Archive of Our Own

Gabriel’s Interlude

He didn’t even recall how he came to be outside. He just knew that he was racing down the halls, heavy footsteps echoing around him, and then suddenly being outside, the cool mid-November air hitting him like a gut punch.

Gabe took a desperate breath, lungs inflating like they would burst. His mind was buzzing as his thoughts swarmed him. There were too many to sort through, too many to think about properly. Each time he thought he could make a grasp at one, another would come racing at him, then another, and another, and another. They circled him like vultures with their prey.

He didn’t wait long outside, just long enough to catch his breath, and he set off again. When he’d left, he couldn’t hear Micah following him. But then again, he couldn’t really hear much - any other sounds had to compete with the ringing in his ears and the buzzing in his head and the thudding of his heart that he swore was going to fall out of his chest. So, theoretically, Micah could be seconds away from bursting out of the door behind him, demanding an explanation, forcing Gabe to look at him, stare into his piercing green eyes that Gabe loved so much - no, not love. He doesn't care for them. They're just eyes.

And they weren’t even a piercing green, not really.

They were more of a deep green, adorned with little brown flecks. When he looked into them, sometimes they reminded him of the forest his mother used to take him and Natalie to when they were kids. He would run through the trees, their branches getting thicker and more tangled as he ran, jumping over tree roots. He could hear his mother’s voice floating through the leaves as he delved deeper, wondering if one day he would find some sort of secret door, or a fairy ring, or a patch of magical plants. She would call to him, worried that he would get lost or hurt.

That was back when he was less conscious of how everything he did would affect her, back when he didn’t overthink anything and everything, and how he seemed to be the one in control of the family, because only he could control his mother. Back then, he believed if he got hurt in the forest, there would be little tree nymphs that would find him, like how they appeared in the stories his mom told him before bed. And Gabe knew that he would be kind to them, and they would help him through the forest. Maybe he could make the forest his new home, where the nymphs and the fairies could be his friends, and he wouldn’t have to deal with those confusing times when his mom would start to cry, and stare through him, and talk about him as if he wasn’t in the room.

Now that he was thinking about it, Gabe couldn’t help but wonder if the forest came to mind when he looked into Micah’s eyes because maybe Micah was his forest, his tree nymph that had cared for him and held him and hidden him away from all of that. And maybe it wasn’t the colour of his eyes but the comfort he gave Gabe and the warmth he felt in his chest when he was with him. Like when Micah had but his hand on Gabe’s ribcage, just minutes ago and-

Just that thought was enough to spike his adrenaline once more. Shut up Gabriel, they’re just eyes. You think about the forest because of the colour of them, you idiot.

Gabe didn't even know where he was going; he realised that as he left the school parking lot. Instinctively, he turned right because that was the way that Micah turned when he drove them both back to his place. And then the thought of exactly that - of Micah driving home and seeing him on the street and trying to get him to talk - crossed his mind, and he darted down the first side street he saw.

He couldn't go to James’ or Matthew's. They'd ask too many questions - albeit reasonable questions, such as ‘why are you hyperventilating?’ and ‘why are you rambling about forests?’ - and there was no way he could tell them that he was having a panic attack because his best friend had kissed him and he'd kissed him back, but he's not gay, but he's also not not gay and-

No, he couldn't go to see any of his friends. Most of his friends knew him well, maybe not as well as James and Matthew (and certainly not as well as Micah) but they would all always be there for him. Victoria would probably understand - he was closest to her, after James and Matthew - but he wasn’t sure he was close enough to her for this.

His only other option was to go home, and he didn't really want to do that either, though it's where his feet were automatically taking him. Well actually, they were taking him to Micah’s, but every time he realised it, he took a sharp turn away.

Gabe hated being at home. He hated being the problem and he hated being the solution. It was almost as if he wasn't even a person, just an object. Cog in the machine that kept his household running. The device used to keep everyone happy. Yet they weren't. His dad was never happy with him, it seemed, no matter what he did. Staying out late every night hadn't been a conscious choice - he just realised that nothing he did was going to please his father, so he may as well just not bother being there.

And besides, he liked being at Micah’s. At home, he walked on eggshells, choosing his words carefully, his tone even more so. His chest felt heavy, but his voice was light, airy, happy. Sometimes, he wondered if his mother ever saw through it; how could she never tell that he was breaking? Was she oblivious, or was she just desperate to believe that her miracle child was exactly how she'd hoped?

Micah's was different. There, he was just Gabe. Gabe, who played music, and liked jazz and show tunes, Gabe who had strong opinions on ice-cream flavours and Mario Kart levels. Gabe, who liked to play music when he slept and liked being held. Gabe, who could do his homework without being interrupted by his mother or father, and didn't have to think about a hundred and one things while he worked.

He was just Gabe. He quite liked being just Gabe.

A strong gust of wind ruffled his shirt sleeves and his skin prickled from the cold. He hadn't brought a sweatshirt to school because he'd left one in Micah’s car and had been meaning to retrieve it (secretly he'd left it there on purpose so that it would smell like Micah but he couldn't think about that now). But he wasn't in Micah’s car. Would he ever be again?

No, stop it. Stop thinking about it. Just get inside and deal with mom first.

