It'd been two days since Peter had been on any sort of medication and, finally, Dr. Cole had put him back on AZT, along with a different antiretroviral medication, the name of which escaped Peter at the moment. Peter wasn't sure if this was a good sign or a bad sign. In fact, he wasn't sure if Dr. Cole even knew the answer to that sort of question. It seemed like they both were stumbling into unknown territory, the blind leading the blind.
"This is a bit risky, so please monitor how you feel over the next few days. Call me if you have any concerns and if any side effects begin to feel unusual, stop taking both medications. If that happens, we'll get you back in here and figure something out," Dr. Cole had said to Peter.
It seemed as if Dr. Cole was groping in the dark and that made Peter understandably uncomfortable. But Micky had assured Peter this would work out alright.
"Coco told me a lot of doctors have been trying a combination of drugs, to see if that helps, since AZT has had so-so effects for a lot of men," Micky had said to him in passing, the day before Peter went onto the drugs.
So, Peter was to just be a guinea pig for the advancement of medicine? It rankled him a little but not by very much. He was going to die anyways, one way or another, and he might as well test out drugs for future knowledge. Maybe his three lovers would see the cure to AIDS. Peter doubted that he would, but there was hope that Micky, Davy, and Mike would. None of them had even been diagnosed yet so it was a very possible notion. The first few days on the new medication combination, Peter had felt fine. He went swimming in the ocean, went walking on the beach, ran errands with Davy, and a whole variety of other activities. He had felt good, even though he had taken a nap in the afternoon, always after lunch. There was a lot to look forward to as well. His partners had revealed to him that they'd be going on a trip up to the mountains, to stay at John Denver's cabin. Mike apparently had asked John if they could stay up there for four days, just to get away from things for a little bit. Peter had hardly felt any side effects at all and the idea of taking a little bit of a break from L.A was very appealing. All of it lulled him into a sense of false security, so when Peter woke up the day of the trip feeling godawful, he didn't understand why.
Getting out of bed, a wave of nausea overcame Peter and he felt a little light-headed. Screwing his eyes shut tightly, Peter stood absolutely still, waiting for it all to pass. The dizziness ebbed away but the nausea continued to linger. Peter ground his teeth together and decided that the nausea probably wouldn't be going away anytime soon, so he might as well get his day started. Opening his eyes again, Peter noted that Davy wasn't in the room. His bed was made, covers neatly tucked under the mattress to make it look like a hotel maid had made the bed. Probably, Peter reckoned, Davy was helping the others pack the car up. God. The idea of being in a moving vehicle made the urge to vomit worsen. No. No, thought Peter, he wouldn't let this ruin the day. Ruin the trip. Peter forced himself to move, despite the fact that every part of his body was telling him to just go back to bed. Honestly though, Peter had already slept in. He couldn't let himself ruin today. Micky, Mike, and Davy were all looking forward to the trip. Peter grabbed the first shirt his hand touched and pulled it on, having opted to sleep without a shirt on last night. Then he yanked off his pajama pants, sliding on a clean pair of jeans in their place. There, he'd done it. He was dressed. Bathroom time. Peter shuffled out of the bedroom. Distantly he was aware of Micky exiting the pad, with Mike hot on his heels. Davy was in the kitchen, doing something but Peter didn't pay much attention to what it was the smaller man was actually doing. All he could really focus on was the movement of his feet. Anything else made the nausea worse.
He shuffled alongside the wall, using it almost to hold him up. The same things kept tumbling inside of his head. I'm not going to throw up. I don't feel sick. I feel fine. Over and over again, these phrases repeated, like a mantra. The bathroom was empty, of course it was considering the other three people living in this house were busy at the moment, allowing Peter to slip inside easily. Yawning a little, Peter picked up his toothbrush and turned on the faucet. Wetting his toothbrush beforehand, Peter applied some minty fresh toothpaste. Everything was fine. He was fine. In fact, he felt great! Didn't he feel great? Peter began to brush his teeth. But he didn't get far. His back molars were just getting a good cleaning when an acidic burn began to creep up his throat. Quickly yanking the toothbrush away from his mouth, and knowing he didn't have any time to try to make it to the toilet, Peter bent over the sink and threw up. The bile burned his throat and made his eyes water. It splashed all over the sink's counter. Peter felt a wave of embarrassment but there was a brief pause. Peter knew more was coming but he had to make it to the toilet instead. Both hands clasped firmly over his mouth, Peter shifted himself so that he was closer to the toilet but just then someone popped into the doorframe of the bathroom.
