Chapter Text
Michael drove towards his airstream, wheel gripped tightly in his hands to prevent them from shaking.
He supposed he should be proud of himself. When he’d first walked into Max’s house to see him curled up on the floor in pain, he’d stayed calm.
And when Liz had called Kyle over to examine him, he’d kept himself in check.
When Kyle had told them that Max had appendicitis and needed emergency surgery in his own kitchen, Michael had rolled with it.
When he’d seen Max laid out unconscious on the table in the kitchen, and watched Kyle cut Max open… when he’d seen all the blood, and witnessed the doctor carving his insides out…
…he’d managed.
And then when Max hadn’t woken up in the first hour like he was supposed to… when they’d waited by his bedside hours more, not knowing if he was going to be okay…
… and when he’d finally woken up weak and confused…
… he’d used the same iron will that had gotten him through years of abuse in the foster system.
Don’t blow up, no matter how much it hurts.
Keep yourself in check, no matter how scared you are.
That’s just what he did. People around town thought he got drunk and got into fights at the Wild Pony because he lacked control, but really, it was just the opposite.
Those times when he’d put himself in painful situations, in dangerous situations… he got to prove his control over and over again.
Only this time it hadn’t been his choice. This time he’d had to watch his brother hurting, and that was worse than anything he did to himself.
And Max was his brother in every way that mattered, even down to the way he liked to annoy the man by never admitting he felt that way.
Michael pulled up to his airstream and jumped out, striding towards the door.
Between all their preparations, and the surgery, and waiting to see if Max was going to wake up… Michael figured he’d probably gotten less than an hour of sleep and it was already well into mid-morning.
Inside, his bed sat unmade just the way he’d left it the day before when Liz had called to tell him something was wrong with Max.
He looked from the bed to his still-shaking hands. If he were smart, he’d take a deep breath, lay down, and try to finally get some rest.
But every time he blinked he could see Max’s blood… Max’s insides being cut with a scalpel while he lay slack-faced and unaware.
It was their lifelong nightmare come true in vivid detail.
Everyone who knew them always assumed that Max was the protector of the group. He was the cop, the one who acted like the older brother, the responsible one.
But he knew different.
Michael was the one who protected Max and Isobel. He’d kept them safe from the knowledge of just how bad foster care could be. He was the one who buried bodies and took blame. He was the one who acted like the town asshole so no one would look at him too closely. No one would bother trying to get close.
That way, if Izzy or Max lost control, he could take the fall without hurting anyone else.
Except that he couldn’t protect Max from his own fucking body. He hadn’t even realized that they could get appendicitis.
And it’d almost killed Max.
Michael grabbed the nearest object - a coffee mug - and threw it as hard as he could, watching it shatter against the back wall of the trailer.
It wasn’t enough.
He started grabbing every breakable object in sight, throwing them against walls, kicking them across the floor, shoving them off surfaces.
When he ran out of things to destroy, he opened his cabinets and started again. And when he had nothing left that wasn’t broken, he found himself kicking the cabinet under his sink over and over.
Until the wood gave with a crack, his foot going all the way through it.
He ripped his foot back, still angry, but still perfectly in control.
Not that it mattered…
He looked around, eyes tracing the destruction.
All the control in the world couldn’t stop the pain. He was helpless, just like he’d always been.
Fucking useless.
He dropped to his knees and doubled over, choking and gasping for breath.
When push came to shove, Kyle-fucking-Valenti had stepped in to save Max.
And despite how much he’d supposedly changed, Michael wasn’t sure he’d ever forgive him for the asshole he’d been in high school. For the things he’d said…
Michael started as the door to the airstream swung open.
“Guerin, what the hell?” came Alex’s voice.
Of-fucking-course the last person he’d want to witness his spectacular breakdown would decide to visit him in the middle of the day.
After doing their back-and-forth dance until neither of them could take it anymore, they’d decided to take a step back. Alex had suggested, without any condemnation, that maybe Michael should date other people while he took some time by himself to come to terms with a few things.
And Michael had agreed because what else could he do? It’d been obvious that Alex had some stuff to work through, and he’d made it pretty clear that he didn’t want Michael around while he did it.
So Michael had nodded and pretended not to care either way.
But he hadn’t started dating other people. He hadn’t been able to do that since Alex had come back into town.
