The Oncoming Storm
Chapter 3 – To Think It All Started So Well...

Pairing(s): Jet Star/Kobra Kid, aka Ray/Mikey (Rikey)
Rating: PG-13 (for now)
Warnings: Plenty of lovely foul language and mild violence, and very mild slash.

Chapter Summary: Hangovers, fevers, and failed attempts.


Urgghhh, fuck it all.

The sun, being the lovely ball of bastardised fire it is, had decided to rudely awaken Mikey at god fucking knows what hour. He was tired. He was hungover. But most of all, he was pissed off at an inanimate object that was millions of miles away. Such a lovely way to start the morning.

Are you shitting me...?

Happy and fucking annoyingly joyful, the sun made its merry little journey above the tips of the mountains, bringing more and more dawn light into the messy cave he'd been resting in. Mikey wasn't a morning person on the best of days, but this just took the fucking cake. And ate it. And then spat it out. Onto his face.

He felt like a grumpy old bear, and no doubt he was growling like one too – not that he gave a fuck. It was too early. Way too early for anything. Especially seeing as he had a splitting headache and nausea to match.

What exactly had happened last night, anyway? It was a little bit blurry for Mikey. Jet Star had tossed him a beer, and the rest was history. The kid had a shit alcohol tolerance at the best of times, but he was certain nothing bad had happened while he'd been under the influence.

What he did remember was pretty simple, really. Jet had got talking about some of his latest adventures, and Mikey had just sat there, listening with a sort of overly obvious drunken awe. The killjoy seemed to feed off of the attention, getting more and more into his little storytelling routine.

His enthusiasm was bloody contagious. Mikey found himself pissed out of his mind and giggling like a maniac, asking about all sorts of heroic feats like some shameless, doting little fanboy.

Damn... I'm seriously embarrassing when I'm drunk.

He couldn't have been more accurate with that thought. Mikey was always overly-happy, gullible and giggly when he drank. Not that he could control it; that's just how he rolled. Frank always used take the piss out of that, the bastard.

In all honesty, he was just hoping and praying he'd not made himself look like that much of an utter moron in front of Jet Star.

... Oh. Speak of the devil...

As if he'd suddenly turned telepathic and knew Mikey had been thinking about him, Jet began to stir from the other side of the cavern. He stretched, yawned loudly, and ran his hands through the wild, mind-of-its-own-don't-fuck-around-with-it-it'll-probably-eat-you fro on his head (not that Mikey was blatantly staring, what gives you that impression?).

Well, fuck. The killjoy didn't look tired, or hungover, or anything vaguely negative really. Nope, instead he already looked fully alert and ready to get up and go, brushing himself down and shifting the piles of random shit that had surrounded him in the night.

"Hmph... mornin', kid."

"Morning yourself..." Mikey began, still laid on the floor and feeling scarily dizzily as he watched Jet move around. "How are you even alive this early, Jet? Fuck, I'm too hungover to even move."

Jet shrugged and carried on trying to organise the chaos around him, not that he was really succeeding. "You just sort of get used to it out here. Always gotta be ready to run, you get me? Besides, you can't hold a drink to save your life – trust me, I can tell that already – so it don't surprise me one bit that you're feeling shit." He gave up the little cleaning mission as a failed attempt and slumped down to the floor next to Mikey, looking at him with just a bit of worry... but a lot of amusement.

Mikey averted his eyes and snorted, flushing a little under the stare. "Fuck you, man... You're the one who got me dru—" He was cut off mid-sentence by a pathetic groan as his stomach clenched in pain.

Now Jet Star was just a tad bit more concerned, to say the least. "Shit. Mikey, are you okay there...?"

Mikey just shook his head. Hell no, he wasn't okay. His whole body was burning up, and the sickness he felt refused to go away.

I BLAME THE FUCKING SUN! GAH!

Unsure of what to do, Jet gently placed the back of his hand on the Mikey's forehead, only to pull it away a split second later – fuck! The kid was on fucking fire! He needed water, and quick...

Conveniently enough, his half-empty canteen was within arms' reach, and he grabbed it – it'd have to do for now - and shoved it into Mikey's hands.

"Listen to me, kid. You need to drink up, I've got this bad feeling you're getting a fever. You need the fluids."

Mikey didn't even bother to acknowledge the instruction, diving straight in for the kill and drinking it all before Jet could finish speaking. Cool water trickled down his face where it'd managed to escape, and he sighed in relief... but it wasn't exactly over yet.

"Sh-shit, why am I still burning...?" He fell back to the floor, wiping the sweat from his brow and panting.

