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androcola · 2 years

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Beginnings (As we go along)

warning: mentions of weight, mentions of suicide.

Summary: After falling onto hard and desperate times, Mike is sure his life is over, but he would soon come to find that it's only just begun.

Mike looked up and smiled as the train pulled into the station with a loud and blaring whistle. It had been a few days since he left his home and skipped town, having been roaming close to the county in that time before finding a train that was headed toward his destination.

He never thought he'd ever make it to this point. It had always just been a daydream that he'd escape to every chance he could get. Ever since he was a teenager he dreamed of the day he'd get out of Texas and make a better life for himself somewhere, far far away from everyone who had ever put him down.

And today was the day.

Excited, yet nervous beyond belief, he boarded the train with nothing but a note pad, a guitar, and the clothes on his back. Today was the start of a brand new life, and he was optimistic, albeit cautiously. It wasn't before long that the train headed out of the station, there hadn't been anyone waiting there but him.

The train whistle cried out and the wheels beat against the tracks as he watched his home fade into the distance. This is it. This is his life. All the years of sadness and hardship he had to endure were finally coming to an end. He was finally gonna make something of himself. Something he could be proud of. He wasn't gonna be a failure anymore. He was on his way to the golden state and the big city that was gonna make him a star.

That was about three and a half months ago. So, where's the rock star now?

April 20, 1965. 6 o' clock pm, on the dot. It was a warm, usually muggy Tuesday evening.

He dragged his sore feet and heavy legs down a business strip, tired, emaciated, weak, and bitter with failure. He was exhausted and his days all seemed longer than the last. He couldn't remember the last meal or sound rest he ever had, and he had long since lost track of the days.

The guitar case on his back weighed so heavy and caused his back and shoulders constant soreness. In his mind, he felt it represented his failure. The guitar that he thought would make him a star had in fact made him nothing more than a wandering loser, he felt like a stray animal.

His spirit was truly broken, he had completely given up. He felt like a fool for believing that LA was anything more than a dirty, smoggy sham. He wished everyday that he could go back in time and urge that naive kid not to go, but if he knows himself well enough, he knows he wouldn't have believed himself.

His Pa was right, and that pained him greatly to come to terms with. This city chewed him up and spit him right out, exactly as Pa said that day, the day he left. He rubbed his dry and heavy eyes, starving and light in the head. He felt truly utterly rotten. He had grown very used used to the incessant hunger pangs that plagued him day and night.

He had no idea how he'd made it this far.

He could feel his tired legs trying to give out and he wobbled to stay on his feet. He desperately needed a place to sit, but there wasn't one in his immediate sight, and he knew that if he sat down now, he wouldn't be able to get back up until the next morning, and although he had no place in mind, he felt like he had to push on.

He never realized that severe starvation would affect his ability to walk so much, but thinking about it now, he wished he had known sooner, as walking longer than a few minutes had become quite the challenge. He felt he was quickly being overtaken by his growing weakness.

He ran a shaky hand down his gaunt and shaggy face with a sigh. He would love nothing more than a shower and a shave.

His mind had really been on the fritz lately. He felt like all the days were running together, all feeling like one insanely long and miserable day. He hadn't slept since the train ride.

He watched his feet as he walked, only glancing up now and then to see where he was. He didn't really even know where he was. He felt like he'd been going in circles for all these months, but he never remembered where he'd been. In a matter of a few months, he had been all over the city L.A. twenty times or more.

Among the passersby that walked down the strip, a group of people came his way, walking tightly together and chatting. He hugged himself and winced slightly as they passed him, still holding his head down, expecting to be shouted at and or berated like so many other passersby had done before, only to relax when they carried on their way, not even acknowledging him. He had grown so accustomed to the hatred here in the city.

He had always been under the impression that California was a place of love and good spirit. Just another thing he was wrong about.

He yawned. The sun was on its way down and the day held nothing more for him so far. He saw himself retiring shortly to some bus shelter, park bench, or shady tree for the night. It was awfully difficult getting any sleep at all in such a loud and bright city.

He lifted his arm and looked at his watch, the night was coming on fast, which means he'd better find a place soon. He shivered when a cool draft blew past him and looked up at the sky.

The sky that was spotless and colorful not even thirty minutes ago had now grown dark and grey and filled with heavy clouds. He knew that look anywhere, and it meant he'd have to find something to take shelter under and fast.

He looked around himself to see strangers scattering and umbrellas popping open all around before his eye was directed to the ground by the first rain droplet, there was definitely more where that came from.

In only a few seconds, rain started pouring down hard and he picked up into a sprint, wobbling a little as he ran the best he could, scrambling to pull his cardigan off and hold it over his head like a tarp to protect himself from the heavy downpour. If it wasn't one thing it was another, it seemed.

He looked in all directions as he ran for shelter, seeing nothing around that would help him hide from the wind and rain. The heavy rain began to soak through his cardigan and a few cold drops fell and slipped down the back of his neck, he would have to hang it out to dry when the rain passes.

As if luck were finally on his side, he turned into an alley way between two buildings, one of which whose roof stuck out just far enough over the edge to create room enough to hide against the outside good enough to not get entirely soaked. It wasn't great, but it was good enough compared to anything else.

He sighed and slipped off his guitar case and it splashed into large puddle, causing him to cringe a little, but he knew no damage could happen to the guitar through the thick exterior of the case.

He fell against the wall and onto the ground, exhausted and sore. He laid his cold wet cardigan over his head and down his back like a shawl, not wanting to set it on the even wetter concrete.

He wrinkled his nose at a foul smell and looked over to see he had sat down right next to a large dumpster. He sighed, he didn't care enough to move. He pulled his knees to his chest and wrapped his arms around them and gently laid his head against them and slowly began to close his eyes.

This was it. This was his life.

He didn't realize he had begun to shiver from the cold, he stayed curled in on himself in an attempt to conserve any bit of heat his thin, tired body could produce. He opened his eyes and quietly watched the rain beat against the concrete and a puddle grow bigger and bigger and slowly start to seep into the small dry area he sat.

He then sat up and scooted away from the growing puddle, pressing himself up against the side of the dumpster. He didn't care, he only curled back up into a cold little ball and closed his eyes once more.

He could feel the hunger pangs start to return, in all his panic to get out of the rain and the wanderings of his mind along the business strip, he had forgotten all about it. He winced as the pain came in drawn out waves of stabbing sensations. He pulled his arms from around his knees and to his inverted stomach tightly, he was used to the pain but it still really managed to get to him at times.

