Standing uneasily with one hand braced against the doorframe, Davy stared into the small bedroom, where Micky was holding onto Peter as if his life depended on it. Saying nothing and unable to come to terms with his own miscalculation, Davy felt his face burning hot, his eyes stinging and threatening to spill tears themselves. Leaving Micky to his own devices had, after all, been his idea.
Peter tried to pull away, but Micky's fingers curled around his sleeves, and held him tightly. Gently, Peter said, "It's okay. I'm not going anywhere."
"I thought you guys left me," Micky repeated.
Words wouldn't come to Davy, as much as he wanted them to. He'd been so frustrated over the idiotic things Micky was having him do that he'd missed his friend's fear entirely. Surely it hadn't been there the whole time, though! At the hospital, they'd all been joking and laughing and having a pretty decent time. Micky seemed to have come to terms with the injury, and that it might take a while to heal. Then, when they got home, he was having an awfully good time ordering them all around…
"You knew, didn't you, Peter?" Mike said softly.
The blond nodded, rubbing Micky's back to calm him. Eventually, though still holding onto his scared friend, Peter was able to take a step back, leaving a miserable Micky staring forlornly in the direction of the floor. "Guys, he's scared. You would be, too."
"Why didn't you tell us, Micky?" Mike asked.
Finally finding his voice, Davy added, "And why'd you make us do all that stuff?"
He looked up at them, eyes eerily vacant but somehow sincere. After a moment, Micky managed a tiny smile and a shrug. "I thought if I could keep you guys busy, you wouldn't figure out how scared I was." He paused, head turning from side to side jerkily. Eventually - though Davy wasn't sure how - Micky managed to look right at him. "It's different than it was in the hospital. I … I knew the layout of the room, you know? And I didn't want to ask you guys for… help."
Mike smiled, stepping forward and putting a hand on Micky's shoulder. "So instead of askin' us for the help you needed, you — "
"In my defense, I did need my pants alphabetized." He reached up, mopping the back of his hand across his eyes. "Heh. I thought if I kept you guys busy long enough, I'd get past the whole thing on my own. Get out of bed and figure out how to get around."
Davy still couldn't find the words to speak. He wanted to tell Micky that leaving him to fend for himself was his idea, but seeing his good friend reduced to tears hurt so much, it was making him angry. His hands clenched into fists, and he bit his lip, remaining silent.
"Close your eyes," Peter said softly.
Micky chuckled a bit. "I don't think it— "
"Just close your eyes," Peter repeated.
After a moment, Micky did so, and Peter took both of his hands. "Okay, Mick. Try to picture where you're standing."
Micky didn't say anything, his face becoming a mask of concentration as he scowled. His eyes were closed lightly, lower lip sticking out in what almost looked to be a pout. Eventually, he nodded, and Peter stepped back, still holding onto his hands. Reluctantly, Micky followed with shuffling footsteps, toes dragging along the ground as if he was afraid he'd trip over something. Every time he felt an inconsistency in the surface of the old floor, he'd stop, running his toe over the spot to investigate it.
Mike followed behind, stopping whenever Micky stopped, placing a hand on his shoulder for encouragement. Meanwhile, Davy stood at a distance, watching this entire spectacle silently. He shouldn't have been so rash, but Mike had gone along with it, and Peter eventually had, too! And it must have been worth it, since now Micky was out of his bed and learning to walk around the house again. Davy shouldn't feel anything other than a sense of accomplishment at the whole thing, right? Despite the roundabout success, he still felt awful.
It all could have been solved by just talking about everything directly to Micky.
A few minutes later, Peter was leading Micky around the room more quickly. The blinded young man had developed a certain halting confidence about the whole thing; he still hesitated at times, but his periods of standstill diminished the more he walked. In time, Peter and Mike led him toward the door.
"Whoa," Micky said.
Peter stopped, looking up. "Huh?"
"Did we just step out of the bedroom? The sound opened up."
Peter and Mike looked at each other, smiling. "Yeah," Mike squealed excitedly. "Yeah, you heard that, see? You're doin' fine, babe. Here." He reached out, taking one of Micky's hands from Peter, and put it on the bedroom doorframe. Micky felt it, his hand then moving to the wall, then trailing along its surface as Peter continued to lead him forward.
