Ninth fic for a Pride Month prompt challenge from tumblr. Prompt: closet.
If things get out of control, Mickey goes to ground. When he was little and got overwhelmed he'd find somewhere (preferably somewhere small and dark) where he could go to be alone. He was eight when a bird flew too hard and fast into his grandparents' patio windows and killed itself; while his grandfather disposed of the corpse Mickey crawled up into the tree house to mourn it. When he was eleven and Sara was getting picked on, Mickey would deal with it, but afterwards he'd squeeze under his bed and let himself let go of all the sadness piling up inside him. At fourteen, when his growth spurt hit suddenly and he felt he had lost all control of his own body, Mickey locked himself in a shower cubicle at the gym to give himself time to get a grip. Being somewhere alone like that, alone and curled up, makes him feel safe enough to breathe and relax before he has to face the world again. He's not a child anymore and he hasn't done it in years but...
Emil's voice comes from outside the closet door, soft but clear enough for Mickey to hear.
"You okay?" He sounds concerned, and Mickey's stomach twists at the thought of making him worry.
"Yes," he whispers before clearing his throat so he can repeat it louder and know Emil heard him.
"Is there anything I can do?"
Mickey thinks about it, curled up on the closet floor. His fingers run along the ankle cuffs of his jeans, the denim soft in his hands. He wants to be brave: to walk out of here, his hand in Emil's, and go spend time with his extended family. Or he wants to stay here and never leave again. Or he wants it not to be the off season, because then they could be somewhere else and he wouldn't have to feel like he does now. Emil wouldn't have to worry. Sara wouldn't have to cover for him. He knows she's downstairs now, seeing countless aunts and uncles and cousins, that she's telling them he's not feeling well but he should be down soon and yes, their friend Emil is here too, he's looking after Mickey right now, he's a real sweetheart. He knows she won't tell them anything more.
Mickey swallows and shifts in the closet, trying to get up the nerve to move.
"Can I come in?" asks Emil, and Mickey hesitates. He's never had anyone join him when he's been like this before and the idea is strange. But then again, Emil is the best hugger Mickey knows and he needs to feel his body close right now. He pushes open the door with his foot in wordless acquiescence. Emil crawls in beside him, folding his legs up to fit, and the door closes behind him. Sunlight slants through slats in the door and catches Emil's long, pale eyelashes when they flutter on his cheekbones. Mickey feels an arm come around his shoulders and shuffles down a little so he can tuck himself into Emil's side. They sit in silence for a while, listening to the muffled chatter and commotion from downstairs, and Mickey relaxes into Emil's embrace. It does feel better like this. But it can't happen downstairs.
"You're not ready, are you?" asks Emil.
Mickey shakes his head. "I'm sorry."
"Nothing to be sorry for," insists Emil fondly.
"But you were so excited to finally be doing this."
"I'll be excited again," Emil says. "I wish you were ready because I know you're going to be so happy when you are, but you can't force it."
Mickey nods. "I love you."
"I love you too."
They seek each other's lips out in the dim light for a sweet, chaste kiss before Emil smiles.
"Come on," he says. "We can't stay in here forever and your dad's birthday won't celebrate itself."