Max had been doing okay, but only okay, and then, the word 'okay' was still used rather loosely, and in all of that, Frank really couldn't help but feel sorry for him - maybe not guilty, maybe not anymore, but sorry, because Max's mental health had never been his fault, it was just what he did, because there was a line, and despite his mental health, he still had to take responsibility for his actions, and he was just like everyone else. Frank really only found himself seeing that after having spent a while away from him, because there was really quite the contrast when it came to living with Gerard and comparing it to living with Max.

Gerard's house was all clutter, but clutter that was organised: somehow meaningful clutter, like a photograph he'd printed out and taped to the fireplace because it reminded him of a place he'd been one winter and wanted to remember that every time he sat there: in that odd kind of contemplative state he got himself into at times. Gerard's house was comfortable, not just in the furnishing or the decor, but the place itself: the atmosphere - it spoke of a man who was comfortable with himself, and radiated that out throughout the place: it felt safe, it felt warm, even when the fire wasn't on. And the thing that really meant the most, was the fact that the place was as much of Gerard's house as it was Frank's, even though he hadn't been living there particularly long, he was living there, not just staying for an extended period of time, which was rather what it had felt like with Max.

Because with Max that had been this ever present sense of non-permanence, even from the start, even if only at the back of his mind, there were always the signs that this just wouldn't last, and of course, Frank had done his best to ignore them, and his best to fake comfort in his own home, which was never something he should have found himself doing, but he found himself doing it for Max, who lost control sometimes, and ended up losing control too much, and left Frank stepping cautiously around the house as if with one misguided step he might land upon a landmine and blow everything to smithereens. And the thing was that he'd just let it get to the point where he found himself used to it, because before, it had never been like that - things had been good, Frank was sure of that, but Frank was also sure that things with Gerard were a million times better, and wondered if when he'd agreed to move in with Max he simply had no idea what happiness really meant.

Gerard had wanted Max completely out of Frank's life once he'd moved in, but Frank knew that wasn't practical, and Gerard knew that Frank did know Max more than he did, and Gerard had done this wonderful, yet so simple act of just putting his trust in him, and trusting that he'd talk to Max again but not get himself dragged into anything he didn't want to be in. Frank knew Gerard had this blow out of proportion image of Max in his mind: painting him as the bad guy, as the villain in all of this, but truthfully, in real life, there were no villains and heroes, there were just people, and their decisions, and indeed the consequences of those decisions.

Frank hadn't entirely wanted to go and speak to Max face to face, and if he was going to do such a thing, he knew that Gerard would definitely insist upon tagging on, and Frank wouldn't find himself nearly as opposed to that idea as he perhaps should be, and let him do so, and that would leave nothing more than a fight and an argument, and that was really the last thing anyone needed now, so he'd opted to speak to him on the phone, and let him talk him through his life and how he was doing, because the one good thing that Frank and Max would always have was the ability to understand each other's mental health and issues with ease; Frank would always be able to figure where Max was coming from. and that was why he needed to speak to him; he just needed someone that would understand, and someone who saw that there was little use in patronising him.

Frank curled up on the sofa, having grabbed the cup of coffee Gerard had made for him before disappearing upstairs to finish an art project of his while Frank spoke to Max, because he knew it would be hard for him to overhear the conversation and not having a somewhat volatile and typically Gerard kind of reaction, which wasn't necessarily bad, but simply not appropriate for the situation, and of course, Frank didn't deem it likely that Max would be all that inclined for Gerard to know every detail of his life and his every thought.

He produced his cellphone from his pocket and let out a sigh: finding himself biting his lip slightly as he opened his contacts, because in truth, he was beyond nervous, because this was so much more than an exchange of text messages, which was how they had communicated previously, because you couldn't ignore a part of a conversation as you considered and asked for help in responding for a few hours, or hide your tone in a clever choice of words, and, most of all, this would be so much more real, so much more Max. Frank hadn't heard his voice for a while, and he didn't want to say that he missed him, he just missed certain things, missed his presence in his life, to some form of degree, but that was how it always was: you always looked back on things as if they shone much brighter than they ever had done.

Frank finally brought himself to press the 'call' button, and leaned back into the sofa as he held the phone to his ear, and instantly found his teeth digging down into his bottom lip, which was definitely a bad habit, as Gerard had happened to point out upon several occasions, but Frank had found the act too hardwired into him to apply any feasible methods of prevention.