For once, maybe she was going to provide him with a good distraction. Recently, she had been spiralling a little bit; between the medication changes and the upcoming date, it was getting harder and harder to keep her stable and steady. Gabe sometimes felt as though he was part of the circus, a balancing act, trying to keep all of the plates spinning in time without letting any of them fall. Each plate was something he had to keep his eye on - his mother’s medication, whether she was reminiscing, her moods and how to bring her back to reality before she slipped entirely. It was always easier to try and deal with all of the little things as they happened to prevent a complete breakdown, rather than to deal with the breakdown itself.

Then, of course, there was school, jazz band, homework. All of that was a little easier now that he’d quit key club (he hadn’t been enjoying it anyway), and had finally convinced his mom that he was absolutely not football player material, despite playing when he was little (and playing was stretching it, considering Gabe had spent most of his time trying to make small talk with the other players, and the rest of it watching his mother worry about him being knocked over).

Now, though, he had that one giant glass plate, balanced ever so precariously on the spindliest of sticks, threatening to fall and smash into tiny shards all around him.

No, deal with mom first.

Gabe took a breath as he rested his hand on the front door. He didn’t know how he was going to find his mother behind it. He had his rehearsed routine, different tracks for different performances, but he never knew which one he would need that day.

He exhaled slowly, and opened the front door.

~

Gabe collapsed on his bed. His mother had taken her meds, eaten, showered and had successfully not burnt the house down or flooded the bathroom in the process. Even his dad was happy that he was home early - though he'd made it clear through his rather passive aggressive tone.

Going through his mental checklist of everything to do with his mom, Gabe rubbed his hands across his face tiredly. Yes, everything was done. But that didn't give him his usual relief, because now he had to deal with whatever had happened. And that wasn't something he wanted to do.

Still, with no more distractions, Gabe played the scene over in his mind. He could remember the way Micah had stared at him with his very normal green eyes, that he felt very normal about. He thought about the way he'd drawn in closer, ever so slowly. He thought about how he himself had glanced down at Micah’s lips, soft and plump, not chapped like his, and how it was finally happening, after so long.

His mind had gone all hazy. Every stress, every worry about his sexuality, the worries of what his parents would think, his friends, everyone who paid attention to him - it had all fallen away. In that moment, there had only been Micah; Micah’s hand on his ribcage, Micah’s breath on his face, Micah’s nose slightly brushing against his as they'd leaned in. His head had emptied as they'd kissed, because it had all felt so right, like everything had been leading up to his. I could live here, he'd thought, I could live in Micah’s arms and never leave.

He felt so safe with Micah, safe in a way that he'd never actually felt before. And he'd wanted Micah to kiss him, for so long now.

But once they'd broken away, everything came crashing down on him.

Reality had hit him, the reality that now he had to face everything that he’d swept under the rug for years on end. Before Micah, he’d buried it all away, labelled it as something he didn’t have to deal with, not now anyway. There were always other things to focus on, like his mother, and all of her problems; he preferred facing them instead of facing his own.

The reality was that now they'd have to talk about it, that something was going to change - either they were going to end up dating, or they were going to move on, never talk about the kiss again, and then things would change. If they didn’t date, would they still hold each other? Would Micah still hold his hand? He doubted it. No, if he wanted things to continue the way that they had been, dating was probably next.

And dating a boy, that scared him. Well, dating a girl scared him too - dating anyone, for that matter. He didn't want to let anyone into the mess of his life. 

As much as he didn't want to admit it, he wasn't attracted to girls. He'd tried, by God had he tried. In the seventh grade, he'd picked a random girl in their class to have a crush on after his friends wouldn’t stop asking him about it. He felt bad about it now, though he supposed the girl hadn't actually known about it. But he'd had to, to get all of his friends off his back about crushes and dating and all of that nonsense. Because he didn't really feel like admitting that he'd wondered what it would be like to kiss James or Matthew instead.

His mom had always talked about girls and girlfriends. She brought it up all of the time. ‘One day, you’ll be looking after your girlfriend, not me’, she always said, as he made her toast and prepared her medication. ‘She’s going to be so lucky.’ She had this whole life constructed for him, where he was going to college, his extracurriculars, everything. She talked about what type of girl he would be into, painting a picture of her in her mind. He hated to disappoint her, he couldn’t disappoint her. But as time wore on, it only made Gabe more uncomfortable, as he became more and more certain that he wasn’t actually going to end up with a girlfriend. 

And then he met Micah.

For years, he’d known Micah, or rather he knew of him anyway. He'd seen him play in the school orchestra the year previous, and they shared a few classes. In sophomore year, Gabe had sat behind him in chemistry. He'd spent most of his classes staring at the back of Micah's head, wondering if his blond hair was as soft as it looked and whether he would ever let it grow out a little more. At one point, he’d gotten so distracted by him, that Gabe hadn’t been watching what he was doing and had knocked over a beaker of water. A little had splashed on the back of Micah’s shirt, but Micah had just grinned at him softly.

“Clumsy.” He’d said in a low voice, setting the beaker upright. The gentle smile he’d given had made Gabe a little weak.

He hadn't actually been able to respond properly, just mumbling out a string of apologies while his friends light-heartedly joked about the mishap. At that moment, Gabe had actually wanted his friends to leave, let this be his excuse to actually talk to Micah. But by the time everything had been cleaned up, Micah had turned back around to finish his own experiment.

