At first, awareness came in spurts, never lasting more than a few confusing seconds. Micky could only really describe it as a sort of lost feeling, like he'd fallen into a place where the laws of physics didn't apply to him. And in those seconds, his thoughts would scatter in so many different directions, that by the time he caught up with all of them, he'd lapsed back into unconsciousness. Every time this happened, he remembered his last period of awareness, and found himself almost striving to move backward, where he knew there would be comfort.
He longed for blackness at one point, and couldn't even find that.
But healing eventually found him, despite the continued wrongness of the situation. This time, it wasn't just some lofty, unreachable snippet of half-consciousness - Micky was actually awake.
He stirred, and the ringing in his ears resolved into voices.
His mind still searched for that comfortable blackness, though, almost desperately. Micky squirmed, feeling his surroundings with a pained sense of touch as he stared in the direction of those voices, certain that there should at least be darkness where his eyes pointed. Everything else screamed to him that he was in a bed, surrounded by at least a couple people, their quiet voices rattling through his skull - but he couldn't confirm that with his eyes.
"Micky?" Mike paused. "Hey, I think 'e's wakin' up. Better go get the doctor."
"Yeah," Davy agreed. Footsteps - loud, high-pitched clicks on a tile floor - quickly retreated from the room, and Micky's brain told him that it must have been Davy who went, and not Mike.
Someone sat next to him, so Micky turned his head. Still, he searched for the darkness, even as he felt the mild breeze caused by someone waving their hand in front of his face. That same someone ran thin fingers over his hand before taking it and cradling it gently. Warmly. "Mick?" Peter asked.
Making sure his eyes were open, he blinked again, then turned away from Peter. Carefully, so as not to alarm anyone, Micky asked, "Guys, are the lights on?"
Someone else sat next to him on the bed. Too heavy to be Davy; besides, he hadn't heard the steady click click of those boots returning. "Mike?" Micky asked, looking directly where he'd felt the motion. "Izzat you?"
No one said it at first, but they all kind of figured it out. Peter and Mike were just waiting for Micky to confirm it. "Guys, I can't see."
Peter was still holding his hand, and gave it a squeeze. "…maybe your brain just has to catch up with you being awake?"
"Naw, that ain't it," Mike said. "Somethin's not right."
Micky found that he could hear every odd quirk of Mike's accent, even better than he could before. Moreover, he could better distinguish the more subtle difference between his own voice and Peter's, which marked the blond from being from the Eastern side of the country. It was strange, as if someone had flipped a switch in his mind that made him notice such oddities. Honestly, Micky hadn't paid much attention before - he knew Mike had a distinct Southern drawl - but now, he felt that if someone put one hundred Texans in a room, all with the exact same timbre to their voice, he'd be able to pick out the little nuances that made Mike just a little bit different from everyone else. The same went for Peter.
"…Huh," Micky said.
The clicky-heeled boots returned, followed by the softer tromp of another, unidentified person. Micky imagined that the first was Davy, since his memory for sound seemed much more acute than it was before.
Annoyed by the lack of anything in his vision, he rubbed at one eye, trying to coax the sight back to it. Sliding his hand out of Peter's, he rubbed at the other one, but got the same result for both - nothing.
"Doc," Mike said. "I don't think he can see."
Something clicked directly in front of Micky. He felt a stab of anxiety as he reached around for Peter again, just to have some contact with someone who still had use of their eyes. As he flailed, the other boy managed to catch his hand, holding it tightly. "Don't worry, Mick, the doctor's just shining a light into your eyes.
"You see anything?" the unfamiliar voice of the doctor asked.
Micky shook his head.
"Wait, what?" Davy snapped. "What'cha mean you can't see? What's wrong?"
Micky could detect the British voice nearing him as it spoke, and automatically turned his head toward it.
"Ooh, that's a little creepy," Davy observed.
"Well, tell me this. How's your head feel?" the doctor asked.
