Don't Call On Me
Micky squeezed his eyes shut against the damp rasp of Peter's breathing. Mike was sat at the blonde's bedside, making sure he was propped up well, that he had enough blankets, that he was comfortable. The Texan was fussing nonstop, and it was starting to grate on Micky's nerves.
"Mike?" Slipping into the room he shared with Peter, Davy shook his head slowly. "It's no use. There's no way we can afford a doctor. We scraped the bottom of the barrel just to make rent."
Nodding absently, Mike continued swiping at Peter's brow with a damp cloth, eyes never leaving the pained expression on his best friend's face as he struggled to breathe.
Micky leaned back against the wall, watching as Davy bustled about the room, straightening things that didn't need straightening, putting away things that didn't need putting away, and generally avoiding looking over at his roommate. Clenching his fists around his biceps, Micky scowled.
"So, no one's gonna mention the fact that Peter's pretty much gonna die, then?"
Mike flinched, nearly losing his grip on the cloth, and Davy dropped his pillow and stared at Micky in disbelief. Peter, so disoriented from lack of oxygen and fever that he probably didn't know where he was, continued to wheeze horrifyingly.
"He's not gonna die," Davy said in a low voice. "We're gonna figure something out. We always do."
Peter's chest heaved as his body tried to cough, but he didn't seem to have the strength. Lips pressed together in a tight line, Mike wedged himself behind Peter and thumped him on the back.
"Are you sure that's helping, Mike?" Shifting his weight, Micky raised one eyebrow skeptically.
Davy practically hissed at him, getting in his face furiously. "At least he's trying to help, which is more than I can say for you. Peter would give his fucking right arm for you, and you're too damned selfish to even lift a finger when he needs you!"
"Shut up, Davy," Micky said softly, still not bothering to look the little Brit in the eye. "You have no idea what you're talking about."
"The hell I don't! The only time you ever bother to help anyone is when there's something in it for you! You don't have a fucking ounce of loyalty in you, you know that? It's always every man for himself, unless it's your arse in the fire, and then suddenly it's every man for Micky!" Davy jabbed him in the chest with one finger. "Well you can just go fuck yourself, Dolenz, because Peter deserves better friends then that."
Snorting, Micky glanced back at Peter, who was so pale now that he practically blended in with the sheets. His hands, so talented when there was an instrument in them, trembled terribly against his sides.
"You know what, Davy?" Pushing off the wall and shoving past Davy, Micky reached out and ruffled Peter's sweat-damp hair for a moment. "You're right. I'm fucking selfish."
He turned and left the room, paced across the Pad, and slammed out the door.
Davy had definitely been right, Micky thought as he slipped through traffic to pull up outside a club that most people barely even noticed. Selfish was Micky's middle name - he didn't like to let go of things he saw as his, and Peter definitely fell into that category. Peter was his brother, his best friend, and he wasn't ready to let him go. Not for anything.
The club was close and stuffy and far too loud, bright colors and flashing lights searing into his eyes as he wove through the crowd. As he slid up to the bar, his eyes flicked towards a corner of the room where a pool game was going on.
Easy as hell, but not nearly the sort of payout he needed, he thought as he analyzed the players and onlookers.
Reluctantly, he let his gaze slide to a corridor just off the bar. It had been a long time since he'd been down that particular hallway, and at one point in his life, he'd been so very positive that he was never going back. He'd been young and stupid, and confident that he'd make it in the world alone. He hadn't counted on making friends he loved enough to walk that corridor for.
He hadn't counted on Peter.
"Well, well. Little Georgie. Been a long time," the bartender said with a grin.
Micky carefully arranged his face into a flirty pout. "Aw, Hank, ya missed me?"
"Not even a little, kid. Can't say the same for your number one fan, though."
Swallowing, Micky let his eyes track back to the corridor. "He wouldn't happen to be around today, would he?"
"Kid, it's been fuckin' years. What the hell makes you think he even remembers you?"
"Hank, come on. I…I need the dough."
Aged eyes narrowed at Micky contemplatively. "Yeah, well, don't we all?"
