Hey there Fanfiction!

I'm baaaaaack!

So I was already working on this over the summer because I figured, well, come fall Austin's going on tour and Ally's not, why not write something? Then I got writer's block with it and kind of forgot about it because I was working on Beautiful Noise, but all this week I've been finishing and editing it to match everything that happened in Fresh Starts & Farewells. I'm very pleased with the result :)

This is based on One Direction's Back For You—I was listening to it cause I'm an avid 1D listener—and I was like "WAS THIS FUDGING WRITTEN FOR FRESH STARTS & FAREWELLS OR SOMETHING?!" so yeah, there you go. No, but really, it's perfect for Auslly—I'm looking down at the crowd / You're everywhere / So tell me nothing's gonna change / And you will never walk away / Even though every night you're hearing me say goodbye / Lately I've been going crazy / So I'm coming back for you. Perfect, no?!

Anywho.

Enjoy! And follow me on Instagram:

keep_calm_ship_auslly

Disclaimer: I don't own anything you recognize in this story. And by that I mean like everything. So please don't sue me, thanks.

"I'm not…getting on the bus."

Day thirty-six of the Full Moon tour had been a hard one.

Austin's back ached from the stiff, unforgiving mattress on his bunk in the tour bus, his eyes were fighting to stay open, and his voice? He didn't even want to start on that.

It had been around five when he and the band plus Trish and Dez were set to wake up. The sun had only just begun peeking out from its hiding spot behind the horizon, and the warm light shifting on his face had awoken him a few minutes before the alarm. He had been listening to the mellow sing-song voice of a bird—he wasn't able to say what kind—chirp-chirp-chirping right outside his window, the melody slipping and sliding through the gap in the thin curtain that was suspended loosely across the window. He had refrained from opening his eyes, trying to hold on to the wisps of sound that filtered in through the unforgiving silence, enjoying the comfortable luxury of feeling content in his own little world.

For that one moment, he was alone, all thoughts of the tour outside of his head; he was the only one awake, and for that one moment, he kept the silence—and the wobbly melody of the bird that still bounced around to an inexistent rhythm—all for himself.

"I'm going to miss you."

And then that moment ended.

The silence was shattered by the sound of six cell phone alarms—including his own—erupting from six tiny speakers in six different Apple-provided ringtones. His personal favorite was Blues: the upbeat, swinging piano reminded him of the countless hours he had watched Ally Dawson play. The way her thin fingers raced in a blur across the plastic keys, the endless variations of nail polish colors blending seamlessly with the black-and-white. He loved watching her. He loved sitting next to her, their shoulders pressed together as they worked to make something they both loved and could be proud of.

The last time he had done that was three months ago.

"I'm going to miss you too…"

Next came the low rumble of five grumpy groans—including his own—as five shaking and sleepy fingers peeked out from under the covers to grumpily hit the "slide to stop alarm" button (Trish had apparently decided to pretend she hadn't heard hers). Austin's missed, and he ended up knocking his phone off the bedside table. It landed with a loud clack, luckily protected by the bouncing rubber casing. He grudgingly stuck out first his feet, then his legs, and forced out his shoulders and arms, turning his face away from the warm sun that poured in through the window.

His feet firmly on the cold tour bus floor, he stretched and bent down to grab the fallen cell. The screen was lit up bright with a single text, every tiny letter glowing in a plea for reading. A faint smile played at his lips when he saw who it was from.

"We shouldn't be sad. You're making a record, I…I'm so proud of you."

"I know. And you! You're going on tour! And hey, we're only gong to be apart for…like…three months."

Ally.

Hey.

He smiled at his phone. Hey back.

How's tour?

Fine. Your record?

Fine.

A few seconds later another incoming text brightened his screen:

I miss you.

She didn't mention his note. He didn't either.

They were fifty-six days in now.

Over halfway.

And he was so, so torn.

Torn between loving that he was off in the big wide world living his dream, going somewhere new and exciting every day to do something he loved—it was Albuquerque, New Mexico next, and his heart gave a pang when he remembered the cloud watching museum there that Ally had wanted to see—and torn between wanting to go back home to Miami, to Sonic Boom and to his parents and to Marino High and to Ally, Ally, Ally.

He missed her.

"I guess this is goodbye."

