As Peter's health came back to him inch by inch and bit by bit, he found that Micky, Mike, and Davy were spending more and more time together. He could tell they were planning something, although what it was, Peter didn't know. Whatever they were doing, it meant they were visiting him less and less but frankly Peter enjoyed having them out and about instead of having them crowding the hospital room. He loved all three of them dearly but three was a crowd when it came to hospital rooms. With his partners off conspiring against him, most likely, Peter filled the time with lyric writing and chord composing. Davy had brought Peter's guitar to the hospital so he could play, with Dr. Cole giving Peter a special allowance. As long as he wasn't playing too loudly and not too frequently, Peter could play his instrument in his bed. For the past couple of days, Peter had had an audience. A new roommate.
His name was Sam Newly, a curly haired fellow with an assortment of freckles on his cheeks. Some of them looked like constellations if you looked at them the right way. Sam was dealing with a relapse of Kaposi's sarcoma, a rare sort of cancer that wasn't all too uncommon for AIDS patients. Before he had been diagnosed three years ago he had been a teacher in grade school. For a whole year, twelve months exactly, Sam had been able to hide his condition from his students and his colleagues, including his boss. He had been on AZT and his condition had been surprisingly manageable. But in his second year, the first bout of Kaposi's sarcoma hit him, causing lesions to appear on his skin and Sam was forced to quit his job when he had to be admitted to the hospital a couple months into the second year. It wasn't as if Sam had an amazing reputation as a teacher, but he decided to quietly slip away with his dignity still intact rather than risk some sort of big scandal or something. Since then he'd been living off his savings, with some help from a few select friends.
Peter liked Sam a lot. He was very nice man and, despite Sam being six years Peter's senior, very relatable. Every time after Peter stopped playing, Sam would start to talk. Sometimes it would be about how he missed teaching or how he missed his class or it would just be him complaining about hospital food. Once Sam had even confessed to Peter that, once upon a time, he'd had a partner, Henry, who had been the love of his life as far as he was concerned. But Peter was able to gather that Henry hadn't taken Sam's diagnosis very well. From what Sam said, Peter guessed that Henry had just up and left one night without a word or warning to Sam, leaving him to take on the scariest thing to have ever happened to him all by himself. Alone. It made Peter feel doubly grateful for his friends and how they all had stuck with him through this, so far. Yet it also stung with guilt, because Peter did have his friends and Sam didn't really have anyone. The friends that Sam did have didn't visit him in hospital very often and only stopped by at his house every now and then. There was no family for Sam, no close friends or lovers. He was taking on the same ordeal Peter was, with one marked difference. Sam was relying on himself and the kindness of different programs, such as some of the programs offered by the Shanti Project. It made Peter want to cry, or scream, or something. It wasn't fair, not at all. But there wasn't much Peter could do for Sam. And so they just talked, about nothing in particular.
Today was no different from any other day. Micky came by that morning to say hello, talked to Peter for an hour, and then left. Around noon, Peter decided to work on the chords for the newest song he'd written. Of course it wasn't explicitly about AIDS, but Peter found it hard to imagine that it was about anything else. Sam was up at that point and he listened quietly, eyes half shut. Peter worked for twenty minutes before he laid his guitar in his lap, taking a break.
"I'm gonna miss hearing you play," Sam commented absently, almost as if he were talking to himself.
"Are you being let out soon?" Peter frowned, glancing over at Sam.
There was no way Sam would be leaving the hospital soon. Peter would be leaving before Sam could even discuss such a possibility, or at least that's what Peter had gathered. Maybe he'd been wrong.
"Nah, but aren't you in a week or two?" Sam countered.
"Oh, yeah. I'll be out in a week and two days, unless god forbid anything else should happen," Peter nodded, having almost forgotten he'd be out so soon.
It felt as if Peter wouldn't be let out of the hospital for months to come. Despite the ache he felt in his bones and the fact that he slept most of his days away, Peter yearned to be back at the pad, to feel as if he had the illusion of freedom and good health.
"I'm sure nothing else will happen," Sam reassured Peter, his voice quivering slightly with laughter, "You worry too much sometimes, Peter."
