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Back in Mickey Eleven days, Arkaby always looked at him like he was some useless worm at the end of his fishing line.
Honestly, working with that man--if being tortured was considered as partnership--was Mickeys least favrouable of the whole bunch. Sure, Dorothy was nice, and Matthew got him extra rations the firat few days after reprinting (if he lasted that long), but they were still testing him at the end of the day. Arkaby, espeically, just had a little less humanity then the rest of them. Or maybe Mickey was looking too deep into it.
Nasha had told him once he forgave people too easy, let them walk all over him. Respectfully, he didn't think so. He was the one who signed up for it. It was his job, no matter how much Nasha insisted that it didn't make his situatuion anymore inhumane. But, really, Mickey found it a hassle to waste others time with all the spefifics. He was here for one job and job only: to be expendable. It didn’t matter if they'd just put him through the seven layers of hell for a gas they never really needed; at the end of the day, Mickey was simply expendable until he wasn't. That was just fact.
The metallic twang of blood stained the inside of his cheek. Maybe he was biting too hard. Everything was spinning. His head lolled into the toilet bowl, cut from its strings. His hands were shaking. It felt like his kneecaps had morphed with the cold floor beneath him. Fuck. This wasn’t a good night, was it?
It wasn't like he meant to end up like this. He'd been drifting in and out of dreamless sleep for hours, and when Eighteen had crawled in beside them smelling faintly of strawberries, Mickeys brain had decided that then was the best time to retch up all the horrible memories from his brain and display them in the forefront of his mind. Pretty easy to guess the rest.
It was a while until Mickey lifted his head from the toilet bowl, body seemingly done rendering him a shaking mess on the floor. How many minutes had passed? It felt like hours. God, he wanted some Morphin. Maybe take Eighteen up on that oxy offer once he dragged himself back to bed.
Pressure at the back of his head. Mickey craned his neck, blinking groggily at the light above him.
Speak of the devil.
Eighteen was standing over him with a tired expression on his face, arms folded to his chest. His hair was sticking up from sleep. He was shirtless, and a bit of Nashas drool still stuck to one of his pecks. Mickey gulped.
“.. Hi,” he croaked, his throat rasping terribly at the sound. Eighteen scrunched his brows.
“Did you puke?”
Mickey rolled his eyes. “No.”
“You’re a bad liar.” He reached an arm out, flushing the bile down with the creak of the drainage. The flush was loud in Mickeys ears and he winced, curling even more into himself. When Eighteen looked back at him, his face read annoyed. “Was it a dream or somethin’?”
“No.”
“Work?”
“I didn't have it today.”
“Memory?”
“.. yeah.”
Eighteen scoffed, rolling his eyes. “You’re such a pussy. Move over, I needa take a piss.”
Mickey only whimpered. He shuffled a bit on his knees, aiming to rise up from the bathroom floor, but he couldn’t. Even looking up at Eighteen so many times in such short proximity had made his brain go all dizzy, and he found his cheeks puffing up as he spat out some spit from his mouth.
“Oh fuck,” Eighteen took a step back, brow furrowing. “God. You’re disgusting, y’know that? Fucking hell.”
A groan from the peanut gallery. Eighteen scoffed, and once Mickeys head was lolling enough, grabbed at his bicep and yanked him to his feet. Mickey wobbled, head throbbing, and he swallowed down another batch of bile.
Eighteen gave him a look. “You gonna pass out?”
Mickey swallowed thickly. “No.”
“Whatever you say.”
Mickey let out a weak scowl. He moved to the bedroom, where Nashas figure swayed in his vision. He could hear Eighteen scoff behind him before the bathroom light shut off, and Mickey was left to stumble to their bed with the guild of the exit sign above him.
She was beauty. A divine thing. Crawling into bed, Mickey sank against the sheets like it was water, shifting his body until it was comfortably next to Nashas. Even in sleep, her hand gravitated to him, grabbing at his own sleepily.
Even as Eighteen joined beside them, his own naked chest pressing against Mickeys back, Mickey still focused on Nasha. Even in her sleep she looked so heavenly.