Quietly, Davy followed, inexplicable anger still preventing him from saying anything useful.
It wasn't until Peter tried to pull Micky away from the wall that Micky spoke again, as he stretched, fingers maintaining contact with the surface. "I'm not ready yet. I don't want to— to— "
Peter relented, stepping back toward the wall. Micky pressed his palm against it, slumping, taking a deep breath. He laughed shakily, opening his eyes again as he leaned his head against the surface. "One thing at a time, guys. Baby steps, okay?"
And baby steps were exactly what they all took over the next few days as Micky re-acquainted himself with the pad. To Davy, he always seemed shaky and unsure; he always had someone to take his hand and guide him, which seemed blatantly unlike the Micky he knew. Davy wanted to say, "Stop being so scared and just get over it!" but instead, he'd exchange small-talk and random pleasantries with his roommate, before moving on to talk to Mike or Peter. The anger persisted, always just seething under the surface. Resentment and frustration often manifested in the middle of the night, when Micky needed something or another and Davy was the closest to him. Sometimes, he'd even pretend not to wake up, so Michael or Peter would have to deal with it.
It all made Davy feel terrible.
"You sure you're ready for this?" Peter asked one day, as he led Micky up the stairs to the bandstand.
"I gotta see if I can still play sometime," Micky muttered. His hand reached out, eyes narrowing, until he found the sheet covering his drums. He gave it a tug, finding it caught on something. "Pete? Can you…"
Peter let go of Micky's hand. The reaction wasn't as powerful as it had been a couple days before, but Davy still saw Micky's eyes widen as his now free hand groped for anything he could reach. Eventually, all ten of his fingers were wrapped around the sheet, holding onto it for dear life.
"It was just under the amp," Peter said. "Try now."
Micky pulled the sheet off, letting it flutter to the floor. Quickly, he reached out for where his stool would be, finding it and sitting quickly, sighing with relief. Mike picked up the sheet and set it out of the way, before meandering over to his spot and reaching for his guitar.
"She's gonna need tuning," Mike said. "Haven't played in a few days…"
Even that made Davy bristle. Michael very rarely ever went a full day without playing his guitar. This whole thing with Micky had everyone so upside-down, it would be easier if Micky had stayed in the hospital, or went home to his parents!
…The guilt that followed that thought was crushing. Davy bit his lip, quickly ascending the stairs to the bandstand to locate his tambourine. They were all best friends, for crying out loud. Of course they were all taking care of Micky. Somewhere in his mind, Davy knew he wouldn't have it any other way, but he couldn't stop feeling that anger.
As Peter helped Mike tune with his keyboard, Davy continued to watch Micky, whose hands awkwardly passed over the surfaces of several of his drums, as if searching for something. His face seemed on the verge of temper, and he was certainly fed up with the task. Davy quickly realized that Micky was looking for his drumsticks.
Davy spotted them off to the side of the drum kit, where they'd fallen to the floor when the sheet was pulled off. Quickly, he picked them up, and proceeded to stand there, holding onto them, still looking down at Micky's frustrated attempt to locate them. How could he help now, when he hadn't done anything for Micky over the past few crucial days? Now that the other guys had taken over getting their friend re-acclimated, anything Davy could do at this point would seem inconsequential. If he did anything now, it would almost feel worthless.
Making a decision, he silently set the drumsticks down on one of the drums, so that Micky could find them himself. A moment later, Micky's hand wrapped around them, and his eyes narrowed in confusion.
Davy hoped he wouldn't question their sudden appearance.
Luckily, at that moment, Mike decided his guitar was tuned to his satisfaction. "All right, Mick. Let's start with somethin' you don't have to sing, too. Ease you in a bit. How 'bout 'I Wanna Be Free?'"
"That one's got no drums, Mike," Peter said. "Or really much of anything else for that matter."
"You don't have to make it that easy," Micky laughed. He twirled his sticks. When they both fell to the floor, Peter retrieved them. "C'mon, I'm ready. Let's do Clarksville. I could play that in my sleep. Sing it, too."
"Okay, Mick," Michael said, smiling. Davy had to admit, it would feel good to play again, so even he found himself smiling as Mike counted them in.