Peter threw Sam a glance. Sometimes Peter thought that Sam didn't worry enough. How could someone like Sam still seem to be so happy, most of the time? Peter had seen him cry. He knew that Sam wasn't always jovial all the time, yet stretches of time elapsed in which Sam seemed as if he were the happiest man on earth. It baffled Peter and made him yearn to know how Sam did it.
"Maybe, but I'm just ready to get out of here," Peter sighed, leaning his head back against the fluff of pillow behind his head.
"It's all you've been able to talk about recently," Sam commented, stretching his arms slightly above his head for a moment. "Maybe when I get out of here too, I can come watch you play with your friends. You are in a band with them, aren't you?"
The question took Peter by surprise, although it wasn't entirely a surprising question. It was, in fact, a rather ordinary and boring question, yet Peter still found himself having to think about it. It brought to mind something he hadn't particularly thought about in some time and it wasn't necessarily something Peter really wanted to think about in the first place.
"Yeah, I guess," Peter shrugged, "But the Monkees haven't been a band since my diagnosis, really."
It felt odd to admit that to Sam, but it was the truth after all. Davy, Micky, and Mike had each picked up some odd jobs to supplement the loss of income. Although it wasn't as if they'd been making a lot of money as a band. Maybe this had all been for the best. There had also been the debate on whether or not Davy should dip into the money allotted to him from his grandfather and if Micky should accept any money from his parents. At first, it was a simple no to that debate, but as the medical bills began to roll in on top of the amped up grocery bills and other, ordinary payments such as rent, the gang found themselves giving in. Davy's grandfather hardly noticed and Micky's parents were more than happy to lend a hand. But the band wasn't about the money in the first place. They'd been just as happy broke and barely eating meals as a struggling band as they were now with nearly steady jobs and incomes. The band had been about the music, not the money. The music that the four of them made together. And Peter missed feeling the raw connection he felt to his friends whenever they had played together, even during practices. The connection Peter felt with his friends when they had played together was the same sort of intimate connection he felt with them when they had sex. Sure, the connection was different in a lot of ways but the feeling still seemed to be the same.
"The Monkees," Sam repeated, breaking Peter's train of thought. "I knew it was something jungly."
He shifted a little in his bed, moving his pillow into a different position, before he continued speaking.
"Just because you guys haven't played in a while, doesn't mean you're through. You can always do something together, when you feel better, musically speaking," he said.
Peter's hands ran along the fretboard of his guitar, feeling each of the strings with the tips of his fingers. Sam wasn't wrong. The Monkees didn't need to be put to rest. Maybe they'd get big before Peter died.
"I know," he admitted, "I just don't ever know if I'll ever feel better. I'm too tired."
The sudden rustling of Sam's bedsheets caused Peter to look up, startled. Sam had shifted himself into an upright, sitting position, and he was giving Peter a stern but kind look.
"When I was in here with my first round of Kaposi's sarcoma, I felt so awful all the time that I thought I'd never feel good again," Sam said in a level tone, "Henry had left me, I was getting hit with a variety of treatments that left me feeling horrible, and I didn't even have a job anymore. Things can always get worse Peter, but that doesn't mean you have to lose hope. I mean, I'm not going to let this second round beat me down. I'll recover, maybe write a children's book or something, move on with my life the best I can. And I know you'll be able to do the same."
Sam sounded confident and the smile on his face warmed Peter from the inside, out. How was he so confident? Had things been different, had Peter met Sam under different circumstances, Peter imagined that he and Sam would have been very good friends. Peter returned Sam's broad smile.
"I'll do my best," Peter felt as if he were making a promise to Sam. "You'll have to call me up to tell me when you get out, so I can get the guys ready with a brand new song or something."
Sam slid back down onto his bed, so that he was stretched out in a more comfortable position.
"I'll be sure to do that," Sam agreed, then motioned towards Peter's guitar, "Will you play something a little more mellow? I want to listen to something while I fall asleep."
Peter nodded and picked up his guitar. He got through a whole song and a half before he had to put his guitar completely away because his eyelids were becoming too heavy to keep open. He threw a quick glance at Sam's sleeping form. The older man seemed so peaceful. Peter wondered what his children's book would be about. Has Sam ever wanted kids in his lifetime? The question directed his thoughts to Micky. Micky had always struck Peter as a guy who'd be a good father. The sort of fun dad that children would love. Had Micky ever wanted kids? It had never really crossed Peter's mind before. Did he want kids? He'd never really thought about it before. And now it seemed a mute point. If Micky ever did have kids, it'd be with Davy and Mike somehow, when Peter was long dead.