Micah never spoke to him properly. He never really spoke to anyone, actually. Gabe was rather intrigued by him, but he'd never had a real reason to talk to him, and it wasn't like Micah was easy to talk to, as much. Not because he was intimidating - he seemed rather kind, actually - but because he always had his eyes on a book, or his earphones in his ears, or both. And even though Gabe was a sociable person, he had to admit, he got so little nervous when he thought about speaking to Micah.

What would he say? Did they even have anything in common? They both liked music, but different types. Gabe didn't play the piano very well, but Micah could play the guitar too, he knew that. Could he maybe talk to him about that? All Gabe knew was that this was going to be the year, his senior year, that he was going to talk to Micah Laurent.

So it worked out pretty well when the first jazz band rehearsal rolled around and Micah strolled through the door.

He hadn’t actually noticed Micah walking in, he’d been too busy leafing through his sheet music that had gotten messed up in his bag. But out of the corner of his eye, he noticed someone sitting down at the piano, and curious about Ben’s replacement, he looked up. Micah’s eyes were trained on him and his heart soared. They’d exchanged a smile and a nod and then it was over.

At the end of practice, Gabe knew he had to say something before he lost his nerve. Chloe, one of the clarinet players, had been talking to him about something. He had been paying attention, but he'd kind of found it rather hard to focus, because he was watching Micah pack up and soon he would be out of the room, and Gabe didn’t want the first time he spoke to Micah in jazz band be the second rehearsal, because then it might be awkward, because why hadn’t he talked to him the first time?

Complimenting Micah's piano skills had been planned. Asking about his name had very much not been planned, but Gabe just hadn't wanted the conversation to end. After that, there wasn't a day that went by that Gabe didn't think about Michelangelo Laurent, and how perfect the name was for him.

Micah was an artist, there was no doubt about that. When he’d told Gabe that he’d only been playing jazz for a short amount of time, he’d been so taken aback. Originally, he’d planned to tell Micah that he loved seeing him in the orchestra, that he went to the concerts and stood in the back with his eyes trained on the pianist as though he was the only one on stage (or maybe he wouldn’t say that, because that definitely sounded a little gay), but he couldn’t. In the end, he’d settled for telling him he liked the way he played. And then he’d spent the rest of the day echoing his own words in his head because ‘I like the way you play’ wasn't at all what he’d been planning on saying whatsoever.

He hadn’t needed help on his project for his music class whatsoever - Gabe had completely made that up. It had been a solo project after all. But for an entire week, he’d been trying to think of any reason for them to be alone. Music was the one thing they knew they had in common. Gabe had capitalised on that. And it worked. They’d blossomed from a silly little music session into the closest friendship Gabe had had, in just a matter of months.

And now he'd gone and fucked it all up. For so long, Gabe wanted to kiss Micah, find out if he tasted like coffee because of how much he drank. But everything had come crashing down on him, the reality of it all, and what was Gabe's first reaction?

Run away and deny everything.

God, he was so fucking stupid.

His phone buzzed, pulling him momentarily out of his spiral. But it only started back up again when he saw the notification.

Not A Painter: hey gabe. i’m sorry for what happened. i should have asked you before i did anything, i was wrong to have tried without asking you first. i thought you were into it, but now i realise that i probably just imagined it and that you were actually uncomfortable. i understand if you need some space, please don’t feel pressured to reply or talk to me if you don’t want to. as much as i hope this won’t permanently affect anything between us, i know that it likely will. i really care about you gabe and i love being your friend and i’m so sorry that i’ve messed everything up. please could you just let me know that you got home safely, you don’t have to reply, just maybe like the message? that’s all :)

Gabe read through the text, and read through it again. He couldn’t read through it a third time, because his eyes had become blurry from the tears that were forming. Even after Gabe had royally fucked up - letting Micah kiss him, kissing him back, then telling him that he was wrong and running away - Micah still cared for him. 

He should have been yelling, demanding an explanation. He should have been angry, confused, hurt even. But instead, he was still the soft, gentle Micah that Gabe adored. He was apologising, giving him space, trying to make Gabe feel comfortable of all things.

He wondered if he deserved it.

Curling in on himself, Gabe locked his phone again and buried his head into his pillow. Then he sobbed. If he tried hard enough, he could still feel Micah’s hand on his ribcage, just above his heart. It only made him cry harder.

~

That night, Gabe couldn’t sleep. It wasn’t even a broken, fractured sleep. He just lay awake, staring at his ceiling, wondering if it would look better with some glow-in-the-dark stars.

The room round him was silent. He’d become so used to spending all of his time with Micah. Usually, when he got home, he could almost still feel Micah’s presence wrapped around him, his scent on Gabe’s jumper, the music he’d been playing still fresh in his mind. He loved that Micah drove him around - it wasn’t even something they discussed anymore, Gabe just knew that Micah wasn’t taking a direct route to Gabe’s house. Every night, he grew tired, a good tired, in Micah’s passenger seat. It was the kind of tired you got as a child, when you’d pretend to be asleep in the back of the car so that your parents would carry you inside and lay you in bed. The only difference was that he would be roused by Micah’s gentle touch, his soft voice in his ear. And Gabe would say goodnight, and haul himself into his bedroom, collapsing on the bed and passing out, still encased in his Micah-filled haze.

Sleeping wasn’t always something Gabe found easy, but since he’d been basically falling asleep with Micah next to him, he’d realised that it wasn’t that hard at all.

