Davy was sprawled out on the lounge chair playing checkers with Micky, who had dragged one of the horribly stained yet rather endearing coffee tables over so that they had a surface to set the board on. Peter came out of the bedroom that he and Davy shared buttoning up a floral print button up.
"You two want to come out with me?" Peter asked as he passed by, observing that Micky seemed to be losing the game of checkers by four points to one.
"Where are you going?" Davy took his turn before glancing up at Peter.
"Down to the club. I'll buy drinks," Peter answered, shoving his hands into his pockets.
"Oh, I'll come!" Micky sprang up from his position on the floor, arms a wild tangle in the air for a moment, "I've been itching to dance for so long."
"Lord, if you're gonna be dancing, I might take a rain check," Davy smirked.
Micky's eyes narrowed at the Englishman.
"What are you trying to imply? That I'm a bad dancer? Me? Micky Dolenz, the world renowned dancer? I mean, David, my title would beg to differ," the drummer hit back with a look so serious, Peter almost burst into a fit of laughter.
"I think your moves speak for themselves," Davy insited.
"I don't think you're a bad dancer, Micky," Peter piped up, pulling Micky closer to him and kissing him on the cheek, "But I wouldn't call you great either."
Micky swatted Peter away as he laughed, scowling, but Peter noted the laughter sparkling in his eyes.
"Oh, you're both such comedians," Micky rolled his eyes and moved towards the spiral staircase that led up to the bedroom that constituted the upstairs of the pad, "I gotta go change my shirt, so don't leave without me."
He sprinted up the stairs, taking them two at a time, passing Mike as he went up.
"Hey, Mike, do you want to come out dancing with us?" Peter asked as the guitarist passed him by, heading for the kitchen area of the pad.
"Nah, I ain't one for dancing really," Michael replied, opening up a cupboard and pulling out a glass.
"Are you sure? Micky and I are going, too. It'll be fun," Davy added, starting to clean up the unfinished game of checkers.
Mike set his glass down on the counter and opened the fridge. Peter knew it was a lost cause to invite Mike along with them to any social outing that wasn't a gig or a friend's house, but it never hurt to try.
"Sure I'm sure," Mike informed Davy, pulling out the carton of apple juice that was half empty, "Besides, I gotta check the papers for another gig and make some calls. We'll half starve if we don't get another gig soon."
It wasn't a lie but it served as the perfect cover. Although, Peter had to admit that he'd rather Mike find another gig than starve or, worse yet, have to find a gig for the gang himself.
"Alright, Mike, well we won't be out too late," Peter said.
Mike turned around, sipping his apple juice before flashing Peter and Davy a wide grin.
"Stay out as late as y'all like," he replied, "Or else you can come home and help me work."
"It's Thursday, I can't possibly work on a Thursday," Davy joked.
"Hmpf, you're tellin' me," Mike rolled his eyes.
"Alright, I'm ready!" Micky suddenly called out as he barreled down the staircase.
"Finally, took you long enough," Davy huffed, pulling on his pair of shoes.
"Oh, come off it, Jones, we all know you take eighty years to get ready," Micky hit back.
"I care about my appearance," shrugged Davy, knowing fully well he couldn't argue with Micky on that point.
"Will you guys stop fighting, I want to get out of here," Peter cut in.
"Sure, babe, if Davy admits surrender," Micky replied.
"Never," Davy grinned as he beelined for the door.
"Good luck with those two, Pete," Mike called after Peter as he followed behind Micky and Davy.
Peter gave Mike a quick wave before darting out the door. The trio decided to walk to the club since it wasn't all that far away. They talked about nothing in particular, with the conversation going from one topic to the next without any specific direction. It was cool outside, with the sun slowly sinking behind the horizon as the darkness of night began to set in. Already, street lamps were turning on and the breeze coming off the ocean was gentle. The walk to the club seemed only a few seconds. Peter could hear the thumping of the music before he spotted the actual building. They entered the building and beelined for drinks, all three of the boys getting a beer only because it was the cheapest option.
Davy grabbed a small table that didn't have any seats and they downed their drinks fairly quickly since Micky was itching to dance. Two of Davy's friends stopped by at the table just as soon as Micky and Peter had finished their drinks, so Davy excused himself to catch up with them.
"C'mon, Peter!" Micky raised his voice in order for Peter to hear him.
