Chapter Text
Perched lazily on top of the abandoned department store from the 90s, the full moon, round and shining, illuminates the sprawling lanes of the town, cobbled and deserted. It's a Saturday, but most of the night-life has dried up, the clubs shutting down, the pubs largely empty, just a few older stragglers reminiscing on better times. Naked trees stretch their arms haggardly towards the vast, black expanse of the sky, no stars strong enough to punch through the smoggy pall of dark clouds.
A harrowing, autumnal wind whistles deeply through the sails of decaying boats in the port, a low hum that rings throughout the seaside town. Old fables say that they were once the voices of shipwrecked pirates, damned to a watery grave, but stories die out, scraps of forgotten tales left to be feasted on by bloodthirsty seagulls. Their screams pierce the night as they congregate in every car park, on every lamp post, telephone wire, chimney.
Teenage boys in balaclavas and tracksuits patrol the streets on bikes, music playing carelessly from speakers in their backpacks. They loiter around benches in the park in the middle of town, like flies attracted to the cloying stench of cheap alcohol. They kick around empty Monster cans like footballs, aiming for the occasional, unfortunate passer-by who dares breach their territory.
Michael makes the grave mistake of crossing their path, overflowing supermarket carrier bags hoisted upon his shoulders. Despite forcing his eyes to the gum-littered floor, they spot him immediately, launching a can at him like a flying aluminium fist. He continues silently, knowing resistance only aggravates them, pulling up his bags.
If only they knew what he could do to them…
Even after passing, Michael can still catch a waft of the kids on the wind. There's so many of them and it's been months since he'd last fed. He considers it momentarily, envisioning his fangs sinking into their throats, the surprised looks on their faces when their victim turns persecutor. Despite this, he's deterred when the smell grows stronger, their blood tainted by the rancid liquor coursing in their systems.
He makes it out of the park unscathed, reaching the lit high street, empty plastic packaging rolling around like tumbleweeds in the desert. Tobacco and car fumes cling to every brick wall, blackening them and crumbling away every section of plaster.
Michael can remember what this town used to be like when he was a little boy. The future was bustling and exciting for the modern seaside resort, equipped with electric trams and the wealthiest businessmen all seeking the most lavish holiday home at the beach. His parents had been like that too; they had the nicest house of all, a stately manor residing at the top of the cliffs, watching over the town and the never-ending water that lined it.
Now it's a graffitied skeleton littered with heroin needles and ivy.
Trudging up the high street, Michael spots a figure approaching, clad in shadow, face obscured by a hood. Not wanting to deal with yet another confrontation from anti-social locals, Michael takes a sharp left, opting for a route home through the backstreets, knowing no-one in their right mind would be going there at 10 o'clock at night.
He winds past boarded-up businesses, sprawling recycling bins and the odd rough-sleeper, coming out by the church. His parents were buried in the accompanying graveyard back in the 40s, haunted by humans in death, their final resting places stamped by the symbols that were burnt into their skin by their killers.
Returning into the alleyways again, the silence of the night is broken by a sudden slap of a footstep. Michael glances behind to see the figure that he'd aimed to escape from running straight in his direction.
"What the fuck," he murmurs, before setting off, bags clutched as closely as he can to his chest to stop any of the food from falling out. He knows his way around these roads well enough that he hopes he can use it to his advantage. Michael quickly rounds a sharp corner, then steps to the side into a crack between two buildings, praying that darkness will conceal him.
His heart slams into his ribs so hard that he's almost sure the chasing stranger will hear him hiding. Michael cannot fathom why someone would be chasing him anyways; he'd stopped being recognised decades ago.
He presses his shaggy hair back into the wall behind him, pushing his whole body to make himself as well-hidden as possible. The seconds pass and time slips into what feels like hours. Michael can't hear footsteps anymore, but he can feel the danger in his chest, suctioning all the breath out of his lungs.
He counts down from three, then decides he'll make a run for it, but only makes one step out of the shadows before there is a hand on his shoulder slamming him back into the wall. His head hits the bricks with a sickening thud that he knows he'll feel tomorrow and the shopping bags fall from his arms, the contents spilling onto the pavement.
The stranger shifts his grip - it's definitely a man, Michael can tell from the heavy breathing against his face - to his throat, forcing his thumb into Michael's windpipe at every slight struggle he gives.