“You should shower,” Eighteen mumbled against the back of his neck, voice rough. “Doubt Nasha wants to wake up to your vomit-smelling ass.”
Mickey casted a glare his way. “M’fine,” he protested, even though talking made another bold of nausea hit him right in the face. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to focus on Nashas warmth instead.
If he could just.. rest his eyes for a bit, this’ll go away, and he’ll wake up fixed and all brand new. Eighteen shifted behind him, pressing his mouth to his neck. “You fucking reek.”
Mickey shifted. “I don’t.”
“You do.”
“Fuck off.”
Eighteen huffed. Mickey shifted, trying to bury his head back into that warmth from before; he got a jerk to his waist, instead. Before Mickey knew it, his head spun back until his vision focused on Eighteens figure. Huh. He was on the floor.
Wait, what?
Mickey rolled onto his side, blinking. “What did you...”
“You reek,” Eighteen repeated, already swinging his legs over the bed. “Go take a shower. Get up.”
Mickey stared like a deer in headlights. Eighteen scowled, pulling him up by his bicep and all but manhandling him into the shower. Even though Mickey was still very much fully dressed, Eighteen turned on the spray anyway.
“You’re gettin’ my clothes wet,” Mickey mumbled, leaning a bit too heavily against the wall.
Eighteen gave him a look. “They needa get washed, too.” He steadied Mickeys shoulder. “Stay still. Let me hose you.”
Mickey slumped. Pain in his ass.
He didn’t realise he was leaning into Eighteen until a couple minutes later, when the shower head had been pelting onto his back, and Eighteen sighed, turning the water pressure down, just a bit.
He fixed Mickey with an annoyed look on his face. “Strip.” He commanded.
Mickey blinked. “Huh?”
“Strip.”
“.. Why?”
Eighteen scowled. “Just fucking strip, Mickey.”
A beat between them. Then, slowly, Mickey rolled at his shirts hem, lifting it off his head and popping free from the seam. When that was tossed down onto the floor, his pants came off next. Eighteen stared at him throughout it all. Mickeys eyes flickered to the door.
“..Can I get out now?”
“No.”
“Come on, Eighteen—”
Eighteen growled. “I said no."
Eighteen grabbed at the shower head, detaching it from the wall before Mickey could say anything else. He pointed it at him before all but blasting him with water.
Mickey flinched. “Hey—!”
“Shut up.” He lifted the spray right into Mickeys eyes, and the older recoiled, squeezing them shut as if that would help with anything. “Stay still. I gotta clean this shit outta your hair.”
“I can do that myself.”
“You won’t, and you know you won’t.”
“Eighteen—"
“Can it.”
Mickey was about to protest, but ultimately just let the man do what he wanted. Whatever. Wasn’t like he was gonna get out of this shower anytime soon anyway; Eighteens body made sure of that. Said man huffed, grateful—if only by a bit—and grabbed Mickeys shoulder.
“Turn around,” he ordered.
Mickey shuffled until his back was facing Eighteens, and he got to work.
He wasn’t gentle, not by any means of the words—his hands scuffed at Mickeys scalp like he was tryna tear the whole thing off—and with every hand stroke Mickeys shoulders hitched. It wasn’t long before the blast was back onto the back of his head, rinsing out the shampoo Eighteen had hastily squeezed into his hands, and the water ran like ice down his back.
“Can’t you, like, idunno,” Mickey looked at Eighteen over his shoulder, “turn up the heat a little? With the—with the water?”
An exasperated look.
Mickey turned his gaze back onto his feet. “Never mind.”
He stood still, letting Eighteen wash his hair with just a twinge of reluctance. He wanted to go and sleep with Nasha. Nasha always made him feel so much better, even when he was sick or in pain or dying. Mickey shuffled his hands, glanced at his toes. His head still throbbed, and the image of stupid Arkaby and his stupid face was still swimming around like the shampoo at the floor. Well, at least the water was getting a bit bearable on his back now; less like he was gonna be a meat popsicle and more like he was just gonna loose a few toes.
