The next day was Thursday. One more day till he would receive his medication. Peter pulled the blanket over his head and breathed in the hot air that always accumulated after one has pulled a blanket up over their head. All he wanted to do was hide there, underneath the cover, hide from all of the pain. Mike hadn't come home last night and Peter felt horribly guilty. What if something had happened to him? What is someone had shot him or hit him with a car, all because he just so happened to be out walking that night due to Peter's diagnosis.
Davy had assured him last night that Mike would be fine, that he was probably just out somewhere blowing off steam and he'd slink through the pad door in the morning just as grumpy as he had been when he had left the hospital. Peter was skeptical but all he wanted was Mike home, safe and sound. For what seemed like hours, Peter stayed underneath the blanket, hardly moving. He might have even dozed off a little, but Peter couldn't be sure. After a little while, he heard the door to the bedroom open and someone entered.
"Time to wake up, sleepyhead!" Micky's voice rang out, a sickening cheerfulness to his tone, "We've got a big day for you, Peter, Davy and I have a lot planned. For one thing, you and me are going to go visit with my sister and then we'll go pick up some groceries, anything you like. Lots of soup, too. And juice. And food. And then we'll take a long walk on the beach, like we always do sometimes, and then we'll stop to get some ice cream before walking home, maybe. If you're up for it."
Peter lowered the cover from his face by an inch. He saw that Micky was riffling through his drawer, attempting to find him something to wear for the day.
"Where'll Davy be?" he asked.
Micky paused for a moment before turning around and throwing a grey, loose fit t-shirt and a pair of faded jeans onto Peter's bed.
"He'll be cleaning," Micky replied, "Now get dressed, we've gotta head over to Coco's."
Peter pulled himself reluctantly out of bed and began dressing himself.
"Why is he gonna be cleaning?" Peter wondered as he pulled on the t-shirt.
"Because the morning after you told me about… it, I talked to Coco," Micky began, but Peter interrupted him.
"Coco knows?" he frowned.
Micky's foot tapped gently against the floor and his eyes averted Peter's gaze.
"Well, yes, she does, but she's fine with it. She's a nurse, she wants to help you and me and stuff," Micky answered after a brief stretch of silence.
"Why did you tell her?" Peter wanted to know.
He felt so hurt, so betrayed. How could Micky tell someone about his diagnosis without his permission? It felt like some sort of unspoken violation. Micky's shoulders slumped forward and he looked so defeated.
"I was so scared, so overwhelmed, when you told me Peter. I… I had to talk to someone and you hadn't told Davy or Mike yet, so who else could I have told, ya know? She's my sister. We share everything with one another. If any of her partners had gotten AIDS, she would have told me," Micky explained.
Peter fumbled with the button of his jeans, mulling over what Micky had said. It made sense. He knew that Micky and Coco were very close, both of them being gay and very forward with their orientation. Peter had always admired and liked Coco, even going as far as to decide that if he ever had to be with a woman, he'd want it to be her. And it was true, if anyone knew anything about AIDS it would be Coco. She had given up so much to help a lot of gay men.
"I understand, Mick, I'm glad she knows," Peter informed Micky after a minute or so had passed.
Micky looked up at Peter, a surprised look in his eye.
"Really?" he asked.
"Yeah," Peter nodded, then his brows knitted together, "But I don't understand about what telling Coco has to do with Davy cleaning."
"Well the morning I talked to her, she said that we should clean house to cut back on germs and help to minimize the risk of those germs making you sick, now that you have a weaker immune system and all," Micky clarified.
Peter nodded but didn't say anything in return. He hadn't thought about other infections creeping into his body and how susceptible he'd be to them now that his immune system was practically destroyed. A simple cold would no longer hold the same weight that it had in the past. A simple cold nowadays could prove to be fatal to Peter. It was yet another reminder of how different things would have to be now that the A-bomb had been dropped.
"So Davy will clean up and make everything all sterile to keep you fit. And we'll both cook you good food to fill you up and make you feel good," Micky beamed at Peter and Peter couldn't help but mimic the smile, despite how hollow the action seemed.
"Thanks, Micky," Peter mumbled, despite the fact that he didn't feel very thankful.
