Melodramatic Metathesiophobe

No

Ray treaded away from the woods, feeling less heavy than usual. He felt better than usual. He was happy, for once, he'd had a good night of play and hunting. Sure his stomach wasn't agreeing with the meat very well but he could take it. Frank had been there. Gerard had been there. They'd all been together. He'd forgotten Frank had mentioned to him that there were good parts to being a wolf. He saw now, though.

He made it home, pushing the door open and walking inside, shivering. It was cold without fur. Or clothes.

"Mikey!" He called into the openness, making his way towards the bedroom under the assumption that Mikey was asleep there, "Mikey! I'm home! How was your night?" his joy triumphed over his exhaustion.

Upon entering the bedroom, he found it empty, which was... perturbing. Mikey should have been asleep. Maybe he was in the kitchen? Maybe he'd fallen asleep there while reading? He could have, maybe. Ray focused on finding clothes and pulling them on. After he did so, he realized just how tired he was, the joy and the night before taking its toll on him. He could use a nap.

"Mikey?" He called again, scratching his chest, "where are you? Are you still sleeping?" He walked into the kitchen, finding it also empty. His brain itched with worry that he tried to ignore. "Mikey, if you're playing a game, it's not very funny anymore," his voice lost its joy. He swallowed and methodically went through his house. Or, it started out methodical. It became frenzied and sporadic as he didn't find Mikey anywhere, each of his rooms empty and hollow and silent and dark, everything Ray feared. Mikey wouldn't just leave, would he? He wouldn't just go, he wouldn't leave Ray on his own, surely--

He sank to the couch, gulping and panting, hugging one of his pillows to his chest and looking around. He was too tired to keep going; his body was giving into the need for sleep, and as much as he tried, he couldn't fight it. He didn't rest well.

He missed Mikey.

--------------------

When he awoke again, the house was as empty as he'd left it, though the sun filled in the dark corners. It wasn't any more comforting.

He stood, walking around once again, calling Mikey's name, eventually getting desperate and pulling out his phone, dialing Mikey's number.

"Pick up," he hissed into the silence, "pick up the phone, Michael, pick up--"

The dial tones ended.

"Your call has been forwarded to an automa--"

Ray hung up. Mikey had declined his call. Either that or his phone was dead, which he deemed unlikely. The world seemed to sway under him. He felt like throwing up. Why would Mikey decline? What had happened? Where had he gone? Was he okay? Was he in trouble? Had something happened at home he needed to take care of?

Ray wasn't sure. He sat down, swallowing and trying to stop his head from spinning. Mikey would come back. He would. He always did. He wouldn't leave Ray alone. They were together. Mikey loved him.

Right?

------------------------

Another shift in and out of consciousness had him waking up in the middle of the night. Or, he assumed, because it was dark and he felt tireless. He immediately checked his phone--it was past eleven--and found no calls back. Nothing from Mikey. Nothing.

He felt nauseous. Mikey should have called back by then, or at least messaged, and yet... nothing. He closed his eyes and stood with a groan as the soreness from the night before had caught up to him. He contemplated going outside, contemplated going to Mikey's place to see if he was there, or at least to talk to Gerard, but the only thing stopping him was his fear of the world.