-- CONTROL IS DEAD [Mickey]

[GRAYSON TUCKER SCHULTZ]

& in search for certainty ,

I NO LONGER NEED CONTROL

Summer break was boring. Most students would cheer at the sound of the bell and rush out of the classrooms like hell fire was at their heels, chattering about all of the vacations they would take and video games they would play while they allowed their minds to forget anything and everything school related. They spent every waking moment staring at a dry erase board listening to their teachers and professors drone on and on about one subject or another, only to drop a few hours worth of homework assignments in their lap at the end. Studying was always a chore and the dorm rooms were filled with whining and complaining that they had work to do for the next day or a test to take. Not everyone despised school of course; there were those who relished in learning and enjoyed the challenges their teachers offered them. Grayson was a studious creature and used time away from school to do assignments or read on material that would probably be covered their break ended. In short, he had no life. He sat in the corner of the common room of the Thunder dorms, a few of his fellow classmates reviewing for a project that was due after break. He did not say much of anything during this time, allowing the others to discuss a paper among themselves. For once his mind was off somewhere else.

It had been a couple of weeks since he made any full contact with his best friend and Grayson--despite his nature--began to grow worried and wondered what was going on. Michaelangelo had been around since their preschool days, and one of the few people that he felt comfortable with beyond educational chatter. He was never one for talking, ever craving more solitude than anything else, but with Mickey he could have a conversation that went beyond school. It helped that years of friendship built him up to that. Grayson trusted that his friend had no intentions of disappearing on him permanently. However this silence was disturbing and it was deterring the Thunder student from training his senses on listening to his fellow classmates and participating as he should. Knowing that sitting here was going to be futile, the man stood up from where he sat at the table and straightened his polo. "I need to go for a while. I'll be back soon."

The others watched as Grayson gathered his things and left the common room, his trip down the tower and out of the Academy a silent one. He did not make conversation with anyone, only nodding to any teacher or student he recognized. The air was almost uncomfortable as he stepped outside and headed towards the parking lot to get the car; he was never a fan of the suffocating heat of summer. As soon as the car started the air conditioning was cranked up and the sweat soon began to dry. By the time the car was at a comfortable temperature Grayson was already at his friend's apartment. He just hoped to find Mickey alive and well more than anything else at this point. Knuckles rapped against the door lightly. Was his friend okay? Why did he not call, or communicate with him? He tried not to let the worry seep into his expression when Mickey's mother answered the door. "Hello, Mrs. Grace," Grayson greeted politely, lifting his hand in a small wave before wandering into the apartment. As soon as the woman directed him towards his friend's room he instantly turned heel and found that oh-so-familiar door. Without knocking he pushed his way in. Normally he would have been one for formalities but if Mickey had ignored him for two weeks he figured a knock on the door would be fruitless.

He cleared his throat to announce his presence when the other teen did not seem to take notice. "Angel," He said flatly, not necessarily a greeting but more of an attempt to get his attention. "It's good to see you're alive, considering I did not receive any confirmation of this until now." There was a hint of bitterness to his voice, an edge that sounded his worry without Grayson stating the concern aloud. They had been friends long enough; would Mickey pick up on it? The Thunder crossed his arms. Relief flooded through him even though his posture remained composed, stiff. "Why haven't you called? It's been two weeks." After a moment he finally dropped his arms and watched Michaelangelo with a sour interest, eyes betraying the neutrality on his face. What's going on with you?

[MICHAELANGELO DONATELLO GRACE]

-- CONTROL IS DEAD ! [cs=2][bg=060606][atrb=border,0,true,b]

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tag ! po-po && grayson ;; word count ! 989 ;; setting ! Michaelangelo's room back when he was 16 ;; outfit ! jeans, socks, t-shirt, messy hair ;; [cs=2][bg=060606][atrb=border,0,true,b]