Micky reached up to rub the painful spot on the back of his head. The moment his fingers touched it, he winced, his hand automatically pulling away. "Got a headache. I'm a little confused…" He wiggled again, uncomfortable, as if the light sheets with which he was covered were invading his space. They seemed too close, but he couldn't push them away.
"Is it okay if I talk in front of your friends, Mister Dolenz?" the doctor asked.
"Micky. Yeah, that's fine. They oughta know."
"You took quite a hit to the back of the head," the doctor continued. "Most of the damage isn't too severe, but you've got a little crack back there."
"Not severe!" Mike scoffed. He shifted on the bed, probably to look at the doctor. "He cain't see!"
Cain't. Cain't. Micky never really thought about how Mike said 'can't' before. He decided that he liked it.
Unshaken, the doctor continued. "There are always complications from a brain injury. In this case, the occipital lobe - that's the back - is most strongly affected. That's the part that controls sight, and it was pretty badly injured. Micky, do you understand?"
He didn't say anything as the weight that was Mike stood up. Footsteps, more earthy this time, if footsteps could be described in such a manner, shuffled across the floor and away. Automatically, Micky tried to judge where, but his mind raced with a whole swarm of unanswered questions and distracted him before he could figure out if his friend was still there. Unable to help it, he said, "Mike, don't leave." Holding more tightly onto Peter's hand so that the other boy couldn't let go, he added, "Davy?"
"We're all here," Davy said. Micky detected a smile in his voice, which was marginally reassuring. As much as he tried not to let it get to him, the doctor's confirmation that the injury caused this blindness scared him.
"I can't even remember what happened," Micky muttered.
"That's normal," the doctor said. "Injuries like this cause short term memory loss around the time of the accident. You've woken up a couple times before this. You weren't cognizant. Do you remember?"
Micky shook his head. He only had the barest recollections of feeling that something wasn't right, but he couldn't remember himself actually being awake.
"You probably won't remember being injured. Don't strain yourself trying to recall it. It's very possible that the memory no longer exists."
He could feel himself starting to whimper, a thickness building in his throat and a painful tension working its way up to his eyes. "Ah, hey," he said quickly, forcing the tears away. "Give me some good news, Doc. My sight's going to come back, right?"
The tiny pause that followed the question was agonizing.
"There's a good chance that this will resolve."
"That's all you can give us?" Davy questioned. "A 'good chance?' I mean, is 'good' fifty percent? Seventy?"
Micky desperately wished that he could see the doctor's face, because if he could see it, he could judge the words as either false hope or cautious optimism. He always felt that his assessment of a person's character was rock-solid, but a lot of it depended on subtle visual cues, like blinking, lip-biting, leaning away - all things he couldn't detect without his eyes. He blinked them again, balling his free hand into a fist until his fingernails dug into his palms with the slightest sensation of pain. Not a dream, then.
He relied so much on his vision. Even at the drums, his eyes were always moving, always focusing on which to play next. He remembered people by sight, even if he couldn't always come up with their names, and never forgot a face. Colors! He loved colors. He enjoyed paintings, even if they were abstract, because he liked seeing how things in his world interacted with other things. To not have that, to abandon it all to a 'good chance,' made him feel hollow.
More tenderly than before, the doctor replied, "The brain is so complex. So different than anything else in the body. Everyone reacts differently to head trauma… Other people have fully recovered, and others haven't. It might take days for your sight to come back. Or weeks. Years. Or it might never. What I can tell you now is that there is a good chance that it will."
No one said anything, and eventually, Micky heard the scuff of the doctor's shoes across the floor, retreating this time. Left alone with his friends, he continued to sit in silence, trying to wrap his head around the fact that he might never see again. He couldn't, though, because to think about that meant that he'd have to think of a contingency plan - what he'd have to do with his life if his eyes didn't start working. Just the thought of a future where he had to plan for a worst-case scenario set him on the edge of panic.
Push it aside, Micky. Don't let 'em see you crying.
Smiling, he allowed a chuckle, looking toward where he believed they were all sitting, one at a time.
"What's funny?" Davy asked, a hint of amusement in the question.
