A/N: Someone on tumblr asked how LH and Mike got together in this AU, and I was happy to oblige!


"So," Leatherhead says wryly, as he punches their pin into the small number pad on the elevator panel, "I take it you had a good time?"

"Shhhh, stop shouting." The words are almost lost against Leatherhead's shoulder, the deadweight on his back lifting a hand to half-heartedly push at the side of his face, adding reproachfully, "M'right here, y'don't have to shout."

"Oh, Michelangelo."

He's not in a fraternity–Greek Life at NYU isn't a major presence, not the way it is at other universities–but he has a frankly staggering number of friends regardless, and a standing invitation to whatever party promises to be the most fun on any particular night. Sometimes Casey, April or Donnie can be dragged along, too, but usually it's Hob and Woody, and tonight those two were probably the only reason there was still any Mikey left to peel off the floor and carry home.

"Mikester can really hold his booze till about the sixth shot. And, okay, there was a Jägerbomb, but we didn't know he drank the whole thing until–"

"Just come pick him up. If campus security finds him like this, they're gonna call Leo, and then we're all gonna die."

And so Leatherhead had rolled out of bed at half past two o'clock in the morning, and ventured twenty minutes across the city to the address Woody texted him from Michelangelo's phone, and left with his roommate draped over his shoulder, humming disjointed Kesha lyrics in his ear.

"S'cold," Michelangelo mumbles when they're two floors from their loft, even with Leatherhead's jacket layered on top of his own. Leatherhead smiles fondly, though his friend can't see it.

"Almost there. Home will be warm."

As the elevator doors roll open to their apartment, and Leatherhead unlocks the security door and pushes the grate aside, Michelangelo buries a cold nose in the nape of Leatherhead's neck. The exposed skin there is disfigured, an ugly, raised red; but Michelangelo's fingers follow the chilly path of his nose, slow and appreciative.

He smooths cool trails over the hardened tissue, tracing patterns against the burn scars with soft hands. It's only when Leatherhead steps into the sunken living room, dubbed by Michelangelo as 'the pit,' that his friend says, "You're like a map, L."

"Is that so?"

"Mm. But not a map of–of places, a map of things. You know? The Atlas of Lamar. You're so amazing. I love you a lot."

The wide windows are bare, and the early morning outside is winter gray and dark. Michelangelo's voice is full and tender, and the moment is impossibly intimate, impossibly sweet. But as lucid as he sounds, Michelangelo had a lot to drink; and Leatherhead is prepared not to take him seriously.

"You need to get some sleep," he says, and carefully deposits Michelangelo onto the sofa. "Tell me about maps and atlases in the morning, okay?"

But Michelangelo doesn't let go; he's in full koala-mode, arms wrapped stubbornly around Leatherhead's neck and shoulders, so the larger man kneels patiently beside the couch.

"You don't believe me," Michelangelo says, and there's honest hurt in his voice. Leatherhead smooths an affectionate hand over his forehead.

"Of course I do. You've done nothing but love me since the day we met. You're my dearest friend for a reason, Michelangelo."

"No," he insists, "about the other thing. The amazing thing. You don't believe me. But, look–" He shifts, and cups Leatherhead's face on the burned side with one cold hand, eyes wide and glassy in the dim room. "Look. You–you're a map of how amazing you are. All these things left all these marks on you, even invisible ones, and–you're still here. And you're so good, even after everything that happened to you. And you're–you came to get me tonight. You carried me all the way here. You take such good care of me. You're so amazing. How are you so–"

Something deep in Leatherhead's heart is twisting painfully, like a pinched nerve, and Michelangelo's hand on his face burns. He swallows hard, and reminds himself that it's three o'clock in the morning, that Michelangelo isn't fully aware of what he's saying, that this will all be forgotten when he's awake again with the sun.

"You don't believe me," Michelangelo says again, staring at him with bright eyes. "But you're amazing, L. There's proof, right here. Right where I'm holding you. The darkest, worst parts of the world got their hands on you, but then they had to let go, and you're still right here."

"Okay," Leatherhead says quietly, running fingers through his friend's curly hair. "It's okay, Michelangelo, just go to sleep. We'll talk about it in the morning."

"Okay," Michelangelo agrees, finally relaxing his grip and sinking back. "Oh, there's something I wanted to give you–remind me when I wake up, okay? Okay, L?"

"I will."


"Ughhhhh."

It's the only thing Michelangelo has said so far, and he's been awake for a quarter hour. Leatherhead smiles into the rim of his coffee cup, and says conversationally, "So, how do you feel?"

"Now you're just being mean." Michelangelo's voice is muffled where he's laying face-down on the sofa. "I'm dying, for your information."

