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Draken is a really, really simple person. He doesn’t like dwelling on the past and he doesn’t like holding onto things because he, of all people, knows it goes away so, so very quickly. His mom, his dad, his friends - they can come and go and Draken can’t do shit about it. So he doesn’t.
Usually. Dwelling never leads to anything good.
‘Don’t,’ he told himself when he turned on the engine to his Zephyr. ‘Don’t,’ he thought as he watched a light flurry of snow on the road. ‘Don’t,’ he repeated as he imagined being on the back of a CB250T on Christmas, begging Mikey to take him home because only Mikey’s dumb ass would think a ride through the winter laced city would be appropriate. It is not.
One slide and a blur of blue and red lights later, he realizes he’s smarter than he takes himself for and he really should’ve listened. Again: dwelling never leads to anything good.
If he did, he wouldn’t have woken up in the hospital with a broken leg, a few cuts to the face, and a really sexy concussion. Now he’s stuck in the hospital with enough pain killers in his system to hallucinate the ghosts of Christmas Past, or something like that, because Mikey’s sitting on his bed. It’s like he belongs there, with Draken, waiting for him to wake up while he picks at the frayed edges of an old black and white jacket he lost somewhere along the way. Like nothing has changed.
Well, some things have changed. He looks different – white hair, bags under his eyes… and there’s something else. The loss of youth, if Draken was poetic enough to know words in this state. It breaks his heart.
“Hey,” the ghost says, like it hadn’t been 12 years since Draken heard that voice. It must be Mikey because he smiles while Draken tears up. Sadist.
“Why are you here?”
Something clacks in the ghost’s hands and Draken realizes it’s a flip phone he hasn't seen in twelve years. Pink and white charms spill from his palm and Draken can tell by the sweet, sweet tiny image on the screen that it’s Emma’s because he remembers the day she and Mikey pulled his face down for the selfie displayed as the background.
“She’s still one of your emergency contacts. You slid on black ice, dumbass.”
He doesn’t move but Mikey does. He sits on his knees, kneeling over him like no time has passed and wipes away unshed tears. Maybe he isn’t a ghost. He has all his mannerisms - even though he looks totally different. The slight quirk of his lip when he wants to smile and he just can’t muster the energy to. Those deep black eyes that hide everything and exactly anything because he can’t afford to let anyone in. It’s all there. It’s all Mikey.
“You kept her phone. Her number.” He never even thought of calling it.
"Only thing I have left."
They sit there for a moment and Mikey goes back to fucking with his jacket. It takes Draken a second to even process words; he wants to ask why he’s here, how he’s here, what he's been doing these past few years and if he's okay. But it hits him like a truck. There’s only one thing he should be focusing on.
“You came,” he realizes. The man in front of him flinches, eyes suddenly extra interested in the white thread hanging on for dear life.
“You took the call and you came here.”
“They said it was really bad,” he tries to reason. It must be, because he feels like shit.
“And?” Draken raises an eyebrow. “You could’ve sent someone. You could’ve just asked. You could’ve just left me behind again --”
“I couldn’t,” Mikey snaps back. They pause again and Draken wants to ask why but it seems like Mikey doesn’t know the answer either. Tears well up in his eyes and he looks around. Literally looks around, anywhere except for the man in front of him. Like he’s looking for excuses, looking for a way out and he can’t find one.
Draken wants to tell him to stop making the hole in his sweater bigger, from the way Mikey kneads into it. ust when Draken finally opens his mouth -
“I thought you died,” Mikey tries. He can tell Mikey hates it because his voice cracks. His face cracks. Whatever emotional barrier he tries to hold onto shatters and Draken swears, he can hear it. It’s clearly painful for him to think about because he wraps himself further in Draken’s clothes, burying his head in his knees.
The more Draken stares at him, the more his heart aches. Mikey’s both so, so familiar and yet so unrecognizable all at once. White hair. Bags under his eyes. The tiniest frame he’s seen off the man -- That guarded look… Maybe that’s the only thing that still feels like Mikey.
“I’m here,” Draken offers instead and oh, how it hurts to hear the sob that comes from the pile of black and white in front of him. Draken has no real reason to, but he wants to cry too.
“Come here,” he practically begs. With the lump in his throat, it comes out in a whisper and for a single moment, he wasn’t sure if he was heard. But then, oh, then Mikey climbs into his arms, his face buried in Draken’s neck. If it hurts, Draken finds it’s really not the time to make note of it, holding in a grunt when Mikey accidentally knees his rib on the way up.
It’s fine. This is fine. Mikey is in his arms and it feels so fucking good that Draken finds himself overwhelmed. His hair still smells like milk and honey and he can't believe he gets to know this twelve years later. He wraps both arms around him and every second feels a little longer. Or maybe time just stops?
Mikey collapses unceremoniously against him, curling back up in his ball for Draken to unweave but it’s okay; Draken’s had plenty of practice with this, you see.
“I’m here,” he repeats. Soft things. Reassuring things. Things he’s probably needed to say more than Mikey’s needed to hear because good god, does it feel good to be able to whisper the shit he’s held close to his chest for twelve years. His hospital gown feels wet and Mikey sobs with every soft, sweet word that Draken has to offer.
“Kenchin,” he rasps.
