#define-lying

Natalie has Pete and her friends from school. She’s got a home and distance and she’d mentioned while on a walk with Michelle, looking away like she wasn’t sure what the response would be, that she had started therapy after Thanksgiving. And Michael has… Well. When they talk on the phone, Natalie doesn’t have a lot to say about Michael that’s encouraging. Michelle is worried about Michael but it’s not like she can do anything about that. They were close when they were younger but the older they got and the more Donna took a shine to her the more strained her relationship with Michael got. They were a competition of their own, really, or at least a battlefield on the war between their mothers.

Grandpa Berzatto, right? Michael Berzatto. A looming figure gone before any of her generation was born, and so of course the oldest grandchild is named after him - both of them were, at the beginning and the end of the same year, one down each branch of the family tree. Michael and Michelle. They thought it was funny when they were younger. Used to tell people they were twins, when they were real little. It’s not like that anymore. At least Richie is there, though. At least Richie is always there.

Thank god for Richie, said almost no one ever and Michelle several times over the course of her life.

One time, she was seventeen and going out with a guy who was far too old for her and a massive asshole on top of that. When she finally dumped him and his reaction scared her enough to tell them what was going on, Michael and Richie got a baseball bat and a tire iron out of the garage and broke every window and light cover on the guy’s car. Richie took one of the pieces from the tail-light to wood shop class the next day and while the teacher was off making sure some sophomores didn’t lose any fingers using a table saw, he sanded down the edges and put a hole through it, then gave it to her on a keychain. Michelle still has it somewhere. Michelle still has that keychain somewhere and Richie still has Michael and so that’s one thing she doesn’t have to worry about not being able to fix.

So there’s nothing to do for any of them, because Natalie is going to be okay in ways that even Michelle isn’t, and Michael is out of her reach, and Donna is out of everyone’s reach. (Donna needs help. She’s obviously suffering and needs some serious help, but Michelle learned long ago with her own mother that there’s no forcing help on someone who won’t accept it and will stop speaking to you for months if you try to push it anyway.)

But Carmy… Carmy is in her guest room and it’s still pretty early but she thinks he’s asleep and this she can do. This, him, Michelle can help.

Morning hurts. All of Phichit’s injuries stiffened up during the night. His back and his shoulder have to be the worst, wrenched with this incessant throbbing that doesn’t even need the prompt of movement. And true to Yuuri’s prediction, his eye is now swollen shut. Not only does it hurt, but the blindspot is messing with him. It’s making him clumsier, he’s having a hell of a time trying to rewrap his palm.

“Can I help you with that?” Yuuri asks after a few minutes of trying not to look like he was watching Phichit struggle.

“This is kind of embarrassing,” Phichit sighs sheepishly, nudging the first aid kit over the comforter.

“That’s a difficult task one-handed,” Yuuri says softly. “Don’t be embarrassed.”

Yuuri slips the roll of bandaging from Phichit’s grasp. He holds the end at the juncture of Phichit’s thumb and index finger and gently swathes his hand layer after layer, until he deems it thick enough. The slash doesn’t look much different today. It hurts about the same too. Yuuri finishes up and tapes it down around his wrist.

“Do you want me to stay back with you today?” Yuuri asks. “I don’t mind calling in sick.”

“Thanks, but I’m not staying back,” says Phichit. “I’m going to practice.”

Uncertainly darkens Yuuri’s face. “Phichit…”

“It’ll be fine,” Phichit insists in a purposely airy tone. “I’m sore but I’m not incapacitated. Besides, things will go back to normal the sooner I act like they are.”

“Well…okay,” Yuuri says slowly. “If that’s what you want.”

“Yeah, I’d hate to fall behind.” Phichit masks a wince with a smile when he stands up.

Raising his arm is still unbearable, even harder than it was yesterday. So Phichit slips on a lightweight track jacket instead of one of his normal practice shirts. Yuuri surely notices but he doesn’t comment on it.

Phichit gets a lot of stares at the rink. He expected that but it’s more overwhelming than he anticipated. From his blog to his social circle, Phichit’s pretty popular. He’s used to getting attention. But handling positive attention with grace is a lot different than handling this. Even before he can get his skates on, his rink mates take turns crowding around.

“Whoa, Phichit! Did you get into a fight?”

“What happened to your face?”

“Who the hell did that?”

“What’s the other guy look like?”

Phichit gulps, throat drying as he struggles to address each rapid fire question. His skin crawls under the saucer-eyed gawking. It really nails in just how bad he looks and he can’t help thinking that maybe he should’ve stayed in today after all.

“Give him some space,” Celestino demands as he makes his way over. “You’re here to skate, aren’t you? I don’t see any skating happening.”

With a chorus of apologetic mumbles, his rink mates disperse and his coach sits down next to him. Phichit exhales slowly. He hasn’t been face to face with Celestino yet. The older man was instructing a newcomer at the opposite end of the rink. His features are tense with concern, mouth lining  in a firm frown as he takes in Phichit’s appearance.

“Thanks,” Phichit says.

“Yuuri gave me a heads up. You got robbed?”

“Uh-huh. It’s fine though,” Phichit reassures him. “I didn’t have much cash and I froze my debit card last night.”

“You look a little worse for wear,” Celestino says quietly.

“Yeah.” Phichit scratches at his wrist self-consciously. “It’s not as bad as it looks though, really. I’m just kind of sore.”

Celestino gives a low hum. He moves a hand to Phichit’s jaw and tilts his head to get a better look at the swollen half of his face.

“You should be icing this and recuperating at home.” He lets him go.

“I took a painkiller. I feel fine.” Phichit smiles in an attempt to put his coach as ease, but the pill he took doesn’t stop the smile from hurting his face. A lot.

“Show me,” Celestino instructs, pensive.

