Davy drove them to the hospital. Micky had sat in the back with Peter, while Mike sat shotgun. The drive was one filled with fearful tension, so much so that it felt like years. As they walked into the hospital, Mike went up to the front desk and asked for Dr. Cole. Micky held onto Peter's hand tightly. Davy held Peter's other hand, although Micky couldn't tell if he was holding on tightly or not. Mike came back to them and said that they had to go up to the AIDS ward, and that Dr. Cole would be up there, waiting for them. So they went up to the AIDS ward and sure enough, there was Dr. Cole. He greeted the four of them with a smile and Micky couldn't help but feel angry at that. How could he smile at them like that when Peter might be dying?
"Evening, guys, what seems to be the problem?" Dr. Cole asked.
"Go on, Peter," Davy gently urged Peter.
Peter, in a voice that Micky found oddly calm, explained what he was feeling, about the fever, and added that he knew something was wrong. The whole time, Dr. Cole nodded his head and when Peter had finished, he rubbed at his chin.
"Okie dokie, Peter, come with me and let's figure out what's going on," Dr. Cole sounded as if nothing at all was wrong.
Micky didn't want to let go of Peter's hand but Peter let go and followed Dr. Cole down the hallway, leaving Micky, Davy, and Mike in the small waiting area.
"Micky, let's sit down," Davy suggested.
Micky did as Davy told him to and sat down. But he wasn't really thinking about his two friends right now. All he could think about was how Peter had gotten sick. Hadn't he gotten sick all too quickly? Why hadn't this Dr. Cole checked Peter for any illnesses when he got tested?
"He's gonna be alright, Mick, you'll see," Micky heard Mike say in an attempt to comfort Micky.
He's going to be alright. Micky let that thought stay in his mind for a moment. Then he noticed that he was holding hands with two other people, despite the fact that Peter wasn't around. Davy and Mike both had a hold of Micky's hands. Giving them both a squeeze, Micky took a deep breath in and a deep breath out. Peter would be alright, and all four of them were in this together. After a while, Dr. Cole reemerged from wherever he had taken Peter. Micky stood up, letting go of both Mike and Davy's hands'.
"Is he going to be okay?" Micky demanded to know.
He felt Davy come to his side, taking his hand again, despite the fact that Micky felt so far away in this moment that he barely noticed Davy.
"Well, it could be worse news," Dr. Cole said, shoving his hands into the pockets of his blue scrubs, "Peter has thrush. It's spread from the esophagus into his lungs. I'm putting him on some antifungal medication and I also want him to stay here until the thrush clears up 'cause his CD4 count has dropped dramatically since the last time he saw me and his viral load is much higher than I'd like it to be."
"What about the AZT?" Micky asked.
"I can't put Peter on any other sort of medication until the thrush has cleared up," Dr. Cole shook his head, "But as soon as it's gone, granting that Peter doesn't have any other sort of opportunistic infection, I'll put him on a regimen of AZT."
Micky looked down at the tiled floor. All of this felt like a bad dream and he couldn't help but wonder how it was all feeling to Peter. Did it feel like a never ending nightmare? Did it feel just as horrible to Peter as it did to Micky? Was it worse?
"How did Peter get thrush?" Micky heard Davy ask.
"I wouldn't think that this is anyone's fault, so don't go blaming yourself about anything. Frankly, I'm guessing that the infection has been incubating for a little while and if Peter hadn't found out that he had been exposed to AIDS, the thrush probably would have brought him in and tipped us off to his condition," Dr. Cole answered.
"So, he'll be alright?" Mike wanted to know.
"We'll have to see," Dr. Cole replied, "Do the three of you all want to stay in Peter's room for the night?"
"Is that allowed?" Mike asked.
"Sure, I'll have a nurse bring in a cot and some blankets. There's also a chair that one of you can sleep in. Sorry we can't give you two cots," Micky noticed that Dr. Cole kept giving the three of them small smiles.
But why? What was there to smile about? Micky looked at Davy. He had a pained expression, the same sort of expression he had worn the day that a jagged sharp seashell had cut his foot. Micky then looked at Mike. He stood in stony silence, his face nearly a mask of indistinguishable emotion. But Micky could tell that Mike was trying to put on a brave face.
"That'd be great, sir, thank you," Mike said.
"You alright, babe?" Davy whispered.
Micky blinked, glancing over at the smaller man.
"Yeah, I'm fine," Micky impulsively answered.
"Sure?" Davy pressed, "Because you don't have to be fine."
"I'm fine," Micky insisted.
"Alright, just follow me," Dr. Cole clapped his hands together and turned around.