Draken’s words fall out of his mouth, lost with his ability to breathe. It’s been twelve years since he’s heard that nickname. Twelve years since he smelled the shampoo Mikey uses. Twelve years since he felt his hot tears against his shoulder. Twelve years since they shared a bed. Twelve years since Mikey pressed against him, crowding and taking up more room than someone so small should need.
“Mikey,” he replies, though it sounds wet. It is because he does tear up. He missed him, he missed him, he missed him so badly –
Mikey looks up at him and his eyes are so red, so puffy and Draken can’t help but laugh a little. He looks ridiculous. The dumb white hair, the bags under his eyes, the way he still tries to hide how relieved he is, how happy is that Draken’s still here. In gratitude, he brushes away Mikey’s tears, quick to caress his cheeks as more tears fall over and over… And it’s then that Draken settles into the peace that comes with them existing in each other’s presence.
Soft moments. Soft surroundings. And a soft jacket– Hey. Wait.
“You stole my jacket, jackass,” Draken grumbles and Mikey lets out a laugh. He bundles himself up in it more, like Draken would actually have the energy or desire to steal it back. He doesn’t. It’s always looked cuter on him.
“It’s my jacket. You know the saying. What’s yours is mine.” He doesn’t finish the sentence because that’s it. What’s Mikey’s is Mikey’s and what’s Kenchin’s is Mikey’s.
“So what does that make me?” Draken tries. Mikey looks up at him through pretty, long lashes and the butterflies in Draken’s stomach breaks from their cocoon and toys with his heartbeat, with his lungs, and he’s sure one flew out of his mouth because what the fuck did he just say -
They’ve been here before. So many times. So many stupid times where they teeter on where they can stand before they step over that line and Draken doesn’t know if they were scared because they were young and everything felt so… so fragile in a time they had to be so tough… but with the way Mikey’s eyes change from big and teary to cautious, Draken thinks he’s a fucking idiot. It sends a shiver down his spine, perhaps, rightfully so. He should’ve known better when things are even more fragile. They have to be –
“What does that make you?” Oh.
It takes Draken a minute to reside where he wants to go from here. He is exhausted, concussed, numb, and ecstatic all at once. The hot and cold of it all has him confused and disoriented. He decides to use that as an excuse as he utters his next words:
“Was I ever anything else but your’s?”
Mikey doesn’t reply, instead raising a hand. Draken doesn’t flinch, doesn’t move, he just stares straight back. A few seconds pass but it feels like an eternity before Mikey breaks out in a smile, resting his hand on Draken’s face. Like it was a test and Mikey’s decided Draken has passed.
“Okay.” And their lips touch. It feels like everything Draken imagined. He never imagined fireworks, never imagined the hot and cold you hear about in stories and movies - it was simple. Familiar. He knows Mikey’s every move, even now. The way he smiles into the kiss and Draken has to use a hand to hold his chin because Mikey can’t stop grinning –
“Quit it,” he grumbles and Mikey laughs. He laughs and laughs and Draken melts in response. It feels so, so good to hear his laugh. It feels wonderful that he’s here. Puffy eyed, exhausted but alas, he’s here. He must look dopey, tired as shit because Mikey tells him–
“You should rest, Kenchin.”
Draken refuses to respond.
“Kenchin,” Mikey whispers. Draken finds himself tending to him even now, pulling his jacket over his shoulders more, brushing his hair back. “Kenchin,” he repeats, because Draken’s too busy getting his fill. He might be zoning out a little. This is a lot for a man who just woke up, okay? It’s fine. It’s fine because Mikey looks so cute. He’s getting huffy; Draken still hasn’t answered him.
“Kenchin,” he huffs, grabbing both of his hands. He’s a little bit louder, more demanding and Draken beams so brilliantly.
“You’re here,” is how Draken finally replies. His speech slurred, slowed… and he can see Mikey recognize how tired he is. He rolls his eyes, sitting up and he kisses Draken one more time. He tries to crane his neck, tries to follow his lip as Mikey pulls away but Mikey gently pushes his head down with his finger on his forehead. Draken hears a snort as he groans.
He wants more. He wants more kisses, more time, more Mikey and he doesn’t want to close his eyes and lose Mikey again and -
“Kenchin,” he repeats again and it sounds like reassurance and patience and… And Draken swallows a lump that he didn’t know was there.
“Yeah,” he mumbles back, finally.
Mikey lowers his hand to close Draken’s eyes, pressing another kiss to his lips.
“You are mine. You’re not allowed to die without my permission so don’t do anything that stupid again.”
He doesn’t know what to say to that. He’s exhausted, he’s scared to sleep, he doesn’t want to - It’s so stupid that Mikey closing his eyes is doing this to him.
“Answer me. Tell me what I want to hear.”
“I’m yours. I’m here.” It comes out slurred, whispered… but they have weight to them. They drip like honey, thick and slow and absolutely delicious. They’re so simple that it feels like Draken didn’t say the right thing but that’s what Mikey wants to hear, isn’t it?
Isn’t it?
He doesn’t get to find out because with another caress of his cheek, he’s lights out. He feels a weight on him instead and he only knows Mikey’s gone further away from the soft clack made by multiple charms from a very, very familiar phone.
When he awakes, he gets a text from one Emma Sano.
Say it again.
Draken smiles and knows he said the right thing. He’s fine with repeating himself. Just for him. He’ll remind Mikey over and over and over if it means getting it through that thick ass skull.
I’m yours. I’m right here.