Eighteen flipped him over, turned off the tap and jerked his hand back after a moment. His face was nothing short of command. “Get out.”
Mickeys eyes flickered to him, and when he jerked his hand again, he stepped out onto the tile. Water dropped onto the floor and Mickey curled around himself a bit, jerking as a shiver wrecked through his body. Eighteen sighed.
“Here.” He grabbed a towel and held it out. Mickey took it, wrapping it around himself and nodded as a small, grateful thanks. Eighteen just shoved him towards the door. “Spares under Nashas gun.”
Mickey just nodded, opening the door and tiptoeing quietly to the shelf lining his and Eighteens side of bed. He grabbed the clothes, making sure his skin was at least a little dry before slipping the jumper over the top of his head, wiggling his arms through until his head popped out the other end. He smoothed down the wrinkles and grabbed at his pants when he realised.
Ah. His undies were soaked.
Eighteen nudged at his side. “Take mine.”
“What?” Mickey spun around, and Eighteen smirked, bathroom door ajar. He nudged at Mickeys side again.
“Take em.”
“No.”
“Why not? I’m you, you’re me—there’s no shame here. Besides, these are yours anyway.”
"Why the hell do you--" Mickey shook his head. “Nevermind. What are you gonna wear?”
Eighteen gave a bored look. “Yours.”
“My—” Mickey breathed in. “.. They're wet."
“And?”
Mickey paused. Eighteen raised an eyebrow, nudging him again, and Mickey sighed, giving in, grabbing Eighteens underwear from his hands. He tried not to feel weird as he slipped his off. Even though Eighteen had his own spear–Committee had ruled him as a individual person ages ago–it seemed like old habits died hard.
“Thanks,” he mumbled, handing his wet ones back to the man.
Eighteen smirked. “No problem, bestie.”
Mickey sighed as the bathroom door shut, shoulders slumping as he trudged his way back over to Nasha. She still slept so soundly, he was a bit jealous. She’d probably ask why Mickey had changed into Eighteens clothes in the morning, maybe raise an eyebrow, even. Mickey swallowed even thinking about it.
He crawled into bed, trying not to jostle Nasha as he snuggled close.
Nasha rose, however, peered an eye open. She shifted on her elbows, propping her head up lazily with one hand. “Mick. Hey. You okay?”
“M’fine,” he leaned over, pressing a kiss to her temple, feeling her relax under his affection. “Just went to the toilet.”
Nasha sank back into the bed. “M’kay,” she mumbled, rolling over onto her back. Mickey got guided to her chest with a lazy hand, circling the back of his neck as he pressed his face ontop. She breathed in, deep. Ran her hand in circles.
“Smell all soapy,” she mumbled. “You had a shower?”
“Mhm.”
Nasha pressed a kiss to his forehead. Smiled. “Hairs wet, too.”
Mickey nuzzled closer, eyes already drooping shut. “Yeah,” Mickey whispered, glancing as he heard the bathroom door unlock. “Eighteen washed it.”
That earnt Nasha a little more lucidity. “Did he? Well, you better say thank you.”
“Yeah,” Eighteen propped beside Mickey, wrapping an arm around his waist. “Wheres my thank you, huh?”
Mickey scowled. “I said thank you for the undies.”
“That’s not all I did.”
“Still a thank you.”
Eighteen nipped at his earlobe. Mickey let out a weak yelp, meaning to swat at him, but one turn from Nasha and he melted.
"You two are adorable, y'know that?" Nasha teased. Mickey's face flushed, and he could feel Eighteen shift against him. Nasha smiled, looking at Eighteen. "You guys okay?"
“Mhm.”
A glance to Mickey. “How bout you, sweetheart?”
A shy smile. “M’awesome,” he answered, truthfully.
Nasha grinned at that, pressing another kiss to the crown of his head before kissing Eighteen as well, the other drawing an equally enamoured smile in turn. Humming, Nasha rested against her pillow, drawing back to let Mickey crawl further against her chest. The trio snuggled into the bed together, wrapping up in each others scents.
God, Mickey loved Nasha. And he loved Eighteen, even if it was a little less, too.