"Don't mention it, babe, I'm here for you, whatever you need, you just holler at me and I'll come running," Micky stated before swinging open the bedroom door, "Now, we gotta hop in the car and get to my sister's, or else she'll wring my neck like a chicken."
Peter rolled his eyes at that comment but neglected to say anything. He followed Micky outside, saying goodbye to Davy on their way out. The duo hopped into the car, with Micky driving. The drive to Coco's house was not long at all and soon Peter found himself sitting down on a sofa in Coco's living room, a cup of tea in hand.
"I didn't know we were British, sis," Micky commented as Coco handed him his own cup of tea.
"Oh, stuff it, Micky," Coco rolled her eyes before sitting down across from him and Peter in a chair.
"Thank you very much, Coco," Peter said before taking a sip of the hot liquid.
There was a slight pain that Peter felt in his throat as the tea went down. Perhaps it was too hot. He blew gently on the drink.
"It's no trouble at all, Peter," Coco grinned, "It's been a little while since I've had guests over for any sort of reason, so it's good to have someone over to make tea for."
"I just wish you had more to eat than biscuits, and not the good biscuits either," Micky grumbled, though the joke seemed to fall slightly flat in his tone of voice.
Peter noticed that Micky kept glancing at him and it was starting to slightly bother Peter. Why did Micky keep giving him sidelong glances? He took another sip of the tea, figuring that he'd probably blown on it enough to make it relatively cool, at least cool enough to drink. As he swallowed, Peter experienced the same pain as last time.
"Wow, this is certainly some hot tea," Peter commented, putting his tea down onto a side table.
"Is it too hot? I can put maybe an ice cube in it or something to try and cool it down?" Coco offered, placing her own cup of tea off to the side in order to get ready to go fetch Peter an ice cube.
"Oh no, it's alright, I'll just let it cool down," Peter waved a dismissive hand at Coco, not wanting her to get up yet again to get him something.
"Are you sure? It'd just take a moment," Coco was already getting up.
"I'm sure, it's fine," Peter assured her.
Coco looked conflicted for a moment but eventually she sat back down, picking up her cup of tea and taking a sip. The backs of Peter's knees felt sweaty and he wasn't sure why. Maybe it was thanks to the jeans, but Peter wasn't too convinced. He was too nervous. He didn't want to be treated any different. On some level, Peter wanted everyone to pretend that he didn't have AIDS. He wanted everyone to look the other way and act as if everything was completely normal, that nothing had changed in the past two days. But at the same time, Peter knew that nothing would ever be or feel the same again. The reality of that had been shattered the moment Peter had arrived on George's front porch and had seen those damn purple lesions on George's skin.
"So, Peter, what medication did they put you on?" Coco asked after a while of meandering conversation between mostly herself and Micky.
"Um, AZT, but I won't start anything till tomorrow," Peter answered.
"That's fairly typical. AZT has done a good job at helping prolong life in a lot of patients," Coco said, sounding so clinical Peter almost flinched.
"But it isn't a cure," Peter found himself say, a bitter edge to his voice.
"Yeah, but medicine is so advanced now. I'm sure in like a month or something, they'll have a cure for AIDS, hell, maybe even cancer. You never know," Micky pointed out but his words fell short in Peter's opinion.
"I wouldn't hope for that much, Micky," Coco told her brother, "There's a lot of red tape surrounding research on drugs for AIDS, I mean for the longest time AZT wasn't even made available to the public. A lot of guys I know have had to create this whole underground drug network in order to get anything that will help, even remotely. And even then, the side effects of the drugs can be just as devastating as the infections."
"Coco, stop it, you'll scare him," Micky snapped.
"I'm not scared," Peter hit back, sizing Micky up as he spoke, feeling like a small child proclaiming that his fear of the dark was gone despite knowing fully well that he'd sooner piss his pants that be submerged into total darkness, "Are there alot of side effects for AZT?"
Coco looked from Micky to Peter, an unknown look on her face.
"The most common side effects of AZT are nausea, vomiting, headache, dizziness, fatigue, weakness, and muscle pain. But it all depends on the dosage you're being given. If it's too high, they'll have to take you off it to fix the damage," Coco answered after an agonizing minute or so.
"But the doctor won't give you a high dosage. He'll give you the right amount, 'cause he knows what he's doing," Micky tried to reassure Peter.