But that night, he lay awake, the silence of the room stifling, and all he could think about was that there weren't any glow-in-the-dark stars on his ceiling.

Stop staring at the ceiling.

Gabe forced his eyes away from the blank plaster, but his gaze fell onto something so much worse. There, in the middle of his desk, sat the little vintage orrery Gabe had bought Micah. It stared back, mocking him. He’d bought it on such a whim with no plan on when he was going to give it to Micah whatsoever, or even if he would have the confidence to do so at all. All he knew was that when he first laid eyes on it that day at the antiques shop, he’d know he had to get it for Micah. Space and Music. Two things Micah loved. No. No, he’d thought, you can’t just buy your best friend some expensive gift for no reason, no matter how perfect it would be. And then Gabe had glanced over to where Micah had been standing, peering at some golden trinket. The low evening light shining through the small window of the hop lit up his hair like a halo around his head; Gabe had never seen it so blond before. The sun bounced off the golden glint of his glasses, and made his face glow. Gabe couldn’t remember which painter it was that had painted cherubs - he couldn’t even remember what the painting was called that he was thinking of - but it was the first thing that had sprung to mind.

Micah’s name may have been the painter, but he was the artwork himself. Gabe’s name may have been the angel, but that title belonged to Micah.

He’d bought the orrery two days later.

Ever since, it had been sitting on his desk, perhaps taunting him over why he’d bought it in the first place. When he stared at it, he could almost picture Micah too; Micah marvelling at the golden rings, Micah being so enamoured by Gabe’s gift that he would be overwhelmed with emotion. He’d need to push that emotion onto something, somewhere, hopefully onto Gabe’s lips.

No.

Gabe pulled himself out of bed and strode over to his desk. It almost made him angry to look at the model as it mocked him. Still, he took great care in picking it up. Maybe, underneath everything, he still thought there was hope for him and Micah yet.

He held it in his hands, just staring at it for a while, before he turned the key on the base. The first time he’d played the music from the orrery was while he was buying it. The elderly man behind the counter had wanted to show him before he paid. Gabe could have sworn his heart had stopped. The same piece from his mothers’ music box. The same piece that would calm him down as a baby.

Now, Gabe reached for the key almost automatically, as though it wasn’t him in control of his own actions. The soft, tinkling sound seemed to fill the room. The world around him went blurry as his eyes filled with tears. When he squeezed his eyes shut, he could see Micah drawing closer to him, taking Gabe’s face in his soft hands and rubbing his thumbs against his cheeks. The music would have played when Gabe gave him the orrery, and Micah would have been so excited that he would have kissed Gabe and Gabe would kiss him back and-

He snapped open his eyes with a shuddery, tearful gasp. Then he bent down and shoved the orrery under his bed. He couldn't look at it anymore.

Instead, he threw himself back onto his blankets, rolled over and reached for his phone. He needed something, anything, to fill the void. His mind went instantly to piano music, something soft, something gentle. He remembered the quiet days he’d had at Micah’s, the ones where he wasn’t doing well, that had been obvious to the both of them once they’d gotten home. And Micah wouldn’t ask questions. He’d just sense that Gabe needed some time, some time to just exist, to lie on Micah’s bed and stare at the green stars and let the plates pin on their own for a while.

He would lie on Micah’s bed, bury his face into Micah’s pillow, wrap himself up in Micah’s blanket. And Micah himself would sit at his piano and play anything that came to mind. There were some that he would play each time, and Gabe could remember the way they all went so clearly.

Trying desperately to ignore how unbelievably gay this could be interpreted, Gabe created a new playlist and hurried to add every piece he could remember the name of before he could forget them. Then he clicked play.

Where’s My Love - SYML

Oh that’s not even funny.

When the first piece began to sound throughout the room, Gabe wondered if he’d actually made the right choice to make such a playlist. As he closed his eyes, he pictured the first time Micah had played the song. Gabe had been lying in his bed, bundled up. Micah had probably thought that Gabe was asleep, considering he hadn’t moved in a while. But Gabe’s eyes had been wide open, staring directly at the back of Micah’s head. He sat up so straight when he played, like a proper pianist with proper posture. His blond hair caressed his neck as he moved his gaze across the keys. And all Gabe had been thinking about was what it would be like to come up behind Micah and caress his neck the way his hair did.

He’d felt so safe. Micah didn’t know it, but that day, his mother had had some sort of breakdown in the bathroom - something about her weight - and she’d smashed the bathroom scales. That had caused an argument between both of his parents - his mom didn’t want to eat because he had no appetite, his dad was angry because there was glass everywhere, and he didn’t want to leave before she’d eaten something.

Of course, Gabe had had to sort it out. He’d helped his dad to clean up the glass, and made his mom some toast. He’d encouraged her in his light, happy tone that felt as though it wasn’t his own, and ate with her, grateful to have breakfast, before his father came back downstairs.

He’d been exhausted by the time he’d gotten to school.

But then he went back to Micah’s. And he’d laid in Micah’s bed and listened to him play and he felt safe. Calm. Happy. Nothing could bother him while he was there. And if it did, he didn’t have to deal with it alone. Because Micah didn’t expect him to sort out situations and be a solution. And he didn’t have to watch what he said in case it made someone angry. He had someone to share his stresses with, and maybe Micah couldn’t make that go away, not really, but he could help him through it and make it just that slightest bit easier to deal with.

