As horrible as it sounds, the only way you could describe Mikey was a mess. You loved him, of course you did, but his self-destructive behaviour was difficult to manage. So you set out to at least attempt to offer some kind of relief, to be someone he could lean on when he felt like going back to the old methods of release.

It got to a point where Mikey relied on you heavily — but, hey, it was better than all those painkillers, right?

You were the light of his life. The staff at The Beef were used to you dropping by when you had the time, and they were all too familiar with the not-so-subtle glances you and Mikey would give each other. Richie would act like it annoyed him — maybe it did at first, but when he saw how Mikey would perk up whenever he saw you enter his restaurant convinced him that all the hand holding, every time he caught Mikey’s arm around your waist, all the affection you two displayed couldn’t be that bad.

Mikey loved you, yet he hated how soft you made him. He found himself always having to touch you — they were just innocent little touches, yet they meant so much to him. It meant you were there, with him, and you weren’t going anywhere. It kept him grounded. And whenever he caught you looking at him as if he’d hung the moon and stars, it took all of his willpower not to melt right in front of you — especially if Richie was there. Richie would never let him hear the end of it.

And so, after a particularly stressful day at The Beef — it had been busier than usual, and you didn’t have the time to visit like you normally do — all he wanted to do was go home and lose himself. But he didn’t. He went to your apartment, got comfy with you, and listened to your day, all while rubbing up and down your arm with his fingernails. He didn’t know who it soothed more.

When a peaceful silence took over, he hesitated to break it. What he was going to say shouldn’t worry you, but you were always worried about him.

“I’m thinkin’ I’m, uh… gonna stop using. I’m gonna be better. For you. Promise.”