"Yeah."

Everything he was working for felt a little bleaker, a little more pointless and dull without her; every song that he performed cost him a trip down memory lane to when he and Ally had spent hours writing it shoulder-to-shoulder at the piano. He hopped in and out of the tour bus every day with the same bounce in his step as the day before. He played every gig with a smile on his face that stated he was one hundred and ten percent fine.

Which he was, of course, save the ten percent—that was mathematically impossible.

But not the way he would be if she was eagerly waiting backstage with Trish and Dez, singing along at the top of her lungs like a crazy, mindless fangirl.

He could just picture that.

He could picture the dress she would be wearing, he could picture how she would be dancing, he could picture remembering her and Trish fussing over her hair with curlers and hairspray and whatnot in the tiny bathroom at the back of their bus. And it was just the thought that he could see it so clearly, so perfectly in his mind that scared him away from thinking it.

So he tried not to think about her.

At least, not in that way.

He was just…

…confused.

"Ally wait!"

"Austin, what are you—"

"I just wanted to say that I–I…"

The words he had wanted to say to her had gone dry on his tongue like a fire spluttering out, and she had been looking at him in that way she did and he hadn't had a clue what to say or to think or to want or to feel.

And so he had handed the card.

His Plan B.

"Here. It says it all in here."

It was too much to say out loud for him.

He remembered exactly the eighteen words he had written.

He knew because he had written them once, twice, a dozen times, each failed attempt of scrawled handwriting crumpled and crushed in the palm of his hand as he chucked it towards the rubbish bin, a million tiny creases in the white of the paper that would never leave no matter how many times he could try to smooth them out.

Kind of like the crumples in his heart.

He knew that was sappy.

He knew the card was sappy.

He knew she thought so when he pictured her tearing open the envelope and sliding it out with her thin fingers, flipping it open and reading the words inside.

Maybe rereading them, if she got sentimental enough.

Oh well.

"Austin Monica Moon, get your butt in this picture right now!"

Trish was shouting again.

He had finished the Albuquerque concert not two minutes ago—the words Thank you Albuquerque! were fresh off his tongue—and already there were at least three dozen girls with backstage VIP passes screaming for photo with Austin Moon. This used to be his favorite part, before he found out that a hand could go numb from signing three hundred autographs in half an hour. The bus ride following had not been pleasant.

With a deep, fatigued sigh, he gathered up his happiest smile and plastered it across his face, bouncing over to the plastic folding table that was set up every night to sign autographs. With some effort he disguised his tiredness with an exaggerated grin and leaned over some girl's shoulders, the faint click of his picture with her just barely missing his ears as Trish snapped it. He grimaced on the inside as said girl let out a sugary-sweet giggle and pressed her lips to his cheek.

He wondered if Ally was watching the live broadcast and suddenly felt a pang of guilt in the pit of his stomach.

She should've been in that picture.

Day eighty-seven.

Only a week left.

He was pumped that it was almost over. He knew it was wrong, but he couldn't help it—he was so done with having to have waken up at five in the morning for the past three months, his throat was swollen and sore from concert after concert after concert, and his head wouldn't stop reminding him of the comforts and luxuries he used to have at home—never again would he take a mother who regularly washed and folded his clothes for granted.

Not to mention that he was kind of busy missing the crap out of Ally.

It was like anything and everything he did these days reminded him of anything and everything that had happened between them before he left; he couldn't eat a bar of dark chocolate without thinking of her eyes, he couldn't look at a flower without remembering the card he'd given her and the words he'd been trying to say but couldn't, and it wasn't like the red hot knob on the sink totally didn't remind him of the jacket she'd been wearing.

It was like he was obsessed or something. He needed to stop being kind of creepy that way.

He was sitting cross-legged on his bunk in the bus, trying to fiddle with the cold steel strings on his guitar. He couldn't. He couldn't focus today. Somewhere in the back of the bus, he faintly registered Trish and Dez arguing over something that was probably more ridiculous than what they had argued over yesterday, and in the front two of his band members had turned the radio volume up on high so that harsh rock melodies blasted backwards, the words intertwining with Trish and Dez's, and the only person who wasn't irritating him right now was his drummer, who was on her bunk fast asleep.

It was like he couldn't shuffle his thoughts into an organized straight line anymore.

