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When the adrenaline has worn off, all six housemates linger awkwardly in the bathroom, all too afraid to move or speak, except for Mike.
Mike shivers in the tub. He looks awful, soaking wet and covered in dried bits of his own vomit. Charlie’s hold on Mike’s wrist is loose and warm, but it still conjures up the not-so-distant sensation of cold metal handcuffs.
Even with his eyes closed, Mike can still register the sound of footsteps leaving the room, shoes clicking on wet tile with little hesitation. When he looks up, Paige is no longer hovering above his head with her sleeves rolled up to keep from getting soaked and hair hanging loose, framing her face like a misshapen halo in front of Mike’s bleary, tired eyes.
Of course, it’s Briggs who finally takes initiative, unable to bear for a second longer the sight of Mike, wet shirt sticking to his chest and grown-out, greasy hair plastered to his face, stepping back and giving commands to the others. His own hands shake too much for him to feel comfortable helping Mike up, something he’s done so many times it’s almost instinctual—almost. Instead, he watches as his colleagues, his housemates, his broken friends work silently and efficiently; Charlie pulls the stopper out of the drain at the same time Johnny envelops Mike in a soft white towel as Jakes helps him to his feet.
The bed that Mike is led to, leaving trails of icy water in his wake, is not his own. In the afternoon sun, the light streams through the windows, casting bright patches on the dark red duvet that lies neatly folded atop Briggs’ bed. Mike wants to protest as he’s sat down on the edge of the bed—he doesn’t want to invade Briggs’ personal space like this, especially not right now—but his blue-tinged lips can’t seem to form the words.
“Mikey?” Johnny snaps his fingers in front of Mike’s face. “You with me?”
Mike nods, trying to clear his throat. “Yeah,” he croaks.
“Shit, man, you scared us.”
Behind Johnny, Paul clears his throat. He stands above Mike, hovering uneasily the way Mike has grown so accustomed to ever since… ever since Sid fucked his life up, and then he fucked his life up. But when he wills himself to look up, there’s no overacted pity in Paul’s eyes.
Even facing Mike huddled in a towel, dripping wet, soaking the sheets on his bed, Paul wants him to feel like an equal.
Mike coughs, a weak, pitiful thing, and everyone realizes at the same time that he must be freezing and miserable.
The silent, clockwork routine of taking care of Mike resumes; Charlie comes into the room holding a soft, folded sweater and a pair of boxers, Jakes holds out his hands once more for Mike to take and stand steadily on his feet, and Johnny rolls the hem of Mike’s shirt up methodically so as little cold fabric touches his skin as possible. Mike scrunches up his face as Johnny pulls the shirt up and over his head, feeling the air hit his bare skin. Johnny blindly reaches out towards Charlie to retrieve the sweater, not wanting Mike to get any colder and not wanting to look at how awfully skinny Mike has gotten. While he’s much more alert, Mike’s face still possesses a concerning pallor and his eyes don’t quite seem to track every movement the way they used to. When Johnny pushes a hand through Mike’s hair, raking it back to get it out of his face, Mike’s eyes don’t even focus as he all but melts into the touch. It’s all for nothing anyway; limp, stringy strands of hair hang in Mike’s face the moment Johnny pulls his hand back. All Mike can feel, fighting against the numbness in his extremities, is the ghost of Paul’s lips on his temple, biting cold like every other sensation in his body.
The routine of watching over Mike resumes almost as if nothing happened. But, of course, something has happened. Mike is alert now, croaky and disheveled, but alert in a way he hasn’t been in a very long time. Despite the sweater and the blankets and Johnny, who refuses to leave Mike’s side, he’s still cold. He thinks of upstate New York, of his home which was rarely ever warm enough, and curls up a little more underneath the layers covering him.
Downstairs, the noise of waves crashing echoes into the living room through the open balcony doors. The setting sun hits the water, casting a blinding orange glow that Paul finds, for some reason, impossible to look away from. Squinting into the sun, this is as much respite as he will allow himself to have.
In all the years he’s known him, Paul has never heard Johnny shout like he did when he found Mike feverish and unresponsive. It sends a jolt through him just thinking about it, although he tries to convince himself the sensation is just from the contents of the canned energy drink that perspires in his tightening grip. The words echo in his head: “Unless you want to talk about why I started using in the first place.”
Over the crashing swell outside, a bird chirps, and as much as Briggs is certain it’s nothing more than a regular seagull, he looks up anyway, hoping to catch a glimpse of bright red feathers. Now it’s him who’s looking for birds everywhere.
The glow of the sun reminds Paul of the deserts that lie in the northwest of Mexico, all sand and rocks and brown, decaying flora. He thought, years ago, when he dragged himself out of the desert and back across the border, that he’d hit his lowest. The footsteps above him that signify a new person moving towards Mike’s bedside— Paul’s bedside, with Mike in it—suggest otherwise. If anyone were to notice Mike’s condition, it should’ve been Paul. Paige was able to smile and brush off Mike’s delirious complaints, to ignore his needs in the context of recovery, while all Paul could do was watch silently and try not to itch at the vein nestled in the crook of his own elbow. Right now Paul wants nothing more than to see Paige leave forever, but as grief and despair settle in his stomach, he feels absolutely sure it should be him leaving instead. He’s not sure anyone deserves Graceland.
As the sun dips lower and lower, sinking into the ocean, Mike finally drifts off to sleep, wrapped up in blankets and the scent of Paul’s soap.