He knew Alex still wasn’t through working on himself, but lately the two of them had been socializing in public, usually at the Wild Pony. Just a friendly game of pool here and there, or a couple of beers.
It was never anything intimate. Half the time Liz or Maria, or someone else would join them.
Alex never came to his trailer. Not anymore.
“Damn it, Guerin, answer me!”
“M’fine.”
In the process of straightening his back, he noticed that his cheeks were wet. He lifted a hand to wipe at them, but Alex stopped him, grabbing his wrist.
“You can’t- you’ve got glass in your hand.”
Huh. He did. Michael stared dumbly at his hand for a second before lifting the other one. It, too, was dotted with blood from dozens of tiny shards.
But that didn’t explain the little red puddle under his knees.
The next thing he knew, Alex had grabbed hold of his upper arm and was trying to tug him upright.
“Work with me here. I can’t lift you.”
Michael lurched to his feet, immediately reaching out a hand to steady himself when the world dimmed and dipped for a second. But instead of the counter he was expecting to find, Alex inserted himself under his arm, steadying him.
As he was escorted slowly out of the airstream and into the sunshine, it occurred to him that all his adrenaline seemed to have drained away.
He felt like an empty shell.
He wasn’t sure whether or not that was an improvement.
Alex pushed him into a lawn chair and then disappeared.
When he came back, he’d somehow managed to find a wet cloth, and started gently wiping the glass shards off Michael’s hands.
“Guerin, I need to know what you took. Guerin!”
The world was a little fuzzy, all except for the place where Alex's hands were holding his own. That part was in perfect focus, so he stared at it.
“Guerin, what fucking drug did you take?”
Alex’s voice finally penetrated the fog enough for Michael to realize what he was asking.
“I… I didn’t. It was Max…”
Alex disappeared again then reappeared with a handful of napkins.
Michael closed his eyes when Alex leaned in to wipe his face. It felt… intimate. He thought they weren’t doing that anymore.
But then Alex was shaking his shoulder, and shoving napkins into each hand.
“Grab these. Come on, make a fist because I don’t have bandages in my truck.”
Michael obeyed, eyes still closed.
Dimly, he became aware that Alex was talking to someone else, but he no longer cared who was around. Let the whole town come out and see him.
Then Alex was tugging on his arm again, and Michael opened his eyes. No one else was around.
“Come on, I can’t get you cleaned up here.”
After sitting in the chair for however-long, standing hurt. His knees stung, his hands ached.
Alex came under his arm again and they went over to Alex’s truck. Michael was tucked into the passenger seat, and then they were driving.
Michael stared out the window, watching the desert scenery race by, wondering if he’d finally passed out and started dreaming.
It wasn’t bad, as far as dreams went.
The truck stopped in front of a cabin that Michael had never seen before. So definitely a dream.
Alex helped him out, led him inside, and pushed him down onto a couch.
“Hey, I need to take the glass out of your knees, okay? It’s not gonna feel great.”
Michael shrugged. Life never did. Not for people like him.
He must’ve spaced out - or was he still dreaming? - because now Alex had a bowl and a couple of towels on the table and he was leaning over, picking at Michael’s knees.
Michael groaned, closing his eyes as he felt a sharp painful tug followed by fire racing up his leg.
“Almost done.” Alex intoned gently.
A couple more sharp tugs, and then he was pressing a towel to his knee before moving on to the next one.
“Hold the towel there, but don’t press too hard. I’m not sure I got them all.”
Once both knees were done Alex stood, once again tugging Michael up with him.
“Guerin, you need to take your pants off so I can make sure all the glass is out. Can you do that?”
Michael scoffed, fumbling with his belt.
When the belt wouldn’t cooperate, Alex gently pushed his hands out of the way and did it himself.
It should’ve turned him on, standing right in front of Alex with his pants around his ankles. Gazing into his eyes.
But instead he just felt empty. And all the more lonely knowing, even through the haze he was in, that none of this was real.
It was real; Michael understood now that it wasn’t a dream - the pain in his knees had proven that. But it wasn’t where he and Alex were at right now. Alex didn’t want him like that. Not anymore.
Apparently he wasn’t empty of tears, though, because the room started swimming and he had to look away.
Alex pressed on his shoulder, and Michael sank back onto the couch, allowing the other man to finish checking him for glass.
He produced bandages from somewhere, winding them around each knee and then each hand.
And Michael just felt stupid.