"What do you want?" Michael spits, jutting his chin out in vexed defiance. He knows it's not the safest idea as he cannot tell if there are fangs positioned in the man's mouth due to the absence of streetlamps, but he figures if he hasn't tried to feed on Michael yet, there's probably a good chance that he's just a human.
The man pauses a moment before he speaks, and when he does, his deep voice sends goosebumps up Michael's arms that can't be accounted for by the chilly breeze in the air. "I know who you are."
Nervously, Michael tries to laugh it off, roughly shoving the man off of him and crossing his arms. "And who is that?"
"I can't talk now, but I need your help," the stranger states, stepping back towards Michael to speak into his ear. "Meet me here again, same time tomorrow."
Before Michael can ask questions, the man turns back into the street, taking broad steps away from him, left staring in confusion. Before he leaves Michael's eyesight, the man spins to face him again, briefly lowering his hood to reveal his face.
Michael gasps, recognition sending buried memories ricocheting around his pounding skull. He still looked exactly the same as he used to, the same electrifying sapphire eyes that could drill directly into Michael's soul, the same haughtily upturned nose, the pouty lips always drawn into a permanent frown. The only difference was his hair, no longer forced into the neat finger curls that he used to spend hours fussing over before he could go out.
Michael had not seen Luke for a century, yet he was now here in the same town as him, asking to meet. And he'd said he'd needed Michael's help too, which is ironic when Luke was the one who had ruined his reputation, his friendships, his life all those years ago.
Cautiously, Michael can't help but wonder if it's a trap, meant to pique his burning curiosity so that they can kill him like he'd been decreed to. As he picks his spilt food-shop back into the bags, he tells himself that he shouldn't return and that he'll be risking so many years of hiding in freedom if he does. But a small, inquisitive voice fights back, desperate to know what help Luke Hemmings could possibly require from him.
He sets back onto his walk home, and once he makes it back to his tiny apartment on the side of town where all the university students stay, he's completely stuck between the two arguing sides of himself. As if on auto-pilot, he places his shopping into its places in his fridge and cupboards, rolling the incident around his mind like a marble.
One thought ambushes the forefront of his brain repeatedly, and while he hates it, he can't ignore how much it had been coming up lately.
What do I have left to lose?
Michael had had everything taken from him, and now he lives in this awkward liminal space between vampirism and humanity, trying his hardest not to feast on humans, for his sake as much as anyone's, but still caged by the nature of his body. He had always felt bad for killing them just for a quick meal, but every couple of months he could not control the sickening desires for human blood that send him into a thirsty rampage, feasting upon the townspeople at night. He's tried to become accustomed to human food, and as much as he can survive off of it, nothing could ever be as fulfilling as the syrup of life, especially after the thrill of the hunt, knowing he'd worked for his food, not just some poor worker at the local supermarket.
He's a strange, pathetic imitation of a vampire, yet completely cut off from mankind, too scared of being caught by a hunter to want to pursue a job, and so he survives off of the small fortune he inherited from his parents. Michael lives frugally in the hopes that it can last as long as possible, but it's running out, and the day it's used up he'll have nowhere else to go.
Could this help that Luke asks from him be enough to bring him out of the torpor that has become of his existence? It certainly can't get much worse from how it is.
As he tidies up his apartment and gets ready for bed, despite the leeches of anxiety gnawing at his guts, his mind is made, the boredom of his life longing for something better.
He longs for something else too, an undeniable thirst drying his tongue. The withdrawals after not feeding on blood after a few months are agonising, starting as an empty pit in his stomach and turning into an ache in Michael's chest that drives him so mad that he can't leave the house during the day, fearing that if he sees someone he won't be able to control himself. Seeing those kids earlier in the night, regardless of how disgusting their scent had been, set off his cravings and now he curls over in his kitchen, fighting the urge to go back outside.
He claws his ragged nails up his arms, drawing harsh red lines up his skin as he rolls into a ball, rocking forwards and backwards on the freezing tile floor. Weakly, Michael pushes himself up with trembling arms, crawling to his bedroom. He knocks into his bed frame, but continues nonetheless, determined to knock himself out of the agonising trance that blood-lust sets off in him.