Micky grabbed Peter's hand and pulled him out into the middle of the dance floor. It was impossible for Peter to actually hear the music, it was far too loud. It was all pre-recorded music too, which disappointed Peter. There was nothing better than live music, well except playing that live music yourself. Peter watched Micky dance, people edging away from him as soon as they realized his style involved a random assortment of arm movements. A few hours passed, and Peter excused himself to get some water. As he was waiting, someone familiar came up to him.
"Craig!" Peter exclaimed, breaking out into a big grin.
"Peter, long time no see!" Craig mirrored Peter's grin, leaning in to exchange kisses on the cheek with Peter.
"How are you?" Peter asked as the bartender handed him his glass of water.
"I'm great," Craig said, a quick flash of something sad crossing his face, "How are you?"
"A bit tired. Micky's had me dancing all night," Peter admitted, wondering if he had really seen sadness on Craig's face.
"Ah, well, it is late," Craig nodded knowingly, then glanced side to side as if he were checking to see if someone was around, "Say, Peter, you should go visit George tomorrow. He's been meaning to call you up, but you know what a lazy queen George can be."
Peter hadn't thought about George in ages. For a brief moment, Peter almost had to ask Craig who he was talking about. Before AIDS, Peter had been just your average homosexual man, having as many sexual partners as wanted. Peter never thought it undignified to be so loose, but did feel slightly guilty once he and Micky had entered their tentative, open relationship. Like most gay men, Peter typically slept with his friends before they even became friends but Micky and Davy and Mike had all three been different. The friendship had come first, the sex later. All four of them were involved with each other in one way or another, although Davy and Peter did find partners outside of the home along with keeping things between the four of them.
Then when AIDS had hit, Mike had insisted that both Davy and Peter cut back on partners, though this jibe was aimed more at Peter considering Davy's bisexuality meant that a lot of the times he was seeing women when he sought partners outside of the home. Peter didn't mind and eliminated most high risk behaviors from his life, along with making major cutbacks in his sex life. George had been one of those recurrent lovers that Peter had demoted to simply friends during this time of his life, purely because George wasn't all that nice of a guy. Peter liked him, or at least thought he had, until one day George had a go at Davy, claiming that Davy was a disgusting closeted fag who had no business being in a gay club. Peter had lost it at that comment and snapped at George, who hit right back. So why was George all of a sudden wanting to call him up?
"Alright, I will," Peter agreed, a slight sinking feeling washing over him.
"Great! He'll be so pleased to see you," Craig smiled genuinely at Peter, but there it was again, that hint of melancholy.
Peter wondered if perhaps it was just the lighting in the club or if he was really seeing that slight tinge of emotion. Someone came up to Craig then and whispered something into his ear. Craig nodded as the person drew back.
"I've gotta get going, Peter, it was nice seeing you," Craig reached out and gently brushed his hand against Peter's arm.
"Have a nice rest of the night, Craig," Peter bid ado to his friend and watched as Craig and the other man exited the club.
A yawn ripped through Peter then and he knew that Craig wouldn't be the only one heading home. Although typically Peter could match Micky's energy on the dancefloor, it seemed that tonight just wasn't his night and already Peter was bushed. Scanning the dancefloor for Micky's curly mane, Peter made his way over to the table that Davy was still stood at.
"Hey, I think I'm gonna head home," Peter informed the Englishman.
Davy's friends must have left only a little bit before Peter had arrived because the singer looked as if he was just about to set off for the dancefloor.
"Oh, really? Are you feeling alright?" Davy asked, a frown furrowing his bushy eyebrows.
"I'm just feeling really beat, that's all," Peter replied, feeling much older than he actually was.
Usually he could dance the night away just like his friends and feeling this tired, this early made Peter feel like some sort of grandpa. An old timer not meant for
such public scenes such as a dance club. Davy's mouth twitched, a giveaway that the Englishman was suddenly in deep thought.
"Alright, well, do you want me and Micky to walk you home?" Davy questioned.
Peter took another glance at the dance floor and this time pinpointed where Micky was. He wore a big grin on his sweaty face, his hair sticking to his brow. He looked so happy and, Peter thought to himself, quite sexy. Despite the fact that he didn't necessarily want to walk home by himself, Peter knew he didn't have the heart to tear Micky away from the fun.
"I'll be fine, you guys stay. It's not as if I'm dying. I'm just tired," Peter assured Davy.
Davy didn't really seem too convinced but he nodded anyways and moved closer to Peter.
"Be careful then, okay?" he leaned forward and they exchanged a kiss.
