Trigger Warnings: Murder, blood, mentioned suicide, suggested abuse, homophobia, death
Beta-read by my lovely friends Ari and Matts and dedicated to them both.
1334 North Beachwood Drive,
December 29th, 1972
Davy had lost plenty of people in his life. His mother, his father, his sister, his first girlfriend, three grandparents, an aunt, and three dogs. Eleven lives. Eleven lives lost, without any way of stopping it. Eleven lives that had been ripped away, some he could have stopped and some he couldn't. Eleven. The number seemed burned into his mind. Seemed far, far too large, though also felt like a constant threat that it'd grow. On some days, it felt like it was all he could think of. Would today be the day the number reached twelve? Would it be in this next hour? The next minute?
Countless nights had been spent mourning over the lost lives. Countless times when he'd cried and screamed and begged for mercy from some unseen God, asking why bad things happened. Asking why he deserved it, why this had happened. Why everyone else seemed so happy and content, while he was stuck in this endless cycle of pain. Why everyone he loved left, why everything he needed was lost. Begging for an answer, for some sort of reason. He'd done it in a past life, maybe? He'd done something wrong, he had to've. He'd done something terrible, but it was a price that could be payed. And once it was, it'd all be okay.
And it felt like such a constant weight to bear. Like it was always in the back of his mind, something he could never escape. He was alone. And in the end he'd be alone, everyone he loved would die one day and he'd be so, painfully alone.
But moments like these? Well. It made it easy to forget about things like that.
"Race you downstairs," Micky called, turning the heads of both Mike and Peter in the direction of their other two friends. Davy didn't wait a second at the bet, flipping himself over the railing and falling down to the floor. Micky's body fell to the wooden floor at the same time, though less gracefully, falling on his stomach where Davy had landed on his feet. Davy whooped and jumped, thrusting his fist into the air.
"I won!" Micky cried anyways, darting up to his feet. "Didn't I, Mike? I won!"
"Neither of you won," Mike replied, ignoring as Micky latched onto his middle and started shaking him. "That wasn't a race, that was falling fast."
"A race of falling," Davy countered, not minding Micky saying he'd lost. It was to be expected. "A falling race. A falling fast race, the faster faller wins the falling race."
Peter looked over at that, repeating 'the faster faller wins the falling race' a few times, as if it were a new tongue twister.
"I won," Micky tried again, this time pressing his head under Mike's head, knowing he liked the action. "You gotta pick me, I'm your guy."
"You're the pain in my ass," Mike replied, though his arms did move to settle around Micky's middle. Micky beamed at that, knowing he was winning Mike over, and moved to kiss over Mike's neck and up to the bottom of his jaw. Mike's favorite, he knew; he had a long neck, and he loved attention to it. Kisses and bites, and everything else. Mike smiled at it, Micky could tell, and soon enough agreed. "You won."
"That's cheating," Davy whined, jumping up on the table so he was eye-to-eye with the rest of them. "You can't ask him to judge, he'll always pick you."
"That's what happens, when I date the guy in charge," Micky replied, sticking his tongue out at Davy and still keeping his arms wrapped around his lover's middle.
"Is he in charge in bed, too?" Davy asked. "Oh, Mike, I love it so much when you're in charge-" Davy's mocking cut off abruptly as he was shoved off the table, falling to the floor with a small 'oomph'. Micky had separated from Mike and had been tackled to the floor, where Micky was currently tickling him mercilessly. Davy didn't wait to start fighting back, ending in him and Micky wrestling around playfully on the floor.
Mike chuckled at the two, and moved to pour himself a new cup of coffee, drinking it black. "What we do in bed isn't any of your concern," he replied, sitting himself up on the counter and grabbing the newspaper to look through. He flipped the first page, and then the second, before stopping once he found the 'wanted' ads.
Peter drifted over to join, after a second, looking over the page to try and help. There wasn't much, though; a few people wanting babysitters, but they were all fairly bad at that. Extremely bad at that.