For the first time in a while, Peter felt a surge of regret. If only he wasn't gay. Micky could have had children with a nice girl by now if he hadn't turned out to be homosexual. And Peter wouldn't be dying of AIDS. Would it have been simpler to be straight? To like women? The idea of it felt foreign to Peter, yet a part of him agreed that it would have been easier. Peter let out a heavy sigh and pulled the cover up to his chin. He missed his own blankets, on his own bed. He missed the pad. He missed taking early morning walks on the beach with Mike and then taking evening walks with Micky or Davy. He'd maybe get that all back soon, as soon as he left the hospital, so there was no point in thinking about all those what if's. Peter was gay. He had AIDS. There wasn't anything he could do to change the past. All he could do was try and make something out of the future, whatever he had left of one. With that thought lingering in his head, Peter's eyes closed shut and he drifted off to sleep.
When he opened his eyes, the room was darker. It must have been night. Peter immediately noticed Davy, asleep on a chair he'd pulled closer to Peter's bed. A warm feeling blossomed in Peter's chest as he looked at Davy's sleeping form. But as Peter quietly watched Davy sleep, he noticed something funny about the air. It smelled strongly of antiseptics. Peter turned his head just slightly, glancing over towards Sam's bed. It was empty. A sickening feeling overtook Peter and he felt the room spin a little. He sat up quickly.
"Davy! Davy, wake up," Peter said, trying to keep his voice calm but there was still a clearly panicked tone to his words.
The smaller man lifted his head, a hand coming up to rub at his left eye.
"Peter," Davy's voice sounded hoarse, as if he'd been yelling a lot recently, "What's wrong?"
Did Peter really want to ask about Sam? Would it be easier to just assume, not know? Peter felt as if he'd stepped up onto some sort of ledge and now had the choice of either keeping his eyes open or shut on his way down to the bottom. This feeling whirling inside of him, threatening to take him over, oddly enough caused Peter to feel a rush of calm. His initial panic dissipated.
"Did something happen to Sam?" Peter asked after a moment, after he'd composed himself.
He'd take the plunge with his eyes open. It was what Sam would have done, at any rate, or at least that's what Peter assumed. Maybe he was wrong, but it didn't matter. Peter had already asked, there was no going back now. Davy's jaw clenched and Peter saw him throw an almost secret glance towards the door to the room, but Peter had noticed it. There was something going on, something that Davy didn't want Peter to know. The chilled, icy feeling of his blood seemed to be trying to clamor into his ears, trying to roar like crashing waves.
"What happened?" Peter repeated.
Davy whipped his gaze back to Peter, an almost frantic look on his face, hiding behind a sheet of forced tranquility.
"No, nothing happened to Sam, Peter. He's okay. Dr. Cole moved him to a free room, that's all. One finally freed up," Davy quickly answered, "Sam didn't want to wake you up, so he didn't say goodbye or anything. Told me to tell you he said goodbye. Said to drop by his room before you leave."
There was the expected, obvious rush of relief that washed over Peter. Then came the unsettled feeling of leftover fear. Why had Davy looked at the door? Why hadn't he just told Peter right from the get go? What else was happening that Davy didn't want Peter to be informed about? What was going on?
"Oh," Peter said, eyes still trained on Davy, studying his face carefully, "That's a relief."
Davy seemed a little jittery, his fingers gently tapping against the armrests of the chair. An indication that Davy was angry. Or irritated.
"So are the others here?" Peter asked.
"Um," Davy seemed to be distracted, "Micky and Mike were, but I think Mike went to the canteen to get some coffee, and it's just my night tonight, so he'll go home to be with Micky… Who's obviously at home right now."
"So everything's okay then?" Peter asked.
"Everything's alright, Peter," Davy's fingers were still lightly tapping against the armrests.
"You're lying," Peter countered, eyes narrowing.
Davy gave him a doubtful look.
"No I'm not," he argued.
"You are," Peter insisted, then gestured towards Davy's hands. "You're tapping your fingers. You do that when you're mad. So something's making you angry, else you wouldn't be tapping them."
