Made to be Broken [FFF Entry] [R]
FLYBOYS FLAMETASTIC FANFICTION ENTRY: ANGST
Title: Made to be Broken
Author: Alex Sorensen (ilytheira)
Summary: It doesn't even take a single breath.
Rating: R
Disclaimer: I don't own Michael, David, or Stacey. The title comes from the song Iris by the Goo Goo Dolls.
Warnings: Written in second-person, Michael/Stacey, hetero-sex, and a totally unplanned character death.
Author's Notes: I've been putting my writing off for a few days now (thankyou, bingeing on Phelpedo slash Michael Phelps!), so I decided to try and get back into the full swing of things with this. It's a little darker than what I'm usually into, and, in fact, the ending has, uhm, come a long way from what had originally been intended. To be honest with you, I don't know if it's for the better or for the worse. Eep.
I do accept thrown tomatoes, just as long as they're not worm-infested. LOL.
Hope you enjoy. :)
The moment you enter your home again, the first thought to appear in your mind is how could you possibly look her in the eye, now or ever. How could you possibly bring your brown eyes to look straight at her magnificent blues, after what you've done? How do you do it, when you've been unfaithful and she's done nothing but give you her utmost affection, give you her undivided attention and love? You know she's only devoted to you, and that makes it hurt so much more. It hurts so much more, it shreds your heart into little pieces having to bear the knowledge that no, she is no longer the person you love so much that you fear your heart could burst at any given moment. No, she is no longer the person you desire to spend your life with. And that yes, you've broken the tightest bond any two people could possibly have, and inside, it breaks you, too.
It breaks you so much that for days on end, you are deathly quiet.
She gives you space, of course, because she tells you that she understands you need time to adjust to your home again, and in a sense, she is spot on, even if she doesn't know it. You are not used to a large home with only the two of you. You are not used to being surrounded by furniture where you do not see dreadlocks or Calculus or literature books flung open, where you do not hear laughter from every corner of the house or hear somebody shouting at someone else in jest.
But most of all, you are not used to not being around him. While you're at home, you miss him so much. Your heart aches whenever you sit on the couch and you cannot lean your head against his shoulder. You have to fight to stop yourself from crying out when you search your home and find that of course it is all her who else did you expect it to be? and there is no him. Every time you spy your guitar on its stand by the television in the living room, you have to turn away from it because all it brings back is memories of playing guitar with him, and you think, it's about time to stop thinking about him, and you laugh bitterly at yourself as you drop onto the couch.
Even if you could, you know you wouldn't trade those nights with him away for anything in the world.
But would you trade her away?
You shake your head, because you know you cannot do that, either. You wander like a ghost in your own home, and in your loneliness, you seek your only source of comfort. You find her in your bedroom, hair up in a casual ponytail, dressed in your shirt and in your sweats, and immediately, your mind compares how she and he look like in your clothes. You shake your head again, cursing yourself for your thoughts you know you love him can't stop thinking about him all you breathe is him after all before walking inside and sitting yourself beside her.
You look at her as though examining her, and she raises an eyebrow at you, the very same thing he does when you look at him, simply look at him, and you could almost cry. You could almost tell her everything, but no. No, you can't, because you don't want to get her hurt no, because you're a selfish, cowardly bastard and you don't want yourself hurt in the process, either. You smile gently at her, and you lean in to kiss her. She doesn't taste anything like he does. Where he tastes like coffee, she tastes like strawberries. Where he has stubble on his face that tickle you as you pull back and then go in for another kiss, she is smooth and soft and it bothers you somewhat because you aren't used to her. She giggles girlishly, and you allow yourself to smile against her skin.
It disappears immediately, however, as you begin to undress her. You don't get the same feeling of anticipation you usually do when you're about to make love to him; you don't feel your breath quickening and your heart doesn't race anymore, not like it used to. You take off her clothes, unclasp her bra, and there is her top half, fully exposed to you. You shift your body so that you can nestle your head between her breasts if you want to, but you don't. You stare at her for a moment, trying to will yourself to do something, but it takes more than that. You actually wait for her to run her fingers through your hair before you make any move as though you need some sort of assurance. You quietly tuck away the comparison of her actions to his planting his hand in your hair and violently egging you on as you leave a trail of kisses on her skin, beginning at the base of her neck.
