The next morning, Micky woke up to something he never thought he'd wake up to in a million years. Sleeping next to him was a naked Michael Nesmith. Mike's hand was draped over Micky's side, the blanket pulled up to both of their shoulders. The memories of last night were still fresh in Micky's mind and a smile crept onto Micky's face. He felt good this morning. Almost as if he had purged everything last night, leaving him to be renewed in the light of day. The feeling of having the ability to take things by the horns and take control, that's what last night had returned to him, although why and how was beyond the young drummer. But then it occurred to Micky that Mike must have been extremely drunk last night. That caused his smile to falter slightly. Nonetheless, Micky still felt good and that was all that mattered. He looked at Mike's face. The bruising didn't seem as bad as it had last night. It was only around his chin and it looked almost as if he'd just fallen down.
Mike would wake up soon and maybe ask Micky to forget about last night, or possibly nothing would be said between the two of them, it'd just be expected that Micky forget about it. With that in mind, Micky decided it was high time he got dressed and went downstairs to make some breakfast. He gently rolled himself out of bed, being sure to be as gentle as possible in order to leave Mike sleeping. As Micky pulled on some underwear and pants, he heard the rustling of the blanket. Grabbing a shirt from his drawer, Micky turned to see Mike sitting up in his bed. It was an odd sight, one Micky still couldn't believe.
"Good morning, sleepyhead," Micky grinned, pulling on his shirt, "I'm gonna go start breakfast. Hopefully Davy hasn't beaten me to it, though."
With that said, Micky headed for the door, feeling that through his words, Mike would understand that Micky had already forgotten about last night. But just as Micky was opening the door, Mike told Micky to wait. Surprised, but only for a moment, Micky left the door closed and turned around to face Mike, unsure of what to expect.
"Micky, I… I really enjoyed last night," Mike stammered.
His eyes were avoiding Micky's and Micky wondered what was going on here.
"What?" Micky frowned.
He couldn't help himself. He was sure that he had misheard Mike. Mike glanced down at the floor, a red flush creeping high into his cheeks.
"I enjoyed last night. It was… fun. Or… it was nice, or whatever you're supposed to say," Mike seemed to be grasping for words, sounding almost angry but the expression on his face said the opposite.
If Micky didn't know any better, he'd have guessed Mike was feeling a little bit embarrassed.
"Uh…," Micky began, unsure of what to say or even how to react, "Yeah, it was nice. I liked it, too."
Maybe Mike was still drunk. Or maybe he'd done drugs last night. He did get into some sort of fight. Something had to have happened last night for Mike to openly admit he liked having sex with Micky. Not because Micky was bad at it or anything , in fact Micky felt that he was quite good in bed, but because of the fact that Mike hardly wanted to hold another man's hand let alone admit to doing anything more with one. Maybe Mike had suffered brain damage?
"That's good," Mike stated, still seeming to be having a tough time articulating himself.
His eyes were still wandering around the room.
"Well," Micky cleared his throat a little, "All good things do come to an end. No biggie."
He gave Mike a lopsided smile in hopes of alleviating the tension Micky felt between them, although Micky had a sense that the feeling was not mutual. A large part of him wanted to put this behind him. For a brief moment, Mike studied the wall before settling his gaze upon Micky. He looked very serious.
"It, uh, it doesn't gotta end, if, um, you don't want it to," Mike said.
Micky was taken aback by Mike's comment. What the hell was that supposed to mean?
"What d'ya mean?" Micky frowned.
"I mean… I wouldn't mind doing it again, ya know. If you wanna. Peter won't mind an' we can tell him if you wanna," Mike explained.
Micky felt horrible for feeling so weird. No… weird was not the right word to describe what Micky was feeling in that moment. It was more of a mix of pleasant surprise and slight shock.
"'Course Peter won't mind," Micky chuckled, "I'm just… surprised, is all, that you're saying all this."
"I like you, Micky. I… feel a lot better after last night," Mike admitted.
"I feel a lot better, too," Micky nodded, "And… I like you a lot too, Mike."
"I know all we's done before was just fool around, but we can… I dunno, be more, I guess, if you wanna, I dunno," Mike shrugged.