The three lovers followed Dr. Cole down the corridor, turned the corner, and walked down another hallway. Once they reached room 146, Dr. Cole stopped and opened the door. Inside, Micky saw that Peter was lying on a hospital bed, the covers pulled up to his chest. He was wearing a hospital gown and it appeared that he was asleep.
"The nurse'll be by soon with that cot," Dr. Cole reminded them before he left them in the room alone.
Micky went over to the hospital bed, taking Peter's hand into his. His cheeks seemed to be wet. Micky felt something hit the back of his knees and he looked behind him to see that Davy had brought over the chair.
"Here, babe, sit down," Davy said.
"Oh," Micky sat down, "Thank you."
"Pete, you awake?" Mike asked.
"Hmm?" Peter cracked his eyes open and sat up a little, "Oh, hey guys. Sorry, I guess I fell asleep."
"That's alright, it's pretty late anyways," Davy faked a yawn, although Micky couldn't actually tell whether it was really fake or not.
"Did Dr. Cole tell you about it then?" Peter wondered.
"Yeah, he did. It's gonna be alright, ain't it," Mike informed Peter, giving him a small smile.
"As soon as the thrush clears up, Dr. Cole says he'll put you on AZT," Micky added, still clinging onto Peter's hand.
This was far too much, like a nightmare. A nightmare. The word bounced around inside of Micky's head. But Micky knew that it was worse for Peter. All that truly mattered was Peter. He wondered what George was doing right now. Micky knew he shouldn't hold it against George for infecting Peter, but at the same time Micky hated that bastard. It was his fault that Peter was in this situation right now and he hadn't even bothered to tell Peter without pressure from Craig. If Micky ever saw the son of a bitch, he'd punch him. Even if he was dying of AIDS too. Just then the door to the room opened and a brunette woman entered, wheeling in a cot that had two blankets on top of it.
"Hello, boys," the nurse greeted as she set up the cot at the foot of Peter's hospital bed. It left enough room for people to move on by.
"Hi," Davy said, taking a moment to look at the nurse's name tag, "Cindy. Thanks for setting that up."
Micky glared at Davy, hearing the flirtatious tone of his voice and wanting to give Davy a good kick. Micky watched as Cindy arched an eyebrow as she finished setting up the cot. She looked at Mike, Micky, and Peter and Micky realized that Cindy was probably trying to figure out if Davy was gay or not.
"Oh, you're welcome," Cindy replied.
The joke, of course, was on her. Davy was neither gay nor straight. The small man labeled himself bisexual. But how could he flirt at a time like this?
"I'm Davy," Davy introduced himself.
Micky felt Peter pry his hand out of Micky's grasp and watched as Peter sat up a little, picking up the pillow that was on his bed and throwing it at Davy.
"Down boy," Peter chuckled.
Cindy laughed at that and left, leaving Davy to glare at Peter, his cheeks a flushed red, although Micky knew that there was no malice behind that glare.
"C'mon, Peter, don't ruin my chances with the nurse," Davy jokingly argued as he returned Peter's pillow to him.
"No way does she think you're straight," Peter countered, "You're here with three men, one of which is dying of the gay plague, need I remind you. She probably thinks that you're just some sad old queen."
"I'm not old," Davy protested.
"Ya, you are," Mike chimed in. Micky noticed that he was doing his best not to smile.
"I'm the youngest of all four of us!" Davy crossed his arms over his chest.
"So you admit that you're a sad queen?" Peter arched an eyebrow.
All three of them were laughing then, sharing in on their little joke, but Micky couldn't bring himself to laugh. How could he when Peter had brought up the gay plague? How could they all joke and laugh while Peter was basically dying?
"You alright, Micky?" Micky found Peter asking him.
"Yeah, I'm fine, baby," Micky replied, not wanting to worry Peter.
It wasn't a lie. Micky was alright. He wasn't the one with AIDS, after all. But he wanted to talk to Coco. He saw Peter yawning and decided that it was time to get everyone to bed. And it seemed that he wasn't the only one thinking the same thing.
"So, who wants the bed and who'll be on the chair?" Mike asked.
"I'll take the chair," Micky announced.
"You sure, Micky?" Davy asked.
"Yeah, I've gotta make a call anyways," Micky assured him.
"Alright, then me and Davy will sleep on the cot," Mike said as he clambered into the cot.
"I love you all, thank you for staying here with me," Peter settled down into the bed, pulling the covers up to his chin.
"We're going to be right here for you, Peter," Davy patted the end of Peter's bed, as he settled down next to Mike.
