Michael can still feel the weight of Lyric’s hand in his when he’s laying in bed on some nights. He stays to the left but faces the right, knees bending toward his chest. One arm is splayed out, outstretched and welcoming, and the other arm rests upon his abdomen with a delicate web of gauze pinched between his index finger and thumb. He lays there in the pitch black, eyes wide open, wider than usual, and staring dead ahead.
Michael knows he’s lost track of time — for the past two hours, at least, and there’s still nothing running through his head besides the burn of mezcal and his dry eyes. Fumes bury themselves in his throat, which Michael had taught himself to savor. He can’t help but to remember that Lyric always hated that, the acrid taste lingering on his tongue, and it almost made him dislike it as well. He would give anything to be chastised for drinking just before bed, then still be tucked into bed with a tender embrace. Michael still rises from sitting on his bed, blinks groggily, and pads over to the bathroom. He feels that guilt every time he drinks, one of the few gifts Lyric couldn’t bring along with them. Michael looks himself in the eye through the mirror before rinsing his mouth out. He makes sure to gargle twice.
After making a pit stop in the kitchen to grab a glass of red wine, he slipped right back into bed, slumped against his tall headboard. This time, though, Michael remembered that he should take his pants off — he quickly managed to do so while still holding his wine glass and sitting in bed. He wasn’t impressed with himself for not spilling it.
His knuckles throb. The chain around his neck, bulky and cold, weighs him down, and he only stares ahead and lets his body slump. His frame hasn’t become much more to weigh down. Lyric would have cleaned him up, helped him out, but Michael decides to leave it and lazily watches bubbles of red syrup ooze from his scrapes into the fabric of his undershirt, his gaze dull and cold. Nothing is more entertaining, not even the fights.
When he was 24, they were novel. Fun; a show of power, or pride. Family strength and honor. Now — and everyone knew it — the cage fights were a losing game, laced with alliances and dirty money. It was only about the money now, even though that’s not why Michael fought. Michael didn’t know why he fought anymore. Habit, he’d tell himself, but the company, he’d tell everyone else. It was starting to get to him. Now, 26 yet feeling the additional two years more than ever, he missed the taste of domesticity that Lyric, and the loving, soft, baby Lalo, had given him. His only motivation, his only goal. He didn’t want the getting beat up, coming home late, being sick and tired every day anymore— not if he had to do it alone. Not if Lyric wasn’t there to help him through it. Not if his nurse couldn’t clean his wounds and feed him unadulterated, saccharine devotion.
“You know, I found one of Lyric’s medical kits today,” Michael choked out into his phone. He didn’t remember calling Nick, but the screen resting on his thigh proved that he did. “I don’t... know how they used to wrap me up, I’m just holdin’ it now...”
“You sound like a war widow when you say their name,” his brother murmurs, the static distorting his voice. “When are you going to… Michael, Lyric— you should throw it out. Use it, or throw it out, but this— it isn’t healthy.” It was supposed to be a coo, a gentle reminder, a push in the right direction, but it only made him boil over. Michael’s silence spoke volumes, and Nick only gave a troubled sigh. Michael planned to choose neither of those options.
“You need to sleep, Mikey. You got home late, and from a fight too. Did James even clean you up before you left?”
“I’ll bring over pastries in the morning, and coffee, okay? But just.. go to bed? Sleep is the best medicine, you know. It’s already four. I love you. Goodnight.”
Michael could only grumble a love you too before jabbing his index finger at the hang-up button. He couldn’t figure out why he called if just to stay silent and get beat on— not that Nick was any better at dealing with romantic fumbles, which Michael knew and used to bolstered his pride— but it did relieve some weight from his shoulders.
The wine glass was placed atop the nightstand with an unfavorably loud clink, and he flicked the lamp off. As he lowered himself into the bed, Michael grabbed a pillow and pulled it close, his cheek smushed against its side. Brooding eyes, still staring ahead, continued to study nothing in particular. He couldn’t remember why he got up in the first place, why he didn’t just stay in bed and go to sleep.
He could barely will himself to sleep. He curled up tighter, furrowed his brows, and clenched his eyes shut and after a moment, huffed out a sigh and quickly turned himself over, discarding the pillow on the floor. Michael checked his phone before he went to bed, glancing at the blue screen yet not reading anything before placing it face-down onto the nightstand. He allowed his entire body to relax, and as his eyelids relaxed and the spottiness left his vision, sleep slowly crept over his body.
Michael can still smell their hair when he’s waking up sometimes, as he jerks his body upright the moment he’s awake and habitually glances to the right in hopes of a miracle. He had never been a deeply religious man despite the cross around his neck, but Lyric was his temple. He began praying after they left. He had to take hope wherever he could find it.
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