His hands shake as they reach into his bedside table to pull out a dainty velvet pouch. It had belonged to his mother once and been passed down to him. He tugs on the drawstrings to open it up, revealing a delicate silver cross pendant hanging from a chain. He takes a deep breath, bracing himself, then presses it against his wrist, hissing at the burning sensation. Michael pulls it away after as much time as he can bear, which is only a few seconds, but it's enough to crystallise his foggy thoughts and pull him away from his thirst.
Pinching it cautiously by the chain, he slides the cross back into its bag. He considers eating a meal, but after that he's not sure he could stomach any human food. After a brief shower and tending to the angry welt forming on his wrist, Michael pulls himself into bed.
*
On Sunday night, Michael gets to the same street before Luke does, thinking it's probably a good idea to scope out the area in case it is a set up. He works out the route home from every direction and stares up at the windows with lights on to try and spot any faces pressed up against the glass watching back at him. When Luke finally emerges from round the corner, he offers Michael a polite wave then motions that they should talk in the privacy of the same alleyway. He appears to be in a rush, cheeks lightly flushed.
Despite the many alarm bells that sets off for Michael, he follows Luke into the shadows. As soon as they're submerged, Luke takes a grip on his collar. Michael tries to shove him away but his fist is like iron.
"Stop it, I'm trying to help you," hisses Luke.
Michael raises an eyebrow. "How is this helping me?"
"Listen," Luke instructs, his voice still hushed as he lets Michael go. "Some of my buddies are going to pass by soon. I need you to act like I'm feeding on you, then they'll leave, got it?"
At Michael's silence, he takes a confident step forward, getting in his face. "Have you got it?"
"Yeah, yeah, fine. Don't see why I should but—"
"Do you not remember that you're a wanted man?" asks Luke, incredulously, his amazement making it look like he's almost laughing.
"Seeing as I've still not been caught, not really," Michael remarks, going to lean against the wall.
Luke shakes his head. "Still cocky as ever, Clifford. Some things never change."
"And you've still got a god complex. You've still not told me why I'm here."
Luke cuts him off with a finger in the air that Michael can just about make out in the darkness. "Listen," he whispers.
Michael strains his ears to catch what he's referencing, and he catches the sound of rowdy laughter, closing his eyes to locate that it's a couple buildings down.
"That's them. Wait here." After giving his instructions, Luke leaves their hiding place, and Michael watches in fascination as his entire demeanor shifts, his posture becoming more relaxed and gestures more open.
"What's up, Luke," says a voice that Michael can't see. Luke steps away to approach him.
"How are we boys? You two heading up to the party down at Cal's as well?" Luke's voice sounds so different that it's like a different man is speaking to them.
"Yeah, yeah," confirms another new voice. "What are you doing hanging around in this area, man?"
Michael can almost hear the lie as Luke says, "Just pre-gaming, you know?"
The two men chuckle at that, and he can hear pats on Luke's back.
"She down there?" the first one questions, as the sound of slapping feet start up. "Share with us, Luke!"
Luke comes back into view, overtaking his friends to get to Michael first. With a point of Luke's fingers and a silent mouthing of 'floor', Michael lays down on the freezing ground, trying to not think about what an insane situation he's found himself in as he fears he'd begin smirking. Before he can catch a glimpse of Luke's friend, his boot pushes Michael's face in the opposite direction to conceal his identity.
"That's a bloke! You can keep him to yourself," exclaims the first man, the disgust evident in his voice.
"Same here. Not that there's anything wrong with it, but I'm not…" the second trails off.
Michael senses Luke kneeling down next to him, and he tenses as he feels him slide a finger over Michael's jugular in what appears to be a highly-practiced motion. "More for me I guess."
The air grows tense as the two strangers quickly excuse themselves, obviously not wanting to be caught near anything of this nature. They mumble something about seeing Luke at the party then scurry off, and Michael can make out a whispered "I didn't know he was into that."
Luke stays where he is, heaving deeply from nerves, even as their voices fade out of earshot.
"I know I have a lovely neck, but you can let go of me now Hemmings," reminds Michael, staring at the other man in amusement.
Absentmindedly, Luke blinks at him, then removes his hand, coughing awkwardly as he and Michael stand up.
"Sorry about that," Luke mutters, not looking at Michael.
"Pardon?"
"Sorry," repeats Luke.
"Come again?" Michael eyes him with a mischievous expression on his features.
"Did you not hear what I said?" interrogates Luke.