As they all exchanged their goodnights, Micky got up and entered the hallway. He headed back to the waiting area and looked around. There seemed to be no one but then Micky went down a different hallway and spied a nurse. Wanting to be polite, Micky bid the nurse good evening before asking where the pay phones were located. She told him that they were near the cafeteria and went on to explain how to get to the cafeteria. Micky thanked her and headed for his intended destination. It seemed weird to be in the hospital so late. The whole place seemed empty and Micky felt as if that was appropriate, considering that at least right now Micky himself felt empty.
If he was smart, he'd turn around and just go back to the hospital room where the others were and try to get some sleep. He needed some sleep. He'd stayed up late two nights in a row and had gotten up early two days in a row as well. All in all, Micky was absolutely exhausted. But here he found himself, slotting a quarter into the pay phone that was bolted to the wall of the hospital and dialing his sister's phone number. It rang twice before someone picked up.
"Hello, this is Coco's place, who's calling?" an unfamiliar female voice responded.
"Uh, hi," Micky was a little caught off guard, "This is Micky, Coco's brother. Is she home?"
"Oh, Micky! Sorry, this is Beth, Coco's just brushing her teeth, hold on and I'll go get her," there was a lot of strange noises that Micky assumed were just this Beth character getting Coco for him.
He wondered who this Beth chick was and why she was answering Coco's phone so late. But then again, he thought, why was he calling Coco so late in the first place.
"Micky? Is everything okay?" Coco's voice broke through from the other end of the line finally.
"Not really, sis," Micky admitted, "Peter's in the hospital for thrush. They're not gonna put him on any medication until the thrush clears up, or something."
"Oh," Coco's voice sounded oddly far away, "I'm so sorry. Are you at UCLA?"
"Yeah," Micky answered.
"I'll come visit you guys tomorrow then," Coco informed him.
"Alright," Micky said.
There was a moment of silence and Micky watched as a white coated doctor strolled down the hallway he was in.
"Micky, are you still there?" Coco asked.
"What?" Micky reflexively asked, forgetting for a moment that he was talking on the phone with Coco, "Oh, yes, I'm still here."
"You sound tired. Do you wanna go to bed, maybe?" Coco suggested.
She sounded worried and Micky didn't blame her. Why was he even calling her right now? He knew the answer. It was because he needed a moment to escape before he had to sleep. Just one moment away from everything and the only person he found that could give what he wanted, what he needed, was Coco.
"Not yet. I just… How was your day?" Micky asked.
"Um… it was alright. I did some volunteering and then I went to the animal shelter with Carol because she's looking to get a dog. There were so many cute dogs there. One of them reminded me of you, actually. And so after the shelter, I did some shopping, nothing special, and then I met up with Beth. That was it, really. Nothing special," as his sister spoke, Micky pictured each task in his head, and it brought him some sense of normalcy.
"D'ya mind if I ask what Beth's doing answering your phone so late?" Micky wondered after she had finished up.
"She's just staying the night," Micky could almost hear the casual shrug in Coco's voice.
"Staying the night like a lover would?" Micky teased, a small smile dominating his face.
"Oh, stuff it, mister. That's none of your business," Coco snapped, but he could hear in her tone that she was taking his question with the humourous intent it had.
"I get it. Your in love and you don't want your big brother to embarrass you," Micky chuckled, forgetting for a moment that he was even in a hospital.
"You're ridiculous, you know that," Micky heard the roll of her eyes in the way she was talking, "But I love you anyways."
"I love you, too, Coco," Micky said.
"Well, then go to bed, okay? You need your sleep," Coco instructed him.
"Alright, but only so you can get back to whatever it is lesbians do when they're in love," Micky couldn't help but fit in one more jab at his sister.
"Goodnight, Micky," Coco sighed.
"Night, Coco," Micky then hung up the phone, leaning forward and resting his head against the backing of the pay phone for a moment.
The question of why was this all happening to him and the person he loved most in the whole wide universe kept circling around in his head. Coco ran no real risk of contracting AIDS, nor did any of her partners. For a moment, he cursed his sister and wished that all of this was happening to her and her partner instead of him and his. But the moment passed and Micky instantly regretted thinking those thoughts. He wouldn't wish this scenario onto anyone else, especially his beloved little sister, and he knew that he was not the only gay upset and angry at fate. Yawning, Micky forced his legs to carry him back to the hospital room. Inside, he found Mike and Davy curled up together on the cot at the bottom of Peter's bed. In the murky darkness of the room, Micky found it oddly strange to see them embracing one another in their sleep, especially Mike.
