They had slept at the hospital that night. Micky hadn't slept well, barely getting four hours of sleep maximum. Why he had slept so badly was beyond him, but it didn't matter much. He could always sleep later. There was almost all the time in the world for that. He went to the canteen and bought two cups of coffee, despite the fact that the coffee wouldn't be all that good. It was something though and Micky figured that it was enough for just then. He went back to the room, just in time to find Mike awake and stretching out his limbs.
"Good morning, beautiful," Micky greeted in a sing-song voice, handing him the cup of coffee.
He took a large gulp of his own scalding liquid, his eyes watering slightly in protest.
"Mmm," Mike took a sip and grimaced slightly before looking Micky up and down, "You look like shit."
It was a valid comment but Micky still pulled a look of shock, ready for a good joke. God, did he need a good laugh.
"That's the last thing you want to say to a lady," he chastised, trying to keep a straight face.
"Don't flatter yourself. You're an ugly old queen, Micky Dolenz, and I should know," Peter's sleepy voice cut in.
"I'm the youngest in the room, I'll have you know," Micky hit back, the smile creeping onto his face despite his best efforts.
He hadn't expected Peter to throw his own ring into the circle and it nearly had Micky in stitches. They spent the morning with Peter. A nurse brought Peter breakfast, a meal that consisted of just a little too much food so that Peter could easily share with his two lovers without having to really give up anything. Micky noted that it was a good morning for Peter. He seemed restless and antsy, itching to get out. A smile seemed to always be on his face and he talked freely about anything he could, especially how much he wanted to get out of the hospital. Mike kept reminding him that he'd be out of the hospital soon but until then he just needed to rest.
"I've rested enough," Peter grumbled, "It feels like all I do these days is rest."
"It's better than the alternative," Micky snapped.
He felt the sharp glare of Mike and watched as Peter's face faltered slightly. Micky regretted snapping at him, but he didn't say anything. Conversation moved on. Around noon, Mike and Micky left Peter and found Dr. Mark Andrews. Dr. Cole had taken a two day period off and in his place Dr. Andrews had come forth. By the look of exhaustion in his eyes, Micky guessed that the good old doctor was doing a good job of filling in the shoes that Dr. Cole had left. But maybe that was Micky just being ignorant. The man must have been taking care of patients alongside Dr. Cole for some time, he had only just now added a few more cases to his load to cover Dr. Cole. In fact, this wasn't even the first time the guys had interacted with Dr. Andrews.
"Ah, hi guys," Dr. Andrews beamed as soon as he saw Mike and Micky, "Right on time."
He finished checking a chart and then lead the pair down the hallway, ushering them into a free room. He took some blood from Mike first, then Peter, and then disappeared out of the room after informing the both of them that their results would be back soon. They sat in that room, just Micky and Mike, in silence for a moment. No one was around to kick them out, so why not take a little breather.
"Do you think Davy's plane ride went alright?" Micky asked after a while.
He absently kicked his feet backward and forward, the general feeling of anxiety already settled in his gut. Everything would be fine, he told himself firmly.
"Yeah, I think so," Mike replied, "I'm sure he'll call later today. But I wouldn't worry about him. He'll be fine."
Micky looked down at his sneakers. They were double knotted. Something his mother had taught him when he was little. He remembered trying to protest his mother, running around barefoot in the mud just to spite her. A stubborn little bastard, that's what he'd been as a child. The stubborn streak didn't end there either, rather it grew up with him, reflecting in his choice of clothing and, eventually, his questionable choice in lovers. Only after Micky's twenty-second birthday did he finally begin to appreciate his parents, truly and wholeheartedly appreciate them. Micky felt it was a shame he didn't begin to appreciate his parents sooner. At least he did now.
"Are you alright, Micky?" Mike asked, startling Micky out of his thoughts.
"Oh, yeah," Micky replied, glancing at Mike for a brief moment, "Just the usual nerves, you know."
Mike reached his hand out and took Micky's, intertwining their fingers. Micky felt a wave of reassurance wash over him.
"Don't worry about it, Micky," Mike said to him, "The results will be negative, just like they always are. There's no need to be nervous."
Micky ran his fingers through his hair, shaking out his curls a little. No need to be nervous. Micky wanted to argue with that but he didn't feel as if he had the energy.
"I'm just very tired, Mike," Micky admitted.
Mike leaned over and grabbed onto Micky's other hand, giving it a gentle squeeze.
