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The bed was cold.
Too cold. They hadn't shared a bed since after the Russia fiasco. Since crash-landing in fucking 2046. Mick barely talked to him anymore, and he sure as shit hadn't returned to their room since then. At least not while he was in it, and to be honest, he hadn't left it much recently. They hadn't been apart for this long since their split in early 2014 when Mick nearly burned his face off. Len didn't realize just how much Mick had managed to melt the ice around his heart with his flames. God, he was such a fucking cliché.
He wouldn't cry, he wouldn't cry, he wouldn't cry, he would not cry...
Other than Lisa, Mick was the only one he let see his tears; he was damned if he would cry on the Waverider where there were probably cameras everywhere. And speaking of his sister, Lisa would probably kick both of their asses over this. Served him right. The whiskey he drank earlier–warm, like Mick's voice–sits heavy in his stomach.
Sara had been by a few times, as had Ray–endless ball of optimism that he was–but they weren't the companionship he wanted. He also wanted to stop feeling like a teenage girl getting over her first breakup, but that he could and did blame entirely on Mick. They were partners; that meant they were supposed to stick together through thick and thin, blah blah blah. He would give anything to feel overly warm again if it meant Mick would come back and talk to him.
People assumed he was the drive behind their infamy, his cold calculations and plans, but it was Mick who was the real life behind them. He was like a fire burning out of control, and Len couldn't help but get caught up in his wake. Ice couldn't contain fire, it could only melt in its presence. Just like the two of them. Len needed control in his life, and Mick shook that up. He reminded him to live and let loose and lo—no. He wasn't going to follow that train of thought. Len made the plans and Mick burned them to ashes, sometimes literally. That was how they worked.
He knew he'd done wrong by Mick, but he couldn't have left him behind any more than he could leave his cold gun. Not again, and especially not in some future that would probably never come to pass. He felt safe with Mick, in a way he never had with anyone else, even when they were burning out of control. Mick called him boss, but that was their own private joke; they were equals. They watched each other's backs. Had ever since juvie. And he refused to swallow his pride and be the one to break this time. Mick didn't realize, Len already burned when they were together, and he'd let everything else burn around them if it meant Mick would be at his side.
Their bed was too big, their room was too cold, Len had more people that cared about his well being than ever before, and he had never felt so alone. This was why he hated feelings. He'd let his heart ice over once again if he had to.
Len rolled over and let the tears fall on his pillow in the empty room.