"Sure I wanna," Micky grinned, feeling as if he were still dreaming, "Peter's gonna be overjoyed when he finds out."
"Will ya let me tell him?" Mike asked.
"Alright, seems only fair," Micky agreed, then smirked, "Plus, he probably wouldn't believe me if I told him."
As soon as the words left Micky's mouth, he felt a little bad about them. Mike visibly flinched a little, although Micky wasn't sure why. In fact, he still wasn't entirely sure why Mike was saying all of this. The thought of brain damage floated back into Micky's head for a brief moment.
"Hey, Mike, I'm overjoyed you wanna be a bit more than friends but can I ask why now?" Micky gently entered the topic, or at least he felt as if he did.
"I just realized last night that I'm very gay," Mike replied after a moment.
A warm feeling blossomed inside of Micky's chest the same time a smile spread itself across Micky's face. He fought back the urge to laugh. So it wasn't brain damage after all. Or maybe whatever sort of scuffle Mike had gotten into last night had finally knocked some sense into the guitarist.
"Wow, that's cheesy," Micky teased.
Mike rolled his eyes.
"Just go on an' make breakfast or something," he said as he got up and started to get dressed.
Micky nodded and left the room feeling better than ever. He didn't feel alone anymore and he felt as if today would be a brand new start. Things with Peter would be better. Things with Davy would be better. Things in general would be better. Coming downstairs, Micky found Davy sitting in front of the television, drinking coffee or tea, Micky couldn't really tell. He guessed that it was probably tea. The news was on, at least that's what it sounded like to Micky.
"Morning, Davy," Micky greeted.
Davy glanced up at Micky and offered him a smile.
"Good morning, Micky. You seem happy this morning," Davy observed with a bemused smile.
"Oh, I'm more than happy," Micky grinned, then did a twirl, "I'm absolutely gay!"
Davy laughed at that, a deep rumbling that petered off into a shrill high note, shaking his head a moment before returning to the news. Micky entered the kitchen area and began to make breakfast. He figured eggs, bacon, and pancakes would be good enough for a meal to mark this momentous occasion.
"Peter!" Micky's voice drifted in from the half opened door to the bathroom.
Peter was knelt down in front of the toilet, the seat up because he felt horribly nauseous and was convinced that at any moment he might vomit. Hands braced on the side of the toilet, Peter shut his eyes, wondering what on earth Micky might want. Why couldn't he leave him alone?
"Peter! Peter, you've got a phone call!" Micky called out.
"Tell them-," Peter began but was cut off by a sudden burning sensation in his throat as he felt the putrid acidic contents of his stomach flood into his mouth.
He bent closer to the toilet bowl in order to avoid a mess but in the process felt as if he had made things worse, since now he could smell the stink of it, which made him gag and brought forth another bout of vomit. The AZT had been working wonders for a solid week and a half. For the most part Peter had felt pretty good and only experienced a few side effects, mainly feeling tired more than usual. This was the first time that he had vomited because of the drug and he wasn't entirely sure if it was the AZT or some brand new infection. The leadened feeling of nearly overwhelming panic only made Peter feel more sick but he didn't feel as if he'd vomit anymore. At least not right now. But he could very well be wrong. Flushing the toilet, Peter stood up on shaky feet and quickly brushed his teeth in order to get out the bitter aftertaste of vomit that was currently residing in his mouth. Just then Micky's head popped into the bathroom.
"Peter, are you alright?" he asked, eying Peter up and down as he spit out toothpaste foam and washed his mouth out with water.
The taste was still lingering, an echo plastered over with a mint tinge.
"Yeah, I'm good," Peter assured Micky, despite the fact that Peter would be calling Dr. Cole as soon as he left the bathroom in order to make sure that this vomitting session wasn't connected to some sort of opportunistic illness, "Who was on the phone?"
Micky's brows were still knitted together in a look of concern and Peter hoped that Micky wouldn't push the issue of whether or not Peter was really fine. He really didn't want to go into anything right now.
"Your mom's still on the line," Micky replied after a moment, "I told her I'd go get you and put you on. She wants to talk about Christmas."
