He doesn’t hear any voices.
He doesn’t see any ghosts.
He doesn’t feel the need to get to them mountains.
Fo sho.
SEAN’S ALREADY waiting for him outside the diner, looking up and down the street, checking the watch on his wrist. He’s not late. In fact, he’s a bit early, but he didn’t go back for lunch after leaving Doc’s, didn’t answer his phone when it rang twice at the house. He isn’t even sure he recognized it for what it was.
Eventually, the shadows started stretching along the walls and he snapped out of it, not wanting to leave Sean to walk home alone.
And it’s worth it. It really is. The look on his face when he sees Mike walking down the sidewalk all cool and calm and collected. It’s relief, it’s happiness, it’s worry all wrapped up into a nervous smile, and even before Mike can get to the diner, Sean’s down the sidewalk full tilt, stopping just before he crashes into Mike. His eyes are bright and he’s flushed, and Mike doesn’t think he’s ever seen someone look as handsome as Sean does right then.
“Well?” Sean demands.
Mike’s amused. He cocks an eyebrow and says, “Hello to you too.”
Sean scowls and slaps him lightly on the chest. “Mike,” he says in warning.
“Sean.”
“Now, you listen here—”
“Oh, I’m listening all right—”
“Back talk? Is that what we’re doing right now—”
“You look nice today.”
Sean gapes at him. “What?”
Mike shrugs, suddenly embarrassed. “Just… I don’t know. I wanted you to know that you look nice today.”
And he does. He’s wearing a checkered shirt buttoned up over a white tank top. The sleeves are rolled up, and he’s got a little smudge of something on his right cheek, probably from wiping his brow. He smells like coffee and cigarettes and Sean, and Mike loves it; if he’s being honest with himself, loves it almost as much as he loves the man standing in front of him.
“I’ve been on my feet for twelve hours,” Sean snaps. “If anything, I look a fright.”
“Still the best thing I’ve seen all day.”
“You should get your vision checked.”
“Already did,” Mike says. “You that forgetful? I went to the doctor today.”
S
ean sputters. “That’s—why you—I oughta just—Mike!”
“Sean.” He’s pushing, he knows, but the longer he pushes, the longer it’ll be before he has to lie to Sean’s face. He can’t take that.
Sean says, “Mike Frazier,” and it’s as far as it’s going to go.
“I’m fine,” Mike says, and he’s even able to put a small smile on his face. “Just some sleep problems. Doc’s gonna get me some sleep pills, and I’ll be right as rain. You’ll see.”
He thinks, But probably not. You see, Ol’ Doc says there’s a criteria. From the Psychiatric Association. He had books from them and everything. Says there are steps you have to go through. Rules that bind a diagnosis. Says you have to have delusions. I’ve had those. Said you have to have hallucinations. Got those too. Catatonic behavior. Might as well be missing time, right?
Sean watches him. “Really?”
“Took some blood, though,” Mike says. “Just to be sure.” He shows Sean the Band-Aid at his elbow, holding down a little piece of cotton.