4. Mickey

CHAPTER 4

MICKEY

There was no doubt in Mickey's mind that he wouldn't have survived the night if it hadn't been for Ethan. Maybe that was the reason Mickey had found himself seeking the shelter of the diner. Ten minutes later and it would've been closed and dark and Mickey would have probably frozen to death somewhere.

As it was, Mickey felt like death warmed over. He'd spent the night tossing and turning, sleeping in fits and starts. Slumber interrupted not by the need to watch his back, but by the coughing fits that would shake him awake. He worried about waking Ethan, but it couldn't be helped.

Light streamed in the windows when he finally woke for real. Exhaustion still permeated his body, but it was the sort he was used to. The fatigue from never having enough food or sleep. From not having safety or warmth. Though last night those things had been taken care of.

Mickey pushed the covers off himself and sat up. Dizziness made his head swim, but he managed to swing his legs off the couch and set his feet on the floor. A note sat on the coffee table bearing his name spelled in neat block letters.

Mickey,

Help yourself to anything you want to eat. There's some cold and flu medicine on the counter for your cough. I'll be around to check on you around lunch time. Please don't go anywhere.

Ethan

Mickey would have left, but he could barely walk without using the walls as support to keep himself upright. And even the short trek down the hall to the bathroom left him weak and winded. Mickey sat down to take a piss, not trusting his body to hold him vertical for the duration. He'd never been so tired before. Or weak. He was used to a certain level of exhaustion, but this went deeper than that.

Spending what felt like an eternity in the bathroom, Mickey used the new toothbrush Ethan had set out for him. Years of regret pricked at his eyes. A new toothbrush shouldn't be a novelty, or such a kindness that it threatened to undo Mickey completely. But it was given with no expectation except for one. All Ethan wanted was for Mickey to stay where he was safe. There were no strings, no threats, no guilt or manipulation.

Maybe Mickey would've been suspicious about Ethan if he hadn't met Taylor first. Taylor, who was a lot like his dad and had given to Mickey without strings. There were no conditions behind the kindness and that simple thing had Mickey feeling raw. And cheated. Lance had pretended to love him just so he could use him. How many other people had Mickey let use him without realizing it? He didn't want to start thinking about that. But then there were the Bennetts, giving him food and shelter, clothing, warmth, privacy, all without asking a single thing of him. Except that he stay safe.

And he'd left. Like an idiot. He hadn't trusted Taylor or his kindness. It had seemed too easy. There couldn't be people in the world who were nice without expectation. Except there were. Mickey stumbled out to the kitchen in the pants that were a little too long and the socks that were thick and cozy. He took another dose of that cough medicine, and a drink of water to wash the taste down after.

He should eat, he knew it, but he couldn't work up much of an appetite. His chest ached from the short walk to the bathroom and back and all he wanted was to curl up on the couch and go back to sleep. So that's what he did.

It might have been hours later, or maybe minutes, but Ethan's face swam into view. Mickey blinked at him and winced. Everything hurt. His skin. His joints. His eyelids even hurt. Mickey let out a pathetic sound and he tried to sit up, but Ethan gently held him back down.

"You've got one hell of a fever. I've gone to the pharmacy and grabbed a few things Damon said would help. Taylor is going to swing by with the soup of the day from the diner." Ethan went about his business as Mickey's personal nurse. He stuffed another pillow in behind him to prop his top half up a little more. It made breathing easier and drinking too. Because the next thing Ethan did was bring him a glass of water.

Mickey managed to drink half and take a couple of tablets that Ethan said would help. His body ached and he trembled, which only made his sore joints scream at him to stop. But he couldn't.

Ethan put the television on and didn't try to make Mickey choose this time, thankfully. He put on some sort of baking show where everyone had British accents and everyone was nice to everyone else, even though Mickey was sure it was supposed to be a competition.

Ethan carried the whole conversation. He talked a lot about his kids, Mickey noticed. Mickey already knew who his kids were, but he hadn't ever been friends with them. Not for any particular reason, though. He didn't avoid them or anything; he'd just not had the opportunity really. Everything at home had been strict and maybe if it hadn't been that way, Mickey might not have ended up in the mess he did. If he'd had someone like Ethan on his side willing to listen and understand, or at least empathize.

Mickey's parents hadn't been so understanding. They were fine when he came out to them, and it had given him a sort of false hope that things would be okay. But nothing else changed. They were still strict and cold. Distant, more often than not. It wasn't a surprise, looking back, that Mickey had left for the first person who showed him warmth. Even if it had been a trap.

The front door opened and closed and a familiar voice entered the room. "Hey, Dad. Hey, Mickey. Long time, no see. When Dad told me last night that you'd turned up, I made more chicken soup for you." Mickey watched Taylor zip through the house, carrying a pot by the handles. He kept chattering as he went into the kitchen and put it on the stove. "I'd ask how you're feeling, but you look like you feel like shit."

"Thanks for the soup, Taylor," Ethan said. It almost sounded like a dismissal, but if it was, Taylor ignored it. He leaned against the wall and sent Mickey a little scowl.