"It's going to be okay, stop worryin', won't ya?" Mike insisted.
Micky nodded, feeling less scared then he had earlier. They sat in silence again for only a few minutes. A nurse came in after a while and said that they could find Dr. Andrews in his office, down the hall. She advised them to go in one at a time. Micky's heart rate began to pick up. This wasn't unusual or anything though. Everything was going to be fine. Micky kept repeating that in his head. Everything would be fine. Hand in hand, they walked down to Dr. Andrews office. Mike went first. Micky leaned against the wall across from the office, eyes trained up at the ceiling. It didn't take Mike long to emerge. He gave Micky thumbs up.
"Negative," he mouthed.
A wave of relief washed over Micky. He beamed and gave Mike a peck on the cheek before entering the office himself. Dr. Andrews was sitting behind his desk, shuffling through paperwork. There was no rest for the wicked it seemed. He glanced up as Micky entered.
"Have a sit, will you," Dr. Andrews motioned towards the plastic chair in front of the desk.
Micky sat down and watched as Dr. Andrews set aside the paperwork he had been looking at. He picked up a piece of paper and propped a pair of glasses onto the bridge of his nose. Micky could feel his heartbeat speed up again. This time it felt like his heart was trying to leap out of his chest or, he reasoned, as if he'd just sniffed a popper. The first time he'd ever partaken in that particular drug, Micky had been convinced he was having a heart attack. That's what it felt like now.
"Alright, Micky," Dr. Andrews began, "I won't beat around the bush or anything. You've probably already guessed that something's wrong."
The beating stopped and Micky felt as if he were free falling, his stomach lurching as if he were plummeting off a cliff. Here it came. Nothing to worry about. How had he lied so easily to himself? Nothing to be scared of. Stop worrying. Everything will be fine.
"Your test results came back positive, Micky," Dr. Andrews continued, "Your CD4 count is far below 500, the average count. But it hasn't dropped past 200 yet. Right now, it's at 329. As of right now, you don't have AIDS, even though your CD4 count is a little too close to 200 for my liking, but you do have HIV."
What was the difference? Micky wanted to cry but there were no tears. There wasn't any difference. It was only a matter of time. He wanted to scream but he couldn't find the strength.
"So… what happens now?" Micky managed to ask.
"Well, right now, I just want you to monitor your health and I want to test you again in about a week, just to see if your count will drop," Dr. Andrews replied.
"Can't I be put on any sort of medication?" Micky asked, feeling as if there should be more he could do.
Dr. Andrews was a doctor. He should have an answer to this, one that could help him now.
"I'm sorry, Micky, but there's not much else either of us can do. At this stage, I don't want to put you on anything until we're sure what's going on. I will look into some medications you can probably start on in a week or two," Dr. Andrews answered.
Until we're sure? What did that mean? Micky didn't want that kind of answer. Micky wanted to cry, to scream, to fall apart. But what could he do? He couldn't fall apart. He was panicking. He had to calm down. He took a deep breath. A shaky inhale. A shaky exhale.
"I'm scheduling you for a checkup this time next week," Dr. Andrews explained, "To get everything in order."
Micky nodded. He told the doctor thank you, even though it felt hollow and wrong, like it was a lie. Then he exited the office. Mike was not in the hallway. He probably had gone back to Peter's room. Another wave of panic overtook Micky. He staggered and grabbed onto the wall, using it to help keep him upright. How was he supposed to tell Mike? Davy? God, how was he supposed to tell Peter? The image of Mike, smiling and mouthing the word negative, came to him then. That wouldn't be Micky. Everything seemed to be slipping away from him, right before his very own eyes.
"Excuse me, sir, are you alright?" a nurse asked.
The suddenness of the nurse's question startled Micky. Where had he come from? Micky glanced at him.
"Um," Micky wasn't sure if he was or not, "I don't know."
"Do you need any assistance? Are you a patient here?" the nurse asked.
"My partner, he's here. He has AIDS," Micky replied.
The nurse's face fell, a look of understanding overcoming him then.
"I'm sorry to hear that, sir," he said.
"Thanks," Micky nodded, "I… I'm going to go back to his room."
"Are you sure you're alright?" the nurse asked.
"Yes," Micky said, even though he still wasn't sure.