"That is a problem. I don't think I could afford this place on my own."

'You're amazing,' he'd said four hours ago, in a drunken stupor. Now he lifts his head blearily and says, "You're the worst."

Leatherhead knows better than to feel hurt.

And the longer he looks at those rumpled curls and watery blue eyes, the more he feels himself give in. "What am I going to do with you?" Leatherhead asks of him, and the beginnings of a smile tug across Michelangelo's mouth. Standing, Leatherhead sits his mug in the sink and reaches for a glass from the cabinet. "Come over here, you goofball. Coconut water will help, and I'll make you some scrambled eggs to go with it."

"I take it all back," he says, easing himself up right and crawling out of the pit. "You're the best, and I love you."

"I know you do."

It isn't until they're back on the couch, in the late hours of the afternoon, with Klunk between them and a movie on TV, that Leatherhead remembers what Michelangelo had asked of him the night before. He isn't sure ifMichelangelo will remember, but on the off-chance it was something important, he gives Michelangelo a gentle nudge.

The blond lifts his head off Leatherhead's shoulder with a "Whaaat?"

"Last night, you asked me to remind you that you had something to give me," Leatherhead says, with a smile at Michelangelo's blank expression. "I don't suppose you have any idea what that was, do you?"

Then, in the space of a moment, Michelangelo is grinning. It's an expression that takes Leatherhead up short.

"Um…What?"

Michelangelo scoots Klunk out of the space between them, and moves over, and over, swinging a leg across Leatherhead's lap; and then Michelangelo has him front and center, hands on his shoulders, still grinning ear to ear.

"Michelangelo–"

"Thanks for reminding me," he says, steady and solid as he brushes Leatherhead's hair out of the way, and cups the ruined side of his face. "You really do take such good care of me, buddy. What would I do without you?"

"I–what?"

"You know I love you," Michelangelo says, the words shaped like a smile. "'Since the day we met.' Right?"

"Well," Leatherhead manages, his face burning. Michelangelo's hands are a cradle that keeps Leatherhead from ducking away or trying to hide. "Yes, of course, that's what I– How much do you remember from last night, anyway?"

"Not much from the party," his friend admits frankly, leaning back a little and tilting his head in thought. "Everything before I passed out is kind of a blur. I think Hob has a video of me and Woody dancing on a table, though, if you're interested. He said he put it on Facebook."

That small remark cuts through the flustered haze and the butterflies in his throat; Leatherhead jerks upright, one hand flying to Michelangelo's waist so he isn't thrown to the floor, and all but yelps, "What? Mikey, you haveLeo on Facebook."

"So? What does that have to with… Oh. Oh. Hah… Yikes."

"Oh, Michelangelo."

"Hey, come on, I didn't do it!"

"Didn't record the video, or didn't put yourself in a situation worth recording?"

"Okay, I think what you're trying to do here is make this my fault, and I don't appreciate that. I was in a very delicate condition last night, thank you very much."

"I'll say. The cab ride home was the most uncomfortable cab ride of my life to date. With you puddled in my lap like you were, the driver must have thought I had unscrupulous intentions with you."

"First of all, you're super scrupulous. You're the most scrupulous guy I know, it's ridiculous. And second of all," he says, narrowing his eyes at Leatherhead, "before I get sidetracked again, let me give you that thing I owe you. P.S., it's totally a kiss, in case you were wondering."

He smooths a thumb over the raised skin on Leatherhead's right cheek, something coy glinting in his face behind the playful scowl. His heart having calmed its wild thumping behind his breastbone, Leatherhead finds himself smiling.

"I wouldn't say you owe me," he hedges, brave enough to tease. "All I did was carry you home at two o'clock in the morning, listen to you sing 'Blah Blah Blah' about ten times, and then tuck you into bed. And make you a breakfast rich in electrolytes and amino acids to curb your hangover. And–"

"Dude. Do you wanna kiss or not?"

He does, and they do, and Leatherhead can't remember ever loving anyone more.

"While we're on the subject of last night," he says, once they're back in movie position, and Michelangelo is cuddled against his shoulder and Klunk is warm between their knees, "do you want to explain the map thing again?" He presses another kiss into Michelangelo's hair, trying not to chuckle at the way the smaller man goes still in surprise. "Remember? You called me the 'Atlas of Lamar.'"

"I called you the what? No way, you're making that up. Aren't you? Oh my god, L, that's–that's really embarrassing. What else did I say? Don't answer that."

He buries his face in his hands, but Leatherhead can tell from the way his shoulders are shaking that Michelangelo is laughing just as hard as he is.