Gabe could see Mich so clearly in his mind, but when he opened his eyes, he was still alone in his own bedroom. The sheets didn’t have Micah’s scent. The music was playing from his phone speaker, next to him and not on Micah’s desk.

Another piece came on.

Gabe wrapped his arms around himself - secretly wishing they were Micah’s - and silently cried himself to sleep.

~

“You're not sick.”

Gabe whipped his head up, and found his sister standing in the doorway.

“What?”

“You're not sick. So either you've now decided that you love it when mom hovers over you, or something has happened.”

It had been twenty-four hours since the fucked up kiss.

That morning, just the pure thought of seeing Micah, of Micah going up to him and begging for an explanation that Gabe was still struggling to form, made him feel nauseous. His lack of sleep served one good cause - lying to his mother about being sick had been rather easy. She’d taken one look at him, the eye bags from the sleepless night, the puffiness of his face from sobbing, and told him to stay home. And, in her typical fashion, she hadn’t left his side, other than to use the bathroom.

Natalie didn't wait for an invite into his bedroom. She was clearly capitalising on their mother's absence - currently, she was arguing with their father.

Gabe gave a half-hearted shrug and turned back to the crackers his mom had left him with. He offered them to his sister. Much to his relief, she took one, and so he did too.

“It doesn't matter.” He muttered through a mouthful of crumbs.

Natalie observed him silently for a minute, and Gabe could practically see the cogs turning in her head.

“Is it that blond boy?”

Gabe snapped his head back up at a break-neck speed.

“So, that's a yes.” Natalie commented. She took another cracker and Gabe did the same. He cursed himself for reacting in such a way.

“It's just- it's nothing.”

“Has he said something bad to you?”

“No.”

“Has he done something? Do I need to hurt him?”

Despite how he was feeling, Gabe couldn’t conceal his grin. “You're my little sister, I should be protecting you.”

“You're deflecting.” Natalie told him candidly, but he could see her hiding her own sly little smile.

“No, Natalie, he's not done anything wrong.”

Technically, that was true. Micah hadn't done anything Gabe hadn't wanted him to do.

Natalie sighed, clearly frustrated that she wasn’t getting the answer she wanted. But he couldn’t tell her. Sure, she was his sister, and they were close - you couldn’t have a mother like Diana Goodman and not share such a bond with your sibling - but he couldn’t bring himself to speak out loud about it. If he did, if he spoke the situation out loud, it would become even more real.

That’s when he realised he was doing it again. He was hiding from the situation, running away from everything he was scared of. He did it all of the time, with everything. Sometimes he wondered if that was why he liked spending so much time at Micah's; was he running away from his home life? Or was he running towards something else, something that could help him stop all of this shit.

Well, it couldn't now. Gabe had made sure of that.

“How'd you even know it was him?” He asked, mostly just to stop himself spiralling, but partly because he needed to know how obvious he'd been. Had his friends noticed too? Could everyone at school tell there was something more going on with Micah? Could Natalie?

“I'm not stupid, Gabe.” Natalie replied bluntly, taking another cracker. Gabe did too. It made him wonder how much she knew about him that she'd never let on. Could she tell he had weird food rules? Or was he reading into everything today? “You're with him every single night, he drives you from school, and back home afterwards. You text him all of the time, you're always looking for him in the hallways. And then, the one night you come home straight after school - and without him - you sit crying in your room and refuse to come in the next day.” She gave him a look. “Forgive me for not realising you were trying to be subtle.”

Gabe huffed indignantly. “Whatever.” That hadn’t made him feel any better.

It fell silent. Gabe could feel his sister's eyes studying him, but he didn't address it. Downstairs, he could still hear his parents having some sort of heated discussion. He strained to listen in, but stopped when he heard his name and promptly decided he didn't want to know.

“Well, I've got three chapters of algebra to go and learn.” Natalie stood up from his bed, finishing her cracker. Gabe crammed another two in his mouth and ate it as quickly as he could before she swallowed. “I hope everything with your blond boy gets sorted out.”

Gabe reached his leg out to kick her lightly, but she moved out of the way too soon and he nearly fell off the bed. His sister snorted at him and grabbed his arm.

“He's not ‘my blond boy’” Gabe grumbled as she pulled him upright.

“Right, okay, sure.” Natalie rolled her eyes and turned to leave.

Gabe toyed with the plastic the crackers were wrapped in, crinkling it beneath his fingers.

“Nat.” He said suddenly, just before she could pass through the doorway. She spun round around and he regretted speaking, heart thudding uncomfortably in his chest.

“Yeah.”

“Will you.. will you keep an eye on Micah though?” Gabe asked before he could lose his nerve. “Just, like, let me know if he's in school or not.”

Natalie clicked her tongue and appeared to be trying desperately hard not to smile. Though it was pretty obvious, he couldn’t fault her for at least trying to conceal her amusement.

“Sure.”

~

The following day was just the same.

Gabe told his mother he was sick. Diana believed him without any proof, or rather creating her own proof instead. She checked his head, asked him if he was still nauseous. Each time, he agreed without thinking, but he knew that everything she said was going to gather and fester for him to spiral over later.

Diana sat next to him on his desk chair that she’d pulled up his side. She read, did whatever hobbies she was into this time - crosswords and origami at the moment - and occasionally watched shows on the TV on Gabe's wall. And yet again, Gabe spent the day in bed, with the stupid fucking orrery underneath him, and the guilt and fear and disappear seeping from it into his veins.

