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Michael's gut sinks to the ground as he enters the kitchen.
Because Lily is there… Well, not exactly, he isn't an actual twelve years old who won't stay in the same room as his crush. Yet it's almost like catching a wounded wild animal in its natural habitat. Unaware, surrounded by water bottles and holding a humongous McDonald's takeout bag by the teeth. The sheer level of hurt in the air is a punch on its own. He knows she's been holed up in her room for a week, and if the countless water bottles she was filling up were for anything another week in the cave was coming.
That… That wouldn't do.
If it was anyone else he could have laughed at the sight and not gotten into it. But it's Lily. So he stands there and watches the eleventh bottle fill, anger and frustration fighting inside him. It's the tightness in his chest that breaks the shock.
"What exactly are you doing?" Michael says, carefully getting the takeout so she could speak. It gets her attention, and once she turns his heart flutters. The spark in her eyes was still present, and he could get lost in them no matter how dim it'd gotten. There's a crazed-energy to them, hence why he can guess she's drunk in a heartbeat, even if it's better hidden than usual. Almost as if the filters on her hatred are off and he's so close it's zoomed in. Close enough to be pulled into the deranged mind space she's in like a tug straight through his heart.
Smothers him in passionate hatred, under pain and the now obvious smell of alcohol. It makes his hair stand on end.
Yet Lily smiles.
The litre-sized bottle and fading huge pink glasses make her seem smaller. Michael's face freezes under her gaze as he takes the paper bag.
And she just smiles.
It's lopsided, has too many teeth, and is much larger than usual to seem natural. Michael shivers a little, heart doing things he would rather it fucking didn't. She hasn't been smiling much, not in months to be honest. Things weren't that good before either, but everyone has their last drop to kick the damned bucket. Toast was worried about that too, he heard him whispering to Yvonne well enough. He's still a little pissed Lily talked him down from breaking Albert's kneecaps. It was possible, he could totally get away with it. The little bitch deserved it too.
"Fed gave me six soju bottles, so I would drink with him," she says, taking the bottle out of the tap and closing it, "He should know better than to think bribery works on me." and piles up the water bottles on her arms. How the fuck? His voice fails him as she manages to get them all. The practised ease is disturbing.
"Why the water?" Michael says, taking a deep breath.
"I have water, I have food, I got some soju. That's- I won't need to leave my room for like three days!" Lily stares him dead in the eye, searching for something, but he refuses to blink. She smiles again. "I'm going into hibernation. But you can join me if you want. Fed is the one who doesn't deserve company."
"...sure," It should make him worry more, how Lily does this so often it'd stopped being a surprise.
"Then come. Bring that other bag too!" she gestures with her head to the bench. "That's everything with meat that came with the combo, you can have it."
"You know fish is also meat right?" he says, knowing she'll ignore it and takes the bag. The brand is familiar, they make her favourite shit-tasting vegetarian burgers, he hopes she meant Mcdonald's burgers and not those.
The path to her room is stressful. The confirmation she's been drinking before come when she stumbles on the first couple of steps. There are two flights of stairs to her room! Michael is mentally cursing at this nightmare the whole way, but she doesn't drop the bottles until they enter the room. Then they all get thrown into the first surface with no ceremony. Her room's a mess, her bed looks like a nest and he can almost believe the hibernation joke. If anyone can figure out how to sleep for a month it's Lily.
Michael turns to her and she's chugging Soju, holding a bottle in his general direction.
This is going to be a long night.
At least soon he'd be able to blame his stupid fucking heart racing on the alcohol.
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Her eyes fall to his wrist again.
There are not many people out there that feel comfortable enough to have their marks exposed, even empty ones. It's not a Hawaiian thing either. She researched it after he moved in, it's a Michael thing. He doesn't give a fuck and that's- she catches herself. Unwilling to put it in words.
"Can I draw in it?" she asks, sheer uncertainty of why she even asked breaking her voice. That's not something she ever asked before. Shouldn't. It's not something you simply ask.
Michael doesn't deny it.
For a moment just his laughter as she stumbles to find her pens is worth crossing that line.
It's easy to ignore the tingling where their skin touches when her whole body is vibrating from the alcohol. Easy to pretend the tips of his ears don't get red when he'd been red for a while. Too easy to focus on drawing and act like the comfort of the night didn't throw her for a loop, that this wasn't the best she felt in months. That the smile on her face is drunk on just soju and not the joy pouring out of him. That her heart doesn't race when they start singing "Someone In The Crowd", for more than the music, it is a great movie after all.
It doesn't matter that he suggested la la land.
She shouldn't feel lifted off the ground when he laughs with her, or jokes about getting the sax so they can play the movie songs. It shouldn't feel like a compliment when he calls her a bad influence.
Maybe, under the deep haze of alcohol, she knows it's all a matter of time.
Her line gets very shaky. Michael is too nice to call her out on it beyond a snort, even then it sounds fond. It takes all her strength not to drop his arm like it was burning her at the realization, no screaming to herself it's just a drawing is enough to ignore the shaky musical note. The fact she was drawing herself there. Wishing for it, because it would make things so much simpler.
It's harder to pretend the little melody haphazardly written on his wrist wasn't the happiest she wrote in ages. Harder to act like she wasn't shaking. As if this whole night wouldn't be one more wasted under her covers and the familiar haze of depression.
Six months. She shouldn't be nauseated at the idea of it like she's the one cheating. Shouldn't be angry at him for making her feel better, just because somewhere in her head she knows she deserves this, despite what everyone else is saying... Scarra said it wasn't her fault. Shouldn't ever have gotten so caught up in faking normalcy that she entered his personal space so much, but with their tangled legs and being this close she pushed herself just far enough to be too late.
The worried glint in his eyes is beautiful because he genuinely cares. He'd proved time and time again just how much he cares, and maybe if it wasn't for the whole situation she'd have noticed before. Done something before.
God damnit, Lily never wanted to kiss someone more in her life, but this was such a terrible idea.
"I think I'm drunk." His rough hands take hers, softly, and she doesn't know how it took so long to notice he likes her.
"No shit." His voice shakes as much as her hands, as his breath, so much so she can feel it. "Maybe is time for you to sleep."
The notion she'll have to take initiative makes her shiver.
"Kiss me."
The words tumble out before she can overthink, and allow herself to fall back into self-doubt and guilt. If the grip she had on his arm wasn't the only thing keeping her from doing something she'll regret she'd have laughed alongside him, at the nervousness in his posture when his eyes reflected her want. If anything it paled in comparison to its softness.
"Ok buddy, it's definitely bedtime now."
"I want y-to." His eyes fall to her lips for a second.
"If- you're drunk. If you still want to in the morning we can talk about it," Michael says, still smiling, but she can feel he's sad. That's worse. "Lily?"
"Ca-can you stay?" And she begs; because the very idea of him leaving when he believes she'll forget it is disheartening. The fact she could ever, hurts, digs a hole clean through her chest. Avoiding his eyes is a point of self-preservation then. A stubborn refusal to shed the drunken tears threatening to fall.
"Sure." He says, shuffling in place so they can lay under the covers, a clear "Sleep crackhead" is the last thing she hears before sleep starts to take over, head resting on his chest and a smile at how well they fit together.
His pounding heart lulls her to sleep, and at that moment everything is okay.
She has something to look up to tomorrow.