Phichit sucks in a breath that he can’t deny hurts and finishes lacing up his skates. His coach follows him to the ice, keeping a close eye on him. Phichit starts out slow, pace steady. He can’t deny that he’s in pain. His muscles are as taut as bowstrings and his range of motion naturally suffers for it. He attempts a simple spin and grits his teeth under the pain that ignites, his legs wavering at the fragile completion.

Phichit knows this isn’t enough to sell his coach so he sweeps around for a quick flip. A mistake. He underestimates the heightening intensity of the pain and overestimates his ability to tolerate it. He can’t stretch his arm out even enough for balance and trying jerks a yelp out of his throat. A dynamite goes off in his back when he descends floundering and he lands hard on his hands and knees.

“Can you stand?” Celestino calls out urgently.

“Yeah,” Phichit calls out, the certainty of it undermined by the quaver in his voice.

“Do you need help?” Pink skates skid to a stop a few lengths away and he glances up to see the extended hand of another student, Khadijah.

“I’m good.” Phichit denies the offer with a swallow and shakily pushes himself up.

He keeps close to the guardrail as he heads to his waiting, frowning coach.

“You can barely move,” Celestino declares. “You’re in pain, Phichit, go home.”

Phichit deflates, hanging his head. He won’t argue. He knows his coach is right. Even so, this is disheartening. He’d rather skate than sit around the quiet dorm with nothing to focus on other than the fact there was a gun to his head that he can still feel in between the pulses of his contusions.

Then Celestino takes his wrist, lifting it with a soft click of the tongue. Phichit blinks in surprise as he sees the tendrils of blood crawling out from under his glove. Oh. His palm must’ve reopened when he broke his fall.

“I’ll look at this before I send you off.”

“Okay.”

Celestino goes to get the first aid kit. Phichit finds the closest bench and slumps onto it tiredly. He pulls his gloves off and undoes the bloodied dressing Yuuri had applied. Yep, he ripped it open again. Pink meat sits in the split of his skin and glistens with a red glaze as blood weeps down. It isn’t the worst thing ever, but it is pretty gross. Phichit’s stomach squiggles uneasily.

“Are you okay?”

Phichit spooks at the voice, whipping his head. Yuuri had come up on his current blindspot.

“Sorry, just me.” Yuuri holds up his hands and sits next to him.

“I’m okay, I just…” Phichit trails off with a sigh as he realizes how many heads on the rink are are turned in his direction. He shies away and pushes his face into Yuuri’s shoulder. It hurts but right now the pain in his cheek is preferable to being stared at.

Yuuri doesn’t even budge and Phichit feels the quiet unfurl of friendship in his chest. He doesn’t look up when Celestino comes back but he knows he has when he hears the first aid kit being put down. His coach exhales as he takes Phichit’s hand and gets to work. Phichit doesn’t flinch when the cool squirt of saline hits the wound.

“Keep an eye on this,” Celestino says slowly. “If it won’t close, you might need stitches.”

“It’s fine,” Phichit promises without lifting his head. “I just landed on it hard.”

“Nevertheless.” Celestino secures the split in his flesh with several butterfly strips and wraps it up, touch efficient but not unkind. “Yuuri, take him home. I don’t want to see him here today or tomorrow.”

At this, Phichit finally turns away from Yuuri’s shoulder wand gives a disbelieving cry. “Tomorrow too? Ciao Ciao, that’s too much.”

“You can barely move,” his coach reiterates. “You need to give yourself a couple days to heal.”

“Mm…Fine, you’re right,” Phichit admits softly.  “Everything hurts. I don’t even want to stand, I can’t skate. Yuuri, please carry me.”

“Huh? Aright, I guess. You are smaller than me.” Yuuri blinks at him and then shifts his position on the bench, one arm around Phichit’s shoulders as he slips the other under his knees. To Phichit’s disbelief, he picks him up.

Phichit sputters and lets out a laughs that hurts, finds himself laughing again anyway. “Oh my god! Yuuri, put me down! I was kidding.”

Although Yuuri doesn’t carry him back, he walks closer to Phichit than normal and hovers the whole way.

“I don’t think you really had to come back with me,” Phichit tells him at the dorm, even though he’s grateful for the company.

“I know. I wanted to.” Yuuri chews at his lip. “It scared me, you know.”

“It wasn’t that bad of a fall. I mean, Ciao Ciao was right, I can’t move so great but I—“

“No, no, not that.” Yuuri sits down on Phichit’s bed next to him, and lightly touches his shoulder. “What happened to you. You could’ve gotten killed. It scares me to think about.”

“Might scare me a little more,” Phichit mumbles earnestly, fingers twitching to touch his temple. “But I’m okay.”

“This time,” Yuuri says, gaze hardening. “I don’t think we should leave alone too often. Or without telling each other how long we’ll be gone…Or maybe that’s going overboard. I don’t know, the whole thing just freaks me out. What if you didn’t come back at all? And I didn’t do anything because I assumed you ran into friends or something? What if I made a bad call not taking you to the hospital? Like, if you had internal bleeding or a head injury with late symptoms.”

“Okay, okay.” Phichit keeps his voice light and tries to pacify him. “Maybe it did scare you more. If there’s one thing I know about you, Yuuri, it’s that you’re really good at working yourself up.”

“Sorry.” Yuuri hangs his head.

“No, I’m glad you came back with me,” Phichit tells him. “I don’t really want to be alone right now.”

Yuuri’s lips twitch in a gentle smile. “I have some heat patches in here somewhere. Want me to find one for your back?”

“If it’s not too much trouble,” Phichit says, irresistibly touching the tender place and grimacing.

“This is such a small room. They can’t be far.” Yuuri crosses the short distance to his own bed and gets down, digging around beneath it.