Feeling so exhausted, Micky slumped down into the chair that was still right next to Peter's bed. Peter was snoring softly and Micky yearned to take him back home and put him where he belonged. Peter didn't belong here, in this oddly sterile otherworldly planet. He belonged back at the pad, in his own bedroom and bed. All four of them didn't belong here. All four of them should be back in the pad. As if none of this was happening, just like how it used to be. Micky leaned his head back, tears streaking down his cheeks. Sitting their for a long while, all Micky did was cry quietly, so as not to wake up his friends. He cried and cried, until he eventually fell asleep.
The fact that Micky had baked a chocolate cake all by himself and then proceeded to frantically sanitize every inch of the pad was just proof to Mike that Micky was taking Peter's arrival home from the hospital after two weeks a bit too seriously. They had all helped to sterilize the house early that morning, just before Davy had taken the car to pick up Peter, who would be coming home for the first time in what felt like forever, and this time he'd be bringing back medication that would hopefully help him. But when Mike came in from a walk on the beach later in the afternoon, he found a freshly baked cake sitting on the kitchen table that read 'Welcome Home' in red frosting and Micky on his knees, scrubbing the floor for a second time that day.
"What are ya doing?" Mike asked as he put his shoes into the closet.
"Getting ready," came Micky's reply.
"We're all ready, Mick, just put away the cleaning supplies, and I'll dry up the floor," Mike said gently, grabbing a dish towel from a drawer.
"Peter'll be home any minute, it all has to be clean," Micky insisted, still scrubbing away at the floor.
Mike knelt down next to him and wrestled the sponge out of Micky's hands.
"Micky, me, you, and Davy already cleaned and disinfected everything in the pad this morning. Everything's clean," Mike reminded him.
For a moment Micky stared blankly at Mike and Mike wondered what was going on instead of Micky's head. For the two weeks that Peter had been in the hospital, Micky hadn't once left the building, and had stopped eating breakfast and lunch. Today marked Micky's first time home in two weeks as much as it marked Peter's. But then Micky stood up and Mike watched him go before drying up the area that Micky had gotten wet.
"You're right," said Micky as he moved the cake he had baked closer to the middle of the kitchen table, "Everything's clean. Now we just need to figure out what we should eat for dinner. What do you think Peter will want?"
"Why don't we let him pick when he gets here, yeah?" Mike suggested.
"Sure, yeah, that sounds fine," Micky moved the cake's position again.
Mike went to him then and wrapped his long arms around the curly haired man. It was an action that frankly made Mike uncomfortable but he knew that Micky needed something to ground him a little. And, deep down, Mike was proud that he had managed to make himself hug Micky at all. It was a sign that he was slowly, but surely, starting to accept himself as he was.
"Look, Mick, everything's gonna be fine, alright? Don't worry," Mike told Micky, pulling the drummer closer to him.
Then the front door to the pad opened and in walked Davy and Peter. Peter looked paler than he had before and he also looked a little thinner. But it was still good to see him finally home. Mike felt Micky launched himself out of his arms and watched as Micky threw his arms wide open as if to tell Peter this was it. He was finally home.
"Welcome home, Peter!" Micky exclaimed, "I'm so glad you're out of that place."
"Welcome home, Pete," Mike smiled as Peter came over to Micky and hugged him.
"Thanks, guys," Peter said.
"Look, we baked you a cake," Micky pointed to the cake on the table, "And what do you want for dinner? We'll have anything you like."
"Um, well, anything's fine," Peter's eyes shifted from Micky to around the room, "I don't care what we have. Anything will be good. I'm going to go lay down now, just for a bit."
Mike could tell the smile Peter was giving them was a forced one.
"That's alright, ain't it, Micky?" Mike said.
"Yeah, I'm gonna start making dinner anyways," Micky nodded before hurrying over to the kitchen area.
Peter beelined for the downstairs bedroom, shutting the door behind him as he entered. Mike then looked at Davy.
"How'd it go at the hospital?" Mike asked.
"It went alright," Davy replied, "Dr. Cole gave us a bottle of AZT pills for Peter to take twice a day. He gave him one of them at the hospital. If they don't seem to be working, we're supposed to give them to him three times a day, and then if we think the dose is too high, we have to call Dr. Cole."
"How'll we know if the dose is too high?" Mike wondered.
"If the side effects get really bad," Davy answered.
"What are the side effects?" Mike felt like he didn't really want to know.
"If I'm remembering correctly, Dr. Cole said that the side effects are nausea, vomiting, headache, dizziness, fatigue, weakness, and muscle pain," Davy quickly listed them off.
"Do you think that the AZT will really help him?" Mike asked.