Davy tasted of beer and it left Peter with an unpleasant aftertaste. But he'd do anything for Davy.
"I will. Don't let Micky hurt himself out there," Peter chuckled.
"Alright, goodnight, Pete," Davy gave Peter one last smile and a wave before disappearing into the thronging crowd of dancers.
With that, Peter headed back to the pad. It was far too chilly out now that the sun had completely disappeared from the sky, it's replacement the moon doing very little for warmth. Peter shivered and wrapped his arms around himself in a vain attempt to try and warm himself. His thoughts were focused on George and why he wanted to see Peter. In the back of his mind the dreaded 'A' word hung, poised to leap into Peter's thoughts at any moment, but denial was a strong force. It held back such a thought and all Peter could come up with was that George perhaps wanted to rekindle something from the good old days. There were no stars in the sky tonight and Peter walked the rest of the way home in relative quiet, his thoughts cast aside for sheer want of rest. When Peter arrived home, he found Mike sitting on the couch leafing through newspaper ads.
"Did you find anything?" he asked as he came over and sat down next to Mike.
"A few that I'll check out tomorrow," Mike replied, folding up the ads and putting them aside, "Why are you home so early?"
"I'm tired," Peter informed him, feeling suddenly embarrassed for no real reason at all.
"I don't blame you," if Mike noticed Peter's slight flush, he didn't show it, "I couldn't be out at all hours dancing. I'd probably die."
"Oh, bull, you could out dance any of us if you really wanted to," Peter reached a hand out and grabbed Mike's, squeezing gently.
"Thanks," Mike said in a suddenly small voice.
"Can I use the car tomorrow?" Peter asked then, seeing that he might as well get it over with now so he could go to bed.
"Sure, course ya can," Mike confirmed, smiling at Peter, "Just don't be late for practice."
"You know I wouldn't dream of it, babe," Peter leaned in and placed a quick kiss on Mike's cheek.
"I wish things could be different," Mike's voice was barely audible and Peter almost didn't catch what he had said since it had sounded almost like a sigh.
"Hmm?"
Mike suddenly pulled away from Peter and picked the ads back up, opening them almost as if he were going to go through them once more.
"You should get to bed, Pete. Ya need your rest," Mike advised him.
Peter nodded, said goodnight, and went into his room. As soon as his head hit his pillow, he was out like a light. The next morning Peter had made sure to get up earlier than his roommates, early than even Mike, which meant that Peter was almost up before the crack of dawn. Forgoing breakfast, Peter hopped into the car that all four of them shared and headed off to George's home. It was a Victorian styled home a few miles outside of Los Angeles. Having started his journey early, Peter beat a lot of the horrible traffic and made it to George's house under twenty minutes. By that time, the sun had risen into the sky and painted the clouds a wonderful gradient of yellow and orange.
Peter pulled up to the curb and parked, pulling the keys out of the ignition and stepping out of the car. George's house looked just like how Peter remembered it, with it's glossy painted outside and the stone steps leading up to the front door. Taking a deep breath, Peter walked up to the front door and rung the doorbell. While he waited for someone to answer, a thought occurred to Peter. He wondered if perhaps Craig and George were still seeing each other. Maybe that had something to do with why George wanted to see Peter. Before that line of thought could be explored anymore, the door swung open to reveal George. He looked a lot different then Peter remembered him. His eyes had dark rings under them and he looked as if he had lost a lot of weight. But the most striking change Peter noticed, but did not comprehend, were the dark purple spots on George's neck, almost hidden by the shirt he was wearing. As soon as he saw Peter, George's facial expression went from shocked to fearful to angered until finally it settled upon a forced cheerfulness.
"Peter, what are you doing here?" George sounded scared.
"Craig told me to come by," Peter informed him.
"That bastard," George swore, glancing at the ground for a moment before holding the door open wider so that Peter could enter, "Well, you should come sit down if we're going to do this."
Peter had to keep reminding himself to breath and he felt his legs move forward, but he himself was so far away at this point it was almost as if Peter were in some sort of dream. As he made his way into the living room, as he sat down on the couch across from the chair that George sat down in, all he could think about were those purple spots. They could only mean one thing.
"So, um, how are you, Peter? It's been awhile, hasn't it," George's attempt at humor fell flat, if it was humor at all, Peter frankly couldn't tell.
"I…," Peter cleared his throat, focusing his thoughts as best he could, "I've been alright. You?"
There was no doubt in his mind now why George had wanted to see him. Peter saw George almost physically flinch at the question.