"Peter, you alright?" Davy's voice asked.
Clearly, he hadn't had a chance to take in the scene but Peter hadn't expected Davy to appear. The sudden entrance of his lover had startled Peter, causing his hands to fall away from his mouth and suddenly a second wave of vile vomit flooded into his mouth and he knelt down, body shaking a little. There was a mess on his shirt front, a mess on the floor, a mess on the toilet seat. Some of it had made it into the actual toilet though, so that was at least something.
"Shit," Peter distantly heard Davy swear.
Looking at the mess in front of him, a mess he had made himself, and feeling the gross liquid soaking the front of his T-shirt, Peter felt horrible. He felt disgusting. There was a burning in his throat, an absolutely nightmare sort of taste in his mouth, and he felt exhausted. There had only been a few times Peter had ever felt like this prior to his diagnosis and that had only been when he'd been absolutely shitfaced. High and drunk on god only knew, coming home at four in the morning, only to end up in a similar situation. But instead of being blackout drunk, Peter was fully aware of everything. He wouldn't have the luxury of forgetting this in the morning. It made him feel so small and helpless and Peter couldn't help but begin to cry. At first it was just a little bit of a teary-eyed sort of sniffling but it devolved into gut wrenching sobs. He probably looked a right mess and that seemed to only make things worse, the image of him crying while surrounded by sick. It was pathetic.
"Hey, Pete, it's okay," Micky's voice suddenly said, arms wrapped around Peter, "I'm here, we're all here, it's okay."
Micky was rubbing Peter's arm and Peter wanted to pull himself away from Micky. Don't touch me, he wanted to say. How could Micky be so close to him, with all this mess around? But exhaustion was a strong force and Peter let himself be held because all he wanted to do was crawl right back into bed.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Peter found himself saying to Micky.
He hadn't been aware he was even speaking until just that moment.
"It's alright, babe," Micky assured him, "It's nothing to worry about or be sorry for, okay."
Peter shook his head but he couldn't manage to say anything. The feeling of guilt was creeping back up onto him, making his guts twist as if maybe he'd have to vomit again. That was the last thing he wanted to do, of course. Why did this have to happen this morning? The day of their trip. It was unfair, not just to Peter, but especially his three lovers. It wasn't fair at all.
"I'm sorry," Peter said again. It honestly was one of the only things he could think to say.
"Shh, it's okay," Micky said again, "Here, come on, let's get up. Get you cleaned up, come on. Up we go."
As Micky spoke, he lifted Peter into a standing position. A part of Peter vaguely wondered what he was supposed to do in this sort of situation but he didn't put up any sort of protest and just sort of let Micky half-lead, half-carry him back to his bedroom. While Micky was helping Peter through the door, he spied Mike and Davy slipping into the bathroom. Before Peter could say anything, Micky walked him into the bedroom, shutting the door behind them.
"Alright, get your clothes off, mister," Micky instructed, a surprisingly cheerful tone to his voice.
What was he so happy about? Peter wanted to glower or maybe go to bed. Honestly he was feeling awful and tired and, if he were being completely honest, a bit cranky. Micky seemed oblivious to this though. Instead, he was just rummaging around in Peter's drawers, looking for a new set of clothes, probably.
"You gotta go tell Mike and Davy I can clean up my own mess, I just need a minute," Peter grumbled, pulling off his t-shirt carefully so as to not get any vomit on him by accident.
"Nonsense," Micky shook his head, throwing a pair of pajamas onto Peter's bed as Peter slid off his jeans, "Mike and Davy can handle it."