He wasn't even entirely sure why he asked. There was a slight, bubbling anger deep down in Mike that he was doing his best to keep suppressed. A large part of him wanted to go to that damned Dr. Cole and hit him until he found a cure for Peter. But violence wasn't the answer in this situation. At least not towards the doctor that was only trying to help Peter.
"I hope so," Davy replied.
But that answer wasn't very good. And Mike didn't want to hope right now.
"Would it be alright if I went out?" Mike turned to Davy to study his face.
The Englishman frowned, a puzzled look overcoming his face.
"Sure, but where are you gonna go?" Davy wanted to know.
"I'm just going out, that's all, just to get out," Mike shrugged, "I won't be out all night, just probably out late."
Mike saw Davy cast a glance towards the downstairs bedroom, then towards the kitchen.
"No one's going to stop a grown man from going out," Davy said, but there was a tone to his voice that Mike hadn't really heard before.
But it was a yes to his answer in a very roundabout way and Michael wasn't going to stick around for Micky to protest to his decision.
"Thanks, Davy," Mike said before grabbing his shoes from the closet and bolting out the door.
It was six thirty and Mike didn't need the car for where he was going. A short, fifteen minute walk later and Mike went up to the nearest pay phone. He put in a quarter and dialed John's number. It occurred to Mike that maybe John wasn't home but as soon as Mike thought about this, John picked up.
"Hello?"
"Hi, John, do you wanna grab a drink?" Mike asked.
"It's only six, Michael, and on a Thursday at that," John stated.
Mike could imagine John's face then. A slight furrow of his brows, but nothing that would overtly give away his real emotions.
"Who cares? It's close enough to eight. Just… do you want to come get a drink with me?" Mike repeated, feeling a little frustrated.
There was a moment of silence.
"I'll come pick you up in-," John began to say but Mike interrupted him.
"No, I'm already at the bar. It's our usual spot."
"Is everything alright, Michael?" John asked.
"I just want to have a drink with you," Mike replied, "I'll see you at the bar."
Then Mike hung up. As soon as he put the phone back, as soon as he ended the call, he regretted his actions. How could he have just hung up on John like that? But Mike would see him soon enough and he'd have a chance to apologize. He was self aware of the fact that his thought process was riddled with holes yet he was powerless to change his attitude. A voice in the back of his head was urging him to just go home, call John and tell him to forget about it. But it was too late now. No turning back. Mike crossed the street then, took a left, and was at the bar. Walking in, Mike saw a band setting up on a stage in the back. Seeing three guys setting up reminded Mike of his own friends and he quickly averted his gaze, opting to beeline for the counter. Taking a seat, Mike ordered a beer. The bartender provided him one and Mike took a long drink from the bottle.
It had been a long two weeks and for the first time in what felt like forever, Mike felt normal. There was no shift at the hospital to worry about, Micky wasn't anywhere in sight to fret about this aspect or that minor thing, and in this bar there was no looming, unspoken tension. Mike knew it was a tension created by the fact that he and his friends all knew that they might not have much time left to spend with Peter. It was unspoken because none of them wanted to acknowledge that part of it all. Peter was better after all. He was on AZT after all. He was home after all. But what could stop the inevitable? Mike ordered another drink. And then another. Mike wanted to get drunk and he knew that beer wouldn't cut it so he ordered a double shot.
Downing that, he ordered another. Then another. The more he drank, the more he thought. If he could only find out where that George fellow's house was, Mike could go over there and teach the guy a lesson. How dare he ruin Peter's life. How dare he ruin Mike's life. A woman at the end of the counter caught Mike's eye. She had long hair, the color being either brown or black but Mike couldn't tell in the lightning, and was wearing a flowing top. A man was talking with her and Mike watched as he leaned in and kissed her. He ordered another shot. As the alcohol seeped into his system, the anger he had pushed down inside of himself was rising to the top. Another shot. Mike looked around the bar. Despite John's earlier protest, the place was pretty packed. The band had just started to play. There was a group of five men who were sitting at a table near the bar area. Mike watched them laughing together.
Those men would never have to deal with what Mike was dealing with, let alone what Peter was going through. Each one of them probably would be happy to beat up a homosexual. Mike would be happy to beat one up, too. And he hated himself for that. Every time he truly thought about how he was, he felt disgusted. He felt that his body had betrayed him. Growing up, Mike had never thought about sex or girls or boys. He knew he'd get married eventually and have kids only because he knew that was what his aunt Kate would want. But looking back, Mike knew that his younger self had no real desire to get married. Then, at the age of seventeen, Mike had been hanging out with his friends Sandie and Ben in his bedroom and Ben had left to use the bathroom. Sandie had turned to Mike then and leaned forward, pressing her mouth against Mike's. It had been the first time Mike had ever kissed someone and despite the fact that he only thought of Sandie as a friend, he and she began to date. But when Sandie wanted to have sex, Mike felt nothing. Sandie wouldn't be the last girl Mike dated but she was the only girl who Mike would disappoint.