Michaelangelo didn’t know what was wrong with himself. He didn’t know what had changed. He didn’t want to chalk it up to puberty, because he was pretty sure that had started the year before when he’d started growing. Besides, people didn’t change this drastically unless they were on drugs or drinking profusely or doing something else that was unhealthy. He exercised regularly and ate his vegetables, though sometimes not without complaint (sometimes, the way they were prepared wasn’t very appealing). He didn’t do drugs or drink alcohol or inhale the scent from sharpies or highlighters. The only unhealthy habit he had was the endless slew of junk food he ate. He didn’t even suffer from acne—well, he did, but it wasn’t very bad. And it was too severe for it to be a hormonal imbalance, right? Right? Those only messed with some moods, made people more unstable. Right? God, he hoped that was the case. Because he wouldn’t say he was outright unstable. Just that he was… different. He was different from before and he didn’t understand it but it disturbed him. And yet, at the same time, he seemed to be suffering from an equally troubling turn of apathy. What the hell? Seriously. He used to like people. Just weeks again, he’d had several friends with whom he got on quite fantastically. He played with his little siblings and hung out with his family. Ever since this… change had happened, however, he couldn’t stand being around people anymore. He’d shut himself into his room, stayed away from those who saw him in class and refused to answer the door or the phone when either made known that someone sought contact. He felt like the only human among millions of aliens who were seeking to probe and dissect him. He wasn’t so much moody as just irritable and grumpy. Even quiet noises made him want to throw something because they were disturbing the focus that was suddenly nonexistent. He used to do well in school, but he had a hunch that, as soon as the second semester started, he’d be failing his classes. He couldn’t even read a whole page of his favorite without drifting off into some mental land characterized by god only knew what. And that wasn’t even the worst part. No, the worst part was that he was hearing things. It was driving him crazy and making him nervous, fidgety. He wanted to throw things when he heard quiet nosies because he wasn’t sure the things were really there. He’d been hearing voices. He’d been seeing things he were pretty sure weren’t there, like legless torsos. He knew his parents had noticed, and he’d have chosen very poorly among his friends if they hadn’t, but he felt almost helpless to speak up or answer questions. He had no idea what was going on. He had no clue why he was so… not himself anymore. He was sure they’d noticed. The thing was, this should have comforted him. Instead, it made him nervous and even more fidgety. It made him feel like someone was watching him. He twitched. God, there was something wrong with him. What was it? Why… why… he didn’t even know what he was supposed to ask. Why did he change, maybe? Why was he no longer himself, perhaps? He heard the door, even through his own, and rolled over onto his stomach. Through the wall, he heard his mother’s cheerful voice greeting whoever was at the door and probably welcoming the person to make himself or herself comfortable, offering refreshments, all the things a good hostess would be doing. Michaelangelo was not a good host. He didn’t want to be a host any sort, so when his room door opened, he ignored whoever was coming in. The nickname informed him exactly who it happened to be. He didn’t move, still lying on his stomach, facing his pillow and the headboard. He knew what was coming. There would be criticism. There would be a guilt trip. There would be frustration—on both ends, because neither understood what was happening and both were probably uncomfortable, for two different reasons. He just listened for a moment. Well, he listened to his friend, not the murmuring that made it feel as if two people were leaning down to whisper into each of his ears. That sensation still sent ripples and shivers down his spine and made his skin crawl. He didn’t know what to do and he seriously wished he did and he honestly felt like he was losing it. What was it? Maybe it was life. Maybe Gray was wrong and he was a zombie, or possessed or something, not truly alive and under someone else’s power. He felt like a puppet. It was the only bit of relative honesty he’d encountered all day. After a long moment of silence, of not knowing what to say, he sighed. “I don’t know,” he admitted quietly, feeling as if even his voice was breaking as much as his sanity was, as if he was somehow betraying that his head wasn’t right, that he and Gray weren’t the only people currently in that room. Of course, he didn’t see anyone else, but he’d learned not to trust his eyes. They were unreliable, considering what he’d been seeing, what he’d been hearing. He rolled onto his side and pulled his knees to his chest, staring at the wall in front of himself and effectively turning his back to Gray. He couldn’t look at him. Not with the guilt that bubbling through him even though the thunder hadn’t even said anything to emulate a guilt trip. “I don’t know,” he repeated in much the same broken tone of voice, though even quieter, desperate for someone who would know, at a loss for how to help himself, hating that he couldn’t. Hating that he felt he could go to anyone else.

