wasting time » lh ; mc

eighteen

:: 18 ; trigger warning ::

It's unknown to him when exactly it started but Michael hasn't always had such an issue with people leaving him. The first time he remembers experiencing the sheer panic and depression that separation caused was when he was eleven.

Everything changed when he was eleven, really. His dad and himself and his life and his attitude and everything.

Maybe Michael does have a few problems he's not willing to admit or deal with. Maybe Michael isn't perfect and maybe he's crying in bed and maybe he just wants to be held. Because he's human. But, sometimes humans need help they don't want to ask for.

And sometimes people are there to help without having to be asked. That, for Michael, means Luke. He called half an hour ago and everything started with Luke wanting to talk about the upcoming conference that Andrew was dragging him to again. But, somehow it took a turn.

Michael couldn't stop the storm of tears that his eyes were brewing and he kind of wanted to die. Luke didn't understand what was happening. "I wonder why people get sad, y'know?" Michael sniffles through a chuckle full of bitter, broken feelings. "I knew a few people who were sad."

"Mikey--"

"I think I'm starting to be sad. Do you think I'm sad?"

"No, I think you're wonderful. You just can't understand all that you have to offer the world." Michael couldn't handle that, couldn't handle these feelings and couldn't handle the feelings for Luke and the fact that Luke is not helping with said feelings.

"I don't want to be like her, though. She left me." It was genetic; Michael thought he'd get lucky and wouldn't end up in the same position that she was. But, he wasn't ever as lucky as he'd like to believe. He's only made it worse for himself by trying to deny and hide it.

"Who left you, Mikey?" Luke asked carefully.

"She did--I'm sad because of her. She said I'd never feel like that and she lied. She lied, Luke!" Luke heard quiet sobs and the muffled sound of Michael's fist hitting the soft cushion of his bed. He felt a lump form in his throat.

There can't be another repeat of what happened at the last game. Michael was a completely different person the days following it and, if Luke is honest, he still is different. The loud, obnoxious, cocky Michael seemed buried underneath this newly discovered rubble that Luke seemed to have dug from it.

"I need you to breathe. You sound like you're about to have another panic attack," he spoke, voice thick with threatening tears. He had no right to; it wasn't his issue. He wasn't in the state that Michael was. He couldn't cry.

Suddenly, Michael asked a question that left Luke in his own thoughts for a moment. "When does someone decide they've been sad for too long?"

But, he finally said, still trying to think in depth of the question even if he knew Michael wasn't in his right mind at the moment, "Well, I guess when they decide to get help."

"She found help in the barrel of a shotgun."

Luke couldn't speak. He almost believes for a second that he forgot how to. His heart felt heavy and he wanted to cry with Michael. But he wouldn't. He let Michael talk. He listened.