It takes ungodly strength for you not to complain as you remember that no, no, of course she doesn't have any tattoos on her skin the ribbon? the 'heartthrob'? the stylized initials? and before the unthinkable enters your brain oops, too late; of course you're not going to ask her to get tattooed after the unthinkable enters your brain, you continue kissing her until you are greeted by the strings of your sweatpants, and you undo them with your teeth. She's excited by the thought of your lips on her you really don't think she's imagining somebody else down here, do you? but you're not excited --at least, not about that, not about her. No, in fact, you find reason to be excited only when you think of his lips around you, ready to take all of you in his mouth and swallow every drop of you, and this is the thought that leads the blood down to your groin who the hell do you think you are? She can't fantasize about someone else when all you're thinking about is someone else?
You raise your head as you hook your fingers inside of the sweatpants and her panties, looking for an assuring smile did you expecting a disgusted smile? It's not like she knows what you've been up to and the moment you find it, you sit up and pull down. She brings both of her hands up to caress her nipples as she raises her hips and you strip her of every piece of clothing, and as soon as her panties are off, she moans and you can see that she's wet.
You take a deep breath and hope that she takes it as you taking it all in, a little memory to look back on, her in her nakedness with nothing hidden from your eyes, because even if it isn't what you're thinking, it certainly helps to pretend that it's what's going on in her mind. She doesn't need to know the truth, that it isn't her you're thinking about or seeing or wanting to be inside of. She doesn't deserve that you don't want to deal with it because she's done nothing and you've done everything and oh, God, you didn't want to be the man to put her in that position as if you have a choice. She stops her hands from touching herself, one falling limply to her side and the other beckoning you to go ahead no, no, wait, I can still stop I don't have to go through with this, and you go, ignoring the knots your stomach has twisted into.
You take a deep breath and hope she doesn't notice that you're less than ecstatic as you go down on her, wrapping your mouth around her clit and letting your tongue run over it. You hope she doesn't notice that you're less than enthusiastic about having sex with her as you move to kiss her inner thighs and immediately, in place of your tongue, insert a finger into her. This isn't what you've gotten used to. Where are you she isn't the one that I want or need or have to have it's you where are you, your mind frantically calls out as you insert another finger and you have to think about him to make sure you're hard enough to enter her are you even going to go that far? No, no, I can't do this, not with you I'm sorry oh God make me stop tell me to stop but you can't. You insert a third finger and within moments, she comes all over you.
For a moment, you don't know what to do with yourself. You rest between her legs and remove your fingers, wiping them gingerly on the bed sheet as she pants heavily, and you know you have to stop. You can't --you can't go on, not when all you can think about having is him and not her. Not when the one who holds your heart in their hands is him and not her.
Not when the one who's making your cellphone vibrate is him and not her.
You raise yourself and look her in the eyes, and she looks at you, concerned. You're never this hesitant when it came to sex before. You can feel something growing in your throat, a lump easily preventing you from having to answer to the accusations you can see in her eyes as you take your phone out of your pocket, and then you can feel your eyes stinging. You let the tears fall once, and before they get to pool again and you're subject to a mandatory heart-to-heart, you stand up and shake your head. It hurts it hurts it hurts oh God please make it stop it hurts so much as you look away from her, whisper "I'm sorry, Stace, I --I can't. Not --not with you," probably should have left off the last sentence walk out the door you can feel her staring at your back oh God the door knob feels like it's burning then shut it. You run down the stairs, pick up your keys, and dash out to your only place of solace.
Anyplace other than your black SUV and you probably would have suffocated already.
The vibration in your hand stops momentarily before it starts again, and you have no need to look at it as you gingerly place it on the other seat. You start the car, pull out of the driveway, and you go. You don't know where you're going, you don't want to know where you're going, you just want to go somewhere. You can hear the vibration against the leather seat cover, but you can ignore it for a little while longer you can't talk to him, not after that, are you kidding? You are so lost in your thoughts that you catch the changing of the lights just in time to push on your brakes, and your phone nearly flies off the seat.
You catch your breath and lean back against the leather, and oh, God, what the fuck just happened? The light goes green, your foot pushes on the gas pedal, and you're flying onto the freeway. Oh, God, what the fuck did I just do? The vibration refuses to stop, and you risk a glance to the side. It's still the same name, it's still his name, and what kind of idiot do you think you are? Of course it's still him. You know he's not just going to stop calling, because he's not that type of person. He only wants to know what's going on, of course. There's --you shudder, take a breath, and then force yourself to calm down, because a car crash is the last thing you want to get into-- there's nothing wrong with that.