Every sensation in his body and thought in his mind was almost enough to push him over the edge, he felt so overwhelmed by pain both physical and mental anymore that he wondered how it was he kept going.

“Hey, you there.” a sudden voice said, cutting through the heavy rain and halting his on coming breakdown as adrenaline shot from his chest and through each of his limbs, momentarily clearing his mind of all thoughts other than the ones that told him to run. “Yeah, you.” the voice spoke again.

He pushed himself up off the ground and slowly rose to his feet, faltering as he did. “... Who's there?...” he muttered, surveying the dark alley slowly. Those two words had to be the first thing he'd said in weeks. His voice was hoarse and weak.

His heart skipped a beat when he saw another man step forward from the far end of the alley and become illuminated by street lamps whose lights crept in past the dumpster and stretched along the ground.

His eyes fell on the man who seemed to be in a similar situation as him, but he took no comfort in it. He inched backwards nervously, not even noticing his clothes were becoming heavy with rain.

“Hey now, no need to freak out.” the man said in a friendly tone, stepping closer as the man before him stepped back. “You look a little down on your luck. I don't have any cash, but I've got a little something that might ease your mind.” he said, reaching into his jacket pocket and fumbling around for a moment before pulling out something that looked like a strange cigarette.

Mike swallowed sharply and wrapped his arms around himself, glaring daggers at the strange man in front of him. “I know how it is, man. You're cold, you're hungry. Been there. This'll warm y'up a bit, but, uhh, it might make ya more hungry” the man said with a chuckle, looking up at Mike who appeared afraid and cautious.

“Oh, man, where are my manners? My name's Jack. but most people I know call me Blackjack.” he said, reaching his hand out to Mike for a handshake, but Mike only flinched and inched back once more. “... Why do they call you Blackjack?...” he asked nervously. Jack only stared at him for a second before responding. “'Cause it sounds cooler.” he laughed. Mike didn't laugh, he didn't even smile.

“You from around here? Couldn't afford the rent, huh?” Jack asked, chuckling again. Mike shook his head. “I'm not from here...” he replied in a much more serious tone. “Well, where ya from?” Jack asked. “... Texas.” Mike replied. “Texas? What were you doin' all the way out there?” Jack chuckled. “I lived there.” Mike stated with a glare. “Oh, I'm sorry... that you had to live in a place like that.” Jack laughed. Mike narrowed his eyes and glared harder at the man.

“Well, anywho” — he reached into his pocket again and pulled out a small rusty lighter — “Take a puff of this, it'll make you feel great.” he said, handing the little white cigarette and lighter to Mike, who looked at it with a glower. “Oh, trust me, it's good stuff. I got it from a friend, and he got it from Arizona.” Jack said.

Mike looked up up and promptly dropped the little white cigarette into the puddle he stood in and with the heel of his boot, ground it into the wet pavement while looking Jack in the eye.

He would only immediately regret it when he saw Jack grow visibly angry. He had no idea why he had just done that, but Jack didn't seem even slightly amused by it.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Jack barked suddenly, causing Mike to jump and step back. It was as if the man's laughing and friendly demeanor were merely a mask to gain his trust. “That stuff ain't easy to get a hold of, y'know!” he shouted. “Well... Maybe don't go handin' it out to strangers, then.” Mike remarked, still with nervousness in his voice.

A fist at seemingly lightening fast speed hurled into his eye, knocking him hard to the wet ground before the hard toe of a boot rammed into his stomach before he could even have time to react to the initial blow, forcibly expelling the breath from his body, causing him to cough, huff, and wheeze.

“I hope you starve, you piece of shit.” the man above him hissed before retrieving his lighter from the ground and walking away, leaving Mike curled in a tight little ball on the ground.

He groaned as he attempted to curl up tighter and tighter.

Lightening lit up the sky momentarily and thunder followed shortly behind it and the rain didn't ease up even for a moment. Mike coughed harshly and slowly opened his eye, looking around himself only to see his cardigan lying only a few inches away from him, soaked completely in rain, and though it only lie slightly out of his reach, he didn't have the energy to grab it. He closed his eye and continued to lie on the cold, wet concrete.

Waking up, he felt the rain had finally stopped, and immediately his head started pounding. He groaned and sat up, rubbing his forehead above his bruised eye. Opening his other eye, he looked around himself, completely disoriented.

When he realized he didn't see his guitar, he panicked and turned his head in all directions before finally spotting it right behind himself, lying in a puddle.

He looked down at his watch, it was busted. “Great...” he sighed. He looked back at his guitar and figured it was time to get back up and move on. Placing a hand on the ground, he pushed himself up slowly and got onto his knees. Now came the hard part. He carefully tried to get onto his feet and stand up, only to fall over onto his side

He winced at an aching pain in his stomach that seemed different from the usual pangs of hunger he'd felt before. He rolled over onto his back, hissing through clenched teeth from the ache he felt, not only in his stomach, but throughout his entire body.

After having a moment to process his pains, he rolled back over for a second attempt to make it to his feet, having much more success this time.

As he rose slowly, he wobbled and tipped, but steadied himself in his stance. Looking down at his water laden cardigan, he sighed once more before bending at the waist and picking it up, cringing at just how wet and heavy it was. He rolled it up and wrung it out the best he could before tossing it over his shoulder, and it fell against his back with a wet slap and he shivered at just how cold it was.

He then turned around to retrieve his guitar, whose case was also very wet. He bent down and grabbed it by the strap and lifted, only to drop it back against the ground and it landed back into the puddle, splashing water onto his boots and the hems of his pant legs. He had forgotten just how heavy the case had become. Just a couple months ago he didn't have a problem lifting it.

He reached down again, this time with both hands, grabbing it by the strap and slinging it up, causing himself to fall backwards back onto the pavement and the heavy case landed right on top of him, slamming into his ribs.

In that moment, he felt truly defeated. He didn't even want to get back up.

He looked up at the bit of sky that peaked out past the roof of the building he had taken shelter under, just wanting to close his eyes and not wake up again.

After having a moment to lie down and wallow in self pity, he pushed the heavy guitar case off of himself and rolled over back onto his hands and knees, rubbing his sore ribs and then the back of his head which had slammed against the ground when he fell back.

Once again, he pushed himself back to his feet and thought there had to be a better way to get his guitar up off the ground. He shrugged and reached down again with both hands and grabbed the strap on his guitar case, this time pausing for a moment to work himself up to it.

