“I just wanted to make him proud,” were the words that left Michael’s dry lips in a broken whisper. A small, wry laugh that turned into a cough followed right after. He sounded pathetic even to his own ears. His father was dead. There wasn’t a way to make him proud anymore. And that was what destroyed him the most about the whole situation.

Or maybe it was the fact that his own sister rejected him.

It stung him. His heart hurt and his eyes filled with tears he didn’t dare shed every time he thought back to it.

Gently, you brushed your fingers through Michael's dishevelled hair, tucking it behind his ear, as you gave him a tiny, compassionate smile, “I know.”

You moved your hand down to his cheek, rubbing soothing circles into his skin and feeling the rough stubble under the pad of your thumb.

Michael’s wet eyes found yours. He avoided your gaze since he’s gotten back home after his plans fell through.

When he had entered your tiny apartment in the middle of the night with one arm wrapped around himself, taking heavy, ever so slightly limping steps toward your couch to fall into it with a deep, long, and agonised groan, you had already known that it hadn’t worked out the way Michael had wanted it to.

Now, you were standing in between his spread legs, while he was sprawled on the couch. His breaths were occasionally shaky and too short, he quietly groaned in pain at every small movement he made, and he did everything to not look you right in the eyes, until just a moment ago.

You knew it was the shame that gnawed at him for failing, that he expected you to react in any way similar to his late father; even though he knew that he was safe with you, and that you didn’t want him to try and continue his father’s legacy in the first place. But you also understood that no matter what you had told him, his mind had already been made up. He felt like he had to do this, that he would finally be worth something if he succeeded, that he just wanted his family back to normal, or rather, what their normal had been.

It didn’t matter that it wasn’t good, that he was better off without his family, that he had a chance at a new life with you by his side, that he could leave it all behind him now. None of it could ever fill the hole inside of him that his father had left there. A void that threatened to swallow Michael whole if he didn’t soon stop to try and please his father even beyond the grave.

“I wish I could tell you that he’d be proud of you if he was still here,” you told him quietly, “but we both know that’d only be a lie to comfort you for the moment and nothing else.”

He winced at your words. The truth behind them was something he often pretended he could have changed if he just tried a little harder. That, eventually, his father would see that he was just as good – no, that he was better than Vanessa ever was.

Deep down, Michael always knew that he could have done everything absolutely right, that he could have been perfect, and even so his father would have found a way to compare him to Vanessa and tell him exactly in what ways he was still worse than her.

“I’m sorry,” you added remorsefully upon his wince, realising that you probably shouldn’t have said that out loud; even if you were both thinking it.

Michael shook his head ever so slightly, a tight smile stretching his lips, visibly straining his face muscles with the effort. “You don’t have to apologise for telling me the truth.”

Leaning forward, you kissed him on his sweaty forehead. Once, then twice. Then, you moved your lips down and kissed his stubbly cheek opposite of where your hand rested and your thumb still rubbed soothing circles into his skin. Finally, you reached his lips, kissing them softly again and again, feeling the dry cracks of the skin and the sheer film of saliva that was a weak attempt at fighting the dryness of his lips as he kept running his tongue over them in a nervous habit, while you’d been talking.

Once you felt Michael relax under your hands and lips, you drew back.

“For what it’s worth, Michael. I am proud of you. Always.” You smiled at him, feeling that familiar warmth spread from your heart throughout your entire body when you did.

In response, you heard Michael’s breath hitch ever so slightly. His hands, which have been resting on your hips since you kissed his forehead, tightened. “Don’t ever leave me,” he rasped. It was a desperate plea and a threat at the same time.

“Never. I promise,” you assured him, still lightly rubbing those soothing circles into his cheek. “I wish you could understand just how much I love you. How lucky I consider myself to have found you.”

Michael simply kept his eyes trained on you for a long moment as if he was trying to see whether or not you were just saying it to appease him. Seemingly satisfied at last, he nodded jerkily, “Good.”

You knew not to expect him to say anything more back to you. Over time, you had gotten used to the fact that as talkative as Michael could be sometimes, he wasn’t able to verbalise his feelings properly; especially not in moments like these when he was already feeling too vulnerable. But you knew that he loved you, and that was enough for you.

Pressing another chaste kiss to Michael’s lips, you gave him a gentle nudge, careful not to cause him any more pain, and said, “Let’s leave this day, er, night behind us, yeah? Get some rest. Start anew tomorrow.”

Michael let out a defeated sigh, which turned into another pain-filled groan as he sat up straight, using his hands on your hips to steady himself. Gingerly, you put your arms around him to help him stand up from the couch, so you could get him to bed.

There was a big chance that he wouldn’t be able to sleep, but you still hoped for a couple of hours of rest, maybe some light sleep for him. It happened too often that he stayed up for most of the night, plagued by nightmares and panic attacks; although he would never admit to the latter.

Without exchanging any more words between each other, you helped him out of his shoes and clothes. Before you put a fresh shirt on him, though, you wanted to take a look at his chest and back.

He had mentioned that he was knocked to the ground by a friend of the Schmidt’s when you asked him why he looked to be in pain, once he had sunken into the couch earlier.

There weren’t any visible bruises on his skin just yet, but when you touched his upper back ever so slightly, Michael flinched, which caused him to hiss in pain. Immediately, you took a step back and uttered a quiet apology.

It took you both a little while longer to fully get ready for bed, and you sighed in relief when your body finally hit the mattress, pulling the blanket over yourself and Michael, who lay stiffly next to you. You slowly put your hand over his and intertwined your fingers. Gently, you squeezed his palm.

“Try to get some rest, okay?” you told him softly, hoping that you had the calming effect on him that you were aiming for.

Turning his head to look at you with the moonlight streaming through the curtains illuminating Michael’s features in a soft, bluish glow, he smiled at you. It was small, but genuine.