For anyone else, it might have been nice, a mother who loved to spend time with her son when she believed him to be sick. And he really did like her being there - Gabe loved his mother, loved that she loved him. But he didn't love the way that she hovered. Every five minutes, she checked his temperature, his pulse, his breathing. She asked if he was in pain and where and if he needed more pain-killers. She made him drink water and tried to cure his ‘nausea’ - his excuse for not eating the soup she'd made when she wasn't eating with him.

When she went back to watch TV or read, Gabe didn't exactly help himself make him feel any better anyway. He scrolled through his social media, ignoring the concerned messages from his friends. He scrolled through Micah's accounts. He didn't post a lot on social media at all, and Gabe found he hadn't really been tagged in anything either. He found Micah's FaceBook, and discovered all of the posts his parents had tagged him in - birthdays and music recitals and times they'd taken him to work with them. Gabe couldn't help but giggle to himself as he scrolled through a multitude of baby Micah pictures, saving a couple of them as he went.

“What's funny?” His mom asked, glancing over.

“Oh, nothing, just- just a picture of my friend.”

He angled the phone towards Diana, who peered at the screen. Baby Micah sat staring up at the camera, green eyes all wide. Despite his innocent stare, he was covered in paint - his face, his clothes, even the floor around him. He was holding a large paintbrush in his hand. The caption underneath read ‘There's a reason his name is Michelangelo <3’.

“Oh, we have so many photos of you like that.” Diana smiled softly. “You loved painting too! I think the pictures are around somewhere-”

“That's okay, mom.” Gabe said, reaching out to his mother as she stood up from the desk chair. He placed a gentle hand on her wrist. “You don't need to go looking for them right now.”

She's not allowed to reminisce.

“Of course, of course, I have to stay with my boy.” Diana ran a hand through his hair and placed the back of her hand to his forehead. “Hm, still warm.”

“Am I?” Gabe faltered.

He knew he was lying. He knew he was lying. He knew he was lying and yet his face felt warm and his stomach ached, and maybe he was feeling nauseous, if he thought really hard about it. And that led to him spiralling over whether he was really sick and maybe it was just this massive coincidence that he was feigning sick when he actually was sick - maybe it it was a sign, a sign to get help because his body was suffering and he just hadn't noticed-

Stop spiralling, mom's gonna know something is wrong.

Or would she?

Gabe wondered if she ever noticed that her son was never happy, that his little giggles and cheerful smiles were perfectly curated, rehearsed like a performer, words read from the script he held in his head. Did she ever even notice how much anxiety she accidently caused him? It wasn't her fault, he knew that, and he could never blame his mother. All she ever did was try and protect him, and protect herself too. But there was this tiny, horrible little part of him that was angry, that resented it all. Gabe reckoned it was like his appendix - didn't usually flare up, easily forgotten, but when it did make a noise, he hated it and wanted it gone.

Micah would tell him that it was all in his head. That it was the power of suggestion. That he would deal with Diana instead.

Micah wasn't here.

Micah wasn't here.

Micah wasn't here. His mom was.

“Honey? Does your head hurt again? Or is it the nausea?” Diana asked suddenly, and Gabe realised he was spiralling, suddenly struggling to breathe.

He took a deep breath and gripped the duvet in his hands. “No.” He forced himself to say. “No, I'm okay.”

“Then why- are you sure? I think you can have more painkillers now.” She reached over and felt his head again.

He tried, he really did. He told himself no, that the only reason she was asking was because he'd feigned a headache earlier on. His head wasn't hurting. Or it hadn’t been before she’d asked. But now that he thought about it, maybe it was aching. Maybe, just above his eyebrows, he could feel a slight bit of pressure.

“Yeah, yeah okay.”

Diana gave him a sympathetic smile, taking his cheek in her cupped palm. He kissed his forehead very gently. “My poor sick boy.”

Once she’d left, Gabe fell back against the pillows heavily and reached for his phone. He needed to stop spiralling over his health, he couldn’t let it all get to him. Because soon he’d been overthinking all of his 'symptoms’, and it would be all he focused on.

He hadn’t opened the message from Micah, he hadn’t known what to say. If he opened it, he feared he’d have to reply - and what reply could he even give? He couldn’t even sort the mess out in his own head, let alone the one he’d created in Micah’s too. Realistically, Gabe knew it was unfair. He’d let Micah kiss him, darted out of the room, and now he was ignoring him. Maybe I should just bite the bullet and do it.

But when he went to open the message, he found three more had been sent from a few minutes before.

Not A Painter: i know i said i was going to leave you alone to figure things out, but i’m really worried about you. i’m sorry that i’m messaging you again, i just want to make sure you’re okay and alive, you haven’t been at school in two days

Not A Painter: it doesn’t have to start a big conversation, if that's what you’re worried about. even if you just like the message, i won’t reply. i just want to know that you’re safe. i’m concerned about you because i don’t know if you got home or not

Not A Painter: i promise we won’t have to talk if you don’t want to

Gabe read them over and let out a watery sigh.

Why was he being so fucking nice? After everything he’d done, all Micah seemed to care about was Gabe’s feelings, rather than his own. Wasn't he angry? Wasn’t he hurt that Gabe had essentially just led him on then dipped? Was he just pushing down all of his own feelings for Gabe’s benefit? Even if he was, why was he doing that? Micah had every right to be downright furious with him. And yet the only thing he seemed to be concerned with was Gabe. Did Micah even care about himself?