Finally, he slung the guitar up yet again, this time steadying himself better and pulling it on over his back. Again, he shivered when the cold wet case touched his back.

It was time to carry on back into the night.

He still felt quite disoriented, he couldn't seem to recall the hours leading up to his waking, or why he was even asleep in such a place. He usually doesn't sleep in alley ways. Maybe he had simply just passed out, as he seemed to do so often now. It was the only sleep he really got anymore.

In his sorrow and exhaustion, he entertained a thought that had been knocking around in the back of his head for some time, as if against a door, asking to be let in. The thought in question had been growing into more of a demanding voice over the months, and although he tried to ignore it for the most part, in moments like this, he'd let it in and contemplate on it.

The voice told him he had tried and failed, and that there was nothing left for him anymore. He couldn't go back home, not after the way he left. He couldn't face his Pa, especially.

He was cold, he was wet, and he was starving. He could feel his body shutting down and his health deteriorating rapidly. The daily aches and pains of a body nearly wasted away all together were getting to be too much and the mental anguish had completely overtaken him.

Nothing was looking up, nothing was changing, nothing was ever going to get better, and he was sure of it.

The only thing his mind could resort to anymore was the grim idea of going out on his own terms. It was the only idea that made sense to him anymore.

He had no idea how he would go about doing such a thing, and he still felt a sense of hesitation, but compared to his current situation, it seemed better than nothing. It seemed better than carrying on this way.

After many minutes lost in thought, it was decided that he would find his way to San Francisco and never return. He felt scared and choked up, not entirely taking comfort in the idea of cutting his existence short, but enough to carry himself onward.

His lip quivered and his face became flushed as he suddenly was overcome with a deep, aching sadness so strong that he could almost feel it physically rising in his chest. He let only one tear slip down his cheek before swallowing the lump in his throat and stuffing his overflowing emotions back into the pit of his stomach where he'd kept them his whole life.

He turned the corner and raised his head to look up at the cloudy, starless sky and he let out a deep sigh. He had no idea how he was gonna make it to San Fran, or if he'd even be around long enough to get there. If he didn't kill himself, surely his starvation and declining health would. He thought it a miracle he'd even come this far.

He turned his head back down and stared at his feet as he walked, enveloped entirely in thought, lost in his own head.

He was suddenly knocked backwards when a fast walking stranger collided with him and then a kind, apologetic voice spoke. “Oh, man, my bad!” the stranger said. “Lemme help you up.” he said softly, reaching a hand down. Mike flinched harshly at the sight of the hand coming towards him, reflexively throwing his arm up to defend himself, but when the hand stayed in one place for several seconds, he slowly lowered his defense and reluctantly grabbed the hand which promptly, and easily, pulled him right to his feet.

Mike looked at the stranger and was met with lively brown almond shaped eyes and a genuine smile. He was a funny looking kid. A tiny, broad nose sat at the center of his face and a large, prominent chin protruded quite a bit, but seemed to tie his face together.

He wore a pleasant green button up shirt with a large collar. The collar and sleeve cuffs being white instead of green. It was a very nice shirt.

His hair was short and appeared well kept up. Short sides sat just right above his ears, looking cleanly cut. A few stray curls sat up, however, making it seem that the straightness of his hair wasn't natural.

His eyes were bright and full of energy and noticable kindness, something that Mike hadn't seen in the eyes of any passerby that crossed his path and made themselves known to him. He stared the stranger down, still remaining cautious despite feeling a different air about him. An air of what he could only describe as one of warmth.

“So sorry I rammed into you like that, I guess I wasn't lookin' where I was goin'.” he explained. “Wouldn't be the first time this has happened.” he laughed. When the man before him remained still and noticably anxious, he stared for a moment, thinking of his next words.

“So, uhh” — he scratched the back of his head and shifted his weight to the other foot — “My name's Micky Dolenz!” he said, reaching his hand out for a shake. “What's yours?” he asked with a smile so friendly Mike could swear it illuminated the dark outside for a moment.

He didn't answer Micky's question though, remaining silent for several seconds.

“... Mike.” he finally spoke, very timid in tone. “Mike, huh? Sounds kinda like my name!” Micky said. Mike didn't respond. Micky stared at Mike, only just noticing how worn down he appeared. His clothes, soaking wet, clung to his thin frame and wet hair laid down against his face, covering up his eyes a little. On his head was a little green winter hat with a puffball sitting cutely on top, it was wet as well.

The shaggy beginnings of a beard laid on his gaunt face and his eyes and cheeks were very sunken, giving him a sickly appearance. His right eye was bruised badly, remaining closed while the other eye was open and under his eye was a scraped and bruised cheek.

Mike could almost tell what Micky was thinking upon noticing that he was looking him up and down, and when the strangers smile faltered ever so slightly, his suspicion was confirmed. Micky looked up at Mike and he could tell he noticed his scanning eyes.

“You look hungry.” he spoke up suddenly. Mike knew that was only the nice way of telling him he looked like a living skeleton. “We should go for a sandwich!” he said, pointing a thumb backwards and over his shoulder. Mike couldn't stop his jaw from dropping at the utterance of those words. “We?” he thought. “Food?” a second thought followed. “Go?...” Mike muttered. It was the only word he could find in this moment.

“Yeah, c'mon! It'll be fun! I know this really good sandwich joint, they've got the best meatball subs in the whole city!” Micky exclaimed. Mike just stood there, stupefied.

“Follow me.” Micky said, gesturing for Mike to come with him before he started walking. Mike, normally wise enough as to not follow a stranger to a location he doesn't know, was completely struck by this sudden, holy offering. All the voices in his head screaming at him that this could be his downfall were all drowned out by a pure, desperate desire to fill his stomach. It wasn't even a desire, it was a need.

Mike followed slowly behind the kind stranger, his stomach growling at the thought of finally eating again. It was hard for him to keep up with the fast walking stranger and he found himself huffing and panting to stay close behind. Moving quickly was such a hard thing for him to do now.

Throughout entire walk to the fabled sandwich joint, he found himself growing more impatient by the second, dying for a meal. And when they finally arrived, Micky swung the door open but held it in place to let Mike inside. He merely stood there on the threshold, looking as if he had never seen the inside of a building before. He was frozen. Micky cocked a brow at this strange behavior.

