C8 - TUESDAY
This side of dawn, Mike woke in the same position in which he had fallen asleep. As soon as he was cognizant of where he was and who was with him, he again closed his eyes to let the soft sounds of deep, even breathing from Micky wash over him. The arm snugly draped over Mike's waist was warm and solid, and the rest of Micky was still curled up behind him; he hadn't moved more than an inch or two either.
After a minute or so, Mike felt, or possibly imagined, a light itch on his left thumb, so he moved his right hand up slightly to scratch it. In the process, he had shifted his weight just enough to be made aware of an erection that was pressed up against his lower back. He stilled himself and sighed. If he hadn't alresdy had an erection of his own, just feeling Micky's might have caused it to appear. More than anything, he wanted to wake Micky up and have an outstanding time doing something about their mutual issue, but he didn't dare. He didn't even allow himself to do more than blink at that rabbit hole of a fantasy. That's in the past now. And so he kept his eyes shut for awhile longer to mentally gather himself.
With slowness and stealth, he slid out from under Micky's arm and got out of bed as quietly as he could, arranging the covers neatly behind him to keep his bedmate cozy. Feet pulsing a bit from work the day before, he went over and pulled out a piece of paper from their bookshelf along with a pencil and, on an empty space on their chest of drawers, started writing across the paper in an elegant script.
/Had to go to work early.
Being that his job was farther down the road and he had slept longer than he'd intended to by some minutes, though fewer hours overall than he would have liked given the day ahead of him, he decided it would make more sense for him to take the Pontiac rather than Micky.
/Sorry I took the car.
From the back, normally blacked-out recesses of his mind, his father's voice poked its ugly head out and caused him to pause his movements. What're ya writin' all neat 'n' priddy for? You write like a girl. Quit bein' so queer. But he pushed through the antagonizing thought and finished in the same quality penmanship.
/May be late picking you up. Made you dinner last night — but you might like it for breakfast. Can we talk later?
He managed to get that last bit out, finally, even if it was only in writing so far. Now he just had to form the words on his lips this afternoon when the time came. It should be a piece of cake.
He walked back toward the bed to get the alarm clock off the night stand and move it over to where he had left the note — far enough away from the bed that, when it went off, Micky would really have to wake up to turn it off. Mike set it to give him enough time to be able to shower and eat and walk to work. It honestly wasn't that much more time, just an hour or so, but Micky might need it to be functional for work. Looking over at his sleeping form, Mike let his eyes linger. How he wanted to lean over and kiss his brow and tell him goodbye. He's out, so he won't know it. And it'd be the very last time. With the internal debate and its accompanying ache swirling inside him, he didn't budge for an exteded moment. But I won't because I shouldn't, and I need ta stop thinkin' 'bout that. It's over now. So he did nothing but visually trace Micky's features and then walk away. In vain, he tried not to feel too much.
-—-—-
"Uggghhh." The shrill clang of the alarm dragged Micky kicking and screaming into the land of the living. He crawled over the bed and almost fell onto the floor as the world spun. He tried to stand up, finally accomplishing that task and getting across the few feet to smack the alarm off. Mike must have wanted to make sure I'd get up., he thought once completely vertical. The edges of his blurry morning vision caught sight of a piece of paper as it fluttered to the floor due to the whooshing of his arm to turn off the buzzer. He picked it up, rubbing at an eye with the fingers of his other hand. His dry lips pulled upwards before he even started to read the words. Mike has such artistic handwriting. I wish my scribbles could look half that good. He's so talented. Aw, he made me dinner? Oh, right, he said he would. Gah, and I came home late and zonked out. Great job, Micky! So romantic of you., he chastised himself guiltily.
When he got to the end of the note, he at first assumed "Can we talk later?" meant Mike was upset with him for coming home so late and so hammered after he'd gone to the trouble of dinner for him. And he was probably worried. But Micky did remember they cuddled. Or maybe it was just me who cuddled and he was put out because he had to deal with me and then had to get up early for work? The situation wasn't quite clear to Micky in retrospect. Then, after another second, he thought, But passive aggressive isn't really his style. and considered the possibility that Mike just wanted to talk about how to handle things in front of Davy and Peter since Peter would be home tonight. That explanation made more sense to Micky. But he would apologize to him anyway. And then I'll make it up to him., he thought with a sly grin.
