It had been many years since Mike sat playing a piano. The keys felt odd beneath his fingers, and there were a few times he knew he played off key. But it was only because he was nervous about playing. It was only because the last time he played, his wife was alive.

Still, he let Judie convince him to play. He had come into the hospital that evening to tell Eden of his feelings for her. But rather than head straight for the elevator, the grand piano seated right there, in the center of the North Pole setting, caught his attention. The sight of the piano immediately reminded him of Sarah. It reminded him of the years of happiness they shared together. It reminded him of the Christmases they had together.

Judie must have interpreted his attention to the piano, for a desire to play it. And for some reason, Mike didn't deny her request.

He sat playing and singing along, taking Lynette's advice while he was at it; he didn't rip his band aid out. He didn't remember Sarah dying, he instead remembered her smiling. He remembered her laughing. He remembered her dancing. And rather than bring tears to his eyes, they brought a vague smile to his lips.

Eden was the first thing he saw when he opened his eyes, and for the first time in months, Mike felt joy tug on the strings of his heart. It was an odd sensation; foreign in the midst of his dark soul, but it was enough to make him desire more. It was enough to make his desire to live longer.

The words died on his lips, and his hands settled on the piano, unable to keep playing. Nothing seemed to matter, nothing and no one but Eden.

Slowly, he rose to his feet, wanting nothing but to close the distance between them and tell her just how he feels about her. He wanted to pull her into his arms, to claim her lips and kiss her until she was breathless. He wanted to run his lips down the side of her neck and whisper nonstop how much he loved her.

And she felt that same way too. He saw it in her eyes, and in her face. She felt something for him.

Just as Mike made to go to Eden, she tore her eyes off of him, and turned sharply around. He raised his eyes to see what had gotten her attention; Philip.

For a few seconds, he stood watching them. He stood envious of Philip. Who did he think he was? What possessed him to think he could compete with such a perfect man? Philip had it all together, and he didn't. Philip had a life and a future ahead, and he didn't. The longer he stood watching them, the more apparent it became that Eden didn't belong with him, she belonged with Philip.

Turning around sharply, he made his way out of the hospital.

Mike couldn't return home —he laughed, taking a swing of his tequila— for he didn't have a home. No, what he had was a filthy apartment, for a filthy lowlife like himself. He stopped having a home when his wife and daughter died.

He must have been drinking for hours. He could barely see, and could barely hold himself up, but no matter how much of the alcohol he consumed, he couldn't drown out the pain.

“I will have a glass of what he's having.”

Mike barely heard the stranger who sat beside him. Shrugging, he emptied the glass.

“I hate places like these,” the man said.

Mike shoved his glass forward. “Another shot,” he slurred, the lights hurting his eyes.

“Give him two more shots, I'll pay.”

It was then that Mike turned slightly to the side to see who it was that had decided to take interest in him.

Shaking his head in confusion, he thought he must be seeing incorrectly. Certainly he was! The image was after all blurry, his head swam, and the music left his ears ringing.

“It is me, Mike.” He held out a hand to Mike. “Philip Kerr. I do not think we have been formally introduced.”

The waiter poured the drink, and rather than shake Philip's hand, Mike reached for the glass and emptied it.

“Fine, don't be cordial.” Mike heard Philip reach for his glass. He hissed, and placed the glass back on the counter. “Cheap. I'm more of an aged wine kind of guy. If the alcohol isn't worth over a thousand dollars, I'm not drinking it.”

“What then is the point? The aim is to get drunk, and you stop tasting it when you are drunk. Waste of dollar bills.”

“It is not a waste when you have more than enough to spare,” Philip laughed. “Of course you don't, Mike. Seeing as you live in a cheap apartment, are unemployed, and on probation, I'm in doubt you have any money to spare.”

Mike didn't let Philip's words annoy him. Instead, he raised his glass. “I will raise my glass to that, my good man.” He drained it.

“Look at you Mike, you're a wreck; a lowlife nobody with a criminal record. You have nothing to offer. Your life is practically over, if you ask me.”

“Well, Phil, I didn't ask you. But since we're being honest,” He turned to the side. “I think you're a loser. I think you suck. I think you're a good politician, but that is not even a compliment considering politicians are disloyal, lying, backstabbing parasites. And, the grand finale of a long list of all the things I hate about you Philip, is your inability to deserve Eden. She is too good for you, and you are unworthy of her. Basically, you're an A-hole in a suit. Waste of good designer fabric, if you ask me... And the many others who will be honest because they're not on your payroll.”

“And you think that you are worthy of her?!” Philip yelled.

Mike shook his head. “Unlike you, I am willing to accept that fact. I'm not worthy, but she has somehow managed to fall in love with me,” Mike knew he wasn't speaking the truth, but for some reason, he wanted to punch Philip below the belt, “the criminal, lowlife, nobody. You might have the money,” he rose to his feet and slammed the glass on the table, “But I'll always have her heart.”

Mike didn't take the first step, before being dragged back by Philip. Philip's fist connected with his nose, a cracking sound immediately following his action. Blood dripped down his nose as he staggered on his feet.

Straightening, Mike waited for the images before him to stop spinning. His vision cleared just in time for him to catch a glimpse of Philip fading into the crowd in the bar.

Anger made Mike's blood boil over. His fingers curled into fists, and his legs hurried forward. Reaching out to take a hold of Philip's fancy suit, Mike pulled him back, and threw a punch that was only the beginning of several more punches.

He didn't stop; not when several voices yelled at him to stop, not when several hands pulled at him to stop. Mike Stacks did not stop his attack on Philip Kerr, until he was being lifted off of him, handcuffed, dragged outside, and thrown into the back of a Police car. It was only then his heart began to beat more regularly, and the effects of the alcohol began to wane.

As the sun rose that morning, Mike collapsed to the floor of a cell, and gave into the darkness.