"I need the money now."
They stared unblinkingly at one another for a long moment before Hank relented, staring down at the countertop as he wiped it listlessly. "He's waiting on a boy toy now - you get in there first, I'll pay off the chippie he had booked. You know the door."
Nodding, Micky rounded the bar and, without giving himself a chance to hesitate, pushed through the bead curtain and into the corridor.
He saw it in his nightmares sometimes - usually running down it, only to end up back at His door. Sometimes he was still wounded, bleeding from horrible places, blinded by pathetic tears. Sometimes he wasn't. Usually he was being chased, grabbed at by hands he hated, grabbed in ways he didn't like to think about.
As he made his way down the plain, off-white hallway, he counted off the doors as he always did, not with numbers, but with names.
Sugar. Lee. Lola. Johnny. Peyton. Taylor. Kev.
And here it was. It had been his door, looking just the same as all the other doors, and he wondered if He had chosen it on purpose, or if it had just worked out that way. Micky wondered who worked this room now, or if Hank was just renting it out to freelancers. He wondered why he gave a fuck.
Taking a deep breath, he turned the doorknob and, stepping inside, let it snap shut behind him.
Hank shook his head at him when he emerged from the bead curtain, tucking his pay carefully into his pocket. He knew Hank couldn't see the bruises forming under his shirt, under his trousers, but everyone in the club could see his limp. Everyone knew.
Squaring his shoulders, he flashed Hank a sweet smile.
"Thanks, babe. Next time, I'll be sure to buy you a drink."
"I really held out hope for you, kid," Hank's voice followed him to the door. "I really did."
The words followed him to the doctor's office, and all the way home. They echoed in his head when Davy and Mike stared at him, questioning, confused.
"Micky, you're barely standing - what the hell happened?"
Brushing past Davy, Mike went to guide Micky into a chair. "We'll have the doctor look you over next."
"No point," Micky said, experience allowing him to cover the pain sitting down caused him. "It's nothing serious, it'd just be a waste of money. Speaking of which…" Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out what remained of his earnings.
Mike stared at the wad of cash incredulously. His voice was soft and urgent when he was finally able to speak. "Micky…Micky where did you get this?"
"Poker game," he lied easily, grinning when Davy rolled his eyes at him. "They were a little sore at me after, even though I beat 'em fair and square. Hey, I barely got away with my life," he protested when both Mike and Davy huffed at him.
"Hey," he said as they all turned their eyes to the bedroom door when the doctor reemerged. "Just…don't tell Peter I got the money for the doctor, okay? He'd just feel bad."
Davy nodded, but Mike peered at Micky strangely again, something dark and sympathetic flitting behind his eyes. Micky stared back, knowing there was nothing telling showing on his face, and breathed a sigh of relief when the Texan nodded and looked away.
Much later, sinking stiffly into a gloriously too-hot bath, Micky set about scrubbing the feel of Him off his skin. Peter would be okay, he told himself. The doctor said he'd recover just fine. That made it all worth it.
Leaning back into the steaming water, Micky breathed deeply through his nose until the tight knot of tears dissipated. Peter would be okay, and he would never have to know it was Micky who got the money, for which Micky would be forever grateful. Micky had always known that loyalty came with a price, and he knew that Peter would know exactly what Micky had paid.
As his skin reddened under his rigorous scrubbing, Micky allowed himself a few tears. He figured he'd earned them.
END
A/N - I can't even apologize for writing this. It's 2 am and I'm high on caffeine and liveblogging party feels, and I can't be held responsible for the gut-wrenchingly callous and terrible things I do to the characters I love most.
There is a whole, big headcanon that goes along with this, and the short version can be found in the post I made about my Micky headcanons.
Words cannot describe the angry feels I have about the lack of action against violence aimed at prostitutes of any gender or orientation in our country. Don't ask me about them. I will rage.
RAAAAAGE.
Next up - CK's prompts! I would have a hard time turning that into something so depressing as this, but I will give it a shot anyway! (j/k, I have a bit of a plot worked out already, so it should all be good.)