"you fucking tell me where you were last night," mikey growls, "you fucking tell me, peter."

"i was out, okay?" pete shoves his jacket onto the hanger and rubs his face, "i just worked a 13 hour shift, can't you let me relax?"

"you didn't answer any of my texts," mikey growls, following pete through the house, "you ignored my calls. i was worried sick, i didn't know where the fuck you were. and i swear to god if you were... if you were out on that fucking bridge again—"

pete slams his hands down on the counter, loud enough to successfully cut off mikey and make him jump slightly. there's silence as pete whispers in the new silence, "i was not out on the bridge."

"you're acting like you were," mikey whispers, "pete... if you need to see a counselor again..."

"i don't need a fucking counselor!" pete snaps, "i'm fine. i'm fucking fine. i don't need your diagnosis. i don't need to be told that i'm a depressed piece of shit because i'm not. i've been okay. i've been better. quit fucking," he goes quiet, gives up on the last two words, hurt, "doubting me."

"i'm not doubting you," mikey whispers, "i'm saying that if you need help, you can get it. i'm here. i just want to know. were you out on that bridge yesterday?"

pete doesn't reply at first just stares down at his hands where his knuckles are turning white, moments from splitting and he replies with a cracked voice.

"yes."

mikey inhales sharply, "were you planning on jumping?"

"yes."

mikey steps forward, "are you okay?"

"... no."

pete stays completely still as mikey continues forward and rests a hand on his back, "i love you."

"i love you too."

"i'm here for you. do you want me to run a bath?"

pete winces and after a moment, nods, tears beginning to rise to his eyes.

"i'll be right back. you stay here," mikey says, "and we can talk as long as you want to. i love you."

pete nods. he knows.

he appreciates it.

this is short and stupid sorry thinking about writing a screenplay so might try out the formatting soon.