"Hello?" Frank found himself jumping a little as Max picked up the call and his voice called out down the phone line, which was an act that Frank found rather ridiculous, because he'd known that Max was going to have to speak at some point, if he'd called him, yet still, Frank found himself sitting there as nothing more than a bundle of nerves and anxiety.

"Hi-hey..." Frank let out an odd kind of groan as he became rather rapidly aware of just how ridiculous he must sound. "Hey." He tried again, forcing a smile over his lips, despite the fact that, of course, Max couldn't see it.

"I thought you'd forgotten," Max began: letting out an awkward kind of breathy laugh, that sounded almost forced, and perhaps was; this left Frank with the horrible thought of Max sitting around at home on his alone, worrying and thinking that Frank had forgotten about him completely.

"No," Frank found himself coming off a little too determined to prove his point, and paused for a moment: taking a breath, before he continued in much more relaxed tone of voice. "No, I didn't forget, come on, Max, I wouldn't forget about you - we've had this phone call arranged. It's important." He found himself stressing the word 'important', because he knew that if there was one thing Max needed to know right now, it was that he mattered, because this break up really wasn't the end of the world, even though it might seem as such to him in that moment. "We were a little late getting home from work - sorry about that. We got to the car and then Gerard realised he'd left his phone in his classroom so we had to go back and get it, and then we ran into someone from English, and I had to pretend to give a fuck about what they were talking to me about for a good ten minutes, because that's the problem with English teachers - they know too many words, and have too fucking much to say, too many opinions. Gerard was perhaps right about that, and I'm just proving a point here: talking forever..." Frank trailed off: a small smile creeping over his lips, "sorry about that."

"It's okay." Max reassured him, although it felt as if the words were more of a reflex than anything of genuine meaning, but Frank didn't feel as if it was worth pressing the matter; he didn't want to make more a mess out of this than he needed to do. "I'm glad you're happy with him. You always cared about him from the start, I knew that-"

"Max," Frank groaned slightly, and felt his other hand coming up to hide his face, "it's not like that. We're not together, we're just friends, honestly." Frank's words were followed by a brief complentative silence on Max's part.

"Maybe you should be together if you're not." Max found himself saying, despite the fact that neither Frank nor himself were particularly sure as to why. "He matters a lot to you - that's clear. He's all you talk about. No offense. I mean, we get like thirty seconds into a phone call before you mention him, but it's not an issue, I mean we're not together anymore, and I'm glad you're happy. You should be happy." Frank couldn't shake the feeling that perhaps Max's words were a positive exaggeration of how he felt, or perhaps, to put it crudely, a lie.

"I am happy." Frank told him: keeping his voice as neutral as he could. "And we're just friends, and we're happy." He took a pause, before turning the subject to Max, "and what about you? How are you? Are you happy?"

Max let out a long sigh, that seemed to be somewhat of an excuse to fill the place of a response. "I guess."

"Max." Frank brought stress to his words, because what was the point in this if Max was just going to lie to him to stop him worrying about him? What was the point in him trying to help him when he insisted upon assuring him that he was okay? "Don't lie to me. Tell the truth."

"Everything fucking sucks." Max said after a moment, and Frank really shouldn't have felt as pleased by that response as he was; it wasn't that he wanted Max to be upset, he just found himself certain that he was now telling the truth. "I get really fucking lonely, you know? And then I go a bit crazy, because it's fucking hard to get yourself out the fucking house when there's no fucking point, like what is there to do - what can I do? All my friends are your friends first."

"No, Max, no they're not." Frank bit his lip, wishing that Max had been built with a better immediate response to dealing with every problem he encountered, as his current approach was cutting himself off from the world and lying to everyone about being okay. "And you have your family. Do you not think maybe you should go stay with them, maybe even just your brother for a while? Because you need someone with you, especially when you're in this kind of state, and I'm sorry, I do care about you, but I can't be looking after you all the time - that's not how I want to live my life."

There was a somewhat prolonged silence that followed, leaving Frank's stomach doing backflips inside his chest: armed with the worry that perhaps he'd found himself saying too much, which seemed to certainly hold itself as likely, considering the content of his words, and the way Frank lacked when it came to natural and rational responses for the most part.

"Max?" Frank found himself asking after a moment, wondering if maybe the connection had cut out, because it had been a good minute or so now.

"Yeah, sorry... I..." He stumbled over his words as he forced himself into a response: having gotten himself lost in Frank's words and what they meant, and how they did really seem to mean something.