“Well, aren't ya gonna come in?” he asked with a smile. Mike felt embarrassed. In his time dwelling on the streets, he had been greatly dehumanized by everyone around him that he fell into the way of thinking that he really was subhuman, a stray animal. He wrapped his arms around himself and tentatively stepped inside and squinted his eyes as he looked around the brightly lit building.

Upon seeing several people inside, he shrunk down as to not be seen, tightening his hug around himself. He felt so strange being inside after so long, but he didn't particularly enjoy it. He knew he was wet and filthy, he knew he looked like a dirty hobo. He stayed behind Micky, just hoping not to catch the eye of anyone inside.

The man at the front counter greeted Micky happily in a jolly Italian accent, as if he knew him very well. “What'll ya have?” the clerk asked cheerfully. “The usual!” Micky replied, returning the lively energy. “Spicy Italian on toasted flat bread comin' right up!” the man said as he turned to gather the various ingredients.

“Oh, but wait!” Micky blurted. The man turned right back around at Micky's call. “I'd like to get something for my friend.” Micky said with a smile. The sandwich clerk raised his brow and looked around the kid. “Who's ya friend?” he asked. Micky looked back to see Mike standing behind him, hugging himself tightly and timidly staring at the floor.

The man behind the counter got a look at the man and his expression turned to one of concern. The man who stood behind the kid looked like the human incarnation of roadkill. “Whaddya want, Mike?” Micky asked softly. Mike looked up at Micky and then to the man behind the counter and his brain clicked on. “Am I making an order?” he thought to himself.

He then stood up right and stiff and his mind began to race. He had never really ordered food anywhere before. Even when he was in Texas he never ordered food from anywhere. His face turned red and he remained still and silent. “What do I say? What do I do?” he thought. He couldn't get a single word out.

Micky, then sensing the situation, turned back around to face the man at the counter. “He'll have ham and cheese.” he said with an awkward chuckle and the man shrugged his shoulders. “Ham n' cheese, comin' right up.” he said before turning around to prepare the two their sandwiches. Micky looked back at Mike, his face still quite red.

“Hey, let's have a seat, huh?” he said before gently taking Mike's wet arm and leading him to a booth by a wide window. Mike removed his guitar case from his back and gently sat it down onto the floor, pushing it under the table with his foot. They each sat down across from eachother and Mike kept his head down, thinking he had sufficiently embarrassed himself.

Micky stared at Mike in the silence between the two before speaking up. “So eh... What happened to your face?” he asked, pointing to his own eye, signalling to Mike that he was talking about his.

Mike glanced at his reflection in the window, seeing his bruised and swollen eye and under it, a bloody scrape on his cheek. His memory was so foggy on what had even happened that he couldn't formulate any satisfying answer.

“I don't remember.” he said quietly. “You don't remember?” Micky asked in a softer tone. Mike merely shook his head. “Well... Whatever it was, it looks like it hurt.” Micky said. Mike shrugged. Silence fell between the two again and Micky awkwardly tapped his fingers on the table, trying to think of a real conversation starter.

“Where ya from?... Where are you going?... Are you lost?” he suddenly piped up. Mike hung his head and shook it subtly. He dare not burden such a kind and happy kid with his darkness. No reply. “Well... That's okay. You don't gotta tell me.” Micky replied in a kind and understanding tone.

Once again, the silence between them came again and they both sat there, wordlessly.

Micky looked at Mike who hung his head sorrowfully and he frowned. The man seemed to embody depression and defeat and it made him feel almost gloomy, as well. “So... You play guitar?” Micky asked, trying to break the silence and lighten the heavy atmosphere.

Mike couldn't help but feel a flash of hatred, not for the question that was just asked of him, but at the mention of his guitar. That damned guitar. He didn't even want to look at it.

He didn't know why he continued to carry it around everywhere he went. He didn't understand why he didn't just chuck it, or sell it for a meal. He didn't want to think about music ever again.

“I suppose.” he replied. Micky found such a response a little strange, but it was an answer to his question, so he merely nodded his head lightly and looked over his shoulder, checking to see if their food was on its way, and to his delight, he saw the clerk one of the waiters headed right in their direction.

“Oh boy!” Micky exclaimed, bouncing a little in his seat. Mike looked ahead to see what Micky had suddenly grown so excited about, and when he saw just what it was, he couldn't help but grow a little excited himself. “Spicy Italian on toasted flatbread and ham and cheese on wheat.” the waiter said, setting the two sandwiches down on the table, each one wrapped in paper.

Mike felt his mouth begin to water, he couldn't believe it. It might as well have been the holy grail itself sitting before him on the table, that's how it felt. He reached for the sandwich, still with some caution, and slowly began to unwrap it. Micky had already dug into his.

Removing the wrapping paper that encased the sandwich, everything fell away from him in that moment. He slowly raised the sandwich to his mouth and took a small bite, and in that moment, felt a swell of emotion. He hadn't tasted anything in so long that he had almost forgotten just how wonderful the feeling was. He chewed slowly, savoring the food that might be the last thing he eats. The taste was immaculate.

As if like a rabid animal, he suddenly dug in, tearing almost frantically at the sandwich, completely ignoring the fact that it was the first thing on his stomach in a long time. Micky looked up from his sandwich to see his new friend tearing the sandwich apart and he almost wanted to laugh, but he didn't make a sound.

“Slow down a little, ya might choke.” he said, chuckling a bit. He was then met with a deathly glare from the man across from him and he froze up for a second. The man looked away quickly, however, continuing to inhale the sandwich, tearing away at it bit by bit until finally there was nothing left.

Micky was in awe. He had never seen someone go through a sandwich that quickly before. He hadn't even finished his yet.

“Hungry much?” he asked. Mike quickly came down from the rabid state that had caused him to so quickly scarf down the food he was given and he looked at Micky, only to look away with some embarrassment.

“When's the last time you ate anything?” Micky inquired, looking thoughtful. Given the man's emaciated appearance and ferocity with which he ate, he could make a guess that it had been quite a while.

Mike stared upon processing the question, not wanting to answer, and not really having an answer. His reply was a simple shrug of the shoulders and Micky's thoughtful look became one of slight concern, yet he didn't speak. He simply turned his attention back to the rest of his sandwich which he enjoyed much slower than his new friend.

Occasionally, he'd make glances at the man across the table, and everytime, his head was always down. He seemed shy, taciturn, and very gloomy. He couldn't imagine what the man was thinking, or what his inner world must be like. He found himself wanting to know everything, but he wasn't sure how he'd go about obtaining anything. He turned his attention back to the rest of his Italian sub.