The word sent chills down Peter's spine, a sense of dread spreading through his body. With the whirlwind of a hospitalization, a new drug, and just generally re-acclimating himself to life, Peter had completely lost track of the days. More specifically, he'd completely forgotten that Christmas was fast approaching. Why hadn't he noticed the cooler weather and presumably the decorations that were already up for the merry season? Hadn't he overheard Christmas plans that his friends had surely been discussing? Peter couldn't remember any answers to any of those questions. But the main reason why he was kicking himself for forgetting was because of the fact that every year Peter journeyed to his childhood home two weeks before Christmas in order to spend a week with his family in Connecticut. He would see his mother and father, catch up with his brother and sister, and play with his niece and nephew. It was almost the second week of December, if Peter was remembering correctly, and so his family would be expecting him soon. Very soon.
"Hey, Pete, you gonna be sick again?" Micky asked, cutting through Peter's thoughts.
He must have paled or something due to his rapid fire train of thought.
"Um," Peter swallowed a lump in his throat, "No, I'm fine. I should probably go pick up the phone before my mom hangs up."
Micky let Peter pass without saying anything, although Peter could sense the worry he was feeling as it seemed to radiate off of him. He beelined for the phone that was in the kitchen and picked it up.
"Hello?"
"Peter, finally. Hi, sweetheart!" his mother's voice greeted him, sounding oddly electronic and small.
It was as if some robot was trying to pretend to be Peter's mother. It made him smile a little, imagining a scenario in which his family members had made robot copies of themselves in order to get into some holiday themed hijinks.
"Hi, mom," Peter said, feeling almost sheepish.
"Sweetie, I just wanted to make sure you're coming home and when you think you'd be getting here, because your brother is coming on the 5th next week and your sister will be arriving on the next day," his mother explained, taking in her usual matter-of-fact way.
Peter wanted to kick himself physically. How could he forget about this? How had he let it sneak up on him like this?
"Oh, uh, well I'll actually be coming on the 8th," he answered, "I know it's later in the week, but I've been so tied up with band work."
Lying to his mother made his skin crawl. Didn't she have a right to know about her son's health? But he couldn't tell her.
"That's alright, sweetheart, I just wanted to know. I'll let your father know when you'll be coming and I'll send your brother to pick you up at the airport then," his mother informed him, seemingly talking to herself.
She was probably marking all of this down into one of her little notebooks, scribbling in Peter's information underneath a short grocery list or something. It brought another small smile to Peter's face, a warm feeling spreading in his chest. It then occurred to Peter that in his condition, he'd need to bring someone who knew what he had harbored inside of him. If he got unexpectedly sick during his visit with his family, they'd have no idea what they were dealing with.
At least not until they got him to the hospital. And even then, it wasn't exactly a guarantee. Peter had decided not to tell them about his diagnosis, due to the fact that if he did so, he'd also have to bite the bullet and tell his family that he was gay as well. And frankly, despite Peter's open nature, coming out to his family was the last thing he wanted to do. A wave of self-hatred that Peter had grown accustomed too recently washed over him. If his parents were to find out about him, they'd be disappointed and broken hearted, and Peter knew he was already the black sheep of the family. There wasn't really a point in trying to make it worse for them.
"Hey, uh, mom, is it alright if I bring a friend this time?" Peter blurted.
The way asking made him feel transported him back to junior high, when Peter had once asked to have a friend of his sleep over. It made him feel like a prepubescent teenager all over again.
"A girl friend?" Peter could almost hear the sly smile in his mother's voice.
His stomach lurched. His grip on the phone tightened.
"No, not a girlfriend, mom. Just one of my bandmates," Peter replied and then stumbled on his words a little because he was about to suggest Micky, but instead the word that came out was "Mike".
Why Mike instead of Micky, Peter wasn't sure at first. He'd love to spend the time with Micky but Micky was far too flamboyant to have around his parents. Surely if Peter brought Micky, they'd know Peter was gay right away. They'd see through his farce within seconds. But Mike. Michael was a safe choice. Rough hands, a politely charming personality, the outward appearance of straight man. Mike wasn't just the safe choice, but the choice that Peter needed. A strong force that could ground him to earth as his family threatened to suck him up into their orbit. Into the orbit of his own self-deprecating mind.