"No, I'm sorry," Frank corrected him: suddenly finding himself very guilty indeed, because making Max feel worse about this all was absolutely not the point of this, and if Max felt worse, then he might end up doing something stupid, and Frank would feel like that was his fault, even though, realistically it wasn't, he'd still feel responsible, because he'd told himself that if he'd left Max like this, he had to make sure that he did okay without him. "I shouldn't have said that. It was..." He paused for a moment, looking for the correct word, "too much."

"No." Max's response was rather instant this time. "You're right. Of course you're right, Frank. You're bright, you're smart, you're amazing, you know? You're a good teacher, you're good at your job - you have so much potential and I hate when you put yourself down- sorry." He caught himself going astray, "I... look, yeah, I'm... I'm not helping myself, I mean I'm just fucking sitting here and wasting away and going to work, and fuck- you always know what to tell me, you know? I'm so glad you're not ignoring me, because I wouldn't have the slightest idea what to do without you." Max paused, and Frank couldn't help but feel his lips tugging upwards into a smile. "I'm gonna go to my brother's, I think. Can I call you again in a few days time, do you think?"

Frank thought through the next few days and what free time he'd have. "You can call me Thursday night: about the same time. We've got fucking parents evening on Wednesday, and then on Friday I'm doing something with Gerard." Frank found himself blushing slightly at the mention of Gerard due to what Max had said earlier.

"Yeah, thank you. Really, Frank, this means a lot." He paused for a moment, "hope parents evening goes well. I know it will, you're a great teacher. Bye." Frank seriously had an urge to argue the whole 'great teacher' case, but there wasn't much point - the world was worth more than arguments and proving points.

"Bye." He added, his lips folding upwards into a smile as he ended the call, finding himself comfortable in the knowledge that despite this all, Max might indeed just end up okay through all of this mess.

-

Ryan wasn't at all sure as to how she'd possibly managed to accomplish it, but somehow Megan had become more of an idiot than she had been before, which was certainly an achievement by anyone's standards.

The thing was, that Michael Clifford had tweeted a picture of a Smiths album, and Megan had taken it upon herself to let the social media presence of a twenty year old man dictate her entire life and interests, as you do, and had therefore decided that she was now 'indie', as she called it, which was something Ryan didn't find himself entirely convinced of, considering the fact that she was still about forty miles up Michael Clifford's ass, but he knew that there was no hope at all for Megan to ever escape 5SOS hell - he would have referred to it as 5 Seconds of Hell, but she was going to be there a hell of a lot longer than five seconds.

Donning her new 'indie attire', Megan had walked into school that day, with a mustard yellow cardigan, which worked to represent her as, like mustard, Megan Clifford was fucking horrible and no one liked her. Okay, maybe that was a bit harsh. Mustard isn't that bad. But like we'd all chose ketchup over mustard. She was also wearing a Sonic Youth shirt, that she may or may not have stolen off her neighbour's washing line, because Megan had absolutely no fucking chill, and some jeans that had so many holes in that they seemed as secure as Megan's facebook password, which was ilovemrpetty- except Ryan totally didn't know that, because Megan wasn't predictable at all.

Megan had mentioned her new life choices briefly to Ryan via text that previous night, but it had gotten lost amidst the sixty five pictures of Michael she'd sent him, so he hadn't actually read it, as he was of course such a good friend, and found himself rather shocked when Megan walked up to him in the corridor before classes started for that day.

"Megan, what happened to the 5SOS shirt that you've worn everyday for the past three months?" Ryan asked: looking down at her clothes in a state of great confusion, as Megan's choice of clothes was definitely a troubling matter and Ryan didn't have anything else to worry about at all: especially not parents evening and the case of his somewhat abysmal grades and effort towards school.

"Ohmygod, Ryan, it's not the same shirt, ugh..." Megan rolled her eyes: shaking her head in disbelief at the guy who had the nerve to call himself her best friend when he had assumed she'd been wearing the same shirt for three months. "I bought five copies of the same shirt, so I can wear it every school day of the week, of course."

"Of course." Ryan met her with what would be concern, but this was Megan, and it was hardly the weirdest thing she'd ever done. "So what's with... this?" He asked: gesturing to the shitty mustard coloured cardigan in particular.