"You could've stayed downstairs, you know. I don't even live there now. I have my own little shoebox studio apartment. But what's done is done. I'm glad you're okay." Taylor frowned when Mickey started to cough and he shared a look of concern with his dad. "I'm glad you're okay-adjacent."

"How busy are we?" Ethan asked Taylor.

"Nothing we can't handle. If we get swarmed, I'll call you. You're two minutes away. We can make do." Taylor shot Mickey a smile. "I'm glad you came back."

And then he was gone again. Mickey found himself smiling for the first time in… he'd rather not think about how long. "He's a whirlwind."

"He's been happier lately," Ethan said. "It's good to see. Did you have any breakfast?"

Mickey shook his head. "I haven't been awake long." A coughing fit shook through him. It was like his chest was filled with glass and whenever he coughed it stabbed at him. By the time he was finished coughing, he'd worked up a sweat. His body felt clammy and gross and he just wanted to sleep. But Ethan delivered a bowl of hot soup and a fresh bun, cut in half and buttered.

Mickey pulled the bowl closer and grabbed his spoon. "You have questions."

He didn't look at Ethan. Couldn't. Shame swelled up in him fast and thick like a mudslide. He'd avoided talking about what happened so far, and maybe it was the fever, or the fact that Ethan's kindness had saved his life, but he felt like he could talk about it. A little. Maybe the CliffsNotes version.

"They can wait." Ethan sat in the chair and dug into his own bowl of soup. "And you don't have to tell me anything you don't want to tell me. The only real question I need an answer to is whether or not your family knows where you are, and if they're looking for you."

Mickey shook his head. "They don't know, but they don't care."

Ethan nodded. That was it. No pity. No condolences or reassurances that weren't true about how his family must care about him. Just quiet acceptance before moving on. It made Mickey want to tell him everything because even if Ethan didn't understand, he'd at least not humiliate Mickey for his decisions.

Not today. Mickey was too tired today. He managed most of his soup and half of his bun before he had to stop. He felt another coughing fit coming and this time it didn't let go until he was shaking and breathless. Weak as a kitten, he let Ethan give him more medicine that tasted like garbage. Ethan helped him lie down and he tucked him in.

"If you don't get better soon, you're going to have to go to the doctor. And if you get worse, it'll be in the emergency room." Ethan's tone of voice left no room for Mickey to argue, even if he'd have had the strength to do so.

Fuck, even his bones hurt. Mickey closed his eyes and a shiver made his entire body tremble. But the drugs Ethan gave him had already started to soothe his aches and he was able to fall asleep.

When he woke, it was dark and Mickey was drenched in sweat. Sticky and clammy, Mickey tried to get up and suddenly Ethan was there helping him into a sitting position.

"Hey, you're awake. How do you feel?"

Mickey shook his head. "Bad."

"You've been out all day and most of the night."

Mickey blinked at Ethan and then looked at the recliner. A pillow and a blanket were crumpled up on it.

"You've been pretty incoherent. I didn't want to leave you on your own." Ethan put his hand on Mickey's forehead and cracked a smile. "I think your fever broke."

Mickey grimaced and tugged at the shirt that was glued to his skin. "I feel like a swamp rat."

"Let's get you up and into the bath. I think a long soak would do you some good."

Ethan helped Mickey to his feet and down the hallway into the bathroom. He lowered Mickey to sit on the toilet lid and then busied himself pouring a bath.

Mickey was too tired and too sticky, too sick, to care much about his dignity or the fact that he couldn't have made it down the hall himself. He also had the feeling that this wasn't the first time Ethan had to help him to the bathroom. Vague memories nipped at his fever-addled brain.

"We were in here before," Mickey said.

Ethan turned and cast him a look over his shoulder. "I wondered if you'd remember that. You had to take a piss. Don't worry, you were capable of taking care of business yourself. It was just the transporting back and forth that I assisted you with."

That only made him feel marginally better.

"Thanks," Mickey said. "What time is it?"

"Somewhere around four in the morning. I'll be heading into the diner in a couple hours."

Mickey nodded. "I'll be here when you get back, in case you were wondering."

Ethan shut the water off and put his hand on Mickey's shoulder. "I'm glad to hear that."

He left the room, pulling the door shut. Mickey stripped out of the borrowed clothes and grimaced at how damp everything was. He looked for a laundry hamper, but didn't see one and just tossed the dirty clothes on the floor in a neat pile. The water was heavenly and Mickey let himself relax into the warmth.

He couldn't stay, but he also couldn't leave. Not only did he have nowhere to go, but he owed his life to Ethan. Ethan wanted him to remain where he was safe and it felt like the least Mickey could do. He was also keenly aware of the fact that winter wasn't going anywhere anytime soon. Even if he didn't owe his life to Ethan, Mickey was so fucking tired of being cold.

There were times when he thought he was going to go insane, he was so cold. He'd wander into the library and stay as long as he could to get warm. But the library had limited hours and a lot of businesses didn't want him loitering. Not everyone was unkind, though. There were places like the diner, and people like Taylor, who did their best to make sure he had what he needed. It wasn't their fault Mickey didn't trust anyone. Until now. But he'd been left with no choice. It was trust Ethan… or die.

Trusting him felt like the first smart decision Mickey had made in years.