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After all the presents are opened, Corey gives Mick a Look. One of those faces he makes when he's excited and nervous and ready to say something stupid, expectant eyes and pinkened cheeks.
"Stop staring like that. Spit it out," Mick demands.
Raising his hands to placate the beast, Corey grins. "There's one more present." He jumps up and starts shuffling through jackets in the closet. "I wasn't sure if I should wait to bring it out, but I don't think I can."
Mick frowns at the brown paper bag dropped in his hands. "School lunch?" He asks with a raised brow.
Corey huffs. "Just open it."
There's a stuffed toy inside. A small white dog, with floppy black ears and a splotch over half its face. There's a red heart-shaped tag dangling from its left ear. Micks breath catches.
"It's so… small," Mick whispers. He can feel the fuzz in his head fighting for control, the way he floats out of his body to let the ghost of his child self take over. "For me?" He asks in a low voice.
Nodding, Corey shoots him a gentle smile. "Yeah, baby. For you."
Pinching one of its stupidly little feet, Mick lifts it up to get a better view. He finds a poem inside the ear tag, with a rhyme and everything.
Spot. That's its name. How endearing.
It looks so teeny tiny in comparison to Mick's hands. That might bother him on his bad days, but for now he just thinks it's cute.
"I hope it's okay," Corey starts, fiddling with his hands. "I saw it and I just thought, you know, maybe you'd like it when you're, you know. When you're small."
Mick starts sniffling. He's never felt so wholly known, like Corey can see all the pieces that make him up and, instead of running away or calling him insane, he wants to honor every part of Mick. Make the outlawed bits feel included, too. Tears start falling before he realizes it, his vision going blurry and wet as he cries into Spot.
"Shit, are you okay?" And Corey sounds so nervous, so frail, Mick knows he has to say something before Corey starts apologizing.
"I like it," Mick blurts louder than he means to. Stupid adult lungs and post-puberty voice. "I like it a lot. Thanks."
Corey wraps himself around Mick as he cries. It starts out small, quiet and hidden if only for the whispers of memory that tell Mick he's not allowed to take up space. The tears don't stay small for long, great heaving sobs that rattle Mick to the bones on every exhale.
He's seen. He is seen and he is known and it's all okay.
In this stolen moment, between the fog and the flashbacks, Mick is okay.