Right from the beginning, though, even before the intro guitar riff had finished, it became clear that there was something wrong.
"Wasn't ready," Micky muttered. "Sorry, try again, okay?"
Mike counted them in again. Were it even possible, Micky's ability to sense the rhythm of the music seemed even more impaired on the second try. He just wasn't hitting at the right time. Still, instead of stopping again, Mike kept them going - maybe after a few measures, Micky would get used to things again and actually start playing properly. But he never started singing, and as they continued to play, his drumming went from bad to worse.
When he stopped trying, Mike signaled the others to stop, as well. Micky sighed. "Guys, this isn't gonna work."
"Nah," Mike said. "Look, once you get the hang of it…"
Micky shook his head. "Trust me. It's not gonna work." The look on his face was painful, and, Davy noticed, right on the verge of anger once again. For that moment in time, he actually felt a re-kindled connection with his curly-haired best friend, and then Peter - innocent, kindly Peter - ruined everything.
"Well, maybe you and Davy could switch for awhile! You do back-up percussion, he can do the drums."
That's when Micky lost it. Tossing his drumsticks at the kit, which clattered against his floor tom and cymbals and fell to the floor, he got to his feet. "You're not gonna stick me with something that takes absolutely no skill to play."
No skill?
No skill!?
Davy stood as well, pointing at Micky, even though he realized a moment later that he couldn't see the gesture. "I'll have you know that the tambourine and maracas are a lot harder than they look!"
He saw the apologetic realization on Micky's face.
But he couldn't stop. The rage had been building for far too long, and now, here on the bandstand in front of all the other guys, Davy was going to let it all out. "No skill! This is comin' from the guy who's havin' such a crisis of self-confidence that he thinks he can't play the drums without lookin' at 'em!"
When Micky turned to him, Davy dug the knife in a little deeper. "And don't look at me with those empty eyes! It's bloody creepy as hell. Go on! Look away!"
He told himself to shut up as Micky looked at the floor. But he couldn't. "We've been bendin' over backward for you the past few days, and when it comes time for you to do somethin' for us - you know, actually play the instrument you're supposedly good at - you fail. You fail so completely that you gotta pull me down with you. Amazin', Micky."
"Davy…" Mike muttered.
But he couldn't stop. "Y'know, I bet you can see! This is some elaborate prank and you're havin' a laugh at all of us, aren't you? Why do you think I haven't been bowin' to you every time you call me at night, huh? Why, Micky?"
Peter transferred the bass to his right hand, gently placing a hand on Micky's shoulder. It was only then that Davy noticed the silent tears that were spilling down Micky's face.
"Pete?" Micky said.
"Yeah, Micky?"
"I need help stormin' off to my bedroom and slamming the door. Think you can help me with that?"
Peter glared at Davy. It was a look that Davy hoped to never, ever see again, since it was so uncharacteristically ugly. "Yeah, Micky. C'mon."
As Peter helped Micky down the stairs, the latter muttered, "Peter, are my eyes really empty?"
"A little, Mick. Sorry."
"Well, that sucks."
Davy didn't turn as they left. Feeling the gravity of what he'd just done land squarely on his shoulders, he just continued staring at the vacated drum setup. The next thing he heard was the bedroom door slamming shut.
Michael stared at Davy for another moment, before shaking his head and placing old Blondie back in her stand. "You ain't done nothin' for him," Mike said quietly. "And he's been tellin' us, 'guys, don't worry. Davy's just scared, too. He'll come around.' That's years of trust you just stepped all over, David. Unbelievable."
Davy still didn't turn as Mike left, his footsteps receding up the spiral staircase. A moment later, another door slammed, and Davy was left alone.
He swallowed the lump in his throat and dropped the tambourine. Davy's just scared.
Davy's just scared.
He hated being scared. It made him feel like less of a person.
Being scared made him angry.
And he'd taken that anger out on the very person who hadn't deserved it.
"I am," he murmured to nobody. The truth hit him painfully, now more than it had before. Along with being terrified over Micky's very ability to function, now he had to wonder whether or not he could even salvage their friendship.
And being alone scared him more than anything else he could think of.