After many minutes, Micky placed a dollar bill face up on the table and the sound of his hand hitting the table caused Mike to startle and jump in his seat. Micky didn't take notice of it. “Man, I'm stuffed.” he announced. As Mike watched Micky rise from his seat, he figured this is where they'd part ways. As he also tried to leave his seat, he fell back down into it when his legs couldn't support himself enough to stand. He groaned.

“You need help?” Micky asked upon noticing Mike's struggle in leaving his seat. Mike put his hand up, signalling for him to back off as he made another attempt to stand up and leave his seat. “I'm fine.” he replied. Lately, he had been having significant trouble standing back up after sitting or lying down for too long.

His legs had grown so awfully weak over the months and he feared he'd lose his ability to walk all together. He could already feel that happening.

Micky ignored the man's wish to be left to stand on his own and took his hand firmly, promptly pulling him to his feet. Mike's head spun 'round at the speed he had been pulled up and he wobbled, nearly falling backwards, only to be caught and held onto by the one who had helped him up.

“You alright?” Micky asked, still holding the man at the concern that he'd tip right over upon being let go. Mike rubbed his eye for a second and then his head and drew in a deep breath. “Yeah.” he replied.

After having a moment to compose himself, he bent down to grab his guitar but an arm flew in his way, causing him to reel back. “Lemme get that for ya, man.” Micky offered before reaching down and lifting the guitar up by the strap on the case and helping Mike slip it on. Mike didn't show it, but he was greatly appreciative of this deed.

He had no idea why this man was treating him with such a genuine kindness. In all his years he had only lived to be hated, cast out, and abused in every sense of the word. Naturally, such a life had caused him to develop a distrust for others. So when he was seldom met with a kindness, he could never allow himself to enjoy it or return a smile or a gesture of gratitude, making him seem cold.

“This might sound weird but... do you wanna come over to my place for a shower?” Micky asked as he led Mike out the door. He was floored. Absolutely dumbfounded. He wasn't sure whether to take that offer as an insult or another kindness.

He must have let his jaw drop without even noticing it as he was laughed at suddenly and brought back into the moment to indeed find his mouth agape and he shut it quickly. “Come on, let's get you outta those wet rags.” Micky said, taking Mike's arm lightly and leading him in a direction that he could only guess was that which lead him to the home of the kind stranger.

All the while his mind raced with thoughts of disbelief. This had to be some vivid dream brought on by his slipping mind. It was either the food or the sudden rush of adrenaline, but he was given a new energy and his legs suddenly felt less weak.

If anything was for certain, it had to be that he definitely had an odor. How could he not when he'd been in the same pair of pants for three and a half months and had only been washing his shirt and cardigan in public fountains?

He hated the feeling of being unclean. He had always showered every day and brushed his teeth three times a day when he lived at home, no matter the circumstance. But now he was filthy, surely reeking of an offensive odor. The thought of being clean once more was enough to give him a flash of excitement the likes of which he hadn't felt in a very long time.

Once again, he ignored the voices in his head yelling at him of the dangers of following a stranger to his home, it's not like he had any major life plans. Whatever was to come of this surely couldn't be any worse than what he had planned for himself already. With the possibility of a shower right within his reach, he gladly followed the stranger to where he resided.

“So sorry we have to walk, I didn't bring my car out tonight.” Micky suddenly apologized. “but it shouldn't be long!” he reassured his friend. Mike didn't respond, far too lost in thought to even notice that he had been spoken to.

He entertained, however briefly, the thought of the possibility that he would succumb to a gruesome, gorey demise at the hand, knife, or axe of a killer well practiced in the art of gaining ones trust, but for whatever strange reason, it didn't faze him. He was far more captivated by the possibility of finally cleaning his body.

They at length arrived to a large apartment complex and walked only a couple blocks before turning into a small door way and walking up three short steps to a door which Micky swung open and walked through. He was quickly ambushed by a mini german sherphard who barked loudly and ran around his feet frenetically.

“There's my girl!” Micky exclaimed, getting down on one knee and petting the excited little animal. “Who's a good girl? Who's my little princess?” he cooed so sweetly. The little runt panted excitedly and her tail wagged and whipped around at an intense speed.

Micky broke his attention from the animal which was so excited to see him and looked back to see Mike, once again standing silently on the threshold. Micky gestured to Mike with a smile. “C'mon in!” he invited, making his way back up to his feet.

Mike timidly stepped inside, closing the door gently behind himself. The little dog ran to him and he looked down at her, fascinated. She didn't seem to think the same for him, however, when after only a brief inspection consisting of many whiffs, she growled and scampered away.

“Since you don't have any clean clothes of your own, you can borrow some of mine.” Micky said. Mike immediately felt as though he were intruding and started to wonder if he should just turn back. “Have a seat! Anywhere you like.” he said, spreading his arm out, showing him to a couch against the wall and a recliner about a foot away from it's right end. “You can just lay your guitar on the floor if you want.” he said.

Mike slipped his guitar off slowly, but stood frozen in place, however, feeling very embarrassed and on the spot. Micky could sense this and stepped over to Mike, reaching his arm around his back and over his shoulder and walking him to the couch, gently pushing on his shoulder to sit him down. Mike complied, setting his guitar gingerly upon the floor and sat on the couch which was very soft under him.

“You stay right there, okay? I'll be right back!” Micky instructed before walking away and down the hallway at the right end of the couch, disappearing into another room. Mike sat still and stiff on the couch, surveying the unfamiliar surroundings.

The walls were quite cluttered and overstimulating to the eye. Several little taped up notes of paper were littered along the walls around photos, mounted records, licence plates, and a large yellow traffic sign that read “YIELD”. Something he quickly took notice of, however, was the amount of Coca-Cola themed trinkets and merchandise that hung upon the dull, peachy colored walls.

Above the squared archway that separated the kitchen from the living room was a shelf the length of the archway that was adorned with hundreds of thousands of little trinkets and knick knacks, and hanging from nails whose heads stuck out less than an inch outward from the front and sides of the wooden shelf was what appeared to be a string of holiday lights which gave off a very low glow, signifying that they were quite old and well used.

The rest of the string of lights hung down against the wall and plugged into an outlet that sat in the wall a couple inches from the carpeted floor. The carpet in question was very short and ended at the beginning of the hallway, the kitchen, and the front door where there was a rounded cut off.

By that front door sat a table against the wall on the left side and a coat rack on the right with shoes sitting at the foot of it and a couple coats tossed haphazardly over the top of it and a dog leash hanging from one of the racks.