No, apparently not. Apparently the only thing on Micah’s mind was whether Gabe had gotten home safely. If it had been anyone else, it would have reminded him of his mother, who sat up every night, no matter what, waiting for him to come home. It might have even irritated him, just a little, because everything in his life always led back to his mother.

But Micah’s messages failed to evoke such familiar feelings. Instead his eyes filled with tears as he pictured Micah in his bedroom, nervously nibbling at his nail, worry painted across his pretty face. You’re stressing him out. You kissed him, left him, and now you're stressing him out. What is wrong with you? Recently, Micah had been the one thing in his life that made living a little easier, not perfect, but easier to deal with. And this is what he was giving him in return.

Gabe couldn’t reply. He couldn’t even fathom it. But he also couldn’t bear the thought of Micah worrying unnecessarily about him, especially after something he himself had caused. He swallowed thickly and opened the message thread.

Not A Painter: i promise we won’t have to talk if you don’t want to

He wasn’t going to force him. Micah, as always, wasn’t going to make Gabe do anything he didn’t want to do, even after something like this. Gabe had to remind himself of that. And he trusted that he would keep his word. He trusted Micah.

Gabe took a breath and double-tapped the message. The little heart pinged up.

Micah opened the thread immediately, Gabe noticed. And, true to his word, no more messages came through.

~

“Have you seriously not messaged him yet?”

Once again, Natalie appeared at Gabe's bedroom door the moment his mother disappeared - he’d gone to shower with the promise that she would be as quick as possible. So far, she’d been a great distraction for his current situation, but now she was gone, the cavern had been dragged open once again. Gabe’s playlist of Micah’s piano pieces did their best to fill the empty space. It wasn’t really helping, but Gabe pretended it was. Besides, he needed to wallow to music that reminded him of Micah, with the orrery taunting him from under his bed.

“Please leave me alone.”

“It’s been three days. You do realise you can’t avoid him forever, right? Besides, you’ve told mom that you’ve been sick for three consecutive days, without getting better. She’ll be hauling you off to the E.R soon, if you’re not careful.”

Gabe, head buried in his pillow, tried to ignore her. Maybe if he just waited longer enough, she would take his silence as a hint.

“He spoke to me.”

Well, that got Gabe's attention. He felt his eyes widen, his heartbeat grow faster and faster.

“He did? When? What did he say?”

There was a hint of a smirk on Natalie's face that told Gabe he needed to tone it down.

“He wanted to know if you were okay.”

His heart wavered. Micah was still concerned about him. Micah, Michelangelo, the boy he’d run away from. The boy that Gabe had kissed and left without an explanation. He still wasn’t angry or confused. He was just worried about the boy who’d fucked everything up.

Once again, Gabe wondered if he even deserved Micah’s care. It almost might have been easier if Micah was angry, sending him demanding messages about how unfair Gabe had been, and how dare he not respond. If Natalie had come in to tell him that Micah had been upset, frustrated, refusing to leave without an answer, maybe Gabe wouldn’t feel so… he didn’t even know how he was feeling. He just knew he hated that, after everything, Micah still cared for him, when Gabe didn’t feel worthy.

“And what did you say?”

Natalie shrugged. “I told him you were faking being sick. He asked me how bad it was-” She gestured around her. “I told him the truth.”

Gabe nodded and said nothing more. He didn’t know what to do or how to feel or what to tell Natalie.

“I told him to just message you and sort it out, but he said something like ‘he promised you he wouldn’t’.” Natalie continued when he failed to provide anything. “Which begs the question: why have you been moping in your room for three days if you don’t even want him to talk to you? Aren’t you already getting what you want? Unless you’ve done something bad to him, to which why can’t you just… message him and sort it?”

Shuffling under his blanket, Gabe toyed with a fraying loose thread with one hand. There were a hundred different ways to answer that question, and yet not a single one he could give. Everything felt too complicated and jumbled, and maybe that’s why his head was hurting.

His mind automatically went to Micah. He’d be able to help. Gabe would just rush out all of the thoughts in his head, and Micah would pick up all of the pieces and help Gabe to sort them out. Micah couldn’t put together the puzzle by himself, but he could help Gabe organise all of the little pieces, even the identical looking ones, and the ones that didn’t seem to fit anywhere.

“Gabe?”

Gabe whipped his head up. A sharp, dull pain shot through his hand and he realised that he’d been squeezed his nails into his palm.

“It’s complicated.” He mumbled quietly, letting his eyes fall down again.

“How complicated can it be? We’ve got her for a mother, you can’t get more complicated than that.”

“Don’t talk about her like that.” Gabe bit out, a little harsher than intended, but he didn’t care. He hated when his sister spoke as if Diana was crazy. He wasn’t crazy. He just had… issues. Challenges.

Natalie clicked her teeth and considered him for a moment, perhaps wondering whether she should let the brewing argument spill over or not. Apparently, she opted for the latter, and just shook her head.

“I asked him what happened between you two, but he wouldn’t tell me.” She said instead.

Silence washed over them. It probably hadn’t been what he’s been intending, but it was there nonetheless. Gabe wasn't about to dissect everything with Natalie. Sure, she was his sister and he loved her, but as much as he wanted to let it all pour out, he couldn’t. He couldn’t.