"Alright, looks like we gotta go ask around," Mike decided, looking at Micky and Davy. Who were still wrestling.
"Guys," Mike tried again. "Guys!
The two stopped only when they heard a knock at the door, looking around to see who was going to be stuck with answering it. Mike rolled his eyes, but stepped over the tangle of limbs and arms, just to get to it, allowing Micky and Davy to go back to fighting. Which they happily did, after a moment.
"Do we got the money for Babbitt?" Mike asked, figuring it was him who was knocking. The person at the door seemed mad, at the very least, and Mike wanted to know whether to prepare for a 'here's your money' or a 'you have to wait'.
"Spent it on the drums," Micky called, which Mike nodded at with a small hum. He'd expected that, really, after they'd been accidentally broken at the last gig. By, ironically enough, Davy and Micky wrestling around on the floor.
Mike opened the door casually, though immediately tensed and yelped, slamming the door shut again. Micky and Davy looked over sharply, and Peter looked up as well, though a bit softer. All their faces were shining with confusion, brows furrowed.
"Run," Mike said, soft but stern, the door jerking violently behind him as the man at the door pounded at it, desperate to get in. No one moved for a moment, watching Mike closely, only starting to understand that the situation was quickly turning into a bad one. "Run," Mike repeated, whispering though he was a bit louder. "Hide. Now!"
Everyone jerked into action at that, darting into the guest room without any further question. Only Micky hesitated, though the look in Mike's eyes told him not to wait any longer. He moved to give Mike a kiss, almost a silent promise that things would be okay even though he didn't know whether anything was 'bad' or not. He didn't want them to be, but at the same time he'd never seen Mike look scared, before. And it terrified him to the core, seeing his boyfriend so stiff with fear, eyes shining in a new light. Mike's bright, expressive eyes were now filled with a fear he'd never seen before.
He ran off to the guest room, shutting it at the same time Mike darted away from the door. The thick, wooden door didn't stand a chance against whoever it was, and it slammed open loudly, at the same time Mike sprinted to the kitchen. The door cracked loudly as it hit the wall, knocking into the small table there and causing a few things to fall from the wall. Mike ran and dug through the drawer closest to the fridge.
He's getting the gun, a voice in Micky's head supplied, as Mike pulled out a small gun of his and held it, pointing at the man. It didn't mean much, though; the man had his own gun, as well. He had it trained on Mike expertly, as if he'd been pointing one at people his whole life. Maybe he had.
"You thought you could leave, runt?" the man asked, his Texan accent thick and almost overly-deep, sending a shiver of fear up the group's spines. Micky moved to open the door, but was held back by Davy. Instead, they just cracked the door, watching through it to see what was going on. What made their normally fearless leader seem scared, what changed his relaxed posture to a stiff, scared one. Whoever this man was, Mike knew. That was easy to see.
"Just go," Mike replied. "Just go, and you can pretend I don't exist."
"Hell no," the man replied, taking a long puff of his cigarette. "You never should have existed in the first place, you hear me? Your mother didn't want you, I didn't want you. Neither of us did, you worthless fag. I'm doin' God a favor, getting your miserable ass off this earth."
Mike wet his lips, swallowing. "Just go," he repeated. "I swear, I'll never see you again, you'll never have to see me-"
The conversation ended there, with a single gunshot. Time seemed to slow down as Mike's eyes widened, before his gaze traveled down, to where blood started to pour freely from his chest. He heard Micky yell for him, a loud cry of 'No!' before he heard yet another shot, and then things went black.
"No!" Micky screamed, the noise loud and frantic. He tried to pull away, tried to fight against Davy's stronger arms, but couldn't. Luckily for them all, the man didn't seem to care, instead shooting Mike once more, causing Mike to fall to the floor. He didn't stop there, either, continuing to shoot Mike over and over again, despite the fact that by that point he was only poking holes in a corpse. Peter fainted immediately at the sight, head hitting the bed on his way down to the floor.