Mike's thoughts returned to the present then because one of the men stood up and walked over to the bar counter. He watched as the man ordered a drink. The bartender handed the man his drink and Mike stood up quickly, pretending as if he had to use the restroom in the back. The man's path and his path collided a second later. The man's drink fell from his hand, plummeting to the floor and shattering into large pieces of glass. The man looked down at the shards and then up to Mike.
"Hey, what the hell, man?" the guy exclaimed.
"Watch where you're going," Mike replied in the gruffest voice he could muster, unfazed by the look in the man's eyes.
"You ran into me!" the man protested.
Mike simply shrugged. He saw the man tense up and was shortly shoved backwards. By this point, his friends were picking up on the fact that their friend was probably about to get into a scuffle and the bartender was also keeping an eye on the situation.
"I don't think I like your attitude," the man warned.
"You don't look so pretty yourself," Mike hit back, unsure of what he really meant by that but said it anyways.
Then it came. A fist, connecting easily to Mike's jaw. It was square in the face. It hurt like hell. It felt good. Mike wasn't entirely sure why. The moment he was hit, he realized that he hadn't really come here for a brawl. Or even to hit someone himself. All he wanted was this punch to the face. Maybe more would be nice, really a good beating, but Mike would also be satisfied with this punch. Because he couldn't exactly beat himself up.
"That all ya got?" Mike smirked, throwing his arms wide open.
The man's friends shouted something and Mike distantly heard the bartender bark out a few words, but none of that really mattered because the man threw another punch. This time it landed in Mike's stomach, doubling him over after knocking the wind out of him. Mike wanted to laugh but there wasn't enough air in his lungs to do so. The man punched him again, hitting his face for a second time. Then Mike was aware that someone was pulling him away from the man. The man's friends were also there, one of them pushing the man away from Mike.
"I'm sorry, sir, I'm sorry, my friend ain't in the right head," Mike heard the voice of an angel say behind him.
It was John who was speaking, who was dragging him away from the man. He was speaking to the bartender, who had come from behind the counter to break up the fight or threaten them or something. Mike wasn't really sure. He was only just getting air back into his lungs, each breath a fiery sort of one.
"Well, get him the hell home," the bartender advised, eying Mike for a moment, "And don't let him drive."
Mike watched as the man stalked back to his table with his friends, felt John pulling him towards the exit.
"You hit like a faggot!" Mike hollered to the man just as John managed to drag Mike out of the front door, depriving Mike of any satisfactory conclusion to how the man had reacted to his comment.
Nonetheless, Mike, having finally gotten enough air back into his lungs, began to laugh. His comment couldn't have been more funny, since Mike was a homosexual. He was a faggot! Mike could hit just like that man, maybe even harder, and Mike was a faggot. It was hilarious! Everyone was probably thinking that comment had been an insult when in fact, how could it be? Mike hugged his sides, doubling over from laughing. God, it was hilarious! You hit like a faggot. It was the best joke ever. God, he was so drunk!
"What the hell do you think yer doin'?" John's demanding tone caught Mike's attention.
He glanced up and saw John standing there and he realized how handsome John was. Who would have guessed a guy like John Denver would have been so handsome? His sandy blonde hair, slightly wavy, fell just right to fit his face perfectly and his eyes held a kind warmth inside of them. Mike nearly felt the urge to cry at how beautiful John was.
"You know, John, you're so beautiful," Mike whispered, leaning in real close to John's face.
"What?" John quickly pulled away from Mike, leaving Mike to nearly fall flat on his face.
"You're beautiful," Mike repeated, then laughed a little before correcting himself, "Well, I guess handsome is what you wanna hear."
John's brows furrowed together and Mike almost thought he looked mad. But how could someone so pretty ever be mad? Jesus, he was drunk. Or maybe, as an afterthought, John looked uncomfortable, not mad. How the hell was Mike supposed to know? He was drunk.
"Michael, I'm taking you home," John stated, taking a hold of Mike's arm and marching him to his car.
John opened the passenger's side door for Mike and helped him in. Was John angry? Was he uncomfortable? Upset? It was hard to tell when the world kept spinning just a little. How much had he had to drink? Mike wasn't sure and kept wondering just how drunk he was. Probably a lot but he also felt that this was such a wonderful journey. John clambered into the driver's side and started up the car.