The table had some framed photos on it and some scattered papers and a three stack of books and what appeared to be a pair of reading glasses which sat atop that stack.

Turning his attention back to the left end on the couch, he saw a long tall lamp with a large shade standing in the corner and another smaller lamp sitting on a small end table at the arm of the couch. Accompanying the lamp was a cute little snow globe which had a tiny model 18 wheeler truck with Coca-Cola written on the side of it in red writing.

Looking in front of him, he saw a television which sat on a wide table which was kinda out in the middle of the room. Again, he found himself fascinated. It's not often he saw television sets growing up or even throughout his life. Noticing a little round golden knob on the front of the table, he assumed it belonged to a drawer that would pull out.

Because of the placement of the television, a wire ran along the floor but had enough way as to not stretch above the floor and create a tripping hazard, but poor attention could still cause a fall.

“Sorry I took so long.” Micky's voice suddenly came, breaking the silence. Mike watched him closely as he walked out with arms full of clothes and a big fluffy towel. “This should be all ya need.” he said, plopping it down beside the man who looked up at him rather awkwardly.

Again, Micky turned away and walked down to the very end of the hallway and then from the back of the hall, he heard heavy running water and after a few minutes, heard it shut off abruptly. Micky appeared again from the hallway and gestured to Mike to follow him. Mike nodded and pushed against the seat of the couch to help himself stand up.

After managing to successfully make it to his feet, he followed behind Micky who lead him to the back of the hallway where the bathroom sat wide open, invitingly. “I know you were having trouble standing up back at the sandwich shop, so I ran you a bath so you don't have to stand up.” he said with such a sweetness that Mike felt almost at ease. Yet another kindness, and such attention to his struggles. He felt truly undeserving of all that has happened tonight.

“I didn't know if you like bubbles or not, so I improvised.” Micky said, gesturing an outstretched hand to the tub which seemed to be nearly overflowing with bubbles. “Go ahead, don't be shy!” Micky chirped, ushering his friend inside.

“I'll be right outside if you need me.” he said before pulling the door closed and leaving Mike standing in the little bathroom feeling extremely awkward.

After many minutes of deliberation, he finally removed the soggy cardigan from his shoulder and began to slowly unbutton his wet shirt, folding the two up nice and neat and placing them on the shelf behind himself before removing his little green hat and placing it gently on his folded shirt.

He almost hesitated to step in front of the mirror, but when he did, he was greatly disturbed by the ghastly sight he beheld.

He didn't recognize himself. Skin clung tightly to his protruding ribcage and bone thin, bruise spotted arms and his stomach was severely inverted. His hip bones were sharp and jagged, jutting from both sides. He had a large dark bruise across his ribs and another bruise on his stomach, darker than the other.

He scanned his eye slowly upwards before meeting the one in the mirror which sat sunken in it's socket with a deep dark circle around it and dark bags dragging beneath. His other eye still remained closed, black and swollen. He couldn't for the life of himself remember how it happened that he came to gain a black eye, he knew he didn't have one the day before.

He lifted a hand to his face and scratched at the overgrown stubble. His cheek bones were very prominent as his cheeks were very sunken, causing him to look very sickly, almost undead. He felt both. He had no idea how Micky didn't flee by very sight of him. He looked like the walking dead. A corpse reanimated. He was terrified just seeing himself.

Suddenly, the doorknob turned and the door pushed open. “Sorry to intrude, I forgot to give you your stuff.” Micky said, stepping inside with arms full of clothes and the large towel. When he laid his eyes on the man who stood in his bathroom, he couldn't help but pause and stare in shock of the appearance of the figure before him.

Mike noticed his more than obvious gawking and wrapped his arms around himself, feeling deeply self conscious.

Micky broke his shocked stare and handed Mike the towel and clothes. “Uh, here. This should be all you need.” he said with a slight stammer, his demeanor seeming drastically different than only a couple minutes ago. Mike slowly released himself from his self hug and awkwardly took the clothes and towel, holding them up against his chest.

“Well... Have a nice shower!” Micky said, smiling once more before turning out and closing the door behind him. Mike stood there for many seconds, feeling absolutely mortified. He placed the clothes down on the closed toilet lid and began to pick through them, seeing exactly what he had been given to wear.

His face turned bright red when he picked up an unfamiliar pair of boxers and he dropped them quickly back into the little pile. He came to the conclusion that this was gonna be much harder than he'd thought.

He sighed as he finally slipped off the rest of his clothes, his face bright red and warm the entire time. He folded his tattered jeans neatly and placed them with the folded shirt and cardigan on the shelf and placed his boots by the sink cabinet.

He was incredibly hesitant to remove his boxers, he felt as though he could die of embarrassment at any given moment. After many seconds of talking himself up to it, he slowly removed them and folded them just as neatly as his other clothes and placed them with his pants.

He felt like he was in some crazy dream, standing completely naked in a strangers bathroom.

Outside and in the living room, Micky sat on the recliner seat with chin in hand and elbow on the arm rest, trying to process what he'd seen and what he was to do. The little dog toddled up to him and stared with eyes that begged for her beloved owners attention. He glanced down to meet the eyes of his little puppy and knew exactly what she wanted.

He leaned forward and reached down, wrapping both hands lightly around her small body and lifting her into his lap before caressing her head gently. “I don't know what I'm gonna do, You.” he spoke. “He's in bad shape. Worse than I thought. I can't just let him go back out there. He'll catch his death for sure.” he chatted as if the animal understood his every word.

“If I send him back out, I might as well be killing him. He can barely even stand.” he worried. Though his main concern was of the poor health of the man, he also found that he enjoyed his company quite a bit. Something about the man attracted him to his very being. Perhaps it was his mysterious and quiet nature. He found himself wanting to know all he could about the stranger.

His mind raced with thoughts of worry, thoughts of what he could do to help, or if he even could help. His mind was made up immediately. He knew what he was to do.

He sat up and removed the puppy from his lap. “Sorry, girl. I'll give you all the cuddles you want in a little bit, I promise.” he said to the little dog which followed his feet as he turned down the hallway. Opening the door to his bedroom, he approached a dresser drawer and pulled the middle drawer open.

Inside were many extra blankets and he pulled out the thickest one, a large forest green comforter and he held it up onto his shoulder, closing the dresser drawer with his other hand.