Davy's fingers stopped and the smaller man glanced down at them, looking at them for a moment, before looking back up at Peter. He heaved a sigh, slouching down into the chair and rubbing his hands over his face.
"When did you get so good at reading me?" he asked.
"The moment I fell in love with your ass," Peter quipped.
This got a small laugh out of Davy, who nodded his agreement.
"So, what's wrong?" Peter repeated again, feeling like a broken record.
But it couldn't be helped. Peter had to know what was going on. Davy's shoulders slumped, making the Englishman seem so very small in the chair. He looked twelve, like a child. It made Peter feel weird, a knotted gut twisting sort of weird that Peter couldn't quite put into words. Davy rubbed his cheek and sighed. His eyes were trained on the floor.
"My grandda's dead," Davy stated.
There was only a flicker of sadness in Davy's voice, the majority of his tone slathered in exhaustion. He sounded as if he hadn't had any sleep in two days straight. Maybe he hadn't had any sleep in two days. It was entirely possible, now that Peter really thought about it.
"Shit," Peter swore, quietly of course, "I'm… I'm sorry, Davy."
What could Peter say to him? What was the right thing to say? Davy looked up at him, a small but genuine smile lighting up his face.
"It's really okay," Davy admitted, "He was very old and my cousins have told me that he passed away peacefully at home, just like how he wanted to. It wasn't as if he suffered or anything."
Peter didn't know what to say. The thought of a discussion about death made his skin crawl, even if it was in regards to an old person. It was sad that Davy's grandfather had passed, that was true. They all had met him, William Jones, four years ago. He'd flown all the way from Manchester to L.A. in order to visit Davy. During his stay, Davy had asked everyone to be on their best behavior. This had really been directed towards Micky and Peter, as Davy hadn't wanted his grandfather to even suspect that Davy had even gay friends, let suspect that Davy himself was a gay. This plea hadn't worked as well as Davy had anticipated it to and Micky had outed himself within the first hour of William's arrival. William hadn't seemed to care or mind but Davy continued to insist he keep the truth from the old man. Davy's grandfather had never known about Davy's bisexuality and now, Peter reminded himself, he'd never be able to. But Peter held the belief that if Davy had told his grandpa about himself, William would have done his best to accept Davy.
"I'm flying out tomorrow, for the funeral," Davy's words brought Peter out of his thoughts, "I'll be home the day after Wednesday."
Peter counted the days between tomorrow and the day after Wednesday. It was about three days, if he was counting correctly, which he assumed that he was.
"You aren't staying longer?" Peter frowned.
Three days didn't seem long enough. Didn't Davy wand more time with his family?
"I…," Davy trailed off, fingers tapping again, "I feel like it'll be a bad omen or something, to stay away from you and the guys for too long. I don't want to fly across the world for a funeral only to come home to…"
The unfinished sentence hung in the air, stretching out as if into infinity.
"You don't want to come home to another," Peter finished for Davy.
Davy physically flinched, as if Peter had slapped him.
"I didn't mean it like that," Davy insisted.
"Then how did you mean it?" Peter challenged.
He was surprised by the edge to his voice, the harshness. Where was this anger coming from? It had not been there a moment ago, but suddenly all of Peter's muscles tensed, his body filled to the brim with frustration and anger. Davy looked hurt, his eyes round and his brows creased.
"I just meant… I want to be here for you," Davy explained, "I don't want to leave you."
A heavy hotness was settling itself in Peter's chest, making it hard for him to think straight or think rationally. Why did it matter to Davy what happened to Peter? His grandfather was dead. He needed to go grieve with his family, his real family, and not wait around for some disgusting faggot to waste away and die. Davy's grandfather had raised Davy, given Davy love and a home when his parents had passed away. What had Peter ever given to Davy? Nothing. And now, with one foot practically in the grave, Peter couldn't give Davy anything in the future. Even his will now restricted him in what he could give to his lovers after his death. Three days was too short. Davy needed more time with his real family. He shouldn't be worrying about leaving Peter.
"It doesn't matter whether you leave me or not because I'll be dead in six months anyways, and that's if I'm lucky," Peter spat, despite the fact that he knew this sudden emotional overflow should not be taken out on Davy. "What are you even doing here, Davy? Your grandfather's dead. What are any of you guys doing, wasting your time on me?"