"John, John, d'ya know that I'm gay?" Mike asked, his voice low and hushed, almost as if Mike was divulging his plans to murder someone.
He felt giddy. Or was that even the right word? He'd use it anyways. He felt giddy because he just called himself gay. He had never used that to describe himself. Not out loud at least. But he just did. It felt great! He wanted to repeat it.
"I ain't never seen you so drunk, Michael," John replied, pulling onto the street.
"Are we going home to your house?" Mike asked, excitement rushing into his chest.
"I'm taking you home," John replied, then added, "Why're you so drunk?"
Mike didn't answer and instead looked out the window for a moment but the way everything seemed to just buzz right on by made him feel queasy so he turned back to looking at John. It was the better option anyhow, since John was just so damn beautiful. Like a painting. Or better. What was better than a painting?
"Can't we go to your place anyways?" Mike wondered.
"No," John replied, "I think it'd be best for you to just sleep in your own bed tonight, sleep it off, ya know."
They lulled into silence. Mike was happy to just sit there in his seat and look at John. How had he never noticed how pretty John was? Or maybe he had noticed but never had the guts to admit it to himself.
"Why the hell were you antagonizing that fella anyways, Michael?" John asked after a moment.
"I wanted it," Mike shrugged, "I drank and got hit and you came and saved me. You're my hero, John Denver."
"That fella was ready to really hurt you, Michael, why'd you want to get all beat up?" John wondered.
"Peter's gone and gotten all sick an' I needed a escape, just an ole escape, that's all," Mike went on, slurring a few of his words together.
"That don't mean you gotta go and do what you did. All you'd had to do was call me up, we coulda talked," John said.
"I'm sorry, John. I don't mean to be like this," Mike said after a moment.
Mike wasn't sure if he was apologizing for wanting to get into a fight or if it was because he was gay.
"It ain't your fault, Michael, you just gotta little confused," John replied.
"Sure," Mike agreed, "But that don't mean I'm lyin' or confused when I call ya pretty."
"You don't mean that. You're just drunk," John repeated.
"I do mean it. You're the prettiest man alive and I…," Mike stopped himself then.
He wasn't drunk enough to tell John that he loved him. Mike wasn't sure if he could even get drunk enough to admit to John that he loved him.
"You're drunk," John repeated, "Just… stop before you say somethin' you might regret."
Why was John shutting Mike down? Was it wrong for Mike to tell John that he was pretty? Mike looked down at his own hands in the semi-darkness of the car. John wasn't ready to accept himself yet. Hell, Mike was barely ready to accept himself but he was going to be damned if he didn't. Mike noticed that John was pulling into the driveway of the pad. He put the car into park.
"You're home," John said, "And it's time for you to get into bed."
Mike unbuckled himself and turned to face John.
"I ain't nothing to you, aren't I," Mike stated.
A pained look flashed across John's face then. He reached out a hand and brushed his fingers against Mike's cheek. It stung a little from what Mike assumed would be a bruise.
"You're something," John replied, "I'd never say you're nothing."
"D'ya remember when we first met? I thought you were the prettiest boy I'd ever known from the moment I saw you," Mike admitted.
"Michael, promise me you won't get this drunk again and won't go trying to start any more fights," John pleaded, seemingly out of nowhere.
"Do you think I'm pretty, John?" Mike asked.
There was the longest silence that Mike had ever experienced. Then he saw John's mouth twitch into a smile.
"Course you are," he whispered, in a voice that was barely audible.
Then John's hand fell away from Mike's cheek.
"Michael, I know you're in a bad place tonight, but just sleep it off, okay? And please, promise me you won't get this drunk ever again," John reiterated.
Mike looked at John and he could see John was torn about something.
"I promise I won't get this drunk ever again," Mike caved in.
"And that you won't get into any more fights," John continued.
"And that I won't get into any more fights," Mike agreed.
Tears stung Mike's eyes and he wasn't even sure why. He took a shaky breath, leaned over and kissed John on the cheek. John returned the kiss after a moment before unbuckling himself.
"I'll walk you to the door," John said as he got out of the car.
"No, no you don't have to," Mike shook his head, feeling for the first time that night that perhaps getting drunk and fighting hadn't been the best idea, and for this he started to feel ashamed.
Embarrassed even. How could he let beautiful John see him like this. But John opened up the passenger's side door, unbuckled Mike, and helped him out of the car.
"Yeah, I gotta. Make sure you make it into the house instead of wanderin' off, trying to start another fight," John said as he helped Mike to the front door.
