Chapter Text
He didn’t need to fucking be here. That was the first thing he knew about his new home—the therapist didn’t know what he was talking about. Michael was a perfectly normal teen who had perfectly normal aggressions—none of this anger management bullshit.
Michael was here because he told his therapist he wanted to rip a kid’s throat out. Again. He was threatening violence, and Dr. Jerkoff had issues with that. He’d been in enough fights where he’d known he could do a lot of damage to be completely honest. Sometimes he just wanted to kill somebody, or just fuck ‘em up. He slept with a pocket knife beside his bed and carried it with him wherever he went, just in case he ever got a real reason to do just that.
So when he was stripped of his worldly freedoms in the Austin Mental Hospital as his mom drove away crying, he really wanted to fucking kill someone.
They took his knife, and his belt, and even his goddamn shoelaces—they gave him some bullshit slippers and a pair of itchy sweatpants in replacement to his jeans. Because we can’t have you hurting yourself, fuckboy, we can’t have you trying to choke down the metal bits in those nice blue-jeans and killing yourself. That would be damaging to our nice little reputation.
The doctors talked to him as he was admitted, asking about his file and explaining the daily grind—he knew he’d be getting used to it. He’d only have to be here two weeks, and then he could go home and stab the drywall behind his door with the pocketknife again. He could threaten somebody over X-box live and nobody would give a damn.
Basically, breakfast is at eight, lunch is at noon, and dinner is at six. Everyone must report to every mealtime. They take your utensils back at the door so you can’t hide them in your room. If you’re checked off for an eating disorder (fuck that bullshit forever) you’ll be accompanied by someone for every meal, to make sure you’re eating. You can spend time in your room or in the game room. Curfew is at nine thirty.
All of that sounded so goddamn awful in the worst of ways. Getting up at eight? Fuck, he stayed up until eight when he was at home. Curfew at nine thirty? This hospital felt more like A) a prison or B) an old folks’ home. Michael could feel the metaphorical wrinkles appearing on his face. Fuck this shit.
Then he was escorted to his room, and the door was shut, and there he was in the blandest space ever. Two beds, one on each side of the room, white walls, white carpet floor that wasn’t soft at all. The drywall had no holes in it like his room. He almost wanted to change that so it’d feel more familiar.
There was a kid with black hair sitting on one of the beds. He was sitting there with a stress ball in his hands, shifting it back and forth and squishing it periodically.
Michael looked at him expectantly, but he kept his dark eyes downcast at the stress ball. What kind of fucking roommate doesn’t even say hello? How was he gonna live with this asshole for two shitty, miserable weeks if he doesn’t even talk? Michael swore, he was gonna punch him right in the nose, break those shitty glasses on his face—
“Hey asshole, what’s your problem?” Michael snarled, dropping his duffel bag (full of nothing but video game t-shirts and a single pair of shorts, since everything else had been fucking confiscated).
The kid flinched at the words and squished the stress ball harder, but otherwise didn’t react. Michael huffed, rolling onto the other bed and facing the wall. He let his thoughts muddle together, mixing to become some entity of rage—he was just boiling.
One. He’s in a mental hospital that he doesn’t need to be in. He’s fine. Two. His mother drove off all upset and acted like it was her fault, acted like there was something wrong with Michael. What a fucking dramaqueen. He’s fine, dammit! Three. Curfew. Four. His roommate was infuriating him and he hasn’t even done anything yet.
It kinda dawned on Michael that maybe he was being a little harsh on the guy. If you greet somebody like that they’re probably not gonna take to you well.
Fuck that, though. He was not apologizing. There’s nothing wrong with being pushy when you’re upset, not in Michael’s world.
He stared at the wall for god knows how long, just steaming from the ears, until he heard the door open. He expected it to be a nurse or something telling the two roommates it was time for dinner, but instead, a boy with sleepy blue eyes and a face full of stubble poked his head in the door. The guy looked moderately surprised to see him, but it didn’t show that much—for god’s sake, his eyes were half-closed. How did he stay awake?
