Archive of Our Own ^beta

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Mickey wasn't one to cry, well, not in front of others at the very least. He didn't like being seen as anything that wasn't the definition of perfection, he is a figure of perfection to many people and toons anyways.

But today was specially bad. Like– worse than having a hangover, he believed.

He was still in Wasteland, since the TV for him to get back to the “Real world” was still being fixed, but he didn't feel as normal as he usually did in there. Mickey usually felt very happy and nothing ever bothered him. He could focus on things and act as normal as possible for a mouse like him. Well, not today.

Waking up, his bed felt as if it was trapping him, clawing on his insides and forcing him into a hell of its own making. He already felt awful getting out of it, knowing it was just his normal bed. But Mickey wasn't normal, even if he convinced himself he was. But the feeling of it was still lingering on him. The texture of the bed touching every inch of his body, and the blankets imprisoning him on it was bad.

He hopes that getting out of it helped, but it didn't.

The floor was as if it was thousands of nails stabbing his feet and forcing him to stay there until he rotted in place. Thankfully his boots were nearby, and at least those had a comfortable enough texture for Mickey to not feel prisioner of his own skin.

But the light. The light that went through the window was way brighter than usual. It was frustrating, and despite it being the same as always, Mickey couldn't help but have to suck in the need to start sobbing over it.

He didn't even get something to eat besides drinking some water. He didn't want to force himself into more stimulation than he already was.

He grabbed his paintbrush in case it was needed (even if it felt like torture, every single atom just stabbing into his gloves and cutting his hands constantly) and opened the door, his glove already started feeling like too much, and changing the brush to his back didn't help besides making the stress go to his back rather than his hands and arms.

He ignored the agonizing overload of sound outside. He wanted to run away from it, but no matter what, it never ended. The smell of the grass was too strong, the flowers were even brighter and more vibrant- which bugged him, the wind hit right against him, and he just wanted to pull his skin off.

Every conversation was forced against him, making him feel trapped in such an open space. He almost started crying and ran back home (even if he was supposed to hang out with Oswald today) before someone appeared. Gremlin Gus. Of course the gremlin would be here.

— “Oh geez- Mickey, you alright, son? You don't seem as good as usual, need me to tell my mates to lower their voices?”

…Gus was always a sweetheart wasn't he?

But against his better judgement (even if Gus knew how Mickey could get due to ‘noise overload’), he shook his head, smiling.

— “It's alright Gus, I’m just a bit tired. Don't worry 'bout me, im fine.”

Gus raised an eyebrow but begrudgingly nodded, vanishing as fast as he was here. How did the gremlin know when Mickey felt bad? The mouse had no idea. But at least someone cared, though Mickey didn't plan on ever accepting the help.

He quietly walked towards Mean Street- ignoring how tiring it felt to even go through projectors- and quickly found Oswald near the projector.

— “Ozzy!”

Mickey said, cringing at how exhausted this voice sounded.

And of course Oswald had to pick up on that

— “Hey Mick!- uhm, ya doin’ alright? Just checkin’, ya don't seem very… yourself?”

Mickey panicked inside, not wanting Oswald to also pick up on his terrible fate. What if the rest of the people here picked up on it too? What if the Petes noticed how badly he felt? What if the gremlins caught on it and told Gus- what if Gus found out how bad Mickey actually felt?-

Before Mickey knew it, he was crying. Mickey hated himself so badly. He was a grown adult, he shouldn't be sobbing like a toddler over such simple things. But- being actually asked about what he felt just broke him.

He couldn't see how Oswald reacted due to his vision bluryung. But he could

H E A R. A N D. F E EL.

E V E R Y. S I N G L E. T H I N G.
A R O U N D.

It all burnt. His skin was being stabbed by every single thing. He could feel his lungs filled with air every time he took a breath. He could feel his clothes sticking to his skin, tears rolling down his cheeks.

He could hear every single comment the others said.

— “Is he okay?”

— “...I've never seen him break down..”

— “Maybe somethin’ happened?”

— “Oui, Gus mentioned Mick might be feeling down but…”

— “Geez, he really ain't okay…”

— “Noted, Markus. Should we do something?”

— “...What's gotten onto him?...”