From his bed, he plucked one of his many pillows and carried it under his arm as he walked from the room and down the hallway. Stopping in front of the couch, he laid the pillow down neatly at the left end against the arm rest and then spread the comforter across the whole couch, bunching it up a bit so it didn't touch the floor. It wasn't the best looking spot to sleep, but it was something.

The little dog hopped up onto the couch before being grabbed and pulled right back off. “No, You. That's Mike's spot now.” he said, placing her back down into the floor. Having lost interest in what her owner was doing, she walked away and to her food bowl to enjoy a dinner of kibble.

“You're right, girl. I think it's time I get dinner started.” he said before turning into the kitchen and grabbing a large pot from his cabinet. “I'm feelin' spaghetti tonight.” he said to himself, filling the pot with water and placing it onto his stove. He flicked the burner on and let the pot of water sit and heat up to a boil.

He opened up the other cabinet door and scanned the inside for a moment before spotting a package of noodles. He reached his hand inside and grabbed the package and set it down on the counter by the stove. While he waited for his water to boil, he decided he would check in with his friend.

Approaching the bathroom door, he knocked gently three times. “Everything goin' alright in there?” he called through the door. After many seconds of silence, a timid voice replied from inside. “Yes... Thank you.” the voice said. Micky smiled.

“I'm making spaghetti!” he called. No reply this time. Still smiling, Micky walked away and back to his kitchen to finish preparing the spaghetti.

Once the water finally began to boil, he opened up the package of dry noodles and dropped them in, being sure to not break any. He spread them out in a blooming pattern and left them alone to soften.

He considered investing in a kitchen timer, as it would be quite helpful due to his easily distracted ways and his tendency to just completely forget tasks he had been engaged in not twenty seconds ago

The amount of things he's allowed to burn or boil over could fill an entire empty pantry. All the taped up scraps of paper that littered his walls were, in fact, notes to himself.

Reminders of what groceries or other miscellaneous items to pick up, various dates, times, and names, notes stating that something's currently in the oven, as well as just random thoughts and ideas he felt so important that they had to be noted.

He stayed in the kitchen, resisting the urge to turn on his television and sit down to pass the time while he waited, knowing all too well that it would end with boiling water all over his stove top and in the floor.

He grabbed a wooden spoon from his drawer to push and stir the noodles around as they began to soften. His Italian ancestors would roll over in their graves to find out he was cooking with store bought pasta and jugged pasta sauce.

He hummed and sang some of his favorite songs as he stirred the noodles until they had sufficiently softened. He pulled a large metal strainer from his cabinet and laid it down into his sink and with great care, lifted the pot of water and noodles and tipped it gently into the strainer, removing all the water. After that, he lifted the strainer and dropped the noodles right back into the pot and carried it back to the stove.

Turning back to his food cabinet, he reached inside and pulled out an unopened jug of pasta sauce and popped it open, pouring it all over the noodles. After saucing the noodles well, he placed the jug aside and stirred the sauce into the noodles, but he wasn't quite done yet.

On his left side, he reached for a smaller cabinet that held all his various spices and pulled out a small container of garlic salt, sprinkling some into the pasta.

He gave it one final stir and dinner was done and ready. It smelled amazing. “I sure hope Mike likes pasta.” he said to himself before grabbing out a plate and spooning some noodles onto it. He reached into the drawer in front of himself and grabbed a fork before pushing it closes and promptly walking back to his living room to eat.

In the bathroom, Mike dried himself with the large towel, feeling almost a thousand times better than when he had walked in. It felt so great to finally be clean at last. He was sure to wash away his three months of accumulations from the tub as to spare the kind stranger the trouble of doing so himself.

He hesitantly grabbed the fresh pair of boxers he knew didn't belong to him and his face reddened once more and he sighed, slipping them on while trying his best to not think about it. They fit quite loosely around his thin waist but surely the pair of pants he was given will fit better.

He picked up a pair of thick sweatpants, they were dark green in color with a washed out plaid pattern. They must've been quite old. He slipped the pants on and upon letting go of the waistband, they fell right down.

“Wonderful.” Mike sighed, pulling the pants back up and pulling the draw strings on the front almost all the way out, tightening the pants around his thin stomach just above his hip bones. He tied the strings so that the pants wouldn't fall down again and then he picked up a T shirt which unfolded, revealing red writing on the front that read “The Rolling Stones”. He stared at the shirt for a moment before pulling it on and fixing his hair a bit.

He picked up the towel which he had used to dry himself off and he wrapped up his dirty laundry within it. He hesitated to include his hat, though. He knew it had to be washed, but he wasn't sure if it could survive a wash due to it's material and age.

The little green hat meant a lot to him and he'd be just devastated if it were to be destroyed or damaged beyond repair. It was an item of great comfort to him.

After thinking about it for a moment, he sighed and laid the hat with his clothes wrapped up in the towel and reached for the doorknob, pausing for a second as he felt embarrassment rise up inside him once more.

He merely shook it off and opened the door quietly, turning off the bathroom light and stepping out. He felt very awkward as he walked down the hallway.

When he was spotted, he was greeted with much excitement by Micky who sat his plate of pasta down on a folding table he used for meals and stood up from his seat. “Hey, man!” he greeted cheerfully. His speed of movement frightened Mike a little, who stepped back an inch to create some space between himself and the other.

“How do you feel?” Micky asked and Mike looked down at the laundry he held in his arms. “These... may need to be burned.” he said. Micky laughed, joyful and almost relieved to see a glimpse of a sense of humor from the shy and awkward man. “Here, I'll take care of it.” he said, taking the laundry away from him and setting it on the wide TV table.

“Have a seat. You want some pasta?” Micky asked. Mike shook his head. “No, thank you.” he said. He was beginning to feel the consequences of eating a large sandwich on a stomach that had been very empty for months. He feared he might become sick before long.

“Well... Do you want an ice pack?” he asked. Mike cocked a brow. “What do I need an ice pack for?” Mike questioned. Micky once again pointed to his own eye, signalling to Mike that he meant his. “Your eye. It looks pretty bad.” he said. Again, Mike shook his head. “It'll be alright.” he said. “You sure?” Micky asked. Mike nodded. “I'll live.” he replied.

Mike looked back at the couch which now looked to be made up for someone to sleep there. “So... When do you want me outta here?” he asked, staring down at the couch. “Well... about that...” Micky replied. Mike found his tone strange. “Well, y'see, I have kinda always wanted a roommate.” said Micky, nonchalantly.

Mike paused and began to connect the dots, wondering if he was reading Micky right.