When Michael flipped over to look at the door, he noticed his roommate had looked away from his fucking piss-yellow stress ball for a minute to look at the visitor. The black haired kid was smiling now, for the first time doing something not attributed to a vegetable in front of Michael. “Geoff,” He said, obviously referring to the guy at the door.
Geoff spoke. “Ray, we’re going down to the cafeteria. Come on.” His voice was rough, and it kinda irked Michael that he would just blow him off like that. Ray wasn’t the only one in the room, dickwad.
Before he could get a word in, Ray slipped off the bed, dropping the stress ball onto the mattress and adjusting his purple hoodie. He avoided eye contact with both Michael and blue-eyes here, sleeves drawn up over his hands and shoved in his pockets. He had a slouched, defensive posture as he left the room. Ray didn’t say anything in the hall, but Michael heard other people talking, as if they’d been waiting for him to come out.
God damn, everybody here was fucking crazy. He didn’t ask to be here, holy shit. Dealing with this roommate was gonna be tough if all he did was play with that stress ball and breathe.
Michael supposed it was time for him to go to the cafeteria, too. He didn’t know how strict the regulations were yet, but he guessed he would be familiar with the statement “fashionably late” in respect to meals. Fuck that scheduled bullshit, Michael eats when Michael’s hungry.
A nurse did stop in to get him, and he reluctantly followed her to the room where maybe thirty people were sitting scattered around at like, fifteen tables. A couple tables only had one or two people at them, while others were full. In all, the room was a quiet rumble of conversation.
Michael walked toward the counter to get his food—it ended up being a mound of disgusting mashed potatoes and gravy, and some corn. Fuck that, not eating that. Nope.
His eyes scanned over the room, looking for someone interesting to sit with. Someone who hopefully wouldn’t make him want to commit suicide via samurai sword to the gut. His eyes settled on a kid who looked mildly bored, by himself at a corner table. His chin was propped on his hand, forearm braced on the table. He sat down with exaggerated confidence, his tray clacking against the table. “Hey. What’s your name?”
The boy looked at him strangely for a minute, then slowly replied, “Forward, huh? I’m Ryan.” He prodded at his mashed potatoes with a plastic fork.
“I’m Michael.”
The silence stretched between them for a moment, before Ryan spoke again. “Y’know, it’s probably not a good idea to take that seat.”
A flare of anger shot up in Michael. “Why the hell not? It was open, it’s a perfectly good seat. What the fuck, man.” He growled, gripping his package of plastic utensils, still plastic wrapped.
“It’s Jack’s seat. And he’s not gonna react well to… erm, he doesn’t handle change well.” Ryan gave him a look, like he was ready for Michael to start screaming at him openly.
Michael had more vinegar to share, however, and shot back—“Who’s Jack, your shitty imaginary friend? Where else can’t I sit, or god forbid I piss off the whole imaginary gang?”
“He’s—He’s right behind you.” Michael went to sneer at him and shoot back another reply, but he followed the guy’s gaze up and around, meeting the eyes of a redhead who was, in fact, standing behind him.
“Get up. You’ll give him a fucking anxiety attack, just get up.” Ryan snapped, his voice losing the friendly tone it had before. Jack was shuffling behind him still, clenching and unclenching his hands. He seemed frozen to that spot—unable to sit anywhere else without freaking. Michael stubbornly stayed, giving the panicking Jack a disgusted look. This whole hospital business was just a freak show. There was nothing wrong with Michael—they said some bullshit to his mom like, intermittent explosive disorder, but Michael knew it was fake as hell. Whatever.
He’d lost himself in that thought just before two tattooed hands were gripping his hoodie and yanking him roughly out of the seat. Someone else pushed his lunch tray out of the way, and Michael recognized a pissed off blue-eyed kid, from the room earlier—Geoff. He pushed at Geoff’s chest, trying to at least pry the fingers off his shirt, away from his throat.
“What’s your problem, dickhead? Can’t respect somebody’s space?” The guy snarled.
“What the fuck, dude, it’s just a goddamn chair! There’s a hundred in this room, jesus!” Michael tried to hit Geoff off of him, but to no avail.