You remove a hand off the steering wheel and reach for the phone, but there is something --a puppeteer's string, perhaps-- that stops you from grabbing it, pushing answer, and greeting him hello. Maybe it isn't a puppeteer's string though, and then you grip the wheel with both hands as you swerve violently into the next lane where do you think you are, the Autobahn? and cut off the SUV in front of you. Maybe it's the guilt finally coming out to play. Maybe it's the fact that you've allowed yourself to touch her when you'd sworn to touch him and only him but didn't you swear that to her, too? didn't you promise her that you'd love her and only her, too? or maybe it's the fact that you allowed yourself to feel even the smallest of pleasures while you were with her.
Fuck is the first word that comes out of your mouth, how appropriate is the bitter thought that follows. You want to fight the tears, of course you do, but you're powerless and there's nothing you can do to stop them as they blur your vision. Shit is the word that follows, and it perfectly describes what you view yourself as. You catch the nearest exit without caring where it'll lead you to, because where you end up is the least of your problems right now, and as soon as you find a restaurant, you drive into the parking lot, find the space farthest away from the entrance, tucked into a corner, and you pull into it.
The phone is still vibrating, and you turn your head away from the entrance of the restaurant ignore the happy couple ignore them ignore them dammit to look at it. Without the other cars flying by you on the freeway, you realize just how hard your breathing is. Your hand is shaking as you pick up the phone and hold it, and you feel not a sense of relief as you stare at his name calling, but a sense of dread.
No, no, no, no. You can't talk to him. Not --not after this. Dear God, how are you going to talk to him --or even go back home and see her-- after this? You tell yourself to take a deep breath, and you do so, taking five in a row, before you look at your flashing screen. You grit your teeth and resist the urge to send the phone right through your windshield. Instead, you press reject, stare at your phone for a little while longer, before you set it down on the passenger's seat.
You settle for staring out the windshield again as fragmented thoughts whizz through your mind, some of them as solitary as fighter fish, others clumped together like monarch butterflies during migration season. So what do you do now how could you have done that what the hell were you thinking? They're there, blazing through like Eamon Sullivan on steroids would, and it drives you wild. You yell and scream and beat your steering wheel so hard that you're almost surprised it doesn't crumble and fall into your lap. You yell and scream and beat your steering wheel some more until you can feel the tears.
You laugh bitterly, because you sure as hell don't deserve the tears. You throw your left fist a heated gaze, stretching it and glaring witheringly at the band around your fourth finger. You're tempted to slide it off your finger, roll down your window, then throw it away. You're tempted to do a lot of things, actually, but this is the one thing you want to do the most. In fact, you're so bitter and angry and inconsolable that you childishly hope the person who has parked three or four spots away from you is a madman who would have no hesitation, absolutely no regrets to hold him back in killing you in a single breath oh, wouldn't that be nice.
You're fighting, you really are, you're fighting to calm yourself down, but every moment you do, the moment you turn somewhere else, there's something that sparks the already-dangerous fire raging inside of you. You close your eyes and growl in frustration, resting your head on the steering wheel, and you're happy as happy as you could be, actually in the beautiful silence that has fallen around you.
You break further and further, crumbling more and more as your only salvation is broken by the vibration of your phone.
Make it stop make it go away oh God why isn't it going away go the fuck away!
It takes you a moment to realize the door to your vehicle has opened you've always had the habit of leaving them unlocked, dumbass and that there is something cold pressed to your forehead.
And then you're instantly totally, completely, without a doubt broken.
It doesn't even take a single breath.
"Hey, Mike? Yeah, hey, it's Dave. I've called you at least three times now! Michael Johns, where are you and why aren't you picking up your phone? Dear God, I sounded like a mom." Pause, laughter. "Anyway, hey, you might be asleep so I'll let you off. Call me back when you wake up, you hibernating bear." More laughter. "Just kidding! Love you!"
"Mike! You probably know who this is by now. This must be the eighth time! I know even you don't sleep that long!" Chuckling. "Johns! Call me back! Love you."
"Michael, it's --it's me. Something's wrong, and I --I just want to help, and you know that. Call me back or --or, you know, text me or something. I'll wait for you here. L --love you."
"Mike, hey, so this is probably call number twenty" --pause, laughter, yelling in the background, and more laughter-- "which means you're going to have a lot of voicemails to listen to once you look at your phone" --female giggling in the background-- "but call me back!" A pregnant pause. "S-- Stacey called and told me you took off for no reason." Another one. "I didn't know you were into the whole, running away from home thing. Call me back and let's --let's talk about it, okay? Bye, love you."