Mike couldn't tell if John was joking or not but he started to laugh anyways. He opened up the front door and then John pulled him into a brief hug.
"Michael, you're everything to me, okay. I just… don't like seeing you like this. Next time you… got something on your mind, you just call me up and we'll talk," John whispered into Mike's ear.
The tone of his voice made Mike feel odd. Not in a bad way, but in a way that made him long for something that he felt he could never have. Then they parted. John smiled softly at Mike and Mike returned the smile.
"Good night, Michael," John said.
"Night, John," said Mike.
And with that John walked back to his car. He looked back over his shoulder at Mike and Mike wondered what John was thinking. But how could he know? Mike was drunk, not telepathic. The thought of telepathy then made Mike giggle as he entered his home. Upon entering, Mike paused to look at the downstairs bedroom door. It was dark in the pad and so Mike could only just make out the door, but he knew it was there. As he stood there, staring at the door, something awful and hollow was trying to wheedle its way into his stomach. Mike walked up the spiral stairs and entered the upstairs bedroom that consisted of the second floor. It baffled Mike how the pad was laid out but his thoughts on architecture were cut short when Mike saw Micky. Micky was sitting in his bed with his bedside lamp on. His knees were pulled up to his chest, his head buried in his arms. By the way his shoulders were shaking Mike could tell Micky was crying. As Mike shut the door, Micky looked up.
"Shit, man, are you okay? What happened to your face?" Micky asked, a hand wiping away the tears on his cheeks.
Mike brought a hand up to his face, gently brushing the tips of his fingers over where he assumed the bruising would be.
"Oh, uh, yeah, some guy… hit me. It's fine," Mike explained.
"Hit you?" Micky frowned.
"Yeah, but it was all my fault, and John brought me home, it ain't nothing really," Mike shrugged, "Won't be nothing but bruising, anyways."
Micky's eyes narrowed as, Mike assumed, he observed Mike's face.
"Looks like it, but I'd still ice it a little in the morning," Micky suggested, using the back of his hands to wipe away the last of the tears.
Mike came over and sat down on Micky's bed. Maybe seeing Micky crying had sobered him up a little or maybe he was still just as drunk as ever, but either way Mike felt that it was only right to see if Micky was alright. Mike's face hardly mattered. Getting hit had helped him really, helped him to realign how he was thinking and all that. Or whatever bullshit Mike wanted to say about it. Really, it was a relief. A bubble had burst inside him when he had been hit and now he felt better. He knew he could handle Peter, his illness, and anything his other two friends threw at him. And now maybe he could try to give Micky the same sort of feeling.
"You okay?" Mike asked.
"Uh, yeah, I'm fine. I just didn't know you'd be home tonight," Micky shrugged, "But I'm okay."
"What's wrong, Mick?" Mike insisted.
At first, Mike could see confusion on Micky's face, a confusion that Mike couldn't exactly understand, but eventually Micky looked back down at his knees.
"I just… fuck, Mike, I just… I know I've been acting so weird these past few weeks, I just… Peter and I had something so good goin' for us, man. Sure, it wasn't as if we could ever get married but we had something real. And now… now it's all gone. Since the thrush, nothing's been the same. I mean, I know, I knew things would be different but I never thought… I never figured they'd be this different. Whenever I would try to kiss him at the hospital, just on the cheek, he'd tense up. He's felt so distant. I tried to kiss him today and he just pushed me away. I know… I know he's going through hell right now, but doesn't he know I'm here for him? I… it's selfish of me to hate him for not letting me kiss him. I understand why he wouldn't want me to. But I have… I'd never want to cheat on him, he needs me now more than ever but… It's ridiculous but I feel so alone because… I just…," Micky trailed off after blurting out his words.
He began to cry again. Mike moved closer to Micky and acted without thinking. He lifted Micky's head with his hand and kissed him. For a moment, Mike thought Micky would pull away but he didn't. Mike could taste the salt of Micky's tears. Then Micky broke off the kiss, face still very close to Mike's.
"You ain't alone, Micky. We'll get through this together," Mike said, feeling as if that was the right thing to say in the moment.
There was a moment after that then, when Mike wasn't entirely sure what Micky was going to do, but then Micky returned the kiss to Mike.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Thank you all so much for reading! I would once again like to point out that I'm not a doctor or a historian, and I encourage anyone who finds this fic interesting to do some research about the AIDS epidemic. This fic does not do it justice but it is also not meant to make light of AIDS either. I apologize for any medical inaccuracies but I am just a high school student, and I did my best to try and be as accurate as I could be. Feel free to leave a like and/or a review and stay tuned for more soon! Have a wonderful rest of your day! :)