“... Roommate, huh?...” he asked. “Oh, well if you insist!” Micky then said, cheerfully. Mike turned back around to face the enthusiastic kid. “Now, wait a minute.” he stammered, the volume of his voice rising ever so slightly. “Am I understandin' you right?” he asked, his Texas drawl seeping in.

“I want you to be my roommate!” Micky chirped. Once again, Mike was floored extremely, unable to stop his jaw from dropping.

What was happening? Why was this happening? What on earth could it be that compelled this stranger so much to him, so much as for him to ask that he move in? His whole world was turned on its head.

Just a few hours ago he had made the decision to end his own life, to put himself out of his truly unbearable, inescapable misery. But now he was being offered a home with food, a shower, blankets, and air conditioning.

What was it that he had done to have this thrust upon him like this? This had to be a dream, there was no way in heaven or in hell that this could be reality.

On the inside, his thoughts were scattered all over, but on the outside, he wore a blank, wide eyed stare, mouth hanging open. He couldn't find not one coherent sentence to respond with.

“You... you...” he finally spoke. Not exactly the words he had in mind, but they were all that came out. Micky couldn't help but laugh at his dumbfounded friend. “You... but... You don't even know me.” Mike sputtered. “I'd like to know you.” Micky replied sweetly. “... Why?” Mike asked, that question being all he could utter. “I don't know. There's something about you I like.” Micky replied with a shrug.

Mike merely stared at Micky. What a strange response. “Why are you doing this?” Mike suddenly exploded, not even realizing he had just yelled that out loud. Micky inched backwards and his smile faded.

“What do you mean? Doing what?” he asked with a stammer. “Why are you... being so nice to me like this?” Mike implored, his tone weakening halfway through. “I don't understand...” Micky replied.

How could he not understand? Mike ran his fingers through his wet hair, appearing wound up. “First you buy me food, then you let me use your shower, then you let me wear your clothes, and now you're letting me stay here?” he babbled almost frantically, speaking faster and louder than what seemed typical of him.

Micky could tell quite well that he must be hanging on by mere threads mentally.

“Why don't ya sit down, we'll watch some TV.” Micky said, smiling once again, seemingly ignoring all that had spilled from Mike's mouth just now. Mike halted all words and it seemed his thoughts followed along. He dropped, falling into the couch and sitting with a blank stare.

Micky walked over to the television and clicked it on before passing through channels. “Looks like there's nothing good on.” he said as he continued to click through, circling back to the same channels without even noticing. “Oh well, we can sit and watch whatever's on.” he said with a shrug, unbothered.

He turned and sat back down in his chair and took up his plate of now room temperature pasta and ate it, also unbothered by it's temperature.

Mike sat on the couch, exhausted, staring blankly at the floor, when, just then, the little dog appeared in his line of sight which pulled him back to the moment. He sat slightly upright and looked at her as she looked at him.

Her look seemed to be one of what he perceived to be dislike. Perhaps she knew he was now a permanent guest in her space and she wasn't happen about it one bit.

Or maybe he was projecting his feelings of inadequacy and unbelonging. He still remained in nearly complete disbelief of the events that had unfolded tonight. He still wondered if maybe this really was a dream and he was still passed out in that smelly, wet alleyway.

He had never seen or received such kindness as he did tonight. He almost wondered if maybe there was something this kid wanted from him. He couldn't imagine what that something would be, he had nothing. He is nothing.

He looked up and gazed at the turned on television that stood before him. Again, he found himself fascinated for a moment. He had never really been allowed to watch TV much growing up. He had never really seen many TVs in his life.

The visuals on the screen and sound from the speakers were enough to somewhat draw him from his frenzied thinking, but after only a moment of watching the show that was playing, he found himself quickly disinterested and retreated back into his thoughts.

After some time, Micky stood up from his seat with an empty plate, causing Mike to startle a bit. He watched him closely as he walked to the kitchen and placed his dirty dish into the sink and walked back out to fold up the little table he was using for his plate.

Micky left the folded up table on the floor by the seat and he stood up and stretched. Still Mike watched him closely.

“Well, I think it's about time I turn in, I'm exhausted.” Micky yawned. “You sure you don't want some pasta before bed?” he asked. “I'm fine.” Mike replied. As hungry as he still was, he still had quite the stomach ache from inhaling a large sandwich a few hours ago.

“Well, okay. You can have some in the morning.” Micky said with a smile before walking back to the kitchen and putting the pot of pasta away in the fridge for the night.

As Micky walked back out and clicked off the lights, Mike continued to watch him. He still felt very nervous in his presence, extremely cautious that anything could happen.

“Sorry you gotta sleep on the couch, it was kinda short notice.” Micky said, looking over at Mike. “Well... It's not a park bench or a pile of leaves under a tree...” Mike replied.

Micky simply smiled at him before walking down the hallway and into his room. Mike sat there alone on the couch, unmoving. He watched the small dog toddle over to her bed and turn little circles before lying down with a little huff.

Finally, Mike grabbed at the comforter and slipped under it and laid his head down on the pillow.

He was a bit too tall for the length of the couch so he had to keep his long legs slightly bent, but it really beat everything else by a long shot. He hadn't used a blanket in such a long time that he'd forgotten how great they felt. His thin body didn't hold in any warmth anymore and he often found himself shivering during the nights.

He stared up at the ceiling. He stared at the ceiling, not the stars, not the clouds, not the branches and leaves that usually loomed over his head, but the ceiling. It was so different. It was so dark. It was so quiet. It was peaceful. No more city lights, no more cars, no more passersby, just him.

Although he found this sudden change so hard to accept, he felt so incredibly grateful, but also now in debt to the kid who had shown him so much humanity. He would never be able to thank him enough, nothing in words or material could ever thank or repay him.

He felt his eye growing heavy and slowly it began to close, before suddenly he heard Micky's voice once again. “Oh, Mike.” he said. Mike sat up and looked at Micky who stood, peering from around the corner of the hallway in his night clothes.

“Yes?” Mike replied. “Goodnight.” Micky said warmly. Mike was quiet for a second. “... Goodnight.” he finally replied. Micky smiled and disappeared back into the hallway and into his room.

Mike laid back down and stared up at the ceiling once more. This was it. This was his life.

#the monkees #m&m headcanon #writing #hello everypony #all these words came to me with relative ease cuz this was kinda a long time coming for me #anyway.here it is sorry if its wordy i love words and write for myself #not ship btw

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