"You bastard!" Micky screamed, voice strained, pulling away from Davy and rushing to his fallen lover. The man didn't care, instead putting his gun into his belt and stalking off.
"No," Micky begged, rubbing a hand over Mike's pale, lifeless face. "No!" he repeated, pulling Mike's body into his lap and rubbing a hand down his cheek, tears quickly falling from his eyes. "No, no, no, no..." He kissed Mike's lips, hoping for it to work. Like a fairytale, a kiss of life. Something, anything to cling to, anything at all. He wasn't gone, that wasn't how it worked. He'd been joking around just a moment ago, they were celebrating his birthday tomorrow...
"Micky," Davy said softly, walking closer to Micky. "Micky, we need to call the police." His voice was soft and calm, though his hands were shaking. A silent form of panic. The only thing keeping him from crying and begging for it to not be real was the fact that he understood. Understood what it was like to lose someone, to watch them get taken right in front of you without any way of stopping it. And he wanted to help, to keep Micky from having those nights that felt so lonely.
"What's the point?" Micky asked, looking up at Davy but still cradling Mike's body, holding him close. Davy was surprised by the anger in Micky's face, the hatred in his tone, and didn't reply.
"What's the damn point?!" Micky repeated, yelling, screaming, silently begging for Mike to come back. For it to be a joke. It was so, so fast, it didn't make sense... No one died that fast. It was fake. It was fake. It had to be fake.
"I know," Davy continued, having to rip his gaze off of Mike's pale face. Mike looked exactly like Davy's mother had, the day she died. Like he was asleep, almost. "I know," he said again. "Mike would want you to-"
"You don't know a damn thing about Mike," Micky protested. "Nobody knows anything about Mike. Mike never talked to anyone but me."
"He trusted you," Davy agreed, causing Micky to pause. It felt less light fighting, to agree. "But you have to accept he's gone. And we need to find the man who did it."
"He's not gone," Micky replied, angrily. "Mike isn't going to die, he's never going to die. He promised to die after me, so I wouldn't live without him, and he... he..." Micky fell silent, for a moment, before he broke out into sobs. Davy moved to rub his back, though he felt hot tears running down his cheeks, as well. He felt Micky's arms wrap around him, holding him tightly as if begging for something to hold onto. It was a feeling Davy recognized all too easily.
Twelve.
1334 North Beachwood Drive,
April 4th, 2017
Micky looked up at his house, hands on his hips and a smile tugging on his face. He could hear the snickers from people around him, as well as a few kids who were taking joking bets on how long it'd take before he died. But he didn't care; he'd wanted this one for so long. The rumors about it had pulled him in, had taken his interest and turned it into something he couldn't resist. Luckily, no one wanted to live in it. The house was old, being built sometime in the fifties. the last time it'd been lived in was the seventies. Or, really, the last time it'd properly been lived in. Either way, no one wanted it. Making the price low and easy to afford.
Everyone knew the rumors behind the old house. That it'd been the home of two lovers, one who'd been killed for loving the other. Stories got twisted over time, maybe, and it'd probably just been a standard murder of a gay guy, but that was okay. Killing gay guys being standard wasn't okay, though.
Micky made his way to the front door of the place, the story still playing in his mind. He loved it, really, despite the dozens of people who'd lived there before him. Who claimed that they'd seen an angry spirit, and had been chased off. That just sounded like an adventure. Which was why Micky had fought so hard for this house.
He'd been pulled in when he was looking for homes, at first, and had found rumors of this. Of two lovers, who loved each other more than life itself. The rumor stated that the man had died for his lover, and that he'd become a ghost, waiting for his lover to pass on so they could go away together. And, in a silly way, Micky wanted to find a way to help things along. It made sense that the other man would still be alive, as it hadn't been too long ago. The man was, probably, still alive. Which meant that Micky could just find out who it was, and get them back together, and then he'd have a happy old man and a happy ghost. Both gay.
