[ Mike may be in one piece, but he doesn't make a nice picture, grimy with smeared dirt. Blood has dried in a trail down his temple, wiped unsuccessfully with the back of one hand, and he smells - quite frankly - a bit terrible. Grey water, day-old sweat, the tinge of something that's been burned. In the eighteen hours since he snapped back into his head, gasping for breath and full of fresh, clawing terror, scoping out a shower at the gym hadn't been high on his list of priorities. Nothing had been, except for curling up in the dark, trying to hide from his own head.
He looks up at Eddie and thinks about lying. Thinks about the look that's going to be on his face, and the words he might say. The sadness, and the hurt, bigger than Mike knows what to do with. But this isn't something that's made to be kept close. It isn't something he can swallow without heaving it back up. ]
It wasn't even for my friends.
[ His mouth feels numb. His whole head feels numb, like he'll slip out of his body if he doesn't hold on, and drift off into nothing. He digs his fingernails into skin, bitten ends scraping into cuticles like lifelines. ]
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He looks up at Eddie and thinks about lying. Thinks about the look that's going to be on his face, and the words he might say. The sadness, and the hurt, bigger than Mike knows what to do with. But this isn't something that's made to be kept close. It isn't something he can swallow without heaving it back up. ]
It wasn't even for my friends.
[ His mouth feels numb. His whole head feels numb, like he'll slip out of his body if he doesn't hold on, and drift off into nothing. He digs his fingernails into skin, bitten ends scraping into cuticles like lifelines. ]