Natalie sighed; it wasn’t exasperated, but it definitely could have been.

“Right well, I promised I’d talk to you for him. He said that he’s sorry and if you want to talk, then he’s happy to.”

Gabe nodded. He hadn’t raised his gaze yet, trained on the checkered blanket and tried not to dig his nails into his hand again.

For a moment, Natalie stood in the doorway. He could feel her eyes on him, as though she was trying to extract the truth from him with her look alone. To be fair to her, Gabe wouldn’t be surprised if she could. Maybe she already had, and just wanted to hear it from him. Then he heard her make to leave, but suddenly stopped short. It got his attention and he finally looked up at her.

“Oh, and he also said something kinda.. weird.” Natalie spun back around, frowning. “When I told him that mom was making food for us, with you being ‘sick’ and all, I mentioned that it was a good thing, even if it was rare. And then he asked what you eat every night, and I told him I thought you would get dinner with him.”

Gabe felt himself stiffen. Fuck. Forcing his breathing to stay steady and even, he tried his best to feign a confused look.

“That's- that's weird. I'll speak to him about it.” He replied, with plans to do no such thing and hoping to continue to ignore the problem

 He hoped, prayed that Micah would too.

Thankfully, Natalie shrugged. “Thought I'd just mention it. You can sort it out with him. I'm not going to be a messenger pigeon for the two of you. Talk it out, or fight or whatever boys do.”

Gabe raised an eyebrow. “Have you ever known me to fight? Apart from that one time in fourth grade when Brady Cane put gum in your hair.”

“You can hardly call that fighting, Gabe.”

“I punched him!” Gabe protested, folding his arms.

“I could have punched harder than you. His nose didn't even bleed.”

“I was sending a message.”

“Great message.” Natalie rolled her eyes. “Anyway, you're deflecting. Talk to Micah.”

“How do you even know his name?”

His sister stared at him for a moment, blinked. “You two are so-” She threw her hands up and shook her head. “Whatever. Just text him. Please. You can't keep telling mom you're sick. You know eventually she'll break down. Just fix this, please.”

~

When Natalie left, he played her words over in his mind.

He’d asked about dinner. He’d noticed something was wrong. Of course he did, he’s Micah. He was Micah, the boy who always seemed to know when something was wrong and knew how to help. But in the same respect, he also seemed to know what wouldn’t help. Micah never pressed for answers to the question Gabe left him with. He'd never made Gabe talk about anything he didn't want to talk about before. Would he really do that now?

Gabe wasn’t sure if he wanted to find out.

But he wanted to see Micah. He needed to. For the last three days, he thought that seeing Micah would make him freak out, but now, it's all wanted. He felt terrible. It was almost ironic really; it was the situation with Micah that was causing the stress, and yet he felt as though Micah would be the only one who could help him. He craved Micah. He wanted to be held by him, for him to tell Gabe that it would all be okay. And he would believe him. He wanted Micah to rub his arms, he wanted to nestle into Micah's chest and hide from the world, because that's how it felt being cuddled by him. It was warm and safe and nothing could hurt him.

Maybe staying away from him for three days had been the wrong choice.

With that thought, he opened the messages without another second of hesitation.

Angel: can we talk in person?

Gabe hit send before he could lose his nerve and threw his phone away from him like it was red-hot.

What if he doesn't want to talk? What if I've fucked up so much that he just doesn't care anymore? What if-

Gabe's phone buzzed.

Not A Painter: yes of course. do you want me to come and pick you up?

He let out a wavering breath, shaking as he tapped out his reply. For a moment, he hovered his thumb over the send button. He wants to. Everything will be okay. It’s just Micah.

Angel: yes please

He felt this weird surge of emotion; fear and excitement all wrapped up into one. He was so scared about what he was going to say to Micah, but he needed him desperately. He needed to disappear into Micah. He needed Micah to hold his hand, put his arm around his shoulders.

As he waited, Gabe closed his eyes and remembered what it was like to be held by Micah, when they were cuddled on the sofa after he'd thrown up. He'd been so stressed, but Micah had held him, let him curl up and bury his head into his neck. He remembered how soft Micah's skin was against his forehead, his cheek. He remembered the first time they'd held hands, and it had given Gabe the confidence to tell him everything that had happened. He remembered Micah holding him as he cried, the feeling of Micah's arms around him, the gentle rocking and rubbing and the carding of his fingers through his hair.

And God had he needed that.

He hadn't realised how much he needed to be held. He remembered play-fighting with Micah, pushing each other off the bed, Micah tickling him after he'd cried. He’d been so gentle with him, not really pushing him off the bed at all, rather sliding him so that he didn’t get hurt. And though Gabe hadn’t been able to defend himself at all, he’d trusted Micah completely. He knew Micah wouldn’t let him get hurt. No, he’d taken great care to be gentle with him.

Pulling on his closest hoodie, Gabe darted over to the mirror and ruffled his hair. He looked like a complete mess after three days of rotting in bed, but it would have to do. Micah was on his way.

The last thing he did before he left was pull the orrery out from underneath his bed, it home for the last three days. He turned the key and watched as the rings spun in front of his eyes, the gentle music tinkling.

Gabe didn’t know how just yet, but he had to sort all of this out. Because he knew that if Micah never held him again, he may well just crumble apart.