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notes ! I feel terrible for what I'm putting him through already >> << ;;

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[GRAYSON TUCKER SCHULTZ]

& in search for certainty ,

I NO LONGER NEED CONTROL

The silence was usually Graysons' best friend. He relished in knowing that he could be by himself, embrace his thoughts and work on his studies. It gave him clarity, peace of mind, comfort. He was not a social creature by nature and would rather be alone or with a very small group of people who understood how he functioned. Mickey did. He understood. Yet, as Grayson stood in that doorway all he could feel was anxiety and worry. The silence no longer gave him a sense of security. It was suffocating, like a noxious gas that was difficult to breathe. His chest felt tight. He felt like an outsider now, watching as his friend lay on the bed without so much as even glancing his way. For once, the Thunder wondered what he might have done to upset Mickey, if he had done anything at all. Was it because he forgot something? Or did he neglect making contact like he did so frequently when caught up in one thing or another? Grayson was never one to feel any inkling of guilt for the things he did, but with Mickey there were always exceptions. He was the exception. This entire ordeal made Grayson feel lost, unsure, uncertain. There was nothing he could really say now, only to wait for a response.

Then it came. Like a broken, distant whisper it came. There was something in Mickey's voice that made Grayson want to reach out and hug him, to tell him that everything was okay, but at the same time he hesitated an approach. What could he do, if the man did not even know what his own problem was? Nothing. Nothing but stand there and fumble around with thoughts and uncertainties in his own head. It was only when Mickey turned his back that the Thunder graduate stopped acting affronted and took a few quick strides over to the bed. He caught the same words as he sat down, the same ones as before. They sounded hollow, or tired, or something that went against what he knew about his friend. The tightness in his chest remained, a pressure that he knew only came from worry and concern for someone you truly cared about. A sigh passed Grayson's lips; it was quiet but relenting. "You can talk to me about anything, you know that." He stated factually, voice uncharacteristically soft and caring. Friends were few and far between and those who stuck close by were those he relished more than he could effectively express. In fact, he did not express it much at all. Words were difficult. He felt so helpless. Was there something he could do?

His hand reached out and landed lightly on Mickey's side, a faint warmth creeping up Grayson's neck from the contact. He was never one for anything physical, not to mention he had always felt something a bit stronger towards his friend than he'd care to admit aloud. Focus. The focus needed to be on what was going on right then, right there. His grip briefly increased, then dissipated once more. "Hiding here won't help you," He pointed out, staring at nothing but a back and a wall. A face would have been helpful right about now. Some visible sign that he was at least listening, or not sobbing into the comforter. Anything. There was a distinct, deep frown creasing his lips though no one could see. "Are you sick?" That question had so many answers, could be taken in so many ways, but the generic route seemed the best option. It could be mental, it could be physical, it could be emotional. Depression could drag you down, make you weary and unsocial, as could any physical illness capable of draining the energy out of even the most active person. Every combination and possibility rambled endlessly in his subconscious as he waited to see if Mickey would respond.

For the first time in his life, he despised the silence. He wanted to break it, to shatter it into a thousand pieces and bring back the man he knew before. The conversations, the laughter, everything. He had never witnessed Mickey in such a state and it felt so...so scary. Grayson actually felt fearful, because the unknown held a lot of variables that even he could not properly sort out.

[MICHAELANGELO DONATELLO GRACE]

-- CONTROL IS DEAD ! [cs=2][bg=060606][atrb=border,0,true,b]

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tag ! po-po && grayson ;; word count ! 880 ;; setting ! Michaelangelo's room back when he was 16 ;; outfit ! jeans, socks, t-shirt, messy hair ;; [cs=2][bg=060606][atrb=border,0,true,b]