There was no sadness to Peter's voice. It was all just bitterness and anger, a broiling fiery mix of emotion. He hated himself in that moment. Loathed his very existence. Cursed his fate, his future. How could he be doing this to Davy right now? But it was almost as if Peter had let open the floodgates and was powerless to stop himself.
"Peter, we aren't… we aren't wasting our time on you," Davy replied, although he was slow to do so.
By the frown that creased his brows, Peter knew that he was confused and taken aback by Peter's sudden change in mood. But it was all here now, all of this anger. Anger at not being able to have a life with Micky that would amount to anything. A life with Mike and Davy too, that was dashed right along a life with Micky. Anger at his family. At the world. Anger at himself. A deep rooted anger that had taken a hold of him in that moment and possessed him as if he were some sort of puppet.
"But you are!" Peter insisted, "All three of you are giving up your lives for me, and it's pointless. We can't have a life together. All you're doing is watching me die. You should all move on already! Leave me! Leave me alone!"
Peter took a deep breath because he was shouting. When had he started to shout? He shouldn't shout at Davy, Davy didn't deserve this. He unclenched his fists, but all he could sense inside of himself was the anger still. It was all still there inside of him, waiting to be let out.
"I don't want Micky seeing me waste away to nothing. I don't want you or Mike too, either," Peter's voice was restrained, "And I can't give any of you the life you all deserve. We can't grow old together. Or have kids together. We can't get married, have a successful band, adopt a pet. I'm ruining your lives."
His words echoed inside of his own head. They almost seemed amplified, gnawing away at him with each repeated syllable.
"Stop it," Davy's voice was a mere whisper, but it was enough to give Peter pause.
He realized that Davy was crying. Big, fat tears rolled down Davy's cheeks, dribbling down his chin and plopping down onto his shirt below. Davy wasn't looking at Peter either. His eyes were trained on the floor, boring holes into the tiles below. There was the threat of regret looming in the back of Peter's mind, threatening to consume him, extinguishing the flames of rage inside of him. He waited for Davy to say something else. Anything else. Peter was at a loss for words, he didn't know how to continue. That left Davy to make the next move and the feeling of helplessness crawled up Peter's back.
"You know how I feel about you," Davy mumbled after a moment, "You're the only guy who's ever validated me and my preferences. You're the one who first ever called me bisexual. Gave me the words to be able to describe myself, find myself. And I can't… I can't even imagine how you're feeling right now, but it's not as if we're feeling any better. We're all shit scared, Peter. Mike's a wreck, even worse than Micky, but he just doesn't let on how torn up he is inside. He bottles it all up and waits to deal with it when he can't possibly bottle anything else up. Micky's broken down at the grocery store at least twice this week alone. We aren't unaware of what PCP means for you. And what it means for us."
Davy paused to take a deep breath and wipe away the tear stains on his cheeks. Peter felt the regret seeping into his pores, dampening the anger inside of him just as he had thought it would. The regret and guilt was settling comfortably in his stomach, making him feel sick.
"But it isn't as if you know you won't make it past six months. You could very well outlive six months. It's happened before. And even though we're all scared, we know we'll be together. No matter what. That, whatever happens, we're going to face it as a unit. Because we're a family, Peter. You and me and Micky and Mike. Nothing's going to change that. Whether you die tomorrow, or six months from now, or a year from now, we'll always be together. And that's all that matters. Because I know that if any of us had our positions switched with you, you'd be with us till the end. And you can try to push us away. You can scream at us and hit us, whatever you fancy, but it won't change the fact that we're in this together," Davy sounded so sure of himself by the time he finished speaking.
He looked up at Peter and this time it was Peter who averted his gaze. There was a circling silence that was threatening to drown Peter, sweep him into it's forever abyss of nothingness as he sat in a bed that felt more like a prison.
"I-," his voice cracked, "I'm sorry, Davy."
What else could he say?
"I know," Davy said, hands wiping away the last of the tears.
There was a moment of silence. Then, Peter noticed that Davy's fingers were brushing against the bracelet that had all of their names engraved on it. He remembered the look on all three of his partners' faces on last year's Christmas Eve. They had all been so excited. And Peter remembered feeling so connected to them. He didn't want to leave them. He didn't want to die. A rush of overwhelming panic nearly choked Peter. A sob ripped through him.