The guy looked beyond pissed. “It’s OCD, you insensitive fuck! This aint strawberry fields, asshole!” His hands were gripped so tightly around Michael’s shirt they were bunching it up and nearly choking him. “You’re not in Kansas anymore; you’re surrounded by people who need help.”
A staff member was rushing over to the two of them already, but Michael glanced back at Jack, who was looking down ashamedly, pushing his food into some kind of formation, while a concerned-looking Ryan tried to talk to him. He didn’t get much more of a look before the nurse was pulling Geoff off of him, and whisking the guy out of the lunchroom. He flipped Michael off and yelled profanities all the way out.
Another staff member was asking him if he was alright, and he just told them to go away. Just in those simple terms, which was unusual for him. He’d normally tell them off in a much less pleasant way, like fuck off. He couldn’t figure out why he didn’t just do that anyways.
Michael looked back to the table where Ryan was sitting, where his food was still on the table, and saw how upset Ray looked. Maybe it was that.
He felt… a little bad about that. About getting Geoff dragged out of the lunchroom. About being a problem, and making everyone upset. About being just a disruption in everyone’s lives. But seriously, fuck apologies. That stuff was for weak motherfuckers—
He kept glancing towards the table again, wanting to go get his food but Jack and Ray and Ryan and that other kid were all there—
“Get over here. Just shut the fuck up and eat, staff will force you to if you don’t.” Ryan said, noticing his discomfort.
That’s how Michael ended up at the lunch table with four guys, all of whom were picking at their gross mashed potatoes, unentertained. Michael wondered if the meals were always like this. He knew Ray, his roommate. Well, he didn’t know him, but he knew of him. Which he could say the same for everyone—Jack and Ryan, at least. He knew their names. He knew the sight of Jack lining up his tray with the edge of the table perfectly. The fourth guy—well, he didn’t know.
He was tall and thin, with wild, straw-colored hair. He sat next to Ryan, across from Ray. Michael was at the head of the table—looking at him across Ryan’s tray awkwardly.
The guy met his gaze, and he didn’t even have to ask for his name—“I’m Gavin. It’s Gavin Free, nice to meet you. Not nice, I mean, but I’m meeting you.” He had a dumb British accent that wrapped around his syllables like caramel on an apple.
What a statement that was. Michael snarled. “Not nice?”
“You don’t seem very friendly, jeez. Respect somebody’s seat when it’s theirs, holy hell.”
Michael grumbled, but didn’t say anything, if only to escape hearing more of the British fucker’s dumb mouth-words. Fuuuuuck. This sucked more than he thought it would.
They all ate in silence for a while, trying to pick at their food and make it look like they ate more than they actually did. Jack was eating more than anyone else—obviously he was hungry. He didn’t make eye contact with anyone while he did so, though, and they almost avoided looking at him—meal time was probably gonna be the weirdest time of day in the coming weeks.
Ryan was almost glaring at Gavin’s food. Michael wondered for a second if he was still hungry after eating his own. Was it that he wanted the food or that he wanted Gavin to eat—but that question was answered as he said, “Gavin.”
Gavin’s eyes snapped up to the brunet, rolling fluidly in an exaggerated fluid movement. “Not hungry. Nope.”
“Gavin.” Ryan growled, not taking it at all. “You’re gonna eat or we’re gonna sit here until Geoff comes back with the staff member.”
The brit indignantly stabbed his fork into the potatoes. “Not hungry, you pleb.”
Ryan huffed, turning to Ray. “I guess we’re here to stay. I’m not leaving until Gavin eats something.”
Michael’s brows furrowed in irritation. This was a fucking drama show. It was clear now that Gavin was here for some stupid teen-girl eating disorder and Ryan was not having it—Ray and Jack sat back, having finished what they were eating/planning to eat. Ray hadn’t finished all of it, but he just fiddled with a loose string on his purple hoodie, so it was pretty clear he wasn’t eating anymore.
The funny thing was, though, Michael didn’t want to eat either. His stomach didn’t settle right—he was probably just too angry. Sometimes he would forget to take care of himself at home—be too busy blasting music and playing Halo to eat or shower for a couple days. This move to the hospital was jarring—he was gonna be bored out of his mind, without his X-box or his laptop. God, it pissed him the hell off.