Talk it out. Talk it out. Talk it out, it’ll make you feel better. Talk it out. Just talk it out. Well, what if it didn’t work? What if they laughed at you? What if they didn’t believe you? What if things got worse because you admitted your problems? What then? What were you supposed to do then? There was nothing you could do then except for the same thing you could do before, and that was to handle it on your own. Sometimes, that was the only person you could rely on. Sometimes, you honestly couldn’t rely on anyone else. They had let you down. They didn’t deserve your trust. They weren’t available. They weren’t around when you needed them. They were causing more problems and trouble than you had before. Why did people not understand that, for Christ’s sake? Why didn’t they understand that sometimes, they weren’t wanted? That sometimes they couldn’t help? Why was that so hard to grasp? And even to himself, he sounded like just another teenager angry with the world. It was pathetic. He rubbed at his face, frustrated, feeling like he was throwing a temper tantrum and hating himself all the more for it. He needed to direct the anger somewhere healthy, but he couldn’t figure out what would be healthy, honestly. He knew that directed it at Grayson wouldn’t be. He didn’t want to direct it at his friend, because his friend was actually caring about him. Grayson was the only one who’d said anything. Who’d asked if something was wrong. Who had bothered to come check in on him. Maybe that was because he was closer to Grayson than he was to most of his other friends, but it felt like no one had so much as realized that he’d dropped off the face of the planet. He’d disappeared and no one seemed to care. That was the terrible thing. That was what he hated right now, what he wished wasn’t true. God, he needed better friends, if he could even bring himself to make new friends because there was that god-damned problem of apathy he was facing at the same time. He didn’t care that people didn’t care about him. But he did care that there was someone sitting behind him, reminding him just how much he did care. He breathed out, the exhale more shaky than he wanted it to be. It wasn’t a matter of could at this point. He honestly didn’t know if he could. Sure, on Gray’s end, he could. But from his? He didn’t know if he had the words or the courage for it. He didn’t know if he really had anything to tell him to talk to him about, and it was starting to bother him. It broke through that line of apathy, and it hurt a little. He wanted to tell Gray, but he didn’t know how or what or anything else. He could form the words—he was capable of that—except he didn’t know what words to form, what sounds and letters his tongue and teeth should shape to communicate his meaning. He didn’t even know what that meaning would be. That was what made this conversation so hard. And even in his head, he knew he was thinking in circles, repetitively to the point he failed to make progress of any sort. He knew just as little now as he had before Gray had even stepped food into his room, except for the fact that he actually wanted to say something now. Maybe that was progress. He closed his eyes as he felt the hand on his side, the quick squeeze and the statement of the somewhat obvious. For a moment, he was tempted to argue. Maybe hiding out in his room would help. Maybe it was a temporary insanity. Maybe it would pass after some quiet contemplation. Yeah, not likely. He sighed, sitting up and running a shaky hand through his hair. More voices joined Gray’s, muffling the question and making it hard to focus on his friend. He knew so little about what was going on in his own head… it was ridiculous. He should know more, shouldn’t he? He should understand himself and what was going on with him. But he didn’t. He shoved the butt of both his hands against either temple, closing his eyes, wishing the voices would just go away. “Close the door. Please.” The last word took more effort than it should have. Usually, he was a polite sort of teenager, because his parents had raised him well. He still didn’t want them to hear anything that might come out in this conversation. Maybe the door was already closed. He didn’t know. He hadn’t been paying enough attention and he wasn’t careful enough to bother checking. “I…” How to say anything? Maybe that was the key. Maybe he should just say something. Speak. Speak, you fool! You haven’t lost that yet. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I feel like I’m going crazy.” And he meant it in the truest sense of the word. It scared him. It scared him so much. And when he actually looked at Gray, those eyes betrayed his fear as they traced his friend’s features.

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notes ! Step 1: Admit you have a problem. Status: Complete. Because sometimes humor is needed to balance out the feels. ;;

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[GRAYSON TUCKER SCHULTZ]

& in search for certainty ,

I NO LONGER NEED CONTROL

Words were never easy when you were quiet and did not take well to other people; it took a lot to keep conversation and change topics and understand the emotions of others. Grayson was not adept at anything socially. He did not like to talk about himself, his feelings, his past, anything that people could nitpick and tear down. If only he knew what Mickey was fighting with in his head, he could say he understood and would not push him into anything that required overworking emotions. Sometimes forcing yourself to speak was more of a hindrance than sitting in silence and sorting through the words you want to say in the future. Grayson might have been slightly injured if Mickey had told him to leave, told him to get out of his house and leave him alone, but in the same token it was not his place to assume what his friend was dealing with. All the man could do was sit there and watch and wait to see how all of this was going to play out. He was immensely patient and, so long as Mickey did not show him the door, he was willing to sit there and see if anything would be said. An explanation, an apology, something. Anything. And for a time nothing happened. No words filled the space that lingered between them. Did Grayson want to know what was going on with his friend? Of course. He was very concerned.