"I wouldn't say that," Coco advised, "A lot of doctors and nurses, even the veterans, they're all still trying to figure out how to best treat this son of a bitch. Even if Peter's doctor does get the right dosage the first time, if any infection comes along, the dosage might have to be altered, or there's always the possibility that one day the AZT will just stop working."
There was a long stretch of silence after that. Peter could tell Micky was angry but holding himself in check all because Peter was there. Peter could tell that Coco felt that she was right in what she had said, and had no regrets despite knowing that she had offended her brother. Peter was glad that Coco had been straight with him. No babying. Treating him just like a normal human being. He was upset that Micky didn't want him to be "scared". The silence continued to stretch on and on and Peter couldn't take it anymore.
"I'm going to the bathroom," Peter announced, standing up and walking out of the room.
It took him a minute to find the bathroom and he didn't actually have to go so he looked at himself in the mirror. He still didn't look sick. Peter still looked like regular old Peter, but he knew it wasn't true. Deep down, he felt disgusted with himself. Here he was, in such a nice young woman's home, sitting in her living room. And just being here felt as if he would somehow contaminate everything around him. It wasn't true of course. Back in '84, there was a huge debate upon whether or not AIDS could be spread through casual touch but the CDC quickly put to rest that dragon. Still, sometimes people continued to cling to that thought process. Peter turned on the sink and washed his hands. Then he went back to the living.
As he approached, he paused in the hallway. Micky and Coco were arguing.
"He isn't a baby, Micky, you can't treat him like that and you know it," Coco was saying.
"I'm not treating him like a baby! You can't fill his head with all this bullshit about things not working and the medicine not working. I've seen how this stuff gets into people's heads and messes with it. Breaks down their spirit. Peter hasn't even been sick yet," Micky countered.
"Oh, you've seen this stuff?" Coco scoffed, "You haven't seen the worst of it, Micky, trust me."
"How bad does it get?" it was a challenge, Peter could tell.
"I've seen very intelligent men reduced to nothing but a drooling mess. And I've seen people go blind from CMV," Coco responded, "That could very well happen to Peter."
"Shut up," Micky snapped.
"You asked," Coco said.
Silence.
"I'm sorry," Micky mumbled, "I'm just scared. I don't know how to help him. I want something to happen, now, so it can be out of the way."
"It's okay," Coco said, "I'm sorry, too. I should have maybe held back some things. Just take things one day at a time. Enjoy the time you spend with him now, while he's still healthy. You never know when the first infection may hit."
"Will it hit?" Micky asked.
"Yes," Peter imagined Coco nodding, "Sooner or later, you gotta know it will, Micky."
"I've seen so many people die from this," it sounded as if Micky were crying, "I can't see him die, too, Coco, I just can't."
"Don't think about that until later on down the road, if that even has to be thought about at all," Coco advised.
The conversation lulled then and Peter realized he was shaking. Weak knees, sweaty palms. He felt sort of hot. Maybe it was fear, maybe it was something else. He entered the living room and sat down.
"So what have you two got planned for the rest of the day?" the conversation returned to more normal things.
Peter let Micky and Coco talk. He picked up his abandoned tea and took a sip. It was lukewarm at this point yet it still hurt going down his throat. There was a particular thought floating in the back of his mind, threatening to enter his primary thoughts at any moment. Peter couldn't quite pin it down, however, and so forgot about it. He wished that he had taken up Coco on that ice earlier. Maybe the optimum temperature of the tea had passed and that was why it was causing slight pain. It was ridiculous. But Peter didn't care. What would be the alternative?
After their visit with Coco had come to its end, Micky and Peter headed over to the grocery store to pick up stuff. Micky grabbed a cart and began walking through the aisles, Peter following him. It wasn't all that crowded in the store but it was most definitely not empty either. They passed by a frazzled looking woman who had three kids hanging onto her legs. She seemed to be trying to get them to get off her so she could move around the store unhindered. Briefly, Peter wondered how the woman could do it, day in and day out. Taking care of another human being who was more or less wholly dependent on you seemed so difficult.
"Alright," Micky's voice derailed Peter's train of thought, "So, we need some bread and milk. We're gonna get orange juice and you can get whatever other kind of juice you want, Peter. We need to get lots of soup, eggs, some ground beef, some pasta, rice, a big jar of peanut butter, a couple of bags of peas, some fruit and some vegetables. If you want something, just put it into the cart."