It was like deja vu. It was Peter telling him that he had AIDS all over again. Had Peter felt like this? Like the whole world was ending and that nothing had really changed, all at the same time. He walked back to Peter's room, finding Mike sitting next to Peter. Peter was asleep. He had to seem normal. He had to seem as if nothing was wrong. Telling Mike here, and now, was not what Micky wanted. Keep it together, Micky demanded of himself. Keep it together.
"All he talked about while you weren't here was how he's gettin' out of here in three days," Mike chuckled as soon as Micky entered the room.
"You didn't tell him about the surprise, did you?" Micky found it surprisingly easy to fake a cheerful tone.
"Of course I didn't. I ain't gonna spoil it for him," Mike said.
"Are you still picking up the rings today?" Micky asked.
It felt odd. This whole exchange felt odd. Mike hadn't even asked Micky what his results had been. Oh god, Micky thought, he's assuming I'm negative. The thought made him feel queasy. The room spun a little. He was still panicking. Christ, he needed to calm down.
"I gotta," Mike answered, "Unless you wanna get them. The shop won't keep them for more than a day or two and I don't want them being given away or thrown out or something."
"You can go get them," Micky replied, "I was just wondering."
It would give him time to think of how to tell Mike. A part of him wished that Davy were here. That Davy could be the first one to know. Maybe it'd be easier. But another part of Micky was relieved that it was Mike. Despite the churning emotions inside of him, he was glad that it was Mike he'd have to tell first. That way, if Mike lashed out, Micky could handle him by himself. But what if Mike decided to leave? Having two partners with AIDS might be too much for him. Micky felt his legs wobble.
"Alrighty then," Mike nodded, "I can drop you off at home then, before I go to pick up the rings."
Micky agreed to this and then fell silent. They stayed at the hospital for a little while longer, eating a meager dinner in the canteen at one point. Peter stayed asleep for most of the time they were there, momentarily waking confused at some point. Eventually Micky and Mike said their goodbyes and slipped out of the hospital. The sun was only just setting and Mike dropped Micky off at the pad before driving away. Finally alone, Micky sat down on the couch and stared at the wall for a moment. Then, as if in small sections, Micky's shoulders slumped and he began to cry. Breathing was difficult as the sobs made him shake. How had he let this happen? How was he supposed to tell Mike? Peter? Davy? He felt like an utter failure.
The rings were no trouble to pick up. Davy had preordered them at some jewelry shop the week before. They were just four simple silver bands, nothing special, there wasn't even any engravings in them. Why they needed to be preordered was beyond Mike, but the knowledge that they were in his jean pocket made him feel warm and fuzzy on the inside. He couldn't wait for next week, specifically next Saturday, when they'd head up to John's cabin. On Sunday morning, they'll surprise Peter with the ceremony and then they'd take things from there. It was going to be wonderful, Mike was sure of it. How could it not be? He pulled up into the driveway and put the car in park. It was dark outside now and Mike considered making some tea. Although it wasn't remotely cold outside, Mike thought that perhaps a heated beverage might end the night on a high note. He entered the pad and paused, flipping on a light in order to illuminate the dark pad. Micky was curled up on the couch, asleep. Smiling, Mike walked over to him and prodded him awake.
"If you're tired, let me take you upstairs to bed," Mike offered as Micky blinked blearily up at him.
Instead of a snappy remark or a look of contented humor, as Mike had expected, Micky's face was contorted with almost a look of pain. He sat upright and turned his face away from Mike. Mike felt the cold hand of fear tickle his spine, a sinking feeling overcoming him.
"Is something wrong, Micky?" Mike asked, almost hesitantly.
He wasn't sure if he wanted to know the answer. Could he just ignore this, let it go away without acknowledging it? In the back of his mind, Mike already knew what was wrong, but his own denial drowned out that fact.
"I-," Micky's voice cracked and he lapsed into silence, gazing downwards towards the floor, "Fuck, Mike, I've fucked it all up."
Micky's voice hitched and Mike sat feeling helpless as he watched Micky begin to cry.
"What's wrong?" Mike repeated, feeling like a broken record.
He wanted to force his hand to reach out and comfort Micky, but his efforts were in vain. His hand wouldn't do as he wanted. It just sat in his lap, motionless.
"My test came back positive, that's what's wrong. What the hell else do you think it could be?" Micky snapped, his voice almost a snarl of anger.