"Oh, well I don't see why not," his mother hid her disappointment well, "We'll look forward to seeing you and your friend Mike on the 8th."
"I'm counting the days," Peter half-lied.
"Alright, sweetheart, I'll talk to you later. I love you," his mother told him.
"Love you, too, mom," Peter replied, feeling empty and hating himself for it.
The line went dead. Peter didn't move to hang the phone back up.
"I have AIDS," Peter whispered into the dead phone.
He barely registered that he had said anything in fact. There was a hollowness in his chest that made Peter ache and in the back of his mind, he reminded himself that muscle aching was a side effect of AZT, but still the drug didn't explain the hollow feeling. Someone had carved his chest out of wood, leaving it hollowed out and brittle. For the first time in a long time, Peter yearned for his mother's touch. Her long, slender arms wrapping around him as she brought him close to her chest, squeezing him tightly as if to say that nothing could hurt him with her there. Just like how she had held him when he had come home from grade school with bruised cheeks and bloodied noses, never being bold enough to stand up to his bullies like his older brother had been. Would his mother hold him like she had then if he told her about the death that he held inside of himself? Or would she push him away, disgusted and appalled?
"Peter, you doing alright, mate?" the suddenness of Davy's voice startled Peter and he dropped the phone.
It clattered against the wall, bouncing up and down like a yo-yo thanks to the cord that connected it to it's receiver. Peter looked down at the phone in slight pity. It could never be cut from the receiver or else it would be rendered useless. Dead.
"Whoa," Davy was saying, sliding himself between Peter and the phone, "Didn't mean to spook you."
Davy picked up the phone and returned it to its cradle on the wall.
"Sorry, I-," Peter started but wasn't entirely sure how he wanted to finish that sentence.
He brought a hand up to his forehead and rested it there for no apparent reason, his eyes still trained on the phone, mind wandering away.
"It's alright, Peter," Davy said, brows only slightly furrowed, "It's no biggie."
The smaller man tilted his head up and Peter was struck by how small Davy was. He was small but muscular, although one wouldn't be able to tell unless they were very close to him or if Davy had his shirt off. Peter recalled a conversation from ages ago when he and Davy had first met, when Peter asked him about this, and Davy had told him that as a teenager, he'd wanted to grow up to be a jockey. It was a dream that was soon abandoned due to a leg injury that Davy had never elaborated upon. How it answered Peter's original question still baffled Peter to this day.
"Peter, are you feeling alright?" Davy wondered.
No, Peter could never feel alright. How could he? The clock that marked his life was running out of minutes, cut short by a cruel and unforgiving God that Peter hardly believed in anymore. Hadn't since the first friend had perished. Now here he stood in the middle of the storm, at the edge of the precipice, awaiting the final push. The one that would knock him down into the unknown abyss beneath. Nausea swept over Peter and without warning to the man in front of him, Peter doubled over, acidic bile scorching his throat as he vomited upon Davy's feet. Disgust flashed across Davy's face as he instinctively backed away from the sick on the floor, bumping into the wall behind and nearly knocking the phone off its cradle. The sudden stab of embarrassment and horror that Peter felt then made the room spin a little and heat rose in his cheeks.
"D-Davy, I'm sorry," Peter immediately blurted, looking frantically around for something to clean his mess up with.
"It's okay, Peter, you don't need to be sorry. Are you alright?" he heard Davy saying but Peter hardly noticed as he had spotted a roll of paper towels.
He grabbed them before dropping to his knees. Ripping off a wad of paper towel, Peter began to mop up his sick.
"Hey, hey, let me do that," Davy protested, trying to grab the paper towel roll out of Peter's hand.
"What's going on?" Micky's voice seemed more distant than it should have been.
The room was spinning again so Peter shut his eyes to keep himself from feeling nauseous again. The last thing he needed right now was to vomit yet again. The cold grip of fear made him shiver at the thought that maybe his vomiting could be attributed to the flu. Or some other sickness. Could the thrush have returned? Could it be worse than thrush?
"Peter threw up," he heard Davy explain.
Someone, presumably Micky, was helping him to his feet. Peter opened his eyes and realized that Micky was pulling Peter away from his vomit as Davy cleaned it up.
"Peter, are you feeling okay?" Micky was asking him, but Peter almost didn't notice as he had suddenly become very tired.