So, uhm, yeah. :] Feedback is appreciated.
Title: Made to be Broken
Author: Alex Sorensen (ilytheira)
Summary: It doesn't even take a single breath.
Rating: R
Disclaimer: I don't own Michael, David, or Stacey. The title comes from the song Iris by the Goo Goo Dolls.
Warnings: Written in second-person, Michael/Stacey, hetero-sex, and a totally unplanned character death.
Author's Notes: I've been putting my writing off for a few days now (thankyou, bingeing on Phelpedo slash Michael Phelps!), so I decided to try and get back into the full swing of things with this. It's a little darker than what I'm usually into, and, in fact, the ending has, uhm, come a long way from what had originally been intended. To be honest with you, I don't know if it's for the better or for the worse. Eep.
I do accept thrown tomatoes, just as long as they're not worm-infested. LOL.
Hope you enjoy. :)
The moment you enter your home again, the first thought to appear in your mind is how could you possibly look her in the eye, now or ever. How could you possibly bring your brown eyes to look straight at her magnificent blues, after what you've done? How do you do it, when you've been unfaithful and she's done nothing but give you her utmost affection, give you her undivided attention and love? You know she's only devoted to you, and that makes it hurt so much more. It hurts so much more, it shreds your heart into little pieces having to bear the knowledge that no, she is no longer the person you love so much that you fear your heart could burst at any given moment. No, she is no longer the person you desire to spend your life with. And that yes, you've broken the tightest bond any two people could possibly have, and inside, it breaks you, too.
It breaks you so much that for days on end, you are deathly quiet.
She gives you space, of course, because she tells you that she understands you need time to adjust to your home again, and in a sense, she is spot on, even if she doesn't know it. You are not used to a large home with only the two of you. You are not used to being surrounded by furniture where you do not see dreadlocks or Calculus or literature books flung open, where you do not hear laughter from every corner of the house or hear somebody shouting at someone else in jest.
But most of all, you are not used to not being around him. While you're at home, you miss him so much. Your heart aches whenever you sit on the couch and you cannot lean your head against his shoulder. You have to fight to stop yourself from crying out when you search your home and find that of course it is all her who else did you expect it to be? and there is no him. Every time you spy your guitar on its stand by the television in the living room, you have to turn away from it because all it brings back is memories of playing guitar with him, and you think, it's about time to stop thinking about him, and you laugh bitterly at yourself as you drop onto the couch.
Even if you could, you know you wouldn't trade those nights with him away for anything in the world.
But would you trade her away?
You shake your head, because you know you cannot do that, either. You wander like a ghost in your own home, and in your loneliness, you seek your only source of comfort. You find her in your bedroom, hair up in a casual ponytail, dressed in your shirt and in your sweats, and immediately, your mind compares how she and he look like in your clothes. You shake your head again, cursing yourself for your thoughts you know you love him can't stop thinking about him all you breathe is him after all before walking inside and sitting yourself beside her.
You look at her as though examining her, and she raises an eyebrow at you, the very same thing he does when you look at him, simply look at him, and you could almost cry. You could almost tell her everything, but no. No, you can't, because you don't want to get her hurt no, because you're a selfish, cowardly bastard and you don't want yourself hurt in the process, either. You smile gently at her, and you lean in to kiss her. She doesn't taste anything like he does. Where he tastes like coffee, she tastes like strawberries. Where he has stubble on his face that tickle you as you pull back and then go in for another kiss, she is smooth and soft and it bothers you somewhat because you aren't used to her. She giggles girlishly, and you allow yourself to smile against her skin.
It disappears immediately, however, as you begin to undress her. You don't get the same feeling of anticipation you usually do when you're about to make love to him; you don't feel your breath quickening and your heart doesn't race anymore, not like it used to. You take off her clothes, unclasp her bra, and there is her top half, fully exposed to you. You shift your body so that you can nestle your head between her breasts if you want to, but you don't. You stare at her for a moment, trying to will yourself to do something, but it takes more than that. You actually wait for her to run her fingers through your hair before you make any move as though you need some sort of assurance. You quietly tuck away the comparison of her actions to his planting his hand in your hair and violently egging you on as you leave a trail of kisses on her skin, beginning at the base of her neck.
