#pasta. like sure i was a little zoned out maybe if you paid close attention you'd have seen my eye getting lazy or something but like. thats

[the-acid-pear]

Mental illness is insane I'm just having dinner w my father eating this a little too spicy pasta enjoying the Yeowch on my throat and the silence and suddenly I'm like yeah I'd kill myself.

[captainsassmanes]

It’s the Little Things

“Here, drink this.”

Michael stared at the cup, squinting in his sad attempt to push through his hangover and see the world through clearer eyes.

“What’s that?”

Kyle raised his eyebrows, annoyance pinching the features of his face. “Poison.”

Michael offered a fake smile and took the cup, grimacing initially at its heat, then enjoying the warmth as it worked its way down his throat and into his gut. 

He sat up, stretching his back and blinking the tired from his eyes when he paused, cup halfway to his lips again.

“How’d you know how I like my coffee?”

Kyle tapped the side of his head, conspiratorial smirk in place. When Michael’s face showed exactly how funny he thought Kyle was, he sighed and turned back to his work.

“How do you think, genius?”

******

Michael had gotten absolutely obliterated.

His head was pounding, the sound of his own breathing causing him to groan in agony. Rolling onto his back, he stared at the ceiling of his air stream, trying to piece together what may have happened the night before.

He was definitely at the Pony. He’d definitely bumped into Long again. Then something else...it was all fuzzy. It must have been bad if Maria hauled his ass out instead of letting him stay the night.

After a bottle of acetone and a few more fruitless tries at the game of memory, Michael practically fell out of his too small bed. He opened the door and squinted at the sun piercing his eyes, sending a dagger of pain through his skull.

Surprisingly, his truck sat outside and he felt a pit of dread thinking he may have driven home while he was black out drunk. But as he moved closer, he saw his jacket folded neatly on the hood, a yellow piece of paper sticking out of the pocket.

Feel better.

*****

The next time Michael woke up from a binge, it was on a hard bench in an all too familiar cell.

“Ah, he lives.”

Deputy Valenti swaggered to the cell door with a sad smile on her face. “You alright, cowboy?”

Michael threw his arm over his eyes, the sun coming in through the small window at the perfect angle to blind him.

“Been better. Been worse.”

He heard her clear her throat, presumably to get his attention. Peeking out from the safety of his own body, he met her gaze, a mix of frustration and pity.

“Guerin, I dunno what’s going on but you’ve gotta get it together.” He scoffed but she wouldn’t let up. “I’m serious. Michael, the men you fought with last night? About five of them, half of them twice your size. You’re gonna get yourself killed.”

His heart pounded as he felt her affection for him. The sudden longing for his own mother, for someone to love him unconditionally and hold him close while he collapsed, was overwhelming. He didn’t trust his own voice so he just nodded, resting his head back on the wood.

After a few minutes of silence, Michael asked, “so how long am I in the tank this time, Valenti?”

She’d moved quietly to her desk at this point, diving into the endless pile of paperwork. “Whenever you’re sober enough to safely get yourself home.”

Groaning, Michael pushed himself up to sit, resting his back against the cool wall. “I don’t owe you anything?”

She shook her head, eyes dancing across her work. “Already taken care of.”

“Who?”

She looked up, pulling her glasses off her face. “An anonymous donor. Are you feeling better yet? I’m tired of you, Guerin.”

******

Somehow he completely zoned out.

He’d been working through some of Liz’s notes, trying to find what they were missing. But he’d been off all day, getting lost in thoughts of his family, daydreams of his home planet, missing Maria, throwing some shit around when he thought of Max. And then there was always...

A knock at the door startled him from his reverie. He lifted the blinds to see who would have the balls to visit without warning but found a kid standing in the sand with a big bag and a hesitant look on his face.

Michael pushed the door open with a gruff, “what?”

The poor kid looked like he might tip over. He cleared his throat and squeaked out, “delivery for Michael Guerin.”

Michael looked around the yard, trying to see if someone was messing with him. “I didn’t order anything, kid.”

“Uh, well, it’s all paid for, sir. You just have to sign here.”

Michael’s eyebrows moved closer together in confusion. “What do you mean already paid for?”

“I mean someone already paid for the meal and told me where to deliver it?”

“Who?”

The kid shrugged and again held out the delivery receipt for Michael to sign but he shook his head and mumbled, “nah, I don’t want it. You have it. Since it’s already paid for.”

“Um, are you sure?” The kid lifted the corner of the bag to look in. “It’s a 22 ounce steak with pasta and potatoes. From that fancy place.”

Michael’s hand reached out to steady himself against the door frame. That was the place he’d saved up for weeks to take Maria on a proper date. It’d been an amazing night. One he took twisted pride in making sure everyone knew about.

“Yeah, I’ll take it then.” He signed the paper and took his food. “Thanks.”

The kid nodded and practically ran back to his car.

Michael placed the food on the small kitchen counter and sat down, staring at the plastic containers while the smell of garlic and basil filled the tight space.