With the excitement of discovering what meal awaited him, he almost slid down the railing to the kitchen. But at the last second, he thought better of it; after last night, he was still a bit groggy, and his balance was still a bit off. So after shuffling fown the stairs, he was pleasantly surprised to find in the ice box a solid meal of already-toasted bruschettas fully loaded with sausage, mozzarella, sundried tomatoes, olives, and artichoke. Oh, and smoked salmon and champagne! Wow! He heated up his breakfast and ate it with delight. When only crumbs remained, he sighed with a smile on his face. Looking over at the clock on the wall and finding he didn't have any more time to spare, he hopped in the shower, singing at the top of his lungs, then got himself together and strolled downtown to work, whistling most of the way.
-—-—-
It was nearing midday, and the latest customer had left the store with his record purchase and a smile on his face. Micky sat down on the stool behind the counter, leaned his elbows onto the glass casing in front of him, and smacked his lips in satisfaction; he could still taste the steamed artichoke and olives on his tongue. Apart from his mother's cooking, he contemplated that it was some of the better food he'd had in a long time. The phone rang then, and the curly-haired associate shifted to answer it right away. "Wilson Music, Micky speaking!"
"Hi, Micky." The Texan had a ten-minute break, so he called over to the music store in the hopes Micky wasn't busy.
"Mike!" He stood back up. "Man, I missed you this morning." And I missed you yesterday while I was at work, and I missed you while I was at the party too, but that's okay; I get it. They had only just gotten together, so even though Micky had had feelings for Mike for a long time, he didn't want to overwhelm him. And it was doubly a consideration he made given that in the time he had known Mike, he hadn't known him to actually be in an relationship for longer than one or two half-hearted dates, and so he didn't want to come on too strong. He even went so far as to intentionally lose track of time and stay until the end of the party in order to give Mike some extra time to himself, knowing how Mike liked to have an occasional breather away from the rest of his housemates. But still, Micky missed him, and in thinking on it, if he had it to do over again, he would have drunk a little less and come home a little earlier. "I'm sorry I got home so late and then passed out"
At which point Mike thought, That all sounds kinda suspicious out loud. Sure, Mr. Wilson might not be there to overhear him, Thank God., but I wish Micky had a hangup about talkin' about private stuff on the phone.
"...on you? Did I pass out on you or near you?", Micky finished his thought while trying to remember the specifics beyond the fuzzy recollection of cuddling, wondering if he'd just imagined passing out on top of Mike rather than next to him. All he knew for sure is that, somehow, he had woken up warm and on his side of Mike's bed and not on the floor somewhere.
Mike cringed a bit. "Don't worry about it."
He hesitated for a split second at Mike's easy dismissal. It didn't seem like he was upset with him for being inanely sloshed, so he relaxed, glad he hadn't annoyed him. "Okay. But thanks for breakfast, babe.", his tone started to shift. "That was really something! Fine dining. How did you manage that, anyway?"
"Mr. Garcia gave me a bonus — a sack of whatever I could carry out of the store. Hope what I put together tasted alright bein' reheated."
"Are you kidding? It was fantastic, and so are you."
Mike pulled his collar with tie around it away from his throat which suddenly felt like it had tightened. "Well, I'm glad ya liked it."
"Sure did. A whole lot. Hey, you okay with having the leftovers from Mom's tonight? And I saved your salmon and champagne; we can have that for your birthday or maybe save it for the new year with the guys? Whatever you want. But I wasn't about to open that stuff without you there to enjoy it too."
A half smile tugged at the corner of Mike's mouth. "That sounds good, Mick. I'll pick you up sometime after six if that works."