Mike felt his heart speed up, felt himself physically shy away from Micky. Yet, even as he moved away in defense of himself, a part of him wanted to match Micky's anger. His test results were positive. He was HIV positive. Micky had AIDS. A brick wall of emotion hit Mike. He felt a heavy melancholy, boiling rage, and an almost overwhelming sense of futility. Then, similar to it's sudden explosion, all the emotions evaporated, a numbness replacing them.
"Well?" Micky prompted, his voice a clear challenge, "What are you going to say? Don't just sit there."
What was he going to say? Mike wasn't sure, at first. But the emotional void he found himself in made it easier to articulate his thoughts.
"Why didn't you tell me at the hospital?" Mike asked.
It was the first thing that came to his mind and it seemed the most suitable response, even though Mike felt as if it were a stupid question.
"I… couldn't then. I just couldn't. Not there," Micky replied, his voice hitching again as tears streamed down his cheeks.
"I understand," Mike said, finally getting his hand to reach out towards Micky.
He began to rub small circles into the other man's back, pulling him a little closer. Micky rested his head on Mike's shoulder.
"I'm so sorry, Mike, fuck I'm so sorry," Micky sobbed, suddenly grabbing onto Mike as if his life depended on it.
Mike held onto Micky, beginning to rock him back and forth slowly. It was something his Aunt Kate had done to him whenever Mike had come to her crying as a child. He had found it comforting and now he hoped that it would provide Micky with a similar feeling.
"You ain't got nothing to be sorry for," Mike informed him, "Shh, shh, listen to me now. You ain't got nothing to be sorry for, Micky, this ain't your fault."
"B-But it's not Peter's, it c-can't be P-," Micky couldn't manage to finish the sentence.
Mike could feel Micky crying, physically feel the other man shaking in his arms. For a moment Mike thought he'd almost join Micky. But he couldn't let himself cry right now. Micky needed him to be strong.
"It's no one's fault, babe. It ain't your's and it ain't Peter's," Mike assured him, briefly wondering if this was God's plan all along.
If God was the almighty being he truly was, why would he do this to innocent people? Was it because they were homosexuals? Was this really God's punishment? But Mike pushed those thoughts away, for now. That sort of thinking was not what Micky needed in this moment. Mike continued to hold Micky, continued to rock him. Everything felt so oddly distant and Mike found it troubling. When would all of this hit him? The thought of himself quickly dissipated from his mind. He could worry about himself later. Eventually Micky calmed down, sobs slowing to sniffles and sniffles slowing to silence. Then Micky pulled away from Mike, wiping tears from his cheeks despite the fact that they were already mostly dry.
"What am I supposed to do, Mike?" Micky asked.
He sounded so pained, so lost. It broke Mike's heart and he felt a stabbing pain in his chest at the realization that there was nothing he could do to help Micky, help the man he loved.
"We'll take it however we have to. One day at a time," Mike emphasised the we.
He didn't want Micky to think he'd be doing any of this on his own. None of them were going to abandon Micky. They hadn't abandoned Peter, after all. It wouldn't be any different this time.
"God," Micky threw his head back, so that it was hanging over the back of the couch, "How the hell am I supposed to tell Peter about this?"
"You don't," Mike was startled by his immediate response.
Micky raised his head, gaze trained on Michael and a frown creasing his brows.
"He has a right to know. It isn't as if I can keep this a secret forever," Micky pointed out.
"His mind's all messed up inside," Mike countered, "If he finds out he gave you AIDS, he ain't going to take it well. You can tell him later, much later, or something if ya like. But I don't think it's a good idea to tell 'im now."
Mike hoped that he was being sensitive enough. He wanted to be there for Micky but he also had to keep Peter in mind as well. If Micky told Peter about his diagnosis, Peter would surely blame himself. Maybe that knowledge would send him over the edge. It could send him into a very dark place and that was the last thing anyone wanted, especially right now. Mike hoped that Micky understood this. Micky rubbed a hand over his face.
"I don't know…," he sighed, "I think I'll lose my nerve if I don't tell him soon."
Mike took a hold of Micky's hand. He squeezed gently, trying to reassure Micky that everything would be alright in that single motion. He wasn't entirely sure that it was doing the trick.
"Think about it for a while," Mike suggested, "Talk to Davy when he comes home tomorrow. Or the day after that, depending on when he's gettin' in. There ain't any rush."
"Yeah," Micky reluctantly agreed, "You're right. I'll… talk to Davy when he gets home."