"Oh god," Peter wailed, "I don't want to die."
He couldn't help but cry. It felt as if it were the only thing he could do. The feeling that was slowly strangling him left him no other option. This startled Davy, or at least it must have, because Peter was aware of the Englishman leaping from the chair to wrap his arms around Peter.
"Hey, it's okay," he distantly heard Davy tell him.
But all his mind could focus on was the fact that he wasn't ready to die. He wanted kids with his partners. He wanted to grow old with them. Adopt a pet with them. Be with them until the end of time. But they'd watch him slip away and nothing on this earth could prevent that. Davy held Peter as he cried and Peter felt horribly guilty. Davy's grandfather had just died. Davy should be the one being held, not Peter. This wasn't fair to Davy, it just wasn't.
"I'm so sorry about your grandpa, fuck Davy, I'm so sorry," Peter hiccuped.
Davy rubbed Peter's back, gently moving in a circular fashion.
"It's alright, Peter, really it's okay," Davy assured him.
But Davy's words only made Peter feel worse. He needed to stop crying. Stop sniveling like a child. Peter took a deep breath and forced himself to stop. At first, nothing happened. The tears still trickled down his cheeks, but eventually they did stop. A moment or so after Peter had stopped crying, Davy moved back to the chair. And a little while after that, Dr. Cole came in to check up on Peter.
As Mike approached Peter's hospital room, an uneasy feeling of panic began to settle in his stomach. Davy and Dr. Cole were exiting the room, and Davy seemed a little shook up. Had something bad happened to Peter? Mike picked up his speed, praying to God nothing had happened.
"Is something wrong?" he asked as soon as he came into earshot.
Mike observed the worried, uncertain look that Davy threw in the direction of Dr. Cole.
"Peter was just crying. He'll be alright for now, I think. He has been through alot lately," Dr. Cole replied, "But I would like you two to follow me to my office."
"Why?" Davy sounded almost defensive, as if he were readying himself fight with Dr. Cole in that hallway.
"Just to talk about a few things as Peter near's his release date, that's all," Dr. Cole spoke with an air of confidence and calm that made even Mike a little less nervous.
"Alright," Mike nodded his head.
As they followed Dr. Cole down the hallway, Davy slipped his hand into Mike's. For a moment, Mike wasn't sure if he should do anything, but he decided to gently squeeze Davy's hand in return. Mike wanted Davy to know that he was there for him. Even if a large part of him hated himself for loving Davy, nothing would stop him from being their for his family. That was what John had taught him. That was what Peter had taught him. And if two of the most important people in Mike's life were agreeing that one shouldn't let self-hate destroy the life you wanted to live, then Mike was damn well going to listen to them. Or at the very least try his hardest.
Dr. Cole lead them into a cramped little office that was off to the side of a hallway. The doctor took a seat behind a cluttered desk, scanning it for a moment before sweeping a few folders into a pile and setting them aside. There was only one chair in front of the desk that Dr. Cole sat at and Mike motioned towards it, indicating that Davy should sit down. Davy gave Mike a grateful look before lowering himself down into the cushioned chair. Mike kept his hand on Davy's shoulder as he stood behind the smaller man. It was hard to stay relaxed but Mike forced himself to remain calm. Maybe if he appeared calm on the outside, he'd start to feel calm on the inside. Mike kept wondering if perhaps something was wrong with Peter. The idea sent shivers down his spine. What could Dr. Cole want to talk about? Would Peter have to stay longer in the hospital?
"Okay," Dr. Cole began, cracking his knuckles absentmindedly, "First of all, don't worry. I'm not a bearer of bad news today, Peter's right on track for being let out in a week. His recovery is going well. Granted, I want to give him a day or two off after he's been let out before we put him back on AZT, just to give his body a break."
"Won't that be dangerous?" Davy asked.
"No, I don't think so. I think it'll do the opposite of harm really," Dr. Cole replied, "Either way, I'd like to give him a break. Just for a day or two. But I'm also going to recommend a counselor. Julie Marks. She's been doing great work with AIDS patients, and I think it'd be beneficial for Peter to see her. You two, and Micky, could both see her as well. Either separately or as a trio, but I think it'd be good for all of you to see her individually at least once. Just to… work things out and keep level heads."