Michael crosses his arms in achievement, grinning. "Yeah, I just wanted to hear you apologising."
Luke roughly shoves his shoulder. "Prick."
Michael retaliates with a stronger push, sending Luke into the wall with a shout of "What the fuck was that for?"
"You did it to me," he shrugs.
"Whatever." Luke shakes his head, as if trying to set his thoughts straight. "Look, let's just get to what I told you to meet me for. I need your help."
"So you've said."
"Don't be a smart-ass. Look, something is happening in our world. There is a great change coming and we need to fight back against it. I can't do that without your help," admits Luke.
Michael studies Luke's face, searching for a joke or a sign that this is a trap, but all he can find are shining beams of earnestness. "Well, since you asked so nicely, I'll consider it Hemmings. You've not really told me what I'd be doing though have you?"
"If you come round to mine I'll explain everything to you."
"Tonight?" questions Michael, surprised. "Would this have anything to do with offering me up to your father so I can be drawn and quartered for rebellion?"
"You really think I'd risk my arse talking to someone like you, twice, and lie to my friends about it, just to give you to my dad? As fun as it would be to see you dead, I don't wanna fuck things up for me too. So you can come round now without any questions, or you can get lost and go back to your sorry life," explains Luke, halfway gone already.
The seriousness of the situation hits Michael, a mix of Luke's words and the roaring glints of anger evident in his eyes, and he nods, saying he'll join him. Luke leads Michael to a couple of streets away, where his car is parked.
"Get in."
Luke drives them in silence over to the nicer side of town, where corner shops and kebab takeaways are quickly replaced by extravagant modern mansions, all white walls, ebony paneling and storey-high glass windows, beckoning people to come and drool at the wealth displayed inside. Every property is decorated by glimmering sports cars and lined with a wall of foliage, a barrier between them and the outside world. Luke pulls in in front of a similarly lavish block of flats, equipped with its own front drive and perfectly-pruned front garden.
He walks the two of them in, and Michael follows him into the lift. Everything in the place is white to the point where it feels like he's being blinded, white lights from white chandeliers reflecting off of white marble into his green eyes.
The lift takes them up to the penthouse, its height reigning supreme over even the wealthiest people in the neighbourhood. The mirrored doors pull apart to reveal a garishly-large, open-plan living area, containing a living room that merges into a kitchen largely taken up by an expansive island.
Luke kicks off his boots into a rack full of shoes, Michael following suit, then leads the other man over to a pristine, L-shaped sofa.
"Sit down," Luke instructs. "Can I get you something to drink?"
Michael shakes his head, assuming he's referring to blood. That's something he can only enjoy on his own.
"Are you sure? I've got Coke and some other stuff like that," Luke adds.
Michael's eyebrows knit together in surprise, not just that Luke would offer him human beverages, but also that he would own them in the first place. "Why do you own Coke? Hanging out with humans now? I'm sure your dad will be happy to hear that," he chuckles bitterly.
"I've not drunk human blood in nearly 30 years," Luke admits, then perches onto the cushion next to Michael's.
"Dead-ass?" asks Michael, half-sure that he's making a joke. The word still feels modern and performative around his lips, having picked it up from the uni students that live near him.
"Dead-ass. That's why I wanted to speak to you actually." He shifts in his seat nervously, slightly wringing his hands. "There's a group of us who've stopped drinking blood," Luke explains. "After what you did, lots of us began considering why we drink from humans and that there's better options that don't involve killing. You represent more than just that, Michael, you're a symbol of change among the next generation of vampires. We need you, to be the face of the revolution."
Michael crosses his arms, a physical barrier between them to cut short Luke's proposal. "Nope. It was never meant to be some political protest. I don't want to be involved with vampires ever again, much less you."
Luke frowns, bearing his palms to Michael in a show of submission. "Michael, I know I hurt you—"
"Hurt me? You ruined my life with a stupid joke. I only met back up with you tonight because I don't have anything else to fucking lose!" The pent-up rage that had been building in Michael for nearly a century slams into him, and with an exasperated growl, he stands up, shoving Luke away as he attempts futilely to console him.
Luke steps in front of him, but Michael slides past. "You can't leave, the lift is locked."
Despite him, Michael continues to the silver doors, out of place in the tastefully-decorated penthouse suite, pressing the button and smacking the doors when they inevitably show no signs of budging. "Let me out!" He turns back to Luke, storming in his direction. "This is insane!"
