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Mike doesn't have a problem.
It's normal for someone under a lot of stress to do things that help them relax; it's not a crime. Mike doesn't have a problem, really.
So what if he drinks a little more than the others? What if he spends most days in a messy mix of cross-faded. He's functional. He can build and take care of their son and socialize, so what if he is a little drunk or high, or both. He really doesn't have a problem like Pac keeps telling him.
He's lying on the couch where he spends most of his days when he doesn't have Richas. He's got a bottle of Pierre's wine clutched in his hand and another, full one, sitting on the floor. There are a few other empty bottles from different days scattered around. Pierre makes the best wine; it's sweet, and, more importantly, it gets Mike drunk fast.
Pac walks inside, giggling at his communicator. He must have just gotten back from hanging out with Fit. Mike takes a long slip straight from the bottle and stares at the ceiling. He's tired, the alcohol making him feel heavy, keeping him from overthinking.
"Mikey?" Pac calls, but Mike doesn't lift his head. They both know damn well that Mike is here and that Mike is drunk. He takes another long drink. He understands that Pac doesn't like that he drinks; it makes him uncomfortable that their link is so heavily muddled and that Mike's feelings are dulled.
Pac peeks into the room and frowns; Mike feels his spike of concern and drinks more. He doesn't want to do this right now.
"Mike, hey?" Pac suddenly stands over him, snapping. Mike blinked slowly at him; he hadn't noticed that Pac walked over. Mike sits up, and the world spins and tilts
around him; he breathes a few times and waits for the room to stop trying to rearrange itself.
"Yeah, hey, Pac. How was your day?" Mike asks slowly, trying really hard to not let his words slur. He'd been drinking a lot more than he usually does, but he'd been having a bad day. He'd woken up exhausted and sore on the couch, mind reeling from dreams and memories of being kidnapped by the Federation. Flashes of white and robotic voices. So he'd stayed in today, popped open a few bottles of wine, and relaxed.
He must not have done an outstanding job of keeping his words from slurring because Pac's frown deepens.
"How much have you been drinking, Mikey?" Pac asks softly, and Mike feels irritation bubble under his skin. Pac must feel it, too, because he flinches. Mike tries to feel bad, but really Pac has been on his ass about this for weeks now, and it's annoying.
"Pac, I don't have a fucking problem," Mike snaps, and Pac huffs, rolling his eyes. Pac crosses his arms and takes a small step back away from Mike. They glare at each other for a few seconds, Mike feeling anger and Pac a mix of anger and concern.
"Yes, you do, Mike; I'm tired of watching you drink yourself to death because you can't handle your feelings," Pac snaps and grabs the bottle from Mike's hands; his brain works too slowly to do anything about it. Pac looks pissed, Mike's very inebriated brain thinks he looks terrific when he's angry.
"I'm not going to fucking die, Pac. Leave me the fuck alone; I'm a grown-ass man," Mike snarls; he stands, but the floor shifts under his feet, and he stumbles forward a bit. Pac's hands are on him, holding him steady while Mike sways. His stomach churns, and he breathes through the feeling of needing to vomit. Pac is saying something, but Mike's ears are ringing, and all he can hear is his breathing.
Pac pushes Mike so that he's standing and not leaning so heavily on Pac. He keeps hold on Mike's shoulders so he doesn't fall over.
"You can't even stand on your own," Pac is saying, voice breaking a little in what Mike's fuzzy mind can pinpoint as sadness when Mike's brain finally catches up. Pac's hands go to his face; they're freezing, and Mike realizes he's hot. Pac's hands feel fucking amazing on his face. Pac makes Mike look at him; his eyes scan Mike's face, and he sighs softly.
"You look like shit, Mike; I can't have this conversation with you while you're drunk because you get too angry," Pac says softly, one of his hands going through Mike's hair and pushing it back from where it's fallen in Mike's face. He isn't following what Pac is saying too closely, but his voice is soft and familiar. It's nice. Mike's eyes slip closed, and he leans into Pac's hands.
"I don't have a problem, Paccy," Mike mumbles, mind finally catching up to what's happening. He opens his eyes and straightens up, pulling himself out of Pac's hands. Pac is looking at him with his brown eyes, full of sadness and quiet concern. Their link is too muddy because of Mike's drinking, but he's sure if he could feel it, Pac's side would be filled with sadness and concern and maybe even anger. Pac reaches for his hands and holds them softly.
"You're going to kill yourself, Mike." Pac's voice is firm, more confident than Mike has heard. He smiles a little; it's good that Pac is getting his confidence back. Mike thinks it might be the effect of him spending so much time with Fit. The words escape Mike's head when Pac speaks them; he needs another drink to deal with this.
Pac squeezes his hands to get his attention back, and Mike opens his eyes again; he's not sure when he actually closed them and looks at Pac.
"Come on, you need a shower at least. You look like shit," Pac mumbles and pulls him along. Mike stumbles but follows. He'll always follow Pac.
He isn't fully conscious of everything that happens. He remembers flashes of warmth. At one point, he's pretty sure Pac had his hands running through Mike's hair.
When he starts to really come to, he's lying in their bed. It's been a few weeks since he slept in their bed, so being there is a little confusing.
Pac is curled against his back, arms wrapped around his waist, and his face tucked against his neck. His prosthetic is off, which is something Mike usually helps Pac with. Now that he thinks about it, he hasn't helped Pac take his leg off in some time.
Suddenly, Mike feels a gripping, heavy sadness in his chest. Tears spring to his eyes, and he's still not sober enough to stop them. His tears fall slowly, and Mike curls more into himself, arms wrapping around his own body. Pac's arms tighten around him, and a heavy sob escapes him.
He hates this. He doesn't like spending every day in a drunk haze. He doesn't enjoy the way time slips through his fingers like sand. He doesn't like waking up in the middle of the night, rushing to the bathroom, and vomiting up the meager things he manages to force down. He doesn't like hurting Pac like this.
"I'm sorry," Mike gasps and presses a hand against his chest, trying to soothe the ache. He doesn't cry. He'd assumed his anger had eaten away at his sadness long ago. He sobs, curling up as much as Pac's hold will let him.
"It's okay, Mike, breathe. I have you," Pac whispers, pressing his face into Mike's hair. The words hurt his chest more, and knowing the truth about them makes Mike even more reluctant to get help. "Just cry, it's okay," Pac reassures, pressing himself fully against Mike's back.
Mike sobs his eyes out; he cries until he's sure there are no more tears left in him, and Pac holds him through the whole thing. When the tears stop, Mike is so
exhausted that he's struggling to keep his eyes open.
Pac kisses his head and rubs his hand up and down Mike's side.
"Sleep, Mike, we'll talk tomorrow," Pac mumbles, and Mike can't do anything but nod and settle.
They'll talk tomorrow; Pac has him.