They sat there facing each other for a moment, Mike looking directly at Micky and Micky gazing down at his own hands. The silence that enveloped the pad made Mike antsy. It shouldn't be this quiet. There were two living, breathing human beings in this house. So why did it sound like only the dead lived here? Mike took a deep breath. Inhale. Exhale. Repeat.
"Hey, Micky?" Mike called out after a moment.
Micky had closed his eyes, though Mike hadn't noticed until just now, and so he opened them to look at Mike.
"Mmm?"
"Let me take you up to bed," Mike suggested.
It was late. Micky was already falling asleep. And all Mike wanted to do was be alone for a moment. If Micky was fast asleep upstairs, Mike could be alone without feeling guilty.
"Alright," Micky nodded.
It felt weird for Micky to be so complacent, going along with what Mike suggested without a single joke or jib. Heaving a sigh, Mike stood up and awkwardly scooped Micky up into his arms. For a moment, Mike wondered if he really could carry Micky up the stairs without killing them both, but Mike's body wasn't really listening to his brain. He was already in autopilot, climbing the stairs carefully, taking them one at a time. The door to their bedroom was already opened so Mike just walked right on through and laid Micky down in his bed. Mike tucked Micky in, making sure that he was as comfortable as Mike could possibly make him. Then Mike decided he'd go back downstairs, so he went to turn around but Micky's arm shot out from beneath the blankets and grabbed onto Mike's wrist.
"Mike, please don't leave me," Micky whimpered.
Mike looked down at Micky's hand wrapped around his wrist. He sounded scared. He sounded worried. He sounded so small. And it broke Mike's heart, the ache in his chest making his stomach feel hollow. There was no way he could leave Micky now. Mike moved back to the bed.
"I won't leave you," Mike said, "I promise, Micky."
He promised. Of course he promised. He didn't want to leave Micky. But the numbness was fading. Feelings began to creep back into him, crawling along his skin. He watched Micky move over in his bed, making room for Mike to lay down, as if it were all happening on a movie screen. Or a dream. Mike automatically settled himself down next to Micky.
"I promise I won't leave you," Mike repeated.
Micky made only a noise in response, draping an arm over Mike's chest. Almost immediately, Micky drifted off to sleep. He began to softly snore. But Mike couldn't sleep. Even with his eyes shut, his mind was working at a mile a minute. Micky was going to die now. It was finalized. If Peter hadn't exposed Mike to HIV, Micky had most definitely. Which meant that sooner or later, Mike would be declared HIV positive. And he'd die. Would Davy get it too? Probably. Now Mike would have to watch Peter die away first, then watch Micky waste away too. The urge to cry overtook him. There was no air in the room. He couldn't breath but then he let out a sob. The tears began to stream down his cheeks. There was no sound. Mike was amazed at how silent he was.
A part of him hated Micky. Hated Peter. Hated himself. This was God's doing. Was it a punishment? Was He punishing Mike for giving into sin? Or was it ultimately a part of something bigger? Something less malicious? Or did it mean nothing at all? Mike wondered what it would be like if things had been different. If they had lived in a different time period. If they had been straight. But it didn't matter. Any sort of what-if questions that came to Mike's mind were meaningless to wonder about. Because it was happening. Had happened. And Mike would stay true to his word. He wouldn't leave Peter. He wouldn't leave Micky. He'd stay with them until he himself was dead and buried in the cold hard earth. Because he loved them. And whatever happened, at least he'd know that they died knowing Mike loved them.
Micky shifted in his sleep and Mike felt every movement. He could feel Micky's chest rising and falling as he inhaled and exhaled. For a brief moment, Mike shut his eyes again, hoping maybe this time he'd just fall asleep. Then he opened his eyes again, staring up at the ceiling, listening to Micky breathing. The curly haired drummer still had his arm draped over Mike's chest and Mike brought his hand up to brush against Micky's fingers. He traced them for a moment before taking a hold of Micky's hand and squeezing it gently. A small smile found its way onto Mike's face. Micky had always had soft hands. Certainly, out of all of them, Davy had the softest hands, but Mike would bet that Micky's hands would give Davy's a run for their money. Laying there in bed with Micky, holding his hand like this, made Mike feel the old twisting knife of guilt. The words filthy faggot floated in his head. A memory then came to him.
