Isolation

You don't remember it, do you?

When Mike woke up, he was on the couch. His head hurt, but it wasn't too bad. He sat up and saw Peter and Davy sitting in the kitchen talking to each other.

"Sh, sh, he's awake," Peter whispered, and the two looked over at him. "Good morning, Mike." He put on a smile, but there was a slight hint of fear in his voice.

"Good evening would be more accurate," Davy corrected, "it's close to 5."

"Evening," Mike slurred with a yawn. "Where's Micky?"

The two fell silent and shot a look at each other.

"He's upstairs," Davy explained, a hint of anger in his tone.

"Upstairs?" Peter nodded.

Why would he be alone upstairs at 5?

"Wait, what happened?"

"We missed most of the show," that harsh tone remained in the Brit's voice. "And even if we saw it all, it wouldn't be our place to say. You should talk to Micky about what happened."

Mike looked at Peter, hoping for a better explanation. Peter only looked at him sadly before dropping his head down and giving a meek nod.

"Peter...?"

He didn't respond, and all Davy did was continue to burn holes into Mike with his gaze.

Mike nodded slowly and stood to head upstairs. He made it to the bedroom and took a deep breath before he knocked on the door.

No response.

"Micky? Are you in there?"

No response.

"Micky?" He tried again. This time, he got something.

"What," Micky grunted from behind the door. It sounded more like an attacking statement than a question. Still, it was better than nothing.

"Hey, Mick." Mike creaked open the door. All the lights had been turned off, but he was still able to make out the silhouette of Micky on the floor, hugging his knees. He looked up at Mike with angry tear-filled eyes before turning away.

"Leave me alone." He choked out, but Mike didn't listen.

"Hey, what's wrong?" He stepped into the room and sat down beside him. He placed his hand on his shoulder, but Micky quickly pulled away from it.

"Can you please just go?"

"Well, can you tell me what's bothering you?"

Micky didn't respond.

"Are you mad at me?"

He began laughing at that.

"You know, you can be a real asshole at times, Michael Nesmith!"

Mike frowned but stayed silent, hoping he would elaborate.

"You-you-" he took a deep breath, and tears filled his eyes again. "There are times where I really hate you. You and your-your-" he couldn't find the word he was looking for. He shook his head and sighed. "You know what I mean."

Mike closed his eyes and could feel a headache forming while he listened. He tried to ignore it for as long as he could. But it was becoming harder and harder to focus and concentrate. Micky continued ranting, but Mike was only able to catch pieces of it. Something he had said upset him. But what had he even said to begin with?

When Micky was done, he stopped and looked up. He quickly frowned when he saw the clear discomfort Mike was in. He worried for a second.

"Wait..." it hit him right then. "Wait, you don't remember it, do you?"

Mike shook his head and squeezed his eyes shut, bringing his hand to his head. Micky closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the wall. "Sh!t." He muttered to himself. After a moment, he glanced back over at Mike. His discomfort had turned into pain. No matter how he tried to hide it, it showed.

"Look, we both said stuff we didn't mean," Micky said with a sympathetic sigh. "It's fine, really. Don't worry about it, okay?"

Mike nodded slightly.

"Are you okay?" He whispered. Micky smiled sadly.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Honest. Are you?"

"Fine..." His voice trailed off at the end, and like that, Mike was out.

"Mike?" Micky asked softly, noticing how quiet he had become. He glanced over and sighed when he saw him.

"Alright, come on, Mike," He said, picking up the unconscious Texan in his arms. "Let's get you to bed, okay?"

"There you go." He laid him down carefully on his bed and wiped the tears that had reformed in his eyes. He smiled a little, but it didn't last long. He quietly crept out of the room, leaving the door cracked open before he made his way downstairs.