at some point." You tell him.
"Yeah." But his attention is still focused on the heater. He watches as the old thing slowly begins to warm the small living room, eyes lingering on the dusty dials and worn-out cord.
After a moment, he stands up and turns on his heel to face you, expression unreadable. You give him a weak but supportive smile. He holds your gaze for a moment then nods slightly before looking away. "I'll go." He says, pulling his jacket tighter around him. "Wanna come or stay 'ere?"
"You want me to come with or...?" You offer. He hesitates, hand on the door handle.
"Nah, you stay." He says after a moment, not looking at you. "It's freezin' out. Won't be long." With that, he opens the door and steps outside, closing it firmly behind him.
You heave a heavy sigh. There's so much he's clearly not telling you. But he will; in his own way, in his own time. It's like there's something here he doesn't want to acknowledge, something he's run from and finally built the courage to come back to. You're proud of him for that. He's being brave and, whatever he's fighting, you'll fight it with him.
Instead of dwelling on it, you try to busy yourself with making the caravan a little more hospitable. You toe off your shoes, carry the bags into the bedroom and open the small wardrobe, finding a duvet, some old, scratchy sheets and some old uniforms with the campsite logo. The sheets smell musty but they'll have to do for tonight. You make the bed and pack the clothes into the wardrobe, putting the empty cases back by the door, to go in the car boot when Michael gets back. Once all that's done, you pull on some pyjamas, still trying to keep your mind off the worry eating away at your insides because he's taken nearly an hour now.
Finally, after a storm breaks, with rain lashing across the windows, the door creaks open and Michael steps back inside, arms laden with plastic bags from the local shop. He pulls the door shut behind him and drops the bags onto the small table with a thud.
"'M back." Wandering back into the main room, you press a kiss to his cheek, stubble rasping against your lips.
"Thanks, babe." He empties the bags onto the table and you start putting them away.
"Alright?" He asks gruffly and you nod, ferrying the food stuffs into the kitchenette. Milk, teabags, bread, butter, dried pasta some tins of beans, soup and pasta sauce, toilet roll and, of course, a packet of tobacco, some filters and rolling papers for him.
"Took a while. Did you go for a drive?" You ask, opening cupboards to put things away.
"Yeah." He replies but doesn't elaborate further, collapsing down on the settee to roll a cigarette. He looks exhausted, dark shadows under his eyes, lines creased between his brows.
Once you've put the shopping away, you slowly approach him, brushing his curls away from his forehead as he finishes rolling his cigarette and lays it on the table. He pauses, fingers hovering over the cigarette as he meets your gaze. His eyes seem even more tired up close, the deep brown irises almost black. Your fingertips slide along his jaw, gently lifting his head, until you cup his jaw, your thumb finding the the curve of his cheekbone. How is it possible to look so old yet so young? So tired and so frightened...
"I love you. Y'know that, right?" You tell him and his hand comes up to cover yours on his cheek.
"Yeah, I know." He replies quietly, leaning into the contact. You bend to press a firm kiss to his forehead and his eyes flutter shut. You stay there for a moment and, when you pull away and he opens his eyes, they seem just a little less tired, a little less burdened.
"You go have a smoke. I'll make us some dinner, yeah?" You offer him a small smile and he hums in response, plucking his cigarette from the table and lighting it as he heads back outside, shutting the door softly behind him.
You struggle with the gas stove but eventually get it working. Everything seems a little rusty, a little stiff, not having been used for a long while, but you manage to get it all working. You boil some pasta, open a jar of sauce and make some cups of tea and, about twenty minutes later, Michael steps back inside, sea air and cigarette smoke clinging to his jacket. He shrugs it off and washes his hands quickly in the sink before walking over you you by the stove, wrapping his arms around your waist from behind and resting his chin on your shoulder as you dish out the food.
"Smells good." He murmurs, pressing a soft kiss to your neck, and you smile warmly, thankful that he's at last initiating touch and conversation again.
"Good." His arms tighten around you briefly before he releases you to sit at the table, bringing over the cups of tea and some cutlery as you bring the plates of pasta. When you sit opposite him, you both eat in silence for some minutes, the only sound the clinking of forks against plates.
Eventually, he looks up from his food and meets your gaze, voice just above a whisper.
"Thanks."
"It's alright." He holds your gaze a moment longer before glancing back down at his plate but, instead of eating, he places down his fork and reaches his hand out across the table, palm up, silently asking for yours. When you place your hand in his, he gives it a squeeze, a small, silent gesture of affection and gratitude. You rub your thumb over his knuckles, feeling the tension returning to his muscles as he braces himself.
"'M sorry." He says quietly, voice barely audible over the sound of the rain on the windows. "'Bout earlier." You squeeze his hand back, your brows knitting.
"It's alright." You assure him. "There's something going on and I figured you needed time. You'll tell me when you're ready, yeah?" His expression softens further.
"Yeah." His eyes settle on the way your hands are linked together across the table, listening to the sound of wind passing over the caravan. He takes a deep breath before continuing softly. "Used to live 'ere."
"Yeah?" And he nods, still looking at your hands.
"After I left school." You place down your fork to show he has your full, undivided attention; as if he ever doesn't. "Brother put me up in 'ere for a few years. Worked on the site; repairs 'n' stuff." He hesitates, as if debating whether or not to keep going. "Was pretty shit; workin' all hours, no money, no future." He scoffs bitterly. "But at least I had a roof over my 'ead." He goes quiet and you realise that's likely all the information you'll get from him for now. You lift his hand and press a kiss to his knuckles, giving him a grateful smile for even the crumbs he's given you. It obviously took a lot. You're proud of him.
You release his hands and keep eating, the both of you listening to the rain, the wind and the waves as they wash over the caravan. The heater still rattles in the corner of the room. There's still a tension here but the weight seems to have eased some.
Once you're both finished, Michael clears the plates and washes them off in the sink before putting them away. Leaning against the counter, he watches as you finish your tea. The caravan is at least warm now, made even warmer by the sight of you curled up on the settee in your pyjamas.
"Mikey?" You finally call out.
"Yeah?" He pushes off the counter, stuffing his hands in his pockets. His hair's messy again, dark curls falling in front of his forehead.
"If we're staying, we could use some new bedding, I think. I was gonna call to the charity shop tomorrow, maybe pick some up?" You ask and he turns, looking through to the bedroom and the ratty, moth-eaten sheets.
"Alright." He agrees and you drain your mug, standing up to wash it out in the sink.
"And maybe some fairy lights or something. Make it feel a bit more like home?" You offer, sliding your mug onto the counter. He hums noncommittally but you can tell by the look in his eyes that he's thankful. You're trying your best for him. Whatever it is, in this caravan with you; maybe it'll be just a little less scary if you can fight it together and with the help of some string lights and maybe a soft blanket or two.
He pulls you close, hands warm and heavy on your hips, dropping a quick kiss to your forehead. You tilt your head back and look at him for a moment before pressing your lips to his. Thick, strong arms wrap around your waist, pulling you closer. The caravan instantly feels warmer as the two of you stand there in the kitchenette, kissing softly under the dim lights.
When you pull back, your fingers play with the collar of his vest. "Maybe we should go to bed? It's been a long day." You offer and he nods, tightening his grip around your waist and tucking his face against the crook of your neck to breathe you in.
"Yeah..." He murmurs against your skin. "Love you."
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