He chuckled to himself before going inside, going upstairs. He'd already had all his furniture moved in, and didn't have to do much other than get food and things. But that could wait; he wanted to hang up cameras and stuff. The house was fairly open, at the very least, other than the bedrooms and the bathroom. And the paint was still the same from where it had been in the seventies, other than the main bedroom that'd been repainted. Micky made his way to the bedroom, more because it was better to use a laptop on the bed than for any other real reason.
He plopped down on it and opened up his computer, not waiting to plug it in before opening it to find Skype, just to talk to his friend. A man who lived all the way across the world - Davy - though he'd still be up at this hour.
He called, putting in his earbuds as the phone rang. He looked up at the screen, then, as Davy's image popped up; his icon, not a webcam. He was tired-looking, probably. Which made sense; it was late, there, though Micky didn't care. Davy stayed up until three or four, even on a good day.
"Hey," he greeted, not waiting for Davy to talk.
Davy chuckled, but asked, "You getting settled into your new house? Your haunted house?"
"You're jealous of my haunted house," Micky replied. "It's fun, I set up all my furniture like it used to be. I think? I tried."
"How do you know what it was like?" Davy asked, raising his eyebrows. "I thought you said that they wouldn't give you photos of the crime - oh. That's dirty, Micky."
Micky could sense the smile in Davy's tone, and grinned widely. "Stealing isn't that bad," he replied. "I payed a guy to get 'em for me, online. So I didn't even steal 'em, I just payed for them to be stolen."
"That still counts as stealing," Davy replied. "But I'm glad you... you set up all the furniture in the same way as when the ghost was alive? Why?"
"So he feels at home," Mike replied, as if it were obvious. He picked up his computer, carrying it down the spiral stairs as he made his way to the kitchen. "He's supposed to be real active, y'know? Like a real person's living here with you. If he can't move the furniture, I might as well make it good for him." Micky set the computer down on the counter, reaching in the fridge to grab a coke.
Davy chuckled at that, but nodded his agreement. "That's nice of you," he replied. "Have you seen him, yet? Or is he still nothing more than a story?"
"He's more than a story," Micky replied, putting the coke on the counter next to his laptop and moving to find the box of cookies he'd found and putting them there, too. "There were four guys living here when it happened, and only one of 'em is still alive. He's gonna talk to me about it, later."
"What, the guy who lived here when a gay guy was murdered?"
"He was the guys friend, yeah," Micky replied, putting the cookies on a plate to make them look better.
"And how do you know that the guy wasn't the murderer?"
Micky paused at that, shrugging. "I don't think he is," he replied. "He seemed kinda sad, on the phone. I think he's a stoner, but that's okay. So's everybody back then."
"You're gonna spend the night with an old stoner man," Davy stated.
"Peter," Micky corrected. "And I'm not spending the night with him, I'm adding him to the Skype call."
"You're what?" Davy asked. Soon enough, though, the Skype ringtone filled the air, another man being added to the call.
"Hello?" came his tired voice, sounding both sad and tired.
"Heya," Micky replied. "I've got a friend on the call, is that okay?"
"That's fine," Peter replied. "I don't mind."
"Good," Micky replied. "He's nice, he wants to know stuff, too."
Peter chuckled, though somehow still sounded sad. "What did you want to talk about, this time?"
"The man," Micky replied, talking fast enough that Davy couldn't do much other than listen. "The guy he was dating, is he still alive?"
There was a pause, before Peter replied, causing Micky to wonder if he'd asked a bad question. "Micky," the man stated.
"Yeah?" Micky asked, almost nervously.
"Micky was his name," Peter clarified. "Micky Dolenz."
"Oh," Micky replied, feeling briefly stupid. He got over it, then, and replied, "Neat! Is he still here? What happened to him?"
Another pause.
"He shot himself the night Michael died."