"Oh, just that you guys are gonna have to wait on me 'til my eyes get better." Before anyone could remind him that they might not, he added, "And they will, by the way. I mean, c'mon, you can't keep George Michael Dolenz down. I'll be back to normal in no time." He forced a wider smile, taking a little comfort in the fact that he was very good at making himself look sincere. It was a trait the others didn't share - Michael failed miserably at faking a smile, and Davy had to be in the right mood for it. Peter wore his heart on his sleeve, and his emotions plain on his face, no matter the situation. Micky wished he could see them now and judge their faces, although maybe it was better that he couldn't. If they looked uncertain, he might not be able to continue on with his false optimism. "Hand and foot, guys. I mean it. Only the best for your injured comrade."
He heard Mike grunt. "Hey. Just focus on getting yourself out of the hospital first, huh? Then we'll talk about you own personal butler service."
"I don't want a personal butler service," Micky said. "I want you guys."
"I think he means us, Mick," Peter whispered.
"He couldn't afford us," Davy joked. "Not after his hospital bills, anyway."
Oh. Right.
Micky's face fell again, the realization of what he'd have to pay back smacking into him harder than the revelation of his blindness had. He was a struggling musician who could barely afford a monthly rent payment and food, let alone medical expenses. "Man, can't believe I have to pay for something I don't even remember happening," he mumbled, bowing his head.
"Sorry, Micky, I was just jokin'…" Davy said softly.
"Nah, it's okay," he replied, unable to keep the worry out of his voice. "It's okay! Really, I'll find a way. Just… Someone tell me what happened? I know! I was defending some chick's honor, and her angry boyfriend took a swing at me, right? But not before I clobbered him. I'm a hero."
"Nothin' so exciting," Mike drawled. "You were standin' against the guard rail and got clobbered by a foul ball."
Confused, Micky tried to recall … "Were we… At a baseball game?" He remembered getting the tickets, but he couldn't remember actually getting to the stadium to see it. "Geez, the doctor wasn't kidding about that memory loss, was he?"
"You don't remember even being there?" Davy asked.
Micky shook his head. He'd been told not to strain to remember, but he couldn't help wondering why he couldn't picture the game at all. "Well, I remember talking about it? Yeah, we were getting ready to go. It was, uh. Morning, I think? But that's even fuzzy, like maybe I dreamed it. Whoa, you're saying we were there?"
"Y'spit popcorn kernels at me," Mike said flatly. "Fer the record, don't do that again."
In a way, Micky felt exposed by the fact that others had been privy to a part of his life that not even he could recall. He had more questions, but they'd only reveal the helpless trepidation he felt toward the whole situation. If he told himself enough times that he could do this, surely he'd stop being so concerned by it all. Thousands and thousands of people lived with blindness, so even if his sight never returned, he'd be okay somehow. So he didn't have to ask those questions!
"You okay?" Peter asked quietly, after Micky didn't respond for awhile.
Too much to process.
He snuggled down in the sheets. Sliding across them felt like fire, as if every single thread had a tiny little white-hot blade on it. Still holding onto Peter's hand, he turned on his side and lay his head on the pillow, which brought a fresh sting to the back of his head. After a moment, it became a dull discomfort, which would hardly prevent him from sleeping, given how tired he suddenly felt. "Are you guys gonna be here when I wake up?"
Mike stood up. For a moment, Micky was afraid that he was going to leave without saying anything, but then he felt fingers close around his other hand. "We all know the visitin' hours, Mick," he said. "And we plan to ignore them the best way we know how."
His smile came easily as he closed his eyes. It wouldn't be so bad, really, he convinced himself. The other guys would be there for him, so he could get used to this as slowly as he needed to. They'd take care of him. Maybe it would even be a little fun, with them running around at his beck and call. Those thoughts of using his friends in such a way gave rise to the tiniest feelings of guilt, but Micky quickly squelched them. After all, he had to derive some joy out of his blindness.
And they'd be glad to oblige, he thought, as a sudden exhaustion drew him into sleep.