"Just listen to me, please!" pleads Luke, placing his hands on Michael's shoulders to stop his vexed pacing. "If you've got nothing left to lose, does it hurt you to listen?"
A few drops of clarity grace Michael's fury-clouded brain, and he pauses, pondering Luke's question. "I suppose so. Fine."
Luke leads him back to their seats, letting go of Michael once he's sure he won't go racing off again. He settles back next to him, rubbing his face in exhaustion and stress as he sinks into the back of his sofa.
Michael taps his foot, staring down the stretching Luke. "I'm listening."
"Things have been happening. More and more humans are being slaughtered ruthlessly every year, and we're so close to being found out. Things just need to stop, but we can't all bunch together. We need a figure-head to group us, and there's no one better than you.
"If you're not going to do it for me, and you're not going to do it for other vampires or humans, do it for yourself. If we succeed, you're a free man. If not, you said it yourself, nothing left to lose.
"Michael, I need your help, please, consider joining us," finishes Luke, his voice animated and passionate.
Michael takes the sight of him in, passing the logic of it round his head. He doesn't like it, but he can't find any holes in Luke's argument, and he's been waiting for so long for something to change, to find a purpose that he hadn't felt in a long time. Decades in passing, longing to reach a side of the two divides but permanently spinning in the intangible middle. The offer tugs at his chest, and he knows he has to do it.
"I'm in."
Luke frowns in surprise, not having expected Michael to agree so willingly after his outburst. "Really?"
Michael nods. "I'll do it."
"Awesome." Luke sets off, grabbing a laptop off a coffee table. "In a few weeks we're going to be hijacking one of the board of elders' live-streams." He shows Michael a plan he has typed out. "I want you to be the face of it."
Michael studies the document, a long, multiple-stepped plan entailing how it would be done. "I can't believe the elders do live streams now," he chuckles.
"To be fair, they spend half of them reminiscing about the printing press from when they were our age," Luke adds, scrolling down to allow Michael to read more.
Rubbing his face, Michael yawns, checking his watch. "It's getting late, I should head home."
"Alright," Luke mumbles as he moves aside to allow Michael to stand up.
Michael removes his phone from his pocket and frowns at the screen. "Fuck, I forgot there're no buses this time of night…"
Before he can think it through, and very much against his better judgement, Luke blurts out "Stay."
Shaking his head, Michael mumbles out a protest, knowing that the more time he spends around Luke, the rockier their shared ground will become. Or, perhaps even worse, they closer they'll be.
Doubling down, Luke repeats himself. "You can stay on the sofa, I don't mind."
Michael looks between him and the hour-long walk back to his apartment that Maps is showing him and caves in on the offer. "Fine. But don't expect me to forgive you just because you're being nice."
Luke smiles softly at him and Michael can't help the disgust that boils up in him at the fact that it feels good to be looked at like that. "I'd expect nothing less from you, Clifford."
After packing up his laptop and switching off all the lights, Luke retreats to his room without so much as a "goodnight". Michael doesn't really mind his coldness; it makes it easier for him to stay angry with Luke when he's being so generous. He peels off his jacket and jumper, lobbing them over the barren coffee table, then splays himself out over the exuberant sofa. It's comfier than his bed at home, and yet sleep evades him, taunting him behind his eyelids but staying out of Michael's reach.
To occupy himself, Michael ponders what he's signed himself up for with Luke, what form this proposed revolution of his will take. It had been a long time coming. With each passing year, vampires had become less and less paranoid about being caught, practically massacring full villages of humans and not trying too hard to hide when the police arrived. Stories spread of the nature of these kills, inhumane and hellish, yet no one stands up to it.
The reason as to why is so glaringly obvious in Michael's mind that it further amazes him that Luke would even consider starting a revolution. The man had been born into the most powerful family of their kind, and over the last century they had practically evolved into a dynasty. A member of the Hemmings family has a hand in every powerful industry or company imaginable, and they take up most of the seats on the council of elders. There's a long trail of bodies, both vampire and human, behind every one of their success stories, but to criticise it would only add you to their list.
Michael was the only person ever to so much as point out an issue, and he'd been socially isolated for it and a victim to dozens of attacks. As a young man, he'd been friends with Luke and a few other boys who had all gone to the same school. Michael was a bit of an outsider even then, getting into the prestigious school on a scholarship while many of his peers had just had their parents pay for it, the cost irrelevant to them.