Mike felt a knot inside of his stomach, a big stone weighing him down. He felt that at any moment the floor beneath him might crumble away, plummeting Mike down to the floor below. Why did he feel this way? What was making him feel so sick? He couldn't quite put his finger on it.
"So she's good?" Davy asked.
Mike wondered if Davy was holding it together as well as he sounded. Was Davy feeling just as uncertain and frightened as Mike was feeling on the inside? Or were they both just very good at putting on a brave face? It was likely the second, but Mike found himself wanting to believe that Davy was as put together as he sounded. He wanted Davy to be okay, to be level-headed and strong so that he didn't have to be.
"Yeah, she's a friend of mine, too. We work together. I send her patients and she gives them a discount," Dr. Cole replied, a flicker of a smile appearing on his face, almost as if he were sharing in some sort of joke.
"Alright," Mike nodded, "We'll check her out."
Dr. Cole looked around for a moment. Mike thought he looked a little frazzled. For a brief second, Mike wondered what the doctor's life was like. He knew that the AIDS ward at this hospital was understaffed, with just a few nurses and doctors willing to treat the scary disease. Mike had once heard rumor that a hospital in Florida had flown a man to UCLA all because they didn't want to treat him. They had just shipped him out, without a rela thought. That man had died, obviously. Did Dr. Cole ever get a break? Or was he always on call? Mike assumed he got breaks, but at the same time, he could also see Dr. Cole working through his own breaks in order to give other staff members a chance to relax. Did he sleep well at night?
"Good, good," Dr. Cole nodded and then his face lit up.
He grabbed a pencil and scribbled down something, handing it over to Davy. Mike caught a glance of the counselor's name on the piece of paper, along with a series of numbers that Mike assumed was her phone number and what appeared to be an address underneath that.
"Thank you, Dr. Cole," Davy said as he pocketed the slip of paper.
Dr. Cole showed them out of his office, wishing them a goodnight. The pair walked down the hallway in silence for a moment. Mike hated how dark the hospital corridors seemed at night. He vaguely remembered having a nightmare where he would wander snakelike corridors that lead always to a dead end. When had he dreamt about that? He recalled that the nightmare had been reoccuring, happening several times, one after another. But he couldn't remember when. It probably hadn't been too long ago.
"Are you going home still?" Davy's question almost spooked Mike, he had been so deep in thought.
"Um, I suppose," Mike replied, rubbing the back of his neck, "But if you'd rather go home, get some proper rest before your flight tomorrow, I could always stay here tonight."
Mike gave Davy a sidelong glance, waiting to see what the smaller man would say. He was going through alot right now and if Mike had had the power he'd make Davy go home and sleep in a proper bed. Sleeping here at the hospital was achievable, but it was nothing compared to sleep in an actual house. The smaller man seemed dejected, exhausted. Frankly, he probably needed more sleep then anyone.
"No, I want to spend the night with Peter. I'll come home in the morning to get my bag before you drive me to the airport," Davy replied.
Mike squeezed Davy's hand in a manner that Mike hoped seemed reassuring. He wanted all of his condolences and love to be transferred in that one gentle squeeze. But Mike wasn't entirely convinced if it was doing the trick. Still, it was the thought that counted, right?
"Are you sure?" Mike asked.
"Yeah," Davy nodded his head and offered Mike a smile.
"Alright, if you're sure," Mike said, smiling in return.
They walked back to Peter's hospital room in silence, holding hands. Mike found it surprisingly normal, holding Davy's hand. Ever since John had suggested rings and an exchanging of promises, Mike had found being affection towards his partners more natural. It was a very odd phenomenon. He had even kissed Micky on the cheek a few days ago, the day when he had told Micky and Davy about the idea. They had been overjoyed, thinking it a very appropriate thing to do. Mike said his goodbye to Peter, who was asleep, and made sure Davy didn't need anything else before he left. He didn't, so Mike departed from the hospital. On the drive back to the pad, Mike kept the radio off and the windows down. The night air whipped against Mike's face and he felt a sense of calm wash over him. In a few days, Peter would be out of the hospital. Mike was excited to have Peter out of the hospital. Excited to be closer to the exchange ceremony. Excited just to be here, to exist in this moment.