It takes ungodly strength for you not to complain as you remember that no, no, of course she doesn't have any tattoos on her skin the ribbon? the 'heartthrob'? the stylized initials? and before the unthinkable enters your brain oops, too late; of course you're not going to ask her to get tattooed after the unthinkable enters your brain, you continue kissing her until you are greeted by the strings of your sweatpants, and you undo them with your teeth. She's excited by the thought of your lips on her you really don't think she's imagining somebody else down here, do you? but you're not excited --at least, not about that, not about her. No, in fact, you find reason to be excited only when you think of his lips around you, ready to take all of you in his mouth and swallow every drop of you, and this is the thought that leads the blood down to your groin who the hell do you think you are? She can't fantasize about someone else when all you're thinking about is someone else?
You raise your head as you hook your fingers inside of the sweatpants and her panties, looking for an assuring smile did you expecting a disgusted smile? It's not like she knows what you've been up to and the moment you find it, you sit up and pull down. She brings both of her hands up to caress her nipples as she raises her hips and you strip her of every piece of clothing, and as soon as her panties are off, she moans and you can see that she's wet.
You take a deep breath and hope that she takes it as you taking it all in, a little memory to look back on, her in her nakedness with nothing hidden from your eyes, because even if it isn't what you're thinking, it certainly helps to pretend that it's what's going on in her mind. She doesn't need to know the truth, that it isn't her you're thinking about or seeing or wanting to be inside of. She doesn't deserve that you don't want to deal with it because she's done nothing and you've done everything and oh, God, you didn't want to be the man to put her in that position as if you have a choice. She stops her hands from touching herself, one falling limply to her side and the other beckoning you to go ahead no, no, wait, I can still stop I don't have to go through with this, and you go, ignoring the knots your stomach has twisted into.
You take a deep breath and hope she doesn't notice that you're less than ecstatic as you go down on her, wrapping your mouth around her clit and letting your tongue run over it. You hope she doesn't notice that you're less than enthusiastic about having sex with her as you move to kiss her inner thighs and immediately, in place of your tongue, insert a finger into her. This isn't what you've gotten used to. Where are you she isn't the one that I want or need or have to have it's you where are you, your mind frantically calls out as you insert another finger and you have to think about him to make sure you're hard enough to enter her are you even going to go that far? No, no, I can't do this, not with you I'm sorry oh God make me stop tell me to stop but you can't. You insert a third finger and within moments, she comes all over you.
For a moment, you don't know what to do with yourself. You rest between her legs and remove your fingers, wiping them gingerly on the bed sheet as she pants heavily, and you know you have to stop. You can't --you can't go on, not when all you can think about having is him and not her. Not when the one who holds your heart in their hands is him and not her.
Not when the one who's making your cellphone vibrate is him and not her.
You raise yourself and look her in the eyes, and she looks at you, concerned. You're never this hesitant when it came to sex before. You can feel something growing in your throat, a lump easily preventing you from having to answer to the accusations you can see in her eyes as you take your phone out of your pocket, and then you can feel your eyes stinging. You let the tears fall once, and before they get to pool again and you're subject to a mandatory heart-to-heart, you stand up and shake your head. It hurts it hurts it hurts oh God please make it stop it hurts so much as you look away from her, whisper "I'm sorry, Stace, I --I can't. Not --not with you," probably should have left off the last sentence walk out the door you can feel her staring at your back oh God the door knob feels like it's burning then shut it. You run down the stairs, pick up your keys, and dash out to your only place of solace.
Anyplace other than your black SUV and you probably would have suffocated already.
The vibration in your hand stops momentarily before it starts again, and you have no need to look at it as you gingerly place it on the other seat. You start the car, pull out of the driveway, and you go. You don't know where you're going, you don't want to know where you're going, you just want to go somewhere. You can hear the vibration against the leather seat cover, but you can ignore it for a little while longer you can't talk to him, not after that, are you kidding? You are so lost in your thoughts that you catch the changing of the lights just in time to push on your brakes, and your phone nearly flies off the seat.
You catch your breath and lean back against the leather, and oh, God, what the fuck just happened? The light goes green, your foot pushes on the gas pedal, and you're flying onto the freeway. Oh, God, what the fuck did I just do? The vibration refuses to stop, and you risk a glance to the side. It's still the same name, it's still his name, and what kind of idiot do you think you are? Of course it's still him. You know he's not just going to stop calling, because he's not that type of person. He only wants to know what's going on, of course. There's --you shudder, take a breath, and then force yourself to calm down, because a car crash is the last thing you want to get into-- there's nothing wrong with that.