Peter nodded to signal to Micky that he understood. They went through the store, aisle by aisle, picking up what they needed to pick up and then some. For the most part, Micky and Peter shopped in silence, although Peter noticed that Micky did talk the whole time. The only reason Peter regarded it as silent between them was due to the fact that Micky was just rambling. His words had no real meaning behind them and they were, more or less, only there to serve as Micky's comfort blanket. Most of what Micky said were disconjointed and slap-dashed together. But Peter listened to him and did chime in every now and then in order to make sure Micky knew Peter was listening to him despite everything.
An hour and a half passed before they were loading quite a lot of grocery bags into the car. Micky had insisted they buy a heavy bit of junk food along with bulky protein foods such as nuts and the like. Although Micky never said it outright, Peter guessed that Coco had advised him to begin planning on changing Peter's diet. Along with getting horribly sick, AIDS also marked a change in diet as most men wasted away into nothing. It was important to maintain weight and Coco must have dropped the hint to Micky to start planning. There was a conflicting bolt of dual emotion inside of Peter as he clambered into the passenger's side, waiting for Micky to return from putting the cart back into the store.
On one hand, Peter felt a warmth spreading through his chest. It was sweet of Micky to be going so far already to help Peter. But on the other hand, Peter wanted desperately to cling onto the dignity of not needing such help, especially when he didn't feel at all sick. He knew that it was a ridiculous thing to think. Micky was helping him out of love and all Peter should feel was gratitude that Micky had taken this whole thing so well. It was irrational to feel a frustrated anger towards Micky for doing what he was doing for Peter. Yet there it was. The ride back to the pad was quieter than Peter would have liked but at the same time he was grateful for a moment of peace. Still, there was something tugging at Peter's conscious, something that didn't have to do with Micky or anyone else for that matter. There was something wrong with himself. It had to do with his difficulty swallowing. Or maybe it didn't. The nagging feeling flitted out of his mental reach as Micky pulled up into the driveway.
Together, they bundled all of the grocery bags into their home. Inside, it was the cleanest Peter had ever seen the place. The smell of antiseptics and glass cleaner permeated the air and Davy paused, putting down a bucket full of soapy water.
"Oh, you two are back sooner then I thought you'd be," he said, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand.
"Yeah, well, you've been pretty busy," Micky observed as he headed into the kitchen and began to put away the groceries.
Peter followed him, placing his bags onto the counter and helping Micky put away.
"Is there anything I can do to help you?" Peter asked.
"Nah," Davy shook his head, "I got it all under control. But, you could maybe take Micky for a walk on the beach so that he isn't around to get in my way."
Davy gave Peter a wink. Despite the fact that Peter's mixed emotions were back again, he smiled. Davy's charm had always seemed to enamor Peter, no matter what the situation was.
"Alright, that sounds like something I can do," Peter agreed.
"You make it sound like I'm some sort of dog," Micky cut in.
"Well, aren't you?" Davy teased.
"Just because I bark, doesn't make me a dog," Micky hit back, throwing in a little woof for added measure.
Peter rolled his eyes, laughing as he finished putting away his half of the groceries, telling Micky, "You're ridiculous, you know that?"
"I haven't a clue," Micky pretended to flip his hair behind him before he slotted the last few items they had bought at the store in their proper places.
Peter gave it all a once over. It was the fullest he'd ever seen their kitchen, considering most of time the gang just made do with what they could buy on a two day basis. Today, however, the cupboards were bursting with boxes and cans and the like. It made Peter shiver. But it also warmed his heart. He grabbed Micky's hand in his and pulled Micky towards the back porch, where a set of stairs lead down to their beach access.
"C'mon, let's go take a walk!" Peter exclaimed, feeling for the first time since his diagnosis an honest slice of happiness.
They bounded down the stairs together, hand in hand. Once they got to the bottom of the stairs, they removed their shoes and Peter couldn't help but give Micky a kiss on the cheek as soon as their bare feet hit the warm sand. Without a word, hands still clutched together, they headed to the space where the ocean waves lapped at the shore. For a moment they walked in silence.
"Thanks, Micky," Peter eventually said, eyes trained on Micky as if this would be the last time he'd ever see him.