At Mickey's request, the man turned his head to look at the door behind him. It was amazing how safe someone could feel simply by placing two inches of wood between them and the rest of the world. Shut the door, and suddenly no one could hear you cry, see your insecurities, find out where you've hidden your diary or your most prized possessions. Without questioning him or denying the request, Grayson took a few long strides to the door and shut it, allowing it to close with a muffled click. Maybe now that they were shut away Mickey would talk. The Thunder looked uncertain, a tight edge to his lips as he tried to sort out his own emotions. Should a hug be involved? Perhaps a firm clap on the shoulder and a 'you can get through this'? Or should the support and consolation be silent but strongly present? So many options and only one of them was the truly right one...right? I hate this. It was exactly why Grayson avoided people and drama and socializing beyond basic conversation or educational discussion. But Mickey was different. He was not just some random guy he met in class. The fetal form of his friend was so unnerving. Luckily he sat up a few moments later, somewhat relieving some of the awkwardness he felt.

"Done." He said finally, not sure if Mickey even knew the door was shut or not. He felt like a fish out of water here. Unable to find the right way to flop in order to find a way back to the water.

And now, like someone sitting on the edge of their seat during a suspense movie, Grayson watched his friend with the same anxiety. Would there be some awful, terminal illness? He felt his chest tighten, sucking the breath right out of him. Even though no words had been spoken his body automatically prepared itself for the worst. The response, when it finally came, did not bring any relief. Grayson's fingers twitched, eyes flitting from one point on Mickey's face to the next in an erratic display of uncertainty, concern, fear, and anxiety. His throat felt constricted. "And how would you classify that?" He asked at last, the question sounding ridiculous as it passed his lips. "In a literal sense or a virtual sense, I mean." Going crazy. Going. Crazy. Why did the Thunder student suddenly feel this pressure on his insides, a feeling that something was horribly wrong. He hated feeling out of control, unable to solve problems. The one thing he was talented at might not even help, and that was the worst possible feeling in the world.

[MICHAELANGELO DONATELLO GRACE]

-- CONTROL IS DEAD ! [cs=2][bg=060606][atrb=border,0,true,b]

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tag ! po-po && grayson ;; word count ! 736 ;; setting ! Michaelangelo's room back when he was 16 ;; outfit ! jeans, socks, t-shirt, messy hair ;; [cs=2][bg=060606][atrb=border,0,true,b]

He owed Gray an explanation of some sort. The voices in his head argued about it. A softer, feminine one suggested he share because it was good for him. He nearly scoffed. Why female? Why was there a girl in his head? He was steadfastly male and he was happy being so. A girl had no business in his head. What on Earth could that be a manifestation of? Another voice, fortunately male, argued that it was no one’s business what went on in his head or there would be people on Earth who could read the minds of others. Thoughts were private, and these voices, for argument’s sake, were thoughts. But they weren’t his. So of course, someone else’s thoughts were even less his place to share. Goddamn it. He just wanted these thoughts out of his head because they weren’t his. Why couldn’t those thoughts go back to wherever they had come from? What had he developed this? It hadn’t, after all, just suddenly all happened at once. They had been whispers first. Now, they were able to shout. Shout they did, too, whenever one or more were angry with him or one another because they even liked to argue amongst themselves. It was like there was some kind of board meeting controlling his brain, with various unwelcome members from hostile companies threatening a takeover they had actually already succeeded at. Or maybe he was just trying to use something that resembled normalcy to explain what clearly wasn’t normal. It was an act of desperation, extreme and true. His stomach rolled in on itself like some sort of 4-dimensional cube looked like when in only 3 dimensions. He couldn’t help but ask that powerful question everyone seemed to when bad things happened—why me? Neither of his parents had dealt with this, as far as he knew. Maybe he should ask, but he daren’t. He didn’t want to know or find out what was wrong with him if he could get rid of it without doing so. That was why he’d asked Gray to close the door. He didn’t want to be overheard. “I….” Again, that meaningless vowel, that meaningless, selfish vowel. He was so worried about himself, there was just no room in him to worry about anyone else right now. Was that bad? Probably. Probably. He should care more. He should be asking Gray how he was doing, what was going on his life. But he couldn’t, he could barely bring himself to speak at all, but maybe that was because he was trying to discuss something so close to home, something so personal, something so frightening. He didn’t like having to discuss it anymore than he liked having to deal with it. He closed his eyes and rubbed at his face. He didn’t want to admit what he felt was true. He opened his eyes again. His eyes flicked to Gray’s. “Literally.” Another single word. At least it wasn’t monosyllabic. At least it answered the question in that bare minimum of space he could muster. Even if it made him want to throw up from pure nerves. That fear just refused to go away. But he was brave. A sarcastic snort almost escaped him, but he contained it, knowing it would mean nothing and only act to confuse his friend, and he was confusing as it was anyway. No need to increase that, right? He ran a hand through his hair. “I… I’m hearing voices. And I keep seeing thins that I don’t think are actually there. And I don’t… I don’t know. They just won’t leave me alone. I’m not high. I don’t drink alcohol. I don’t know what’s going on.” Except for the pauses, the words were rushed, betraying him. It was hard to get them out, to admit what little he knew was actually going on inside his head. The wind pulled on his own hair again. “I’m not interested in people anymore. I feel like I’m not me anymore, like there other people inside my head and they’re squishing who I know I am and I don’t know who I actually am anymore.” That was equally hard, because “people” technically included his friend. It acted as some sort of explanation to why he hadn’t called, why he hadn’t said a word until Gray had sought him out. And then, the hardest of all: “I’m scared, Gray.”