"Well, Ryan, as you should know, because I messaged you about it last night, and as a good friend you read and care about all of messages, don't you? And look at every picture of Michael I send you- but like, not just look, like a casual 'oh it's Michael Clifford, and oh that's also Michael Clifford' kind of glance, like you need a good thirty seconds per image to really take it in and appreciate Michael for what he is worth, because God obviously put a lot of time and effort in when he was creating Michael Clifford and we don't want to disrespect God's work, do we?"

"God can go fuck himself." Ryan snapped, rolling his eyes slightly, but finding that Megan's face began to contort into one of genuine upset. "I was joking." He assured her through the means of what was more commonly known as lying. "Sarcasm and all that. You know I care about Michael."

"Yeah." Megan nodded, "yeah, of course, I mean, how could you not? I'd have to get worried about you then, wouldn't I?"

"Yeah, of course." Ryan reassured her: bullshitting the whole conversation and finding himself far too surprised that he was actually getting somewhere with this, by some unseen miracle. "And so, the new...?" He gestured to Megan's clothes, searching for the word.

"Aesthetic." She finished for him: grinning that typical 'I'm Megan Clifford and I'm shit' grin at him. "Well, so Michael tweeted that picture of the Smiths, and I love the Smiths, so I'm just showing some appreciation, for Michael, and the Smiths. But mostly Michael. Do you think there is anyone in the Smiths called Michael? Michael Smith. No, that doesn't sound as good as Michael Clifford. He is the one true Michael-"

"Megan, did you know that the lead singer of the Smiths is actually called Michael Smith?" Ryan reminded himself that lying to Megan was always a fun activity, considering that she was rather gullible, and would believe this for anywhere between two weeks and eight years.

"Is he?" Megan exclaimed: eyes wide with horror.

"Yeah." Ryan nodded rather enthusiastically. "Michael Smith from the Smiths. You also have Jack Smith, Gavin Smith, and..." Ryan paused for a moment trying to think of another fucking name, "Ahmed Smith."

Megan, being Megan, found herself believing this, which was easily the highlight of Ryan's entire life. "Are they brothers? I think it'd be a bit weird being in a band with your brothers, like if I had a brother I'd punch him in the face, because no one else deserves the right of having Michael's last name other than me and Michael."

"What about your parents?" Ryan reminded her, "you know Mr and Mrs Clifford? Where you got your last name from." Ryan paused for a moment, just to watch Megan's face fall into dismay, "and no the Smiths are not brothers. They actually called the band the Smiths because all of them happened to have the last name Smith and it's a really fun coincidence."

"So it's not incest then, that's good. What's the ship?" Ryan looked at her blankly for a moment. "Ryan! The ship. I'm sorry but no band can exist on this earth without having a ship of two of the members. I mean, you have Muke, that's Michael Clifford and Luke Hemmings, but I don't think Muke is as good as Megchael, which is me and Michael Clifford, which is obviously the real OTP. Hashtag megchael forever. Anyway, but Muke would be my second choice, I mean, I used to ship Lashton, but then Luke and Michael like, they're living together, and that's gay, but it's gay like in the way that I want to kidnap Luke and take over his life, but yeah, if you think about me stealing Luke Hemmings' life then yeah, Muke is really cute, but like even if Muke is real, we all know that the day Michael lays his eyes on me he will fall in love with me instantly, because it was a match made in heaven. And you also have Larry, and Joe and Nick Jonas from the Jonas Brothers, but that's okay because they're not really brothers-"

"Megan, they are really brothers." Ryan told her, wondering just how they'd managed to land upon this topic of conversation.

"Oh?" She looked puzzled more than anything, "I guess they're like the reverse Smiths. That's really interesting. So what's the ship in the Smiths?"

Ryan quickly tried to remember which names he'd assigned to the made up members of the Smiths. "Uhh... Jack... and Ahmed. It's Jahmed. They're really cute together." Megan seemed to be buying it, so this was obviously a success. Ryan wondered if Megan would end up dedicating her life to Jahmed before finding out that neither of them were real, and just how she'd possibly react in the end.

"They're like me and Michael!" She exclaimed excitedly. "They don't have to change their last name when they get married!"

"Yeah." Ryan nodded: taking all of his self control not to burst into a fit of laughter.

"Oh my god, there should be a megchael and Jahmed double date!" Megan looked entirely far too excited by the prospect of this. "I'm so going to put in my megchael fanfiction."

"Your megchael-" Ryan practically choked at the realisation that he'd just said the word 'megchael', well it wasn't really a word, but, he'd said it.