"For what?" Micky frowned, kicking a mixture of sand and water into the air.
"For being here for me," Peter clarified, "I mean, not once did you get mad at me, even when you had every right to. I… I love you. I'm sorry this all had to happen."
Micky kicked some more of the sandy water mixture into the air as they continued to walk forward.
"It's not your fault, Peter. I love you, and I'm going to be here for you through all of this. You're gonna make it, you'll see. Sure, you won't live to one hundred like you would have, but you aren't gonna die any time soon," he said after a little while.
"You think I would've lived to one hundred? That's ridiculous," Peter chuckled at that thought.
"Well, I think you'll live forever," Micky shrugged.
Peter squeezed his hand.
"You're too sweet," Peter murmured.
The conversation lulled into a silence for a few minutes.
"Micky?" Peter piped up.
"Yeah?"
"Are you scared?" Peter asked.
Micky stopped walking and turned so that he was facing the ocean. Waves lapped at his feet, causing them to sink into the sand.
"I'm not scared for myself," Micky replied finally, "But I am scared for you."
"I'm scared for me, too," Peter agreed.
"You'll be alright. We're in this together," Peter could tell that Micky was almost at a loss for words.
"I know, and I'm very grateful for that," Peter informed him, "But it's also alright to be scared. Davy's scared. Mike's scared. That's why he said all those nasty things to me. "
"That bastard," Micky swore, his body tensing up.
"Mike didn't do anything wrong. He's just scared. Hell, I'm scared and I said the same things to myself that he said to me," Peter admitted.
"You shouldn't think those sort of things," Micky mumbled, yanking his feet out of the sandy depths that they had sunken to.
"It's hard not to," Peter said.
"I'd never forgive him, if I were you," said Micky.
"Well, you aren't me," said Peter.
A relatively large wave crashed upon the shore and tickled Peter's toes. He noticed a sand crab not too far away from where they stood.
"It'll be okay, Micky," Peter continued after a moment, "Two days from now, tops, I'll be on some medicine, and I'll be on the road to healthy living. Like you said, it's a great time…"
But Peter couldn't finish it. He couldn't bare to mention AIDS, not right now. There was a pain in his throat. Tears pricked Peter's eyes. Micky pulled Peter into a hug, squeezing Peter tightly against his chest.
"I know it'll be okay, Peter," Micky said, his voice rumbling in his rib cage.
They stood their like that, in each other's embrace, for god knew how long. It felt like ages before they pulled apart and absentmindedly began walking back to the pad, hands still glued together.
"I think I'll write a song about all of this," Peter told Micky as they reached the stairs that lead back up to their home.
"That's a good idea," Micky commented, pulling on his shoes as he did so.
"You think so?" Peter put on his shoes and began walking up the stairs.
"Yeah, I do," Micky nodded, following Peter up.
They entered the pad to find Davy and Mike at the kitchen table, a cup of tea in front of both men. Peter saw that Mike was wearing a new shirt, a shirt that wasn't his, and he looked absolutely horrible, as if he hadn't slept well last night. His eyes were bloodshot and he had his head in his hands.
"-is to be forgiven, even though I ain't got a right to ask," Mike was saying.
"Oh-ho," Micky huffed, hands going to his hips as he puffed his chest out, "Look who came crawling home."
It was a move that Peter rarely saw Micky do. It was an attempt to seem much bigger than Micky was, a fighting stance. Typically, Micky only ever made this move when he was nearly black out drunk at the clubs and got it into his head that he wanted to fight someone. And even that in itself was a rarity.
"Micky, quit it," Davy said.
Mike wiped his cheeks with the palms of his hands as he turned towards Peter and Micky.
"No, I'm not gonna quit it, David, Mike has to apologize for what he said to Peter because-," Micky began but Peter cut him off.
"Really, let Mike speak for himself. Okay, Micky?"
Peter gave Micky a long look, a hand going out to gently rub his arm. Micky looked between Peter and Mike before his shoulders slouched and he stalked over towards the fridge. Peter watched him for a moment before turning to look at Mike. Davy stood up and wandered into the living room area, an attempt to give Peter and Mike some privacy, or at least that's what Peter assumed. Mike cleared his throat.