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notes ! My stomach feels really uncomfortable writing this, but that may just be because I’m hungry. Hmm. ;;

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[GRAYSON TUCKER SCHULTZ]

& in search for certainty ,

I NO LONGER NEED CONTROL

Although it was one letter, one, simple letter, the anxiety welled up like water behind a dam. Not much had been said in the small space of time between first entering the room and now, but even so Grayson tried to hope that something more would come from it. That the letter 'I' would form a full sentence, a confirmation that Mickey was okay or an explanation if he wasn't. The skin on his hands tingled, the urge to clasp them together growing stronger. Keeping his hands occupied tended to relieve stress, or at least distract from it for a short time. That's not possible. Not right now. Not with the thought that something could be wrong with his closest friend. The weeks of silence between them was not easy to ignore or dismiss. Then the dreaded word reached Grayson's ears and he could almost feel himself flinch. "I see." So, literally it was, then. What did that entail? There were a lot of possibilities but not one could be for certain and he felt as though he were grasping at straws by this point. He wanted to ask what was going on but maybe he didn't want to know. Human instinct always focused on self preservation, even to the most self-sacrificing of people. Hearing that Mickey might have a legitimate illness made his insides turn. He hated that feeling.

Then after a few short moments, it seemed his friend was interested in sharing what was running through his head. It was not exactly what Grayson was expecting but he listened all the same with a soft expression on his face. Soft, but concerned. How could one even begin to comprehend something that they have never experienced. It would be like telling someone they understood how losing a loved one felt when the event had yet to happen to them. He could say he was 'sorry', but that did not work either. It was no one's fault, it was out of everyone's control. To apologize was fruitless.

Grayson offered plenty of time for Mickey to explain--in the best way possible--what was going on inside of his head, all the while the Thunder was scratching at the side of his face and tucking his arm against his body. A thinker pose, a pondering pose. Everything he had learned over the course of his life did not feel adequate enough to create an answer that needed to be heard. "I..." And now it was his turn to be at a loss for words. What could be said? It would not alter anything. His blue-gray gaze shifted uncertainly from his own hand to Mickey's face, then back again. He was an intelligent man but offering up a diagnosis seemed so final. So concrete. Even if it wasn't. Then, the expression of fear came. A fear that felt real, even to the man who did not have voices battling for attention inside his head. A brief hesitation, followed by a slow movement forward turned into a tight, all encompassing hug. Affection was difficult for someone who did not exactly know how to function with emotions and other people, but he tried. Grayson wanted to be there for his friend. He wanted to do something other than sit there and stutter about in discomfort or anxiety. "I'm here," Grayson muttered quietly, but only just so they could hear. "...I'm here."

The silence still carried a strong, strained presence, but not nearly as powerful as before. At least Grayson could breathe now. His heartbeat still carried on at an irregular pace, the thudding still audible in his head. "You're still you, Angel. Still you. Whatever it is you are dealing with...it might affect you but you can't allow yourself to be lost." It was probably the most he had said this entire time, aside from his initial greeting when first entering the room. Mickey needed reassurance that he was there, that he would continue to be there. Voices. Other people. Voices. That symptom sounded familiar but...that meant...Grayson swallowed and pulled away, keeping a hand on the other man's shoulder. "Do you think you should go and get yourself looked at? Someone to at least confirm what it could be?" He did not want to say it aloud. He couldn't. It was not his place to offer such a heavy--and frightening--diagnosis unless Mickey asked.