"Peter?" Micky repeated.
"I just felt nauseous, that's all. I'm dizzy, a little. And tired," Peter ticked off all that he was feeling physically.
"I'm callin' the doc," Mike said as he entered the picture.
Where had he been hiding? He moved behind Davy, who had just finished cleaning up the sick on the floor and was disappearing into the bathroom to, Peter assumed, wash the sick off his feet. Or his shoes. Peter couldn't rightly remember whether or not Davy had been wearing shoes. Mike picked up the phone and dialed Dr. Cole's extension.
"It's just the medicine," Peter called meekly, feeling a sudden grip of panic.
If he went back to the hospital, he might never get out. They'd hospitalize him for one infection or the other, leave him to die in an antiseptic smelling hell hole. During his time there, he had gathered that once you got hospitalized, it was a downhill road with the Grim Reaper himself waiting for you at the end. Peter wasn't ready to die. He had to go see his family for Christmas.
"Hi, Dr. Cole, this is Mike Nesmith, Peter Tork's friend," Peter heard Mike say into the phone.
He didn't want to go back, he couldn't go back, not when he was just feeling alright. It was just the AZT. He was just tired.
"Hey, babe, you aren't gonna go back," Micky suddenly was reassuring him, still holding Peter upright in a tight hug.
He must have said that aloud without realizing it.
"It's just the drug," Peter repeated.
"Yeah, he's been doing alright. It's just, he's been throwing up," Mike continued after pausing to hear what Dr. Cole had to say, "Uh-huh, yeah, he said he was feelin' nauseous, dizzy, and tired."
Mike was silent for a moment and Peter breathed in the thick scent of wood and sand that was the staple of Micky's smell. He brought his hands up to clasp at Micky's arms. Davy returned then and stood near enough to Peter for him to smell the soap on his feet. He must have not been wearing shoes. Mike took his ear away from the phone in order to twist his head around.
"Peter, have you been experiencing any other symptoms?" Mike asked him.
Peter thought hard about this.
"No," he finally replied.
Mike nodded, then twisted himself back into position and relied this message to Dr. Cole.
"Alright, thanks doc," Mike said and then hung up.
"What'd he say?" Micky asked.
"Doc says it's probably just side effects of the AZT. If you start feeling any other symptoms or something, Peter, let us know, because then doc says we should come in just to be safe," Mike answered.
Peter wanted to protest but knew that it'd be no use. So he nodded and agreed that if he felt anything else, he'd let his friends know.
"Maybe you wanna take a bath? It might help you feel better. I'll even fill the tub up for you," Davy offered.
"That'd be nice, wouldn't it," Micky agreed.
"Sure," Peter said, despite the fact that he didn't actually want to take a bath right now.
"Okay," Davy nodded and then disappeared into the bathroom.
At some point Micky must have let go of Peter because Micky was explaining that he was going to make dinner. Something so normal reminded Peter of his mother. And of Christmas.
"Mike, will you take me to Connecticut next Thursday, the 8th?" Peter asked.
The lanky man seemed puzzled.
"You're gonna go visit your family?" he asked.
"I got to. My mom called. She's expecting me. If I don't go, they'll know I-," Peter stopped himself before he said that they'd know he was dying, instead saying, "that something's wrong."
"Peter, you shouldn't go anywhere near an airplane when you're like this," Micky protested, "Do you know what airplanes are? They're like flying capsules of germs. You'll pick something up and get sick. We can just spend Christmas together, and visit my family or something. They'd love to have you over."
"I'll be fine," Peter wasn't sure at all if he would be, "I've got the AZT and I'll have Mike. Plus, anyways, we're spending Christmas Eve together, just the four of us, and Christmas Day with your family."
"Yeah, I know that. But you could still get sick, I think you should just tell your parents that you're too busy," Micky insisted.
"I have to go," Peter stated.
There wasn't anything that Micky could say that would convince Peter otherwise. Going to Connecticut was something he had to do. Part of him even wanted to do it.
"Then I'll book us a flight," Mike agreed.
Up until that point he hadn't said anything and Peter gave him a look of relief. Mike must have understood that Peter had to do it, Peter was sure of that.