You remove a hand off the steering wheel and reach for the phone, but there is something --a puppeteer's string, perhaps-- that stops you from grabbing it, pushing answer, and greeting him hello. Maybe it isn't a puppeteer's string though, and then you grip the wheel with both hands as you swerve violently into the next lane where do you think you are, the Autobahn? and cut off the SUV in front of you. Maybe it's the guilt finally coming out to play. Maybe it's the fact that you've allowed yourself to touch her when you'd sworn to touch him and only him but didn't you swear that to her, too? didn't you promise her that you'd love her and only her, too? or maybe it's the fact that you allowed yourself to feel even the smallest of pleasures while you were with her.
Fuck is the first word that comes out of your mouth, how appropriate is the bitter thought that follows. You want to fight the tears, of course you do, but you're powerless and there's nothing you can do to stop them as they blur your vision. Shit is the word that follows, and it perfectly describes what you view yourself as. You catch the nearest exit without caring where it'll lead you to, because where you end up is the least of your problems right now, and as soon as you find a restaurant, you drive into the parking lot, find the space farthest away from the entrance, tucked into a corner, and you pull into it.
The phone is still vibrating, and you turn your head away from the entrance of the restaurant ignore the happy couple ignore them ignore them dammit to look at it. Without the other cars flying by you on the freeway, you realize just how hard your breathing is. Your hand is shaking as you pick up the phone and hold it, and you feel not a sense of relief as you stare at his name calling, but a sense of dread.
No, no, no, no. You can't talk to him. Not --not after this. Dear God, how are you going to talk to him --or even go back home and see her-- after this? You tell yourself to take a deep breath, and you do so, taking five in a row, before you look at your flashing screen. You grit your teeth and resist the urge to send the phone right through your windshield. Instead, you press reject, stare at your phone for a little while longer, before you set it down on the passenger's seat.
You settle for staring out the windshield again as fragmented thoughts whizz through your mind, some of them as solitary as fighter fish, others clumped together like monarch butterflies during migration season. So what do you do now how could you have done that what the hell were you thinking? They're there, blazing through like Eamon Sullivan on steroids would, and it drives you wild. You yell and scream and beat your steering wheel so hard that you're almost surprised it doesn't crumble and fall into your lap. You yell and scream and beat your steering wheel some more until you can feel the tears.
You laugh bitterly, because you sure as hell don't deserve the tears. You throw your left fist a heated gaze, stretching it and glaring witheringly at the band around your fourth finger. You're tempted to slide it off your finger, roll down your window, then throw it away. You're tempted to do a lot of things, actually, but this is the one thing you want to do the most. In fact, you're so bitter and angry and inconsolable that you childishly hope the person who has parked three or four spots away from you is a madman who would have no hesitation, absolutely no regrets to hold him back in killing you in a single breath oh, wouldn't that be nice.
You're fighting, you really are, you're fighting to calm yourself down, but every moment you do, the moment you turn somewhere else, there's something that sparks the already-dangerous fire raging inside of you. You close your eyes and growl in frustration, resting your head on the steering wheel, and you're happy as happy as you could be, actually in the beautiful silence that has fallen around you.
You break further and further, crumbling more and more as your only salvation is broken by the vibration of your phone.
Make it stop make it go away oh God why isn't it going away go the fuck away!
It takes you a moment to realize the door to your vehicle has opened you've always had the habit of leaving them unlocked, dumbass and that there is something cold pressed to your forehead.
And then you're instantly totally, completely, without a doubt broken.
It doesn't even take a single breath.
"Hey, Mike? Yeah, hey, it's Dave. I've called you at least three times now! Michael Johns, where are you and why aren't you picking up your phone? Dear God, I sounded like a mom." Pause, laughter. "Anyway, hey, you might be asleep so I'll let you off. Call me back when you wake up, you hibernating bear." More laughter. "Just kidding! Love you!"
"Mike! You probably know who this is by now. This must be the eighth time! I know even you don't sleep that long!" Chuckling. "Johns! Call me back! Love you."
"Michael, it's --it's me. Something's wrong, and I --I just want to help, and you know that. Call me back or --or, you know, text me or something. I'll wait for you here. L --love you."
"Mike, hey, so this is probably call number twenty" --pause, laughter, yelling in the background, and more laughter-- "which means you're going to have a lot of voicemails to listen to once you look at your phone" --female giggling in the background-- "but call me back!" A pregnant pause. "S-- Stacey called and told me you took off for no reason." Another one. "I didn't know you were into the whole, running away from home thing. Call me back and let's --let's talk about it, okay? Bye, love you."
So, uhm, yeah. :] Feedback is appreciated.