"I… I'm sorry, Peter, I had no right to say to you what I said. I know that I can't ever take those things back and I know I ain't got any right to ask you to forgive me, but you gotta know that I'm truly, deeply sorry for what I did," Mike hardly paused as he talked and Peter could hear the shake in his voice.
He looked so defeated and it made Peter feel uncomfortable, because that wasn't Mike. Michael Nesmith was a strong leader, who had nearly an infinite amount of answers to any sort of question. Peter walked over to the kitchen table and sat down next to Mike. The whole time, Mike didn't once look in Peter's direct. He just stared down at the wooden table top, wringing his hands underneath the table.
"It's okay, Mike," Peter said after he had sat down.
Mike looked up then, right into Peter's eyes. A frown creased his brow. Peter reached over and took Mike's hand into his. There was a slight tremor in his friend's hand and so Peter squeezed, trying to tell Mike that everything would be fine and that everything was forgiven, all through that simple action.
"I forgive you, Mike. I… I understand where you were coming from," Peter continued, knowing that Mike probably needed to hear Peter say that.
Mike's gaze fell back to the table.
"I don't deserve your forgiveness, Pete," Mike nearly whispered.
"Nonsense," Peter said, "I love you, Mike. You were just scared."
There was a pause. Peter could feel Davy and Micky's eyes on the two of them. Part of Peter wished that the other two were gone. It would probably be easier on Mike and it would make Peter feel better as well. Right now he felt as if this whole exchange was on some sort of public display.
"I'm so sorry, Peter," Mike whispered again and scooted his chair closer to Peter's.
It was as Mike leaned himself against his chest that Peter realized Mike was crying. His damp cheek pressed against Peter's chest, arms wrapping themselves around Peter's neck. Peter embraced Mike, gently rubbing his back.
"I don't want you to die," Mike said, though Peter felt it moreso than he heard it.
"It's going to be okay," Peter assured Mike, despite the fact that he felt like such a dirty liar.
"Yeah, we're gonna get through this," Davy agreed, the smaller man joining in on the hug.
There was a brief moment in which Peter feared that Micky wouldn't join them in this haphazard group hug but then he felt a fourth person join in. They stood their together, silently clinging to each other for around three minutes. Then they pulled away from each other, although Peter held fast to Mike's hand. Davy smoothed out his shirt before placing his hands on his hips.
"Alright then, the house is all cleaned, we've squared away any awkward tension, I think it's time I get cracking at dinner," he announced, moving towards the kitchen.
"You're going to cook dinner?" Micky shook his head, his joke clearly weak.
"I could cook it," Peter offered, a sly smile on his face.
"That'd be the death of us all, wouldn't it," Davy chuckled, opening up the cupboards and taking out a pot and placing it onto the stove.
As Davy cooked dinner, a meal consisting of chicken and rice, the rest of the gang watched some television. There wasn't much on, or at least Peter didn't find what was on very interesting. By the time that Davy had finished cooking and they had all sat down to eat, Peter's head was pounding. It felt as if a wasp had burrowed into his head and was stinging his skull in a vain attempt to get out. Peter ate some of his chicken but it was proving difficult. Everytime he swallowed, it hurt. There was something wrong, the little voice inside his head kept telling him. This wasn't normal and it had only gotten worse throughout the day. A deep sense of panic began to set in and Peter suddenly felt very scared.
"Hey, Peter, you alright?" Micky asked.
"Do you want something else to eat?" Davy offered.
Peter looked up at his friends and realized that they must sense what he was feeling. For a moment, he wanted to disappear, to just completely be invisible. Why? He wasn't entirely sure, but the moment was brief and he took a deep breath.
"There's…. There's something wrong, I-I, there's something wrong," Peter said.
"What's wrong, Peter?" Davy frowned.
"Do you feel like you're going to be sick?" Micky chimed in.
"No," Peter shook his head, "I… my throat hurts and my head hurts."
Mike, who was sitting next to Peter at the table, reached a hand up to Peter's forehead.
"He's got a fever," he announced.
That wasn't good at all.
Author's Note: Thank you so much for reading! Once again, I'd like to point out that I'm not a doctor or a historian, I am just a high school student who did their best research wise with this fic. I'm very proud of this fic and I hope you all enjoyed this update. Look forward to another one soon. Feel free to leave a favorite and/or a comment. And I hope you have a wonderful rest of your day.