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Sometimes, Mikey doesn't notice the lights going down. When he sits, shaky and unshowered in the little cave he created for himself in the lounge room, time becomes irrelevant for a spell. Sure, the sun’s gone, but does anyone really care? It wasn't like he saw much of it while it was here, anyway.
He should go outside more.
But inside’s so easy, there’s shitty sitcoms looping that Mikey doesn't really like [but can't be bothered to change] there’s the cup-o-noodles that he's been eating for days [and now lay piled up all around the apartment, empties spreading like a cancer] there’s a thermostat [that’s been freezing cold ever since Frank went on his latest recording round for Stomachaches, because Mikey doesn't have the motivation to get up and fix it.] Inside’s awful, really, but it’s awfully easy.
And easy’s all that he can manage right now.
Some random episode of Friends is playing quietly on the TV now, tinny laugh track ringing out through the empty flat. From behind Mikey’s private raincloud, he faintly hears the click of a key in the apartment door.
Frankie.
He’s home, he’s home after almost a week, and Mikey should be getting up to greet him, should be helping with bags, should be doing fucking anything, but he isn't. He’s useless, frozen to his spot, watching the flatscreen flicker.
“Yo, Mikes, I did so good that time, got three whole ass songs done in like-” Frank stills at the door, smile sliding off his face as he surveys the apartment. “Oh, shit.”
His eyes flick over the piles of trash, the looping tv show that they both know Mikey hates, the mess of clothes all over the floor. Finally, they land on the man on the couch. The way he sits almost hurts Frank to see, how he’s tucked up as small as possible, knees shoved into his chest and shaking from the cold he hasn't even really registered yet. Mikey’s hair’s messy and greasy, and he clearly hasn't showered in days. The bags under his eyes are far worse than usual, curves of dark purple against ghostly white skin. His clothes are clearly yesterday’s [or more like yester-yesterday’s,] stained and sweaty.
Mikey Way looks broken.
Frank approaches tentatively, dropping his duffel by the door on his way. He awkwardly scoots his way around the coffee table, crouches in front of Mikey and holds his hands out placatingly.
“Can I touch?” he asks, voice just above a whisper. At Mikey’s tiny nod, Frank moves to take his hands gently, tipping his head up to try and make eye contact. “Today a talking or non talking day?”
The question is answered by Mikey whispering a croaky “I’m sorry,” and pulling his hands out of Frank’s to bury his head in them.
“Mikey, what was my rule. What’s been my rule, forever?” Frank’s stern for once, trying to tug Mikey’s hands away from his face gently.
Mikey pauses, then sighs, the sound coming out muffled from behind his hands. “No apologising, because it isn't my fault.”
Frank nods, satisfied, then taps Mikey’s knee to prompt him to keep going. “C’mon, Mikes, what’s up? Y’know there’s usually a reason y’get like this.”
Mikey stalls again, then moves over on the couch and motions for Frank to come up and sit next to him. When he does, Mikey immediately drops his head to his shoulder and tangles their legs together taking a deep breath before beginning.
“Fuck, this time it was weird. I kept just… I kept thinking of funny things to tell you, or seeing movies I thought you’d like, or going to cook ramen because you like ramen, but… you weren't here. And I missed you, but then I felt awful for missing you, because you’re off doing great things, you’re making an album, and it’s wonderful! But I’m left behind. And it’s not your fault, I swear it’s not. I- I just got thinking that… you know, you don't… need me, anymore. Like I’m dragging you down by being such a mess? Which, uh… obviously made the mess worse. And… and I got in a downward spiral. So… yeah. Shit, I’m sorry, Frankie.”
It all comes out in one messy speech, Mikey’s breathing uneven and heart pounding. Talking about this shit was always hard, but he hoped that it didn't seem like he was trying to keep Frank from recording or guilttrip him or anything like that, that's not it at all.
“God, I couldn't have just… missed you, like a normal person. I had to fucking fall apart.” Mikey laughs, the sound completely void of humour. Frank frowns and slings an arm around his shoulders, squeezing Mikey in tight to his chest.
“That sucks, Mikes. Your brain’s telling you lies, though, y’know? Of course I need you, always will, okay?”
When Mikey nods, mouthing a tiny ‘okay,’ Frank glances back at the mess of a kitchen they still had to take care of.
“Y’wanna go shower while I clean up a bit?” At Mikey’s clear apprehension, he adds, “C’mon, it’ll make you feel better. Let’s go.”