"What?" Micky's voice hitched up to an unnatural squeak, "You can't be serious, Mike."
"The doc said Peter can do and should do whatever he pleases, so if he wants to go home for a week, he's going home for a week," Mike nodded.
"Thank you," Peter said.
"Peter! You're baths ready!" Davy shouted from the bathroom.
"Go on an' take your bath 'fore mister Worry Wart over there finishes dinner," despite the small smile on Mike's face, Peter could see an unidentifiable emotion in his eyes.
Peter gave a slight nod of his head and headed for the bathroom. There was steam on the mirror that hung above the sink and Davy had evidently rooted through Peter's drawers in order to provide him some pajamas. The pajamas were on top of a towel which was perched upon the back of the toilet.
"Thanks for the clothes," Peter said.
"Enjoy," Davy winked, trying to be humourous. It fell flat.
Despite that, it still brought a sense of warmth and Peter smiled in return. Then Davy left, closing the door behind him. All alone, Peter undid his pants, pulling them off along with his underwear. Then he pulled off his shirt and climbed into the tub, sinking himself low into the water. The tub was, thankfully, long enough for Peter to fully submerge himself. The hot liquid felt good against Peter's skin, enveloping him like a blanket. No sounds were coming from the other side of the door and Peter felt as if he were suddenly on some sort of new planet. He was in his own orbit now, floating far up in the Earth's atmosphere, far away from everyone else. Peter lived on a whole new plane of existence, one in which his friends could not follow him. How had this happened to him, anyways? Hadn't he been safe enough? Once again, Peter found himself circling the hole of self-hatred. It was a slippery slope, one that Peter found himself falling down more and more often. Three weeks and five days. That was how long Death had been inside of Peter. Maybe even longer because he started the count from the day he found out what was inside of him.
He still hadn't written a song about all of this. It felt like years since he had confessed his interest in writing a song about all of this to Micky on the beach, but nonetheless there was still no song. In fact, more often than not, Peter found himself too tired to play his bass. There was no income for Peter these days either, since he also found gigs far too tiring as well. Peter hated it and hated himself for being so weak. Shouldn't he be strong enough by now to play at a simple gig? He'd asked Dr. Cole about it. Dr. Cole hadn't been of much help.
"Don't run yourself ragged, Peter. Your body will need a lot more rest than it did prior to all of this, and then add on top how the AZT might affect your body. You need your rest now more than ever," Dr. Cole had told him.
A sigh escaped Peter, his breath causing a slight ripple effect in the water. What had he done to deserve this? Fucked a man, that was what. Now he had death running through his veins, weakening his immune system, reducing him to nothing more than one hospital visit away from the grave. Peter shut his eyes then, inhaling air into his lungs as he did so, and then slid down so that his head was underneath the warm water. The water filled his ears, causing everything to become silent, except for the occasional sloshing of the water, which eventually ceased as Peter made himself very still. Maybe if he could stay underneath the water forever, he'd never have to face his family. Or another hospitalization. He knew that he shouldn't be so focused on the future. A nonexistent, pointless future. Because all he could do was take this one day at a time. He should be enjoying his life more now that he possibly had so little of it left. But his thoughts kept returning back to not himself, but his friends.
How could he have done this to Micky? To Mike and Davy? Peter knew Micky wanted to grow old with Peter, wanted to have a life with Peter. On their third official date, Micky had pointed out a heterosexual couple that were holding hands. He had indicated the ring on the woman's finger and said that they were probably engaged. He had then launched into a lengthy fantasy of how he wished he could propose to Peter and marry him. To which Peter had gently informed Micky that, despite the fact that he loved Micky very much, he just couldn't stay monogamous. At least not yet. In the face of this comment, Micky had only laughed. He went on to say that he'd wait for Peter for as long as he had to and Peter remembered asking Micky what he meant by that.
"C'mon, I saw you and Davy kissing before I asked you out on our first date. I knew what I was getting into. But at the end of the day, you come back to me. And that's all that matters. And I'll wait here, loyal and all that junk, until you're ready to settle down," Micky had said before winking and adding, "And even then, we can both kiss Davy once we settle down. Because he's a good kisser."