With shaking hands, he found his phone and sent a quick text.

Thanks for the food, babe

He waited impatiently for the response to come, leg bouncing with anticipation.

What food?

He closed his eyes and threw his head back.

******

“You need to leave me alone.”

Alex was sitting in the sun, tan biceps on display, glasses resting on his nose to block out the rays, reading a book. Michael had barely gotten out of his truck before he’d begun his tirade.

“You’re fucking things up for me, Manes. I don’t want anything from you.”

Alex pushed his glasses into his hair and squinted, using his free hand to shield his eyes.

“Okay.”

Michael stood, hands on his hips, chest heaving, itching for a fight. “Okay?”

Alex nodded. He put his sunglasses back in place and opened his book back up. “Okay.”

They were silent as Michael stared in disbelief and Alex did his best to pretend not to notice Michael’s continued presence.

Eventually it became too much.

“What’s your deal, Manes? Trying to get into my head? Mess up my relationship? What?”

Alex sighed before replacing his bookmark and reaching for his crutch. He stood a bit awkwardly and used the spine of the novel to push his glasses back up so Michael was forced to clearly see his eyes.

“What exactly have I done, Guerin? What exactly is it that’s upsetting you so much?”

Michael opened his mouth but Alex beat him to the punch. “I must have gotten confused again. My fault. Do I owe you more apologies? I’m sorry.”

He turned and began walking toward the house before pausing at the doorway. Alex turned and Michael stood, chin lifted in defense although he couldn’t think of one thing to say.

“I assumed a friend would make sure you didn’t drive drunk. Would get you out of jail. Would make sure you ate. What the hell kind of friends do you have that you think that’s me trying to mess up your life?”

Michael’s face dropped, the realization that maybe Alex hadn’t done anything wrong; that Michael had twisted it all until it was a totally unrecognizable version of the truth.

“You already told me to stay away from you, Michael, so I did. You made it clea you don’t love me, don’t want me, and I have done everything I can to try accepting that. You said you wanted to be with Maria, so I smiled and told you I understood. You needed help getting Max back, getting answers to where you come from, you’re people, I’m doing my best. What else do you want? No contact at all? Me completely out of your life? If I moved to New York tomorrow would that be far enough away from you or would I still be pissing you off somehow? Is my continued existence that much of a fucking burden for you, Michael?”

Alex’s voice had gotten loud, his words bouncing off of the courtyard walls. Michael had felt himself shrink, pull back into himself with shame and embarrassment. He survived each day by thinking the universe was out to get him; he was dealt a shit card and he had to handle it by being shit back.

Until Alex’s words smacked him in the face and he saw the pain he’d been causing first hand, it had been an easy lie to believe.

Silently, Alex walked into his house, door slamming loudly behind him. Michael’s heart was racing as his stomach turned. He couldn’t move a muscle, still couldn’t think of one word to say. He was feeling too much, unable to filter through it all to force himself to be coherent.

The sound of a door closing again jolted him back to the moment. Alex came toward him, face full of thunder while his gorgeous brown eyes looked through him, hollow nothingness.

“Here.” Alex took a backpack from his shoulder and handed it over. It was surprisingly heavy. Michael opened the flap and gasped at the shimmering purple of his ship.

He felt his eyes begin to water, not knowing why. He looked to Alex for answers, to help him understand what was happening, to him. To them.

Alex tilted his head toward the bag. “Jim Valenti had it. I found it and wanted to give it to you. But then you talked about getting it all to work and leaving the planet and I thought I’d literally fucking die if you did that so I kept it.” He let out a humorless laugh and stared at the sky. Michael realized he was trying not to cry.

“Didn’t make much difference in the end, though, did it?”

Michael let his tears fall, too overwhelmed to maintain any control.

“I’m sorry I kept it. It was yours. I had no right.”

Michael shook his head. “Why now?”

Alex scanned Michael’s face, hurt bleeding into those chocolate eyes. When he spoke, it was empty and full of defeat.

“So you can finally be done with me, Michael.”

Michael let out a small sob and clutched the bag so tight it was cutting off circulation to his fingers. Alex adjusted his crutch, getting ready to move once again.

They looked at one another, falling into memories of another time, thoughts of all the what-ifs. Michael kept searching for something to say, moving through his own brain like a Rolodex, digging for the right thing, to make sure Alex knew that this was never what he wanted. That while his mouth said stay away, his heart screamed don’t leave me.

He watched as Alex’s eyes filled with tears, an expression Michael had managed to put on his face far too many times.

Alex whispered a broken, “bye, Michael,” before going back inside, shutting the door behind him and locking it with a click.

Michael had no idea how long he stood outside of Alex’s house; long enough for the sun to get lower and his shadow to get longer. He forced his feet to move and shuffled to his truck, tossing the backpack on the passenger seat.

As he drove back home, he began devising a plan.

Step 1: Cut down on the fucking drinking.

Step 2: Hug Isobel and apologize.

Step 3: Talk to Maria and apologize.

Step 4: Find out how Alex likes his coffee.