m. braxton
MAVERICK IS TOO FUCKED UP TO EVEN be embarrassed by the fact that he’s relying on someone else, for the first time in a long time. for most of his life, he’d rather flee the scene than ask for help — and while it’s gotten him hurt more often than he’d like to admit, it saves him from the embarrassment that comes with classic braxton judgment.
he wants nothing more than to snap out of this agonizing CRASH, to get up off his ass, stand himself up, apologize to ella for being a nuisance, and head back to his apartment. but he can’t — he physically cannot stand; he can hardly remember half of the things she says, even a few seconds after the words leave her lips. he’s FRUSTRATED, that he can’t be better, can’t be all the things he’s set out to be because of her. he’s tired of himself, of his self-sabotaging ways, of the fact that he can’t even express his own self-disappointment to her, because it’d take too much energy out of him. his RAGING headache isn’t helping either. fuck. he’s struggling to make a note of it in his head, to tell her later how sorry he is … but it’s wishful thinking to think he’d remember it in the morning. “ yeah. i’m sorry, i’ll … be quiet … ”
he has no choice but to react when she speaks — he’s no stranger to the comedown, the fall, the crash after euphoric highs. it’s just the CIRCUMSTANCE of it all that makes him feel everything a thousand — no, a million — times stronger. his mind is fatigued, body completely exhausted; it’s taking a far bigger toll on him, one his body has never experienced before. it’s fucking embarrassing and terrifying at the same time. he wants to cry, to let streams of tears fall freely on his face, like they’d carry the pain out of his face, but he’s too exhausted to even muster up the strength for them to flow. he lives, right now, in a state of oblivion.
“ okay, ” he responds to her request to relocate, but he can hardly remember what he’s agreed to until she’s maneuvered her way under his arm. “ yeah, y-yeah, i can stand, ” he’s actually completely unsure if the feat is possible, but he tries, HARD, so goddamned hard to cooperate — he’s already caused enough trouble for her. “ ella … i’m sorry, ” he says for the dozenth time, yet his heart does not feel any less free of guilt. “ i’m sorry. ”
his head hits her pillow: it’s soft and cool and just what his head needs. it smells like her, too — her shampoo that he can’t quite figure out in his state of mind. it feels SAFE, a feeling that is almost foreign to him at this point. the braxton estate hardly feels safe; it had never really felt like home. his apartment, though warm and cozy, with great company in wolfie, was never his place. and before he can even process the feeling, he feels cold water trickle down his throat — and water has never tasted so damned good.
her bed is so soft, he thanks the gods above that he’s been able to find shelter this nice, when minutes ago, he’d been lost in the cold. yes, he can feel his fingers again — tingling as they clutch the bedsheets beneath him. he focuses on the texture — how soft they are, as a distraction to her question, one he DEFINITELY does not want to answer. she can certainly tell, by his current state, some of his darker, less favorable tendencies, but admitting them aloud is another thing. he’d never been good at admitting his own shortcomings — it wasn’t in braxton blood to be anything less than picture-perfect. except maverick never perfected the formula. would he risk, in his mind, his image of the one person who might think of him as someone GOOD ? maybe he should have thought about that before he’d shown up on that one person’s doorstep, high out of his mind. he sinks into the bed more, accepting that he’s already failed in his personal quest to better himself — at least, in this attempt.
“ i’m … i’m fine, ella, r-really, ” he says, in an incredibly weak attempt at trying to dodge the question, because the answer would be that he doesn’t know. it might have started out as a couple drinks and a few lines, but with the variety of shit he has tucked under his bed, he doesn’t know — and that thought alone is TERRIFYING. “ you don’t need to take care of me. ” it’s as if he hadn’t registered the last ten minutes at all — and he realizes, of course, that he’s in her bed, drinking her water, not lying in the snow, thanks to her. “ i just … i just need to sleep. that’s all. ” his eyes are blinking shut, his head sinking deeper into the pillow. “ fuck … wait … i didn’t mean to … i can … i can sleep on the couch, s-seriously … i don’t … ” his voice fluctuates in its urgency, but one deep breath relaxes him a little too much. one hand reaches for her, an instinctive need for maverick to hold something before he sleeps — usually a pillow, a sweater, a book — he needs something to ground him before his dreams take him on emotional rollercoasters, like they always had.
ella shushed him as reflexive apologies flow from his mouth. she always apologized, for basically no reason, but it sounded wrong coming from mickey. he clearly couldn’t stand on his own, ella taking a good chunk of his weight, but still she insisted “it’s okay, mickey, it’s fine.” all mickey needed was help, and to learn how to accept it.
he was so exhausted and desperate, it was hard not to cradle him close, press kisses to his brow. everything about him was wrung out, wrung dry, and ella didn’t even wanna think about what kind of cocktail was brewing in his system, what it could mean. his skin was clammy, but his heart was still beating at a semi-reasonable rate, she presumed. nothing too concerning. “no, you’re not,” ella insisted, voice almost shaking. “you’re not okay, mickey, please, i need you to tell me what you took.” she didn’t want to sound as scared as she felt, mickey didn’t need that right now. she did what she always did; tamping down her own emotions to better serve the emotions of others.
she shook her head, pressing a hand to his forehead for a moment. ella stood up, leaning across him to grab the blanket that was lying on the other side, wrapping it around and tucking it under his body. he still had his boots on, and ella cursed, going done to untie them and slide them off. “i know i don’t have to,” she insisted, glancing back up at his glassy eyes. every time she looked in them, her heart panged. she hated to see them like that, not as alive and mischievous as usual. “i want to.” because mickey had taken care of her in more ways than he could possible realize.
she tugged one boot off his foot and placed it on the floor, before working on the other. ella prayed that she wasn’t making a massive mistake by letting mickey sleep, that he would wake up the next morning. she was in the middle of taking care of his other boot when he started to talk about moving, and ella looked up at him again, shaking her head. “no,” she said, voice soft. “no, just... just stay here, okay?” she’d figure out somewhere else to sleep; the rug on her floor was pretty fucking plush.
once the second boot was off, ella made to stand, to go grab a bucket or something, just in case mickey got sick in the middle of the night, but then she feels mickey’s hand reaching for her own. she clasps his right back, sighing to herself. there was something so innocent about this touch, so simple, that it absolutely broke her heart. she scooted down the floor towards him, checking to make sure he was actually asleep. “good night,” she murmured. she hoped he slept well.