"Great! See you then." Micky would occupy some of the time after closing to wrap the two birthday presents he had gotten Mike the day before. If on the off chance he could find absolutely nothing else to capture his attention afterwards, he had dinner with Mike to think about and look forward to. And maybe he would even do what he'd done on Christmas Eve and light a candle or two to set the mood, now that he knew doing such a thing wouldn't be weird.
-—-—-
Being the easily distracted type to say the least, there was plenty to catch Micky's attention over the course of the rest of the afternoon. And an hour after he had closed up the shop, he was still wound up. So, he sat outside with the wrapped gifts and tapped away with his hands on his knees to the song in his head from one of the new releases. Seeing the red go-mobile pull up to the curb, he stood with a broad smile. "Hey!", he greeted Mike, then tossed the presents into the center seating and jumped into the passenger seat. He didn't lose a moment before beginning to rattle off commentary on some of the tunes and albums that were high on the charts as well as the latest promo vinyl he'd heard in the store, plus factoids about various recent customers. "You haven't heard the latest Yardbirds' album, have you. It's pretty hot. Some great guitar and racy stick work in there. You've heard the Beatles '65 record, though. It hasn't stopped flying off the shelves. Nearly every kid who comes in the door is wanting to get their hands on it. We're almost out of them again, and we completely restocked last week! You won't believe it, but there was this one girl who came in to buy it..." He wandered off on a verbal tangent as they drove home.
Mike was paying decent enough attention to what he was saying, sure, but sometimes Micky's chosen topics weren't quite what his mind would normally focus on. Not that it was focused at all when Micky was speaking, per se. He was convinced the man could sing the phonebook and it would leave him enraptured. Micky's voice, whether directed at him or not, whether singing or talking or laughing, consistently strummed just the right chords in him that traveled directly through to his soul. Though he hadn't given any drugs a go himself to know for sure, he imagined that the effect Micky had on him wasn't altogether that different from getting high. Unconsciously so, then, it didn't always seem pertinent to him to pay attention to Micky's individual syllables when the whole melody itself was just as enjoyable.
"...Don't get me wrong; it's not bad at all. It's just, I don't want to sound too out there, but I think what we've done is better. And your writing is right up there with the greats.", he winked at him with a grin, finished with his story.
"You think so?" Mike mentally went back and rewound Micky's dialogue in an attempt to arrange the words he'd heard and to take it all in. Of course Micky thinks well of us and'd praise our own band above... who was he talking about? Oh, right, The Beatles. He nearly laughed; to hear that level of praise from Micky for their band brought him warmth, much the same as it brought him to just be with Micky in general. It would normally bring him peace as well, that was unquestionably true, but that was before. Now, he regularly teetered between contentment and unease.
"Seriously, we are outta sight. I said it the other day, but I'm serious — I just know that we're on the brink of something big. We'll have our own album for sale in stores in no time."
He nodded through Micky's enthusiasm. "That'd be real nice. I hope so." Man, he hoped so. But his uncertainty caused him to skip tracks over to another topic. If he were to just sit here listening to his best friend's easy chatter and try to ignore his own feelings, Mike could pretend everything was as normal between them as it had ever been. But the knot of worry that had been developing in his gut was growing difficult to ignore. Now's prob'ly as good a time as any to work the conversation in., he decided. "Mick—"
"Hold that thought!", the young man in question interrupted with delight, raising the radio's volume and effortlessly singing along like a maniac, pleased as could be with life. "...Orleans... they COLLLLLL the RIIIISING Sun!..."
Mike fondly shook his head and leaned back, captivated by Micky's voice and style as always, shoving down into the recesses of his mind for a just a little while longer the fact that he'd once again been kept from — that he kept himself from — saying what he needed to say, what needed to be said. Not that he had come up with exactly what those words should be; he could never seem to find quite enough willpower to concentrate long or hard enough to find them. Micky being there, being with Micky, thinking of Micky, letting Micky be kept seeming to capture the highest importance to him above any potentially disruptive functions. Micky was a drug he needed to be strong enough to come down from, and he had to come down from him very soon. In just another minute. When we get home.