Giving up, he tossed a broken sigh out of his system and pushed the guitar away, flopping backwards on his mattress with his hands folded behind his head. There was nothing to do. He had three more shows—he couldn't be bothered to recall what cities they were in anymore—and then a lovely ten-hour bus ride back home to Miami.

To Ally.

He rolled on to his side, just far enough to slip his fingers under the pillow and grab his phone. The screen was dark. Blank. No nothings from anybody.

No Ally.

They had been doing their best to keep in touch, yes, but it was hard. Their schedules had both been close to bursting, what with her being needed in the studio from eight to six and his concerts every night, and it was just impossible to find time; the effort for a connection was already close to faded with the both of them. She hadn't texted him for a few days. He hadn't texted her.

Just a few more till they wouldn't have to anymore.

Miami Mall.

The logo was just as pink as he remembered when Dez stopped the car in front of the entrance.

It was day ninety-four. The end. They'd gone home first, dropped off their bags and said hello to their parents and had done everything they needed to. It had all passed in a blur for Austin, the hug from his father, the kiss on his cheek from his mother, suddenly having to get out of the Full Moon Tour bus for the very last time. Whether it was fatigue, or finally being home, or just the realization that it was over he didn't know. It didn't really matter to him.

The person he wanted to see now was Ally.

As Dez slipped the keys out of the ignition, he turned around to face Austin and Trish, both who looked like they'd been hit in the face with a sack of bricks. "We're here," Trish breathed, almost inaudibly. "It's over."

"Weird, isn't it?" Dez ran a hand through his bright red hair. "I feel kind of lost." He reached down and unbuckled his seat belt, and Austin didn't miss that his fingers lightly brushed over Trish's as he did so. She didn't say a word about it—just smiled.

Austin didn't have a clue what was going on with them anymore.

Trish took a deep breath and straightened her hair, checking it in the shine of the small review mirror. "You guys ready?"

"Definitely. Austin?"

Suddenly there was a thick lump blocking his throat, and any words he had to say went dry on his tongue. At his friends' penetrating stares, though, he managed to squeak out a painful "yeah" and followed them out the car's doors.

The sheer smell of the cool Miami air in autumn was enough to help him swallow the lump, and he forced his feet to walk to the mall. To the Sonic Boom.

To Ally.

He shoved his hands deeper inside his pockets, watching Trish and Dez as they wandered up ahead of him. He didn't miss how close their hands were and how perfectly their smiles seeped across their laughing faces. A moment later, his heart wrenched with a pang of jealousy that squeezed down into the pit of his stomach, milking his fatigued and blurry mind for all it was worth. It wasn't fair that it was so easy for them.

And suddenly they were standing outside the store.

The double glass doors opened as Trish pulled at the handle, and the sight of home suddenly became so solid, so real that he finally accepted it: it was over. He was home.

His gaze traveled passed the opening doors and across the cold linoleum tile and up the cash register and behind the wooden counter and…

…there she was.

Ally.

Blood rushed to his head and his heart pounded in his ears as the gentle pink light of the setting sun glinted off the swinging glass doors, making her swaying ombré curls glow golden when she squealed and moved to hug Trish, hugged Dez, laughed and brushed them out of her face and froze, her eyes locking with his.

He remembered suddenly how lovely her eyes were.

It was like the world stopped. She just stared and he just stared and nothing happened for what felt like days until a smile cracked and blossomed across her face, her lips spreading and her eyes crinkling.

"Hey."

Austin gulped and he felt himself smile too. "Hey back."

Then she was running, running towards him, her arms flying around his shoulders and his head burrowing into the crook of her neck as he squeezed her close, feeling her warmth sending hot sparks from his fingers to his toes.

"Austin." He could tell from her voice that she was smiling, even with his eyes closed, and suddenly he felt a powerful urge rising up in his body to kiss her.

"Ally."

Well? Whatcha think?

Remember, this is a ONE SHOT. I won't be continuing it, so figure out how it ends yourself. And if you have time, please check out my other story Beautiful Noise! Thank you!

Review please! What was your favorite part?

Oh, and there is the possibility of an Auslly multichapter looming…would anyone be up for that? No? Okay.

I'm out. Thanks for caring.

~Mia