Luke had never cared though, and immediately took Michael under his wing, his surname serving as armour. The two were close enough when socialising in a group, but alone, they were inseparable, the other's better half. Michael loved the Luke he saw when it was just him, and he knew Luke felt the same.
The bliss collapsed on the fateful night that ruined Michael's life. They were out with some friends at a new jazz bar in London that had become popular. One of the boys had gotten a young lady so drunk that she was nearing unconsciousness, and brought her and the rest of the group to the alley out the back.
Michael could only watch in horror as his so-called friends took turns draining her, with no aim of keeping her alive. Her eyes were empty and cold as they stared up towards a starless sky, while pairs of fangs ravaged through her flesh, her once milky-pale neck and wrists now ruined flaps of skin hanging off the bone. Her blood pooled beneath her, flowing around cobble stones to paint a glimmering geometric pattern on the ground. Michael lifted up a shoe as it reached him, expecting the blood to be slick and slippery, but instead producing a disgusting squelch as he retracted his foot.
It made no sense. He'd always been comfortable with feeding on humans, the ethics of it never brushing his thoughts, but the scene that unveiled before him made his stomach drop. He felt sick. Someone turned to him to ask if he'd wanted a go with her, his face almost unrecognisable from the amount of scarlet staining around his mouth and how supernaturally his pupils had blown out, his eyes essentially black gemstones shining in his face.
Michael shut him down quickly, refusing to drink from the poor girl. The weight of his heart only increased as he watched Luke get pressured into joining in, a nervous and apologetic look on his features as he stared at Michael through a mouthful of blood, spilling down his chin.
"Michael, just try some," he pleaded, knowing that Michael's status as an outsider would be solidified if he protested further.
"I can't," he choked out, scurrying away from the scene as he heard laughter ringing after him.
At school the next day, he'd been served so many cruel looks by boys he'd never even spoken to before in his life. It had only been a few hours and yet they all knew. Michael didn't even think what he'd done was so insanely ground-breaking as to deserve this treatment, and he later discovered that the story had been twisted to say that he'd reported his friends to the police. It was one of the worst things you could do as a vampire, as it risked the secrecy of millions, and with his already precarious reputation, this was the final blow.
He could still remember now the look on Luke's face when he confronted him; the guilt told Michael all he needed to know. Luke was the one that had started the rumour. As the day went on, Michael was dragged from the Principal's office, to a meeting with governors and government officials, all threatening trial and punishmet, so he did the only thing his childish brain could come up with: he ran away.
He integrated himself into humanity as well as he could, and despite the occasional attack when a fellow vampire recognised him, he managed to live in peace from them all, moving back to his hometown. It gave him time for his hatred for Luke to simmer, fueled by every radio speech he had heard him give, slandering Michael's name and urging that he turn himself in. They'd eventually stopped, and Michael now realises that it's due to Luke's change in lifestyle, yet he's still filled with rage at the mere sight of the man who had betrayed their friendship and left him to the vultures.
And now he's laying on the sofa of his sworn enemy after choosing to help him achieve what Luke had punished Michael for doing so many years ago.
A click takes Michael out of his thoughts as he watches Luke's door open out of the corner of his eye. Michael remains still, discretely closing his eyes, deciding that he'll pretend to sleep and spy on whatever Luke's doing.
He hears him shuffle over to the kitchen, where he appears to be pouring himself a glass of water. Michael considers giving up his act as there's not anything particularly shady about requiring a drink, but he makes out Luke walking back in his direction. Michael allows his body to go completely limp, and puts all the energy he can muster into maintaining a straight face.
As if by some sixth sense, he can tell that Luke is stood watching him "sleep", staying put for an unbelievable amount of time.
Straining his ears, Michael can make out Luke whisper, so quiet he almost misses it: "I'm so sorry, Mike." This is followed by what sounds like a choked sob, before he hears Luke's footsteps start up again, getting quieter until he retreats to his bedroom again.
What the fuck… thinks Michael, trying to work what could have possibly prompted what just happened. Was Luke apologising for what he'd done to him? Or maybe for something that he was planning on doing?
Not wanting to risk anything, Michael sits up on the sofa, staring down the hours until he can return to his flat.