In any other situation, the sight Jet had before him would be fucking delicious. But right now, he had to wrestle back the stupid little perverted demons in the back of his mind and focus on helping.

Oh dear.

His mind could only come up with one solution right now.

And it wasn't exactly gonna help his little moral conflict.

"Err, Mikey...?"

His only response was another pathetic groan and a tiny nod.

"Umm, I don't know how to put this, but... if you want to cool down, you're gonna have to... strip off a little." He grimaced at his own stupidity as the last words came out, and he waited for the bad reaction he was pretty damn sure he'd get.

Mikey looked up a Jet, blushing furiously at what he'd just heard (even if he claimed it was the heat making him blush) – had he even heard him right at all, anyway? This was fucking embarrassing... but at the same time, the kid didn't mind it, either.

Aha, Mikey likey~
Brain. I would really appreciate it if you'd shut the fuck up now.
Admit it, you like him...
I barely know the guy! What the fuck are you talking about?
So what? That means shit. You like him. Let him strip you off, for god's sake. DON'T WASTE THIS CHANCE, FUCKTARD.
Okay, I have no idea what's going on but I think I'm fucking losing it. Why is my brain talking to me...?

"Mikey?" He was snapped out of his little bout of fever-induced insanity to find Jet still leaning over him, looking increasingly worried and just a bit self-conscious about what he'd said earlier. "Can I...? Or is that a bit too... weird?"

Mikey just gulped and threw his inhibitions out of that ever-present imaginary window, placing his arms behind his head slowly and awkwardly. He hoped that'd give Jet a big enough clue.

Apparently it did, because now the Killjoy was hovering over him, half-straddling him and half not. Cue yet another battle of the subconscious, this time from the guy who was supposed to be the sane one of the pair.

Well, this is awkward...
Shut up. You know you want to do it, really.
Fuck off! You don't know anything. You're just my brain.
I think you might want to rephrase that. Poor word choice.
... Shut it, you. Why am I even talking to myself?
I'm just your conscience, baby. And I'm telling you want to do this. Just admit it. Besides, he wants you to do it anyway, for one reason or another. Maybe more than one...
... Stop being right.
That's my job. Now just get to it before the poor kid dies of the heat and you die of sexual frustration. Oooh, zing.
That was uncalled for.
You needed it. Trust me.

Sick of his stupid conscience arguing with him, of all things, Jet finally gave in and got to work. He started with Mikey's shirt, peeling it off and finding it hard to resist the urge to run his hands over the pale, untouched skin that was being revealed.

And now you know why I said sexual frustration.
Oh, just. Shut. Up! I've been a lonely bastard, I can't exactly help it!
Whatever.

He tossed the shirt aside, not daring to look Mikey in the eye in fear of exploding from sheer embarrassment. Well, his loss – he was missing the bedroom eyes the now totally feverishly-insane the kid was sending his way, having lost any sense of dignity he had left (not that he had that much to begin with).

Jet wiped the nervous sweat from his brow and began to tug off Mikey's jeans, biting his lip and averting his eyes.

Not cool, Jet, not cool...

With Mikey stripped down to just his boxers, the killjoy scrambled away from the scene of the crime and sat a little further away, finally finding the courage to look at him again. Bad idea. Mikey looked fucking beautiful and exposed, and now he'd have the image burned into his mind every time he talked to him.

"S-so, umm... feeling any cooler yet?"

Still red-faced but looking a little less... deranged, Mikey nodded weakly, with an equally weak smile worming its way onto his face. "'m feeling... a bit better now, I think..." His voice was raw and dry, a quiet and almost inaudible sound that could barely be heard as he turned over onto his side. "It's still really fucking hot in here, though... and I feel sick. I'm really sorry about this..."

"S'okay. You need help, and I'm here to give it you. No apologies necessary."

Stop staring, stop staring, stop staring...
Smooooooooth operating, Mr. Star.
OH FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, WILL YOU LEAVE ME IN PEACE FOR JUST 5 MINUTES?

"R-right... thank you. Fuck, it's really hot in here..." The poor kid was sweating again, his face turning crimson red. Yes, definitely a fever or something along those lines. Jet didn't doubt that at all now.

He started to stand up. "Look, Mikey... I'm gonna go get the extra water from the car, alright? I'll be back in a sec—"

But Jet Star was cut off by a slightly insane, half-naked, young blonde man wrapping himself around his ankles. "No... please, don't leave..."

The killjoy sighed and sat down again, blushing at the adorableness of the scene and patting Mikey's head lightly.

This is gonna be a long day...