— “Shush, Prescott, let him be sad.”

— “…Just wondering."

— “Pft- and he’s the popular one?”

— "I'm worried..."

— “Why is Unca Mickey so sad?”

— “Don't know..”

— “Wonder what got him like that…”

— “...He isn't responding to his majesty- I mean Oswald.”

…

Oswald?

“Oswald?”

Mickey looked up, staring at Oswald, who was definitely worried. He tried to put a paw on Mickey’s shoulder but he felt as if it ripped right through his arm, making the mouse flinch and cover his face.

Oswald glanced down, trying to think of what to do. He noticed the group of people around and how Mickey seemed to feel worse, so he decided to fix at least the sound issue.

— “Ehem, It’d be nice if y’all gave the mouse some space! He ain't all that stable now, doubt any of ya would like to be stared at when cryin’!”

That seemed to help, as the crowd rapidly vanished, leaving Oswald and Mickey alone and away from the focus of the town. Oswald, instead of making the mistake of touching without asking, chose to sign to the proyector to go back to OsTown, which Mickey nodded in agreement.

Oswald helped Mickey walk around, noticing how on edge he still seemed. Ignoring the glances those on OsTown gave, the brothers enter at Mickey’s temporal house.

Mickey closed the blindfolds and grabbed a soft and warm blanket, sitting down on the floor and using it to cover his body. Oswald sat on the floor right in front of the mouse, waving to see if he was responsive.

— “...Mick?”

— “...sorry.”

That worried Oswald again. Mickey hadn't done any wrong, so it was weird to apologize for nothing. He sighed and stood up, leaving Mickey to stay calm in his…. cocoon of some sort.

He went to the kitchen, making a quick cup of tea. Ortensia had taught him after he found out Mickey liked it, specially when he seemed a bit down. So Oswald chose to do one, grabbing a soft and textureless (since Mickey seemed to be wary of textures today) cup and walked back to the living room.

Mickey was just curled up with in his ‘cocoon’ (Oswald found it fun to call it that), smiling a bit at the cup. He carefully took a sip, letting the very faint and almost nonexistent smell fill the room.

— “...Wanna talk ‘bout it?”

Mickey nodded, sipping a bit more before carefully putting it down, not letting his hands touch the floor. Oswald noticed, but chose not to question the mouse that was clearly distressed.

— “...I just- im sorry Ozzy. I can't even be a good replacement… im just- I can't even be normal! I can't even handle just- day to day things! I'm sorry- im sorry Oswald… im the worst…”

Mickey blurted out, crying a bit. Oswald covered his hand with a part of the blanket, putting it over Mickey’s shoulder. This time, he seemed to feel okay with the touch.

— “...Ya ain't the worst. Sure, ya might've taken my place but ‘m over it anyways. Plus, I already told ya it's fine like, thousands of times. & you're not just a replacement, you're yourself, Mick. Even if ya don't feel 'kay every day. If my hunny bun taught me anythin’ after she came back, is that I can't berate myself for shit I can't control. And it's normal to- not be normal. Just be yourself, got it, mouse?”

Mickey nodded, finishing his tea and giving the cup to Oswald, who put it away from them. Oswald grabbed another blanket and put it around him, offering a hug to Mickey, which he obviously accepted.

The brothers just stayed there for a while, Mickey’s breathing finally going back to normal (no idea when he started hyperventilating, but at least he was okay now), and just tear stains instead of actual tears.

After a bit, Oswald looked at Mickey- who was already asleep. Their hang out day would have to wait. Not like Oswald minded, as long as his brother was okay, he didn't mind waiting.

Oswald carefully carried Mickey to his bed, making sure the mouse was comfortable before leaving the house- locking the door before leaving. In front I of the door, Gus was there. The gremlin was surely notified, but he seemed calmer. If Oswald was there, Mickey would be okay.

— “...Is he okay?”

— “...Hopefully. No idea why the mouse was that agitated, but he seemed better now.”

Gus nodded, before teleporting somewhere else, as Oswald walked back to his own house.

That night, Mickey at least slept enough knowing that he wasn't being ripped apart. And that even if he wasn't normal, at least the people here didn't mind it.

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