"Yes." Megan exclaimed before he could even finish. "My Megchael fanfiction on my wattpad account. Follow me it's xxmegancliffordxx."

Before Ryan could even consider what the fuck Megan had just told him, he felt a hand tapping on his shoulder, leaving him to turn to face a rather nervous looking Mr Urie, which really wasn't a good sign.

"Hey, uhh... Ryan, could we have a word in my office?"

-

Unfortunately, for the first time, by 'word' Mr Urie had actually intended for them to chat and not failed at being somewhat discreet about them having some form of oral sex in his office. Needless to say, Ryan found himself rather disappointed, and somewhat personally attacked as he sat in the chair facing Mr Urie.

"So, Ryan..." He let out a sigh, leaning back in his chair and wondering why he was even pretending to be anything reminiscent of professional about this: his life was a mess and Ryan was more than well aware of that. "Fuck." He let out a sigh and reached into his desk drawer, and pulled out a bottle of vodka, took a swig of it and then passed it across the table to Ryan without a word. "Well, it's fucking parents evening tonight."

"Mmm." Ryan nodded, downing far more of the vodka than he really should have, considering that it was nine in the morning and he had classes to maybe go to that day. "I have been made aware."

"Yeah, well it's just that..." Brendon took the vodka back, finding himself taking another swig, because yes it was nine in the morning, but who knows? Maybe he'd be a better headteacher when severely drunk? It was unlikely, but it was always worth making sure. So, surely, drinking this vodka was actually the sensible thing to do. "Ryan..." He sighed a little, "you have-"

"Shit grades?" Ryan asked him.

"Well... well..." Brendon glanced at his laptop screen, "well yeah. And I... right ok, so what lies do you want me to blackmail teachers into telling your mum?"

Ryan laughed a little, leaning back in his chair. "It's fine. Don't worry about it. She knows I'm a pile of shit. We're all okay."

"You're not a pile of shit, though, Ryan." Brendon found himself rather stern in his words. "You're really not. You're special."

"The kind of special that has you drinking vodka at nine in the morning." Ryan told him: smirking slightly.

"Well, it's an interesting experience." Brendon let out an awkward laugh: looking Ryan over and smiling. "I don't want your mum to think that you don't have potential. I don't want anyone else to think that you don't, because you do, but just don't try. I wish you would, you know? You could go really far."

"But what if I don't wanna go far. What if I want to stay right here in your office and drink vodka for the rest of my life?" Ryan asked him.

"I'm not going to let you do that." Brendon smiled up at him, "no, you're going to do better than a fucking shitty high school, okay, Ryan. Get me this password - it's on a sticky note behind that certificate." He gestured to a certificate on the wall.

Ryan rolled his eyes slightly but got up, and gave Brendon a wonderful, and rather motivational view of his ass as he reached up for the sticky note. He raised his eyebrows at just what was scribbled down on the sticky note, before handing it to Brendon.

"Ah yes, ilovezaynmalik. There we go." Brendon smiled contentedly as his mind filled with images of Zayn. Ryan smiled as he found the similarity between Megan and Brendon's passwords rather amusing.

"What is this a password for?" Ryan asked, leaning back in his chair, because it was rather unlikely that he'd keep his personal facebook password beehind a certificate in his office at work.

"Oh it's for the school admin system- wait, fuck, you don't know that!" Brendon groaned, putting his head in his hands, "I'm going to have to fucking change it now, goddamn it, Ryan."

Ryan only laughed, because jesus christ, who the fuck had let him set the system password to ilovezaynmalik? "And what are you gonna do with it?"

"I'm going to, well, adjust your grades slightly, so they're a litte more favourable." Brendon continued, as if this wasn't completely illegal.

Ryan raised his eyebrows slightly, but found himself in absolutely no situation to argue against him. "What do we mean by favourable?"

"Well, I'm going Cs and Ds, because that's realistic, but I might slide a cheeky B in there somewhere. How about art?"

"I don't even take art."

"Perfect. That means no one is going to argue against it."

-

hey guys hope u like this chapter its been like longer than usual but like i was finishing nov 1st and now thats done so yh we're back to normal now well the new normal find out more in whats going on well not really but basically I'm writing less fics but they're better now this chapter is 1.6k words longer than usual this is what ur getting now merry fucking strawberry farming

love u guys

vote and comment if megchael is ur top

also vote and comment if it isn't because u should vote and comment because its a nice fckin thing 2 do