"I wish we knew each other in real life."

I sighed quietly as soon as the words slipped out of Michael's mouth. I was lying in bed at 11 at night and decided to call him up cause I couldn't sleep, and what better thing is there to do than call up your favorite member in your favorite band and harass him a little bit?

"Me too," I said truthfully.

As the days and weeks and months passed and the more and more we talked, I'd grown really attached to Michael. He'd become my best friend and I knew I could trust him, but my insecurities would always get the best of me. But for some God forsaken reason, I had decided to lie to him.

And what's worse, I knew he trusted me.

"You should come on tour with me," he says non-chalantly. I nearly choke on air.

"W-what?" I stutter, sitting up in bed. I hear him chuckle and my heart fluttered.

"You'll love it, I swear. And the lads will love you. Everyone will love you."

"Michael..." I sigh. "You know I can't."

"Why not?" He whines.

"Because I have to work," I remind him, avoiding telling him the real reason I couldn't go. "Plus I don't think my mom would be too happy with me running off to travel the world with a boy I met online."

"Yeah but I'm not just any boy you met online," he clarified. My eyes reached for the heavens.

"Michael Gordon Clifford I cannot afford to take a whole, like, ten months or so off of work."

"I will hang up on you," he threatens, clearly annoyed with the fact that I called him by his full name.

"No you won't," I challenged. It gets quiet for a few seconds, and I narrow my eyes at my wall.

"Michael," I groaned. I pull my phone away from my ear, checking to see if he hung up.

"I know you're still there," I groan again, but he still doesn't reply.

"Mikey stop giving me the silent treatment, please," I fake sniffled.

"Are you crying?" He suddenly asks.

"No but I probably will if you keep ignoring me."

"You're annoying."

"Your face is annoying."

"Good one," he snorts. "Are you ever going to bleach your hair like I did?"

If I was being truthful, I would have told Michael that I have bleached my hair to match his. But seeing as I'm the most horrible person on the planet, he thinks I still have lilac hair since the girl in the pictures does. I've managed to save a bunch of pictures of this girl, so whenever he "misses my face", I can send him one, which has only been a few select times. I start to feel creepy, knowing that I'm pretending to be someone I'm not. I want to tell Michael the truth, but I feel like I never can cause I know he'll hate me. I hate me.

"I told you, I don't want to damage my hair more than it already is." Part of this is true. Once again, Michael would know this if he knew I already bleached my hair, and he would know that my hair is practically fried and in desperate need of a trim of some sort.

Michael sighs tiredly.

"Tell me something I don't know about you."

"Er, like what?" I ask, confused.

"You tell me!" He laughs, making me laugh as well. I say the first thing that comes to mind.

"I want to own a strip club when I get older," I shrug to myself. He's quiet for a moment.

"A what?"

"A strip club."

"A strip club."

"Mhm," I hum, amused.

"A strip club?" He repeats. "Really?"

"I've been thinking about it for a while now. I think it'd be awesome. Like I've already got so much planned out for it."

"Like what?" He asked, suddenly curious.

"Well, um." I rubbed my forehead nervously. I hopped off of my bed, turning my light on and grabbing my glasses. I picked up a notebook I had, skimming through the pages while Michael patiently waited and hummed a song until I found what I was looking for.

"If I'm being greedy and let's face it, unrealistic, I'd like it to be two stories. I'd have the typical T shape stage down the middle, with the bar on the right and the dressing rooms or whatever they're called on the left, or maybe behind the stage I haven't figured that one out yet. Bathrooms will be up front, and upstairs will be just like, private rooms and such. But I want a few bigger private rooms for like, maybe people who want a party? Y'know, like a bachelor or bachelorette party? I'm not sure yet. But I want..."

[Michael]

As Mae rambled on about this strip club she wanted to build from fucking scratch, I couldn't help but smile. It was funny hearing her talk about this, knowing how innocent she was. I mean, the poor girl barely even swore. But to hear all the little details she already had figured out, from how many private rooms she wanted (and knew exactly where she wanted them), to having special nights (like karaoke night and Monday madness, which meant that all drinks where $5 off since it was Monday), to having a damn giant martini glass filled with bubbles and one of the girls, made me genuinely happy. Never in my life have I met someone who had planned things out so thoroughly. Plus Mae wasn't much of a talkative person; she was more of a listener, so it was nice to hear her prattle on for a good ten minutes.

"...And I wanna have contests too, like maybe a wet t-shirt contest or I could get one of those bulls that you have to sit on and try to stay on for as long as you can and whoever stays on the longest, wins something," she said, taking a deep breath after.

"What about male strippers?" I asked her, grinning. She gagged.

"Gross."

"Gross? How?"

"Cause all they do is hump your face," she said, as if it was obvious. "It's gross."

"Hey! I take offense to that."

"Michael Clifford!" She gasped, giggling. "Are you secretly a male stripper?"

"Well no... But one time a fan sent us male strippers-"

"Michael shut up, I already know this," Mae laughed, and God damn it was the most beautiful sound I've ever heard in my life.

////////
(a/n)

TELL ME THAT FUCKING GIF DOESN'T FIT PERFECTLY WITH THIS CHAPTER.

GO AHEAD. TRY AND TELL ME THAT.

fun fact i actually want to own a strip club in the near future and i thought it'd be hilarious to throw it in the story don't judge me

❤️hey man don't be a silent reader it's bad karma❤️