"Well… I mean, the lesions are hard to hide, especially when I didn't have a chance to properly cover them up," George sighed, rubbing his hand up and down his leg. A familiar nervous tick. It just made Peter feel as if he were standing atop a high ledge.
"Yeah," Peter had to keep a level head.
"Guess there isn't much point to trying to hide it then," George went on and straightened himself a little more, "I have AIDS."
There it was. The one word Peter never thought he'd hear anyone say to him. Sure, he knew people who had gotten sick and wasted away. This cruel disease made sure no one was left untouched. But never had Peter had one of his closer friends get it. He had been lucky. So very lucky and it was only in this moment that he realized just how lucky he had been. But luck never lasted.
"How long?" Peter swallowed the lump in his throat, hands bunching up the hem of his shirt. He needed to hold onto something before he lost his grip on reality.
"About four weeks now. I was hospitalized for PCP," George replied without hesitation.
"Four weeks?" Peter frowned, figuring he must have misheard George.
"Give or take a day, yes," George nodded.
"You were diagnosed four weeks ago and I'm only hearing about this now?" Peter couldn't wrap his head around this.
Surely George would have told Peter the day he had been given the news. That was how it went. Anyone you had slept with had an immediate right to know about any AIDS diagnosis so that they could get tested right away. That was the protocol, as far as Peter understood it. As far as Peter cared.
"Well, yeah, I'm positive I didn't give anything to you," George shifted uncomfortably in his chair.
A flame of rage threatened to consume Peter at those words.
"You're positive you didn't give me anything? You're a plumber, George, not a doctor. What makes you positive that you didn't give me anything?" Peter snapped.
"I-I know I couldn't have given you anything, Peter, we haven't seen each other in so long," George seemed taken aback by Peter's outburst.
"Everyone knows you tell anyone within the last five years who has been with you," Peter stated, "That's how it goes. Why the fuck am I hearing about this now?"
"Peter, please calm down," the rubbing had turned to scratching, "I… I haven't told anyone but Craig. I don't want anyone to know. I have good faith that you didn't catch anything from me."
Peter looked George dead in the eyes, although it was hard because George kept glancing down at the floor.
"You don't want anyone to know? George, I have a partner. It's not just your life on the line, it's mine and my partner's life on the line. Do you even understand the consequences of what you might have done? If I'm infected and I haven't known I… I could have infected…," Peter broke off, the thought of Micky being infected with AIDS just too much for him to bare at the moment.
"Peter, you don't understand, I know-," George began but Peter cut him off.
"No, George, I think you're the one who doesn't understand," his voice began to rise as he spoke, escalating into a half shout, "How dare you keep this from me! Were you even going to tell me at all?"
George was very quiet and very still in the moment that followed, his eyes avoiding Peter's cold glare.
"I don't know… I honestly don't know… telling you, telling anyone… it just makes this thing feel so real. It makes it feel too real. I… I'm so sorry, Peter, I never meant to hurt you like this," George had begun to cry, the tears dribbling down his chin.
For a moment, Peter's anger subsided, seeing George look so small in that chair, crying as he was. But it was a brief moment. Because the implications of George's diagnosis were still weighing heavy on Peter's mind. He stood up then and George looked up at Peter, a look of pure fear on his face.
"I'm sorry for you, George, I really am, but you had no right to keep this from me. No fucking right," Peter said the words with a restrained tone.
All he wanted to do was cry, kick and scream, shout George's roof down. But Peter kept himself in line. He walked purposefully to the front door. He heard George stand up from his chair and call after Peter, "Where are you going? Peter, I'm so sorry." But Peter didn't look back. He opened the door and left, not even bothering to close the door behind him. He just beelined for his car on the curb. Keys into the ignition. Turn. He pulled away from the curb. Without thinking, he began to head towards the nearest hospital. There were no thoughts that came to Peter then, it was simply drive to the hospital. He felt numb, as if his whole body were shutting down. Everything was in autopilot as the world began to slip away.
The hospital had taken ages. No one had wanted to see him and Peter was eventually directed to a specific AIDS ward three floors up. There he spoke to a nurse named Fiona and she told Peter he could wait in a room that she directed him into. So Peter waited. And waited. An hour later a relatively young, not to mention handsome, man entered the room.
"Are you Peter Tork?" he had asked.
Peter had replied with a yes.
"Great," his smile had been so gentle, so genuine, "I'm Dr. Xavier Cole. I hear you want to be tested?"