Frank’s a pro at this now, from all the times he’s had to clean up Mikeyway’s messes. He drops a fluffy towel in their dryer so it’ll come out all warm, uncaps all the bottles of soapy stuff they’ve got in the shower, and runs the water. Sometimes, all you need is for the daunting tasks to be a little easier, just to psyche yourself up into doing them.
Mikey showers- well, more just sits under the running water for a bit and then gets out- and Frank was right. It does make all the difference. He watches the water turn grey-ish and run down the drain numbly, finally registering how much sweat and dirt and cup-o-noodle had actually built up on his skin. Jesus.
The dryer towel is sitting on the counter all folded up, next to a pair of sweats and the blue shirt that Frank knows full well is his favourite. He smiles slightly at the notion, the fact that he knows him well enough to deal with shit like this, to find his favourite shirt because it’ll make it a bit easier.
Mikey pads out into the kitchen with soft hair and a towel around his neck, laughing at the sight of Frank wearing a stupid apron and rubber gloves, scrubbing at the kitchen bench. He deep cleans the apartment like, once a month, and Mikey always feels a bit guilty that he needs to do it that often, but he does admit that it makes everything feel a lot happier.
Once the bench is shining and there’s a giant garbage bag full of plastic forks and styrofoam cups tied up next to the front door, Frank comes over to sit next to Mikey at their ‘dining table’ [it’s really just some stools stood up next to the kitchen island, but whatever.]
He rubs a hand affectionately through Mikey’s hair, smiling wide when he leans into the touch and closes his eyes instead of batting it away like usual. His hair was nice when there wasn't any gel or whatever in it. Smelled less like the bottom of a club.
“So, Mikes,” Frank asks, still playing with Mikey’s hair. “Wanna hazard a guess at the average hours of sleep you got per night while I was away?”
Mikey whines quietly and squints an eye open. He thinks for a moment, then holds up three fingers. The insomnia had been a bitch lately, if he’s being honest.
“Fuck.” Frank’s eyebrows crease the way theh do when he’s trying to either figure out the solution to a problem that he has no clue how to fix, or when he’s just plain sad.
Seemingly making up his mind, he jumps down off the countertop and stretches his hand out to Mikey.
“C’mon.”
Mikey takes his hand, but tilts his head questioningly.
“‘M gonna make you a glass of milk and honey, or- or chamomile tea or whatever, if you want, and then it is bedtime.”
Mikey rolls his eyes, but stands up and allows himself to be tugged into his bedroom regardless. “Frankie, chamomile tea isn't gonna-”
“Bup bup ba! I said bedtime, Mikeyway. Come on, we’re going now.”
Being the huge dork that he is, Frank goes the full mile, tucks Mikey in, lights a few candles, positions the promised cup of chamomile on his bedside table.
Mikey just sighs, squinting up at Frank because of his lack of glasses. “This isn't gonna make me sleep, you know.”
Frank bites his lip, fidgeting with his rings skittishly. Mikey was joking, making light of the situation, but still. He doesn't know the answer .
“Do… do you know what will?” he asks hopefully. If stupid life hacks off Instagram or whatever don't help, Frank’s got no dice, to be honest.
Mikey shakes his head, before seemingly reconsidering.
“Wait. Stay?” He looks up with big, wide eyes, so doe-like without his glasses covering them, and it’s so hard to say no when he’s like this.
Frank bites his lip, contemplating, before climbing into bed behind Mikey, settling his hands on his hips and his knees behind his knees. Frank rests his forehead gently against the back of Mikey’s neck, closing his eyes and wishing ever so strongly for some of the ghosts and ghouls trapped in there to get somehow absorbed into Frank’s own head. He’d share the burden with Mikeyway if he could, suffer the horrors with him if it’d make it just a little lighter.
But, and it kills him every day to say this, he can't. All Frank can do to help is to be here and ready, with shitty take-out and unnecessary hugs and an embarrassing level of knowledge about vintage sci-fi flicks. That’s how he can make it a little lighter, so he does. He holds Mikey, in the quiet and in the darkness, puts a little bubble around them that none of the nightmares can get to.
After a few minutes, when Frank thinks he’s finally fallen asleep, a soft little voice rings into his ears, one still rough from disuse over the course of the week.
“Frank?” Mikey asks, whispering into the darkness. “I think you’re my best friend.”
“You’re mine too, Mikes.”