He suddenly remembered that the day after tomorrow would also be test day. Every three months, which was the recommended number of months to wait before getting tested after an exposure to AIDS or HIV, he and Davy and Micky all got tested. Their three month marker would be the day after tomorrow and they'd be getting tested. A butterfly blossomed inside of Mike's stomach and fluttered around. He knew his test would come back negative but there was always the chance that perhaps this time would be different. This time he'd find out he's HIV positive. That he has AIDS, or had the possibility of developing it at any rate. The thought filled Mike with an unreal terror, a terror that he did not feel unless he forced himself to feel it. It was a ghost of a feeling, something that lingered in the back of his mind.
How Peter was making it through this whole ordeal was beyond Mike. But he was also very glad that Peter was doing his best. These days, Mike didn't think far into the future. It made his skin crawl and tears sting his eyes. The future meant thinking about Peter dying or dead. Even now, Mike's skin was crawling as if ants had buried themselves underneath and his eyes brimmed with tears. Now Peter wouldn't even be buried in L.A, where his home was. Instead, his dead lifeless body would be shipped like a forgotten package all the way to Connecticut where his family would probably claim he died of cancer or something stupid like that. They wouldn't have the balls to say what really killed him. God forbid, the word get out there their son died of the gay plague. And when Davy and Micky and Mike showed up to pay their respects to their dead lover, Peter's parents would either kick them out or refer to them as Peter's "very good friends", or at least that's what Peter had warned them of. It would be everything Peter didn't want and whenever Peter talked about it, Mike could see the pain in his facial expression, albeit carefully masked.
BEEEEP! BEEEEP!
Mike swerved to the left, getting back into his lane, as a small car whizzed by, still honking at Mike. His eyes had been clouded by tears and he'd been so lost in his own thoughts that he had drifted into the right lane. Heart pounding, Mike felt a rush of adrenaline. He had nearly died himself. Just then. A shiver ran down Mike's spine and he drove the rest of the way without thinking, eyes glued to the road, a numb sensation freezing him to the spot and putting him into autopilot. Around 10:00 PM, Mike pulled into the driveway. Parking the car, he sat in the dark for a moment, catching his breath. He was still a little shaky. It felt odd to have nearly faced death, and have that death be something as simple and ordinary as a car collision. Taking a deep breath, Mike got out of the car and locked it.
Inside, he found Micky eating a bowl of ice cream. As Mike sat down next to him at the kitchen table, the curly haired man pushed the bowl towards Mike and offered him the spoon. Mike took the spoon and took a bite of the ice cream. They shared it between the two of them, eating in silence until there was nothing left but a puddle of melted chocolate at the bottom of the bowl. Micky got up and washed the bowl out, putting it in the sink for a more thorough cleaning later. Mike watched Micky the whole while. Maybe it was the feeling of normalcy or maybe it was the near death experience, but Mike found himself feeling lucky to have someone like Micky in his life. Without thinking, Mike stood up and wrapped his arms around Micky's neck, pressing his lips against Micky's.
"Mmm," Micky pulled his face away from Mike's, "What's all this about?"
"I'm happy," Mike replied honestly, "Peter'll be home soon. I got home safely. You're here, and wonderful."
"Why, Mike Nesmith, you sound like some sort of queer," Micky fake gasped, feigning astonishment.
"Coming from the queen herself, that's rich," Mike hit back and then kissed Micky again.
They stood in the embrace of one another for a moment, hands exploring underneath shirts, until Micky suggested they go upstairs. Feeling exhilarated, even a little intoxicated, Mike agreed. The two of them stumbled upstairs and fell into bed.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Happy New Year everyone! It's 2017 and that means the end is near! Soon I will be finishing up this project, but I can talk about that at a later date. For now, I hope you all enjoyed this chapter! Again, I urge anyone to research more into the topic of the 1980s AIDS epidemic (such as And the Band Played On by Randy Shilts or a google search) because although I have tried for accuracy as best I can, I'm not a historian or a doctor & this is a work of fiction, purely for my own enjoyment, so some discrepancies will occur. I want to take a moment to thank everyone who has been reading & enjoying this fic so far. I appreciate every review & favorite that I receive on this fic and you guys really made my 2016. Happy New Year everyone & pls look forward to a new chapter soon.