Peter had explained his situation to Dr. Cole, who listened attentively. After Peter had finished, the doctor had told Peter that everything would be alright, no matter what the results turned out to be.
"If you're negative, come back 3 months from now and if that tests negative, you're golden," he had told Peter, "And if you aren't negative, then we'll get through it together."
Peter had felt so safe with Dr. Cole. They ran the tests and Peter had some lunch in the hospital canteen, waiting out the results without even thinking about calling Mike or Micky or Davy. The hours had crawled by and Peter kept pacing around the waiting room that he had been demoted to after the tests had been finished. He had already filled out the paperwork to keep himself busy. At around six pm, Dr. Cole had emerged from out of nowhere, like a shadow dissolving from the wall.
"Do you want to sit down?" Dr. Cole had asked.
"Give it to me straight, like a ripping off a band-aid," Peter remembered himself saying.
"You're HIV positive, Peter," Dr. Cole hadn't tried to avoid Peter's gaze nor did he sound condescending or disgusted, "Your CD4 count, which are T helper cells, is right at 215. A CD4 count of 200 or below would mark you with AIDS. Do you understand what I'm saying?"
Peter had shook his head, even though he did understand, deep down.
"Well, Peter, your count is close enough to 200 that I'm going to say you should watch your health. I'm going to see about putting you on some medication so I'll be in contact with you soon, a day or two at most. Your viral load, the amount of HIV in your blood, is high as well," Dr. Cole had explained.
"So do I have AIDS or not?" Peter had found himself sounding irritated.
Dr. Cole hadn't seemed to mind.
"Yes, Peter, you have AIDS," everything hadn't spun like Peter had anticipated it to. It had just seemed too unreal at the time.
He had then thanked Dr. Cole who told Peter to keep an eye on his health and report anything unusual, even remotely unusual, when he called with medication recommendations. It hadn't been till the drive home that Peter had begun to cry. Maybe that was why he felt so exhausted by the time he actually made it home. The sun had set and it was so late. All he wanted to do was crawl into bed and forget everything that had happened today. As quietly as he could, Peter unlocked the front door and entered the pad. To his surprise he found a light on and the television playing a rerun of I Love Lucy. Micky was curled up on the couch watching the rerun, although when Peter entered the pad, he immediately leapt to his feet.
"Peter! You're home! We were all so worried about you!" Micky exclaimed as he scrambled over to Peter, nearly tripping over his own feet.
The numbness Peter had begun to feel was quickly disappearing as the panic of reality crept up on the bassist.
"Micky, what are you doing up? It's late, you should be in bed," Peter found himself saying.
"I was waiting for you," Micky's face was creased with worry, his nose slightly scrunched up like it always was when he was particularly concerned, "Mike and Davy went to bed but I couldn't sleep, not knowing if you were alright or not."
Micky then pulled Peter into a hug and a flare of almost animalistic instinct overtook Peter. He jerked himself backward, away from Micky, whose face twisted with a new bout of worry.
"Don't touch me, Micky," Peter quietly warned, feeling disgusted with himself, as if he were covered in filth.
"What's wrong?" Micky asked, eyes big and round.
"I… Micky…," the words were not coming to Peter.
What could he say? Well, Peter knew exactly what he had to say but he didn't want to. For a moment, Peter understood why George hadn't told him about his diagnosis until today. But at the thought of George, Peter's resolve was restored. He had to tell Micky. Then Mike and Davy tomorrow, along with a few others who could be at risk. He had to tell all of them because they had a right to know that Peter might have given them death. It felt almost as if his feet would at any moment give out on him and leave him to collapse onto the floor. But he forced them to move forward nonetheless and made his way over to the couch, where he lowered himself into a sitting position. All the while, Micky had been following Peter and as soon as Peter sat down, Micky took a seat next to him.
"Peter, what's wrong?" Micky repeated, taking a hold of Peter's hand and squeezing tightly.
Instinctively, Peter squeezed back.
"I went and saw George today," Peter began, figuring that he would start at the beginning of the end, "I went and saw George today and he told me that he had AIDS."
It took far too much effort to utter the A word. By the look on Micky's face just then, in that moment, one might have guessed Peter had slapped him.
"I'm sorry, Peter, that's horrible," Micky said, a quaver to his voice as he spoke.
"Yes," Peter nodded and took a deep breath, clinging to Micky's hand, "And so I went to get tested."
Micky didn't say anything. Peter felt a vast gulf of silence separate them.