He looked back up at Ryan and Gavin, who were still staring daggers at each other. Ryan had finished his food, and Gavin still hadn’t touched his.
Fuck it, he wasn’t staying for this sissy-fest. Fuck this.
Standing up abruptly, he felt that familiar surge of rage come over him, tingling in his spine and boiling his blood. He shoved his tray down the table as hard as he could, hitting Ray’s and Jack’s trays, those in turn hitting Ryan’s and Gavin’s sending a bunch of stuff—trays, utensils, food— clattering to the ground.
The destruction brought him the same kind of joy stabbing his drywall did at home.
However, four faces were turned to face him now, in differing stages of fright, shock, and anger. Ray had flinched so hard Michael was worried he hurt himself, but he didn’t stay to find out.
Without a word, he turned on his heel and stalked out of the lunchroom. He was pleasantly surprised when nobody tried to stop him.
There was no place to really go, besides his room again. So he went back there. He pulled back the white bed sheet and got under it, hunching his shoulders and facing the wall.
He really really wished he had his headphones right now. Or at least something to take away this stupid boredom. He remembered the lady telling him about the game room, but she said there were stupid things like air hockey and pinball in there and nobody has time for that shit. He didn’t play well with others, it was that simple. He kinda proved that when he blew a gasket over a fight two other people were having. Not even his fight—and he ran out like a goddamn fool.
There was no fucking way in hell he was going to that game room now, because the moment he did, everybody would clear a path. He’d already made his point of being the angry, nasty kid with violent impulses. Right.
Maybe his mom was right. Maybe he wasn’t just angry—it could actually be this stupid Intermittent Explosive bullshit. Maybe—
No. No, no no. Nope. Fuck that. You’re fine, Michael, you can’t contradict what you’ve said this whole time. Just last these two weeks and you can live your life happily. Not in a mental hospital. You can have your Glitch Mob, your Chromeo, your Daft Punk and your Five Finger Death Punch. And your knife, to stab whatever you please.
His therapist came into the room to talk to him about the scene in the lunchroom. He just tuned the bitch out. Didn’t respond in the slightest. Can’t get shit from me, Dr. Fuckall. She talked at him—most of which he didn’t remember—for probably 40 minutes, but it felt like hours. Just get away from me. Holy fuck.
When she left, Michael slept. The whole day of being so wound up had him exhausted—but the con of going to bed so early was waking up in the middle of the night. At home he usually got three or four good hours a night—not very much on any given day.
So going to bed at eight o’ clock made him wake up at what was probably around two AM. He didn’t have a digital clock, and the wall clock was lit too dimly for him to be able to read it.
The only light was faintly shining from under the door—the hallway was still lit with warm yellow light, bathing the carpet in front of the door with streams of it. He guessed the nurse must have turned the light off whenever curfew happened—nine thirty. Michael’s eyes started to adjust, and he could see the white blankets in the darkness. He saw the end of the bedframe, the shape of his bag against the wall at the foot of the bed. He could see the rug on the floor between his bed and Ray’s, and—he could see Ray, too.
The boy wasn’t asleep. He was sitting in the same pose he’d been in when Michael arrived here—shifting the stress ball from hand to hand, squishing it, right hand. Squishing it, left hand. Right hand. Left hand.
Michael was sitting up now, looking over at the unresponsive boy. “Hey.” His voice sounded too loud.
Ray didn’t say anything. Right hand. Left hand.
Michael guessed Ray didn’t like him, as he’d kind of done every single thing wrong that day. Like, every possible thing. So the next thing that left his lips was, “I’m sorry about today. I kinda… came off wrong.” Fuck, Michael, why do you only have feelings at two in the morning?
Ray looked up at him, but kept silent. Right hand.
“I-I mean, I really fucked it up. I’m sorry. You’re Ray, right? I’m Michael.” Fuck, fuck. What are you doing, asshole? Why are you going all soft? You could have just done the two weeks without caving on the first night like a pussy, in true Michael fashion.
Left hand. “Yea, I’m Ray.” Right hand.