His father. His no good, drunk of a father. Mike hadn't left Texas until he was twenty-one. Why he stayed so long was beyond him, but that's how it went down. It happened when Mike was nineteen. The first year without his mother, Mike had lived with his father. But he'd been arrested for driving drunk. The sentence had been upped to two years due to the fact that Mike's father had driven straight into a house. So the next two years were spent living with his Aunt Kate, helping out on her farm with his cousins. At nineteen, Mike was dating a girl named Mary-Jane. She was a sweet girl who worked hard in school to get good grades. Mike had dated a girl named Sandie before Mary-Jane and he found himself much more attracted to Mary-Jane. The two of them could fool around with Mike being less of a disappointment, although usually Mike opted to please Mary-Jane rather than having it the other way around because he found it easier on himself. Less expectations. Mike liked Mary-Jane well enough and things between them would have been great, except for one thing. Mary-Jane had a brother named Paul. Paul was two years older than Mike. He was muscular and tan, wafting hair that could belong to an angel or Christ himself. When he smiled, Mike saw the sun.
One summer, the summer before Mike was about to move to a shitty apartment closer to the community college he was going to be attending come the fall, Aunt Kate hired Paul to help out on the farm. She'd made the passing comment that since Paul would be around all the time, Mike could spend more time with Mary-Jane. And yes, Mike had spent more time with Mary-Jane, but he didn't spend nearly as much time with her as he had with Paul. That summer, Mike had embarked on his first ever gay experience. Paul, it turned out, was just as interested in Mike as Mike was interested in him. They kept it secret, fooling around during Paul's breaks in the afternoon and at night. Mike would steal glances of Paul whenever he could, help Paul with his chores as much as he could, and even once convinced Paul to go out to dinner with him at the diner down the street. For two months this went on, a blissful and heaven like two months, until Mike's father was released from jail on probation. Only he didn't call to let Aunt Kate know, so Mike never knew. One night, Paul and Mike were fucking, with Mike receiving and Paul giving. They were in Mike's room on the ground floor, Paul had snuck in through the window, and they were both being very cautious, despite the fact that neither of them had had any reason to suspect that anyone would barge in. They had done this enough times to know no one would walk in on them. Plus, on this particular night, Aunt Kate and her children had gone out for the night. They wouldn't be back until the morning. Where they had gone, Mike couldn't exactly remember. It didn't matter though.
All that mattered was that Mike and Paul should not have had any interruptions. So it had been a shocking, horrifying surprise when Mike's father had walked into the room, slamming the door open. He had, at first, been quiet, watching as Mike and Paul scrambled to get their clothes on. Mike's heart had nearly leapt right out of his chest. A hole in the ground had nearly opened up and swallowed Michael whole, right then and there. That would have been better than what had really happened. Paul had slipped out of the window just as Mike's father had begun to scream at Mike.
"Filthy faggot! Filthy goddamn faggot! God'll strike you down, you filthy faggot!"
Mike hadn't thought about that night in so long. He had come so far since then. Mike remembered crying after his father had screamed at him, crying as his father had hit him. He remembered Aunt Kate standing up for him in the morning, claiming that Mike's father was drunk and wouldn't have been able to tell a car from a horse. Aunt Kate hadn't believed Mike's father. Why, Mike wasn't entirely sure, but he had taken it as a sign from God. Mike never saw Paul after that and a week later Mary-Jane ended up breaking it off with him. Mike had gone off to college that fall and a little less than two years later he ended up moving to California.
Micky's leg knocked into the side of Mike's leg, rousing Mike from his deep thoughts. Blinking, Mike turned his head to the side, so that he was no longer staring up at the ceiling, rather at Micky. The drummer looked peaceful, sleeping so deeply. Mike squeezed Micky hand again, having almost forgotten that their fingers were still intertwined. Micky made no movement. A deep sigh ran through Mike. How had things gotten so mixed up? So terrible yet so good? There was no way for Mike to answer his own questions. All Mike could do was hope he'd be able to stay around. That he'd be able to watch Micky waste away just like how he was watching Peter do the same. Hope that he'd be able to handle things when his own diagnosis came along. Maybe everything would be alright.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Thanks for reading everyone! This was a really fun chapter to write so I hope everyone likes it. Again, this fic is obviously a work of fic and I encourage anyone to do their own research on the 1980s AIDS epidemic and general research on HIV on their own. Although this fic did attempt accuracy, I am not trying to claim things depicted are accurate. I hope everyone out there has a good day! Will be publishing another chapter next week. Feel free to leave a review/favorite, every one is very much appreciated.