"I went and got tested and Dr. Cole, he was so nice, he told me that he'll call me tomorrow or the day after concerning medication," Peter couldn't bare to say that he had it. He couldn't bare to say that he had AIDS to Micky's face.
Again, there was the silence, the vast abyss of silence. Why wasn't Micky saying anything? If Peter wasn't holding his hand, he would have guessed that Micky wasn't even there. But he was. And he wasn't saying anything. The tears came, hot and salty, streaming down his cheeks and dribbling off his chin in that suffocating silence.
"I'm sorry, Micky, I never wanted to hurt you like this," Peter whimpered, his voice sounding so quiet and child like, "George never told me. He didn't tell me till today and the fucker's had it for four weeks. I'm so sorry Micky, you deserved better than me. I should never have even looked at you. Y-you'll have to get tested in case I gave it to you, I'm so sorry, Micky, oh my god."
The silent tears gave out to heaving sobs and Peter doubled over from the force of them. The reality of it all had hit him like a brick wall. How could he have done this to Micky? God, he'd have to tell Davy and Mike in the morning and what would they say? They'd hate him, just like Micky hated him now. As he sobbed, Peter waited for Micky to yell at him. Hit him. Do something to him to express the anger that he surely felt. But none of that ever came. Instead Peter felt Micky pull him into his arms, rubbing his back and holding Peter close to his chest. Peter grabbed onto Micky, burying his face into Micky's chest.
"It's going to be okay, Peter," Micky said, although his voice sounded slightly muffled to Peter, "I'll get tested. No matter what, I'll still love you. And Mike and Davy will get tested. And they will still love you. Don't you ever think that I don't deserve you. You're the best thing that has ever happened to me, Peter. You and Mike and Davy. I would never think that I deserve better than you because you are the best. You didn't know, Peter. It's not your fault that you didn't know. Everything's going to be okay."
The words were a steady rhythm that Peter could almost feel in his heart. Hearing Micky tell him that everything would be alright felt like the weight of the world had lifted from Peter's shoulders, if only for a moment. It brought on another round of tears but eventually they too subsided and Peter pulled away from Micky so that he could look Micky in the eyes.
"I… I have to make some calls tomorrow. And… I don't know," Peter wasn't sure what to say.
What could he say now that Micky knew? His life had ended. Their life had ended.
"I'll have to leave, maybe go home to Connecticut," Peter continued.
"You aren't going to go anywhere," Micky cut him off then, "We'll… I don't know, we'll have to talk to it over with Mike and Davy but if you want a room to yourself, Davy will just move upstairs with me and Mike. Or hell, Mike and I can move downstairs."
"I don't want to be a burden," Peter admitted, gripping Micky's shoulders as if he were holding on to the last life saver in existence.
"You won't be a burden," Micky assured him and then leaned forward, pressing his lips against Peter's.
A choking sense of fear overtook Peter but he didn't pull away from Micky. How could Micky still kiss him now that he knew Peter carried death inside of him.
"Plus, hell, they say this is the best time to have AIDS," Micky added as he pulled back, his sense of humor creeping back.
"They say that?" Peter arched an eyebrow.
"Yeah, sure they do, all those doctors and stuff. There's, like, lots of medication and treatments and stuff, so you're chances of surviving are a lot higher than the early years, ya know. There's been a lot of advances," Micky was rambling.
He always rambled when he felt scared or vulnerable. Peter rubbed Micky's arm.
"Thank you, Micky," he mumbled before another round of sobs overtook him.
"Hey, hey, don't cry babe, it's going to be okay, I promise," Peter heard Micky tell him.
Micky pulled Peter close again and they both laid down on the couch, Micky wrapping his arms around Peter as they did so. Peter felt him place small kisses onto the back of his neck, murmuring something that Peter didn't quite catch. He was so exhausted and with Micky holding him so close, Peter felt safe. It didn't take him very long to slip off into unconsciousness.
Author's Note: Thank you so much for reading! I hope that you enjoyed this fic, it's been so much fun to write. I'm so proud of this fic and I also hope to impart some knowledge about the AIDS epidemic (in the 80s, not really the 90s). I'm no historian & I didn't live through the 80s, I'm just a high school student with a great interest in this topic. As the tags say, I had all this information about AIDS and the gay community at the time, and this fic just sort of happened. This fic is in no way trying to make light of the AIDS epidemic or HIV. I really hoped you enjoyed and that you have a wonderful day! :)