“Err, is it bad to ask what you’re here for? Or am I allowed to do that?”
Ray stopped squishing the stress ball. It was eerie to see Ray completely unmoving. “Only if you tell me about you.”
“I’ve…” Michael gulped. Was he gonna say what he believed? Or what the doctor told him? “It’s Intermittent Explosive Disorder. Like… fucking crazy anger management shit.”
Ray didn’t look fazed. “Oh,” Was all he said, before continuing. “But tell me about you, not about why you’re here.”
That threw him for a loop. But he regained his composure quickly—“Well, I’m from New Jersey. My mom moved us down here when she got a new job. And I’ve been here for like… two years, in Austin.” Ray started to shift the stress ball again, nodding to indicate he was listening to Michael without making eye contact—it was pretty clear Ray wasn’t big on eye contact.
“I can’t really think of anything to say. I like video games a lot?” Michael said tentatively, but that seemed to light up Ray’s eyes.
He didn’t really jump up or do anything, but Michael could see it in Ray’s eyes—he was excited “Dude, I love video games. What are your favorites?”
“Well, I like Halo and Fallout a lot. Assassin’s Creed and Titanfall, too.” Ray actually smiled at him, then.
“Which Halo game is your favorite?” He demanded.
“Definitely Halo 3. Can’t beat it.”
“Hell yes! Someone who knows what he’s talking about! I’m glad you’re not one of those next-gen assholes who swear by Halo 4 or anything.”
“Nah, couldn’t be. At least most of the twelve year olds stay off the Halo 3 servers now, though.” Michael laughed.
“Look, I accept your apology for today. A-and I can tell you what I’m here for, if you really want.” He set the stress ball down on the bed, sitting back against the wall and stuffing his sleeve-covered hands in the big pocket of his hoodie.
Michael shrugged. Of fucking course he wanted to know. “I’m curious. Can’t help it.”
“It’s social anxiety. A-and a couple more things. But mostly the anxiety.”
Michael could see that. Someone like Ray—who evidently played games a lot, who kept himself holed up in his room—he could see that happening. “Sorry dude.”
“Don’t be. I’ve gotta ask you—what’s your Gamerscore?”
“Err, like a hundred fifty thousand? Something like that.” Michael wondered why it mattered, since Gamerscore was never really that important to him. Achievements were nice, but not everything.
Ray didn’t say anything, just nodded. Michael felt a twinge of anger—Ray was deliberately not saying anything because he knew he was better than Michael at gaming—and why would Michael give a fuck! Ha!
“What’s yours, then, if you’re so cocky?” He snarled, Ray still not making eye contact.
“When I left home it was four hundred twenty five thousand.”
Michael’s jaw dropped, anger flushing out and a bit of respect replacing it.
“Jesus, dude.”
“Thanks.” Ray took it as a compliment, and had a little smirk on his face. “You should get some more rest, man. No offense but you look like you but hit by a train.”
Michael wondered how far coming this lack of sleep was. He’d been depriving himself for so long—there was no real telling when he’d wake up.
“You should too, just stop playing with that stupid stress ball. What time is it, anyways?”
Ray shrugged. “It must be like… three o’ clock. Nothing too bad. I hate not having a window in our room.”
“Y-yeah. I wish we could at least see the sun from in here. Does anybody have a window, anyways?”
“Jack and Geoff have a window.”
“Oh.” Michael didn’t know what to say at the mention of Geoff. He was sorry about the confrontation they had, but he couldn’t handle any more apologies right now—he hated admitting he was wrong. There were a few minutes of silence after that. Not incredibly awkward silence, just plain and neutral silence. It was strange to have a moment of peace for a second. Ray had done a pretty good job at calming his rage down.
He laid down again, facing the wall. A wave of tiredness washed through him the same way the rage had before—he heard Ray talking again, for a moment. “Go to bed, man. I forgive you, alright. I’ll help smooth things over with the other guys. Just… be careful around us, okay?”
What did that mean…? Be careful around them? Be… Careful… Michael fell asleep all at once, falling straight past dreaming and into that dark, black kind of sleep that he wouldn’t remember in the morning.