Micky hadn't had a problem with Peter sleeping around when they first had heard about the warning regarding AIDS. Mike had lectured him beyond belief about becoming celibate for the foreseeable future, but Micky had merely asked Peter to be careful. Sweet, wonderful, Micky. His Micky, loyal to a fault. Just like a big puppy walking on two legs. How could he have done this to him? How could he go and get AIDS like this? It was a miracle he hadn't given it to Micky. The thought of giving it to Micky brought forth thoughts of how calmly Micky had accepted Peter's illness, give or take a few breakdowns here and there. Micky hadn't even been upset at Peter at all. Or at least not to Peter's knowledge. Micky deserved better than him. Peter had half a mind to tell Micky to move on. He was glad that Micky and Mike seemed to be developing a relationship. It would mean less pain for Micky once Peter was gone.
The burning in his lungs began to register with Peter, slowly cutting through his thoughts. Opening his eyes under the water, Peter saw the shimmery, distorted image of the bathroom ceiling above him. If he wanted to, he could stay underneath the water. When had he opened his mouth? No oxygen could be found here, just warm bath water. It filled his mouth and his nostrils. The burning in his lungs was becoming more prominent and began to register more as the seconds ticked by. The water stung his eyes. It was warm down here. How long had he been under the water? Not long at all really, but it felt like forever. How much longer could he stay down here, in this peaceful world? He didn't want to resume his orbit around Earth. He'd much rather stay here, in this muted and distorted reality. But he could not deny himself air any longer. He surfaced, spluttering and gasping for oxygen to fill his lungs. Once he'd successfully regained air, Peter took a large gulp, then plunged himself back down under the water. This time, he wanted to try something different.
Instead of holding his breath, he let it out in one big scream. The water bubbled with the air, the scream a far off hiss in his ears underneath the water. Then he allowed himself to inhale the warm water. He felt it rushing down his throat, threatening to choke him. Once again he surface, spluttering and gasping. He didn't want to die on someone else's terms. Sliding back down under the water, Peter shut his eyes. How could he have done this to Micky? Mike would be fine, Peter figured, when he eventually died because Mike was strong. Davy would probably grieve but move on. But Peter knew that Micky loved him. Loved him like the stupid idiot he was. How could he have done this to Micky. As he surfaced once more, Peter caught the sound of someone knocking on the bathroom door.
"Yeah?" Peter called out, his eyes stinging a little thanks to having them open under the water.
The door opened and Davy's head popped into the room.
"Dinner's ready, whenever you get out," he informed Peter.
"Oh," Peter hardly wanted to eat after feeling so nauseous earlier, "I'll be out in a minute."
But Micky would make him eat whether he wanted to or not. The last time Dr. Cole had had Peter checked out, he had recommended Peter try to put on three more pounds. Since then, Peter had done very little to gain any weight, so Micky had taken it upon himself to do what Peter wouldn't.
"Alrighty," Davy's voice sounded genuinely cheerful.
Then the brown haired, little man disappeared as the door closed shut. He hadn't even cleaned himself. But he did feel better. So he unplugged the drain and sat in the tub until all of the water was sucked away. Then he forced himself to his feet and dried himself off. After he'd dressed himself, he took a moment to look at himself in the mirror. The steam had disappeared at some point. Staring back at him was some new creature. It wasn't Peter, the Peter he knew himself to be. Staring back at him was some well camouflaged Spaceman, briefly visiting Earth before returning to his spaceship far away. He wasn't Peter at all anymore. All he was was some sort of Moon Person. On that far distant planet with all of the Others. Way up on the moon, far away from everything else. Looking away from the mirror, Peter sighed. Despite all of his jumbled up thoughts, the bath had helped. Quite a bit. As he exited the bathroom, he was even feeling a little bit hungry.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Thank you for reading! Once again, this fic is in no way trying to make light of AIDS nor is it super realistic. This story is clearly fiction and I encourage anyone interested in this fic to do some research into real life stories about the 1980s AIDS epidemic because this fic does not come close to giving the real epidemic justice, such as watching We Were Here (a documentary that can be found on Netflix and online). I hope you enjoyed this chapter. The next one should be up around this time next week. Feel free to leave a like and/or a review, both are very much appreciated.