Peter felt a hot flush of red sprinkle his cheeks. He wasn't a child and why was Micky throwing him PJs? They had a car ride to start. All Peter needed was an hour, maybe two. A quick nap and then maybe he'd feel a little better. They could still go on their trip.
"Plus, when's the next time we can boss them around to do any work around here?" Micky added with a wink.
Standing there in his underwear, nearly naked, Peter couldn't help but feel foolish. As if he were an absolute grubby child. Only a few minutes ago, he'd been covered in his own sick and he still felt awful, maybe not as awful as he had felt early, but still awful. He should have anticipated this. It wasn't as if he hadn't felt this way before. The medicine had always made Peter feel awful. It had always made Peter throw up, now and again. Nothing new yet it felt as if this time round, Peter wouldn't be able to live through it. He didn't want to keep doing this, not anymore. Micky's hands suddenly placing themselves on Peter's hips startled Peter out of his thoughts.
"Hey," Micky said, "Are you alright?"
His face was very close to Peter's face, close enough for Peter to feel Micky's breath on the tip of his nose. The concern Peter saw in his eyes nearly frightened Peter. Here was a man who truly, deeply cared for him. That scared Peter, scared him very much.
"I'm sorry, Micky," Peter said, his eyes misting a little.
"What for?" Micky frowned.
"I don't think I'll be able to manage a car ride today," Peter mumbled, eyes avoiding Micky's.
It felt like a defeat somehow. As if he were allowing It to rob him of a moment of his life that he'd most likely never get back. Here he was, disappointing his friends when he didn't want to. But how could he help it? What could he do? The last thing he wanted was to be sick during a car ride. How awful would that be?
"Don't be sorry about that," Micky replied almost immediately, placing a kiss onto Peter's cheek, "We'll go this weekend. That'll give you two days to rest up. And if you don't feel good enough this weekend, we'll go whenever you feel ready."
Micky sounded so genuine. As if he really meant what he said. For a brief moment, Peter wondered if Micky did mean it. Perhaps his partners weren't bothered by Peter inconveniencing them like this. An odd feeling began to creep up Peter's legs, spilling into his gut. No, Micky probably did mean what he said. That much, Peter knew for sure. So why did he feel so awful? So hopeless?
"Peter? You gonna get dressed?" Micky's voice almost didn't register with Peter.
Peter blinked and looked down at himself. He was still just in his underwear. Feeling another hot sprinkle of blush appear on his cheeks, Peter pulled on the pajama shirt. His thoughts were still preoccupied with why he felt so guilty about not being able to make the trip up to John's cabin. It wasn't until Peter was slipping his legs into the pajama pants that he came to a sort of realization. The medicine had won today. It had robbed Peter of what was supposed to be a wonderful, exciting day filled with adventure. Certainly, yes, Peter felt bad about putting his friends into a position like this, but it was the fact that Peter felt so horrible and awful that he couldn't handle a simple car ride that really bothered him. Since his release from the hospital, Peter had felt so good. He'd felt so good, he almost forgot that he was dying. Peter felt his bottom lip tremble and he flopped down onto the bed, head resting on his hands as tears began to slowly trickle down his cheeks.
"Shit, Peter, what's wrong?" Micky's startled question reminded Peter that he was still in the room.
The bassist felt Micky rush to his side, settling himself right next to Peter. God, it was like Peter couldn't have space to breath! Peter shifted himself away from Micky. Couldn't he be alone right now? Why did they always have to hover over him, like he was going to die at any given moment?
"Everything's wrong, Micky," Peter snapped.
He hadn't meant to sound so harsh and he immediately regretted his tone of voice as soon as he heard himself speak. Micky stiffened next to him, obviously picking up the edge to Peter's voice. How could he miss it?
"Look, the trip isn't all that important-," Micky began, trying to soothe Peter's frustrations but this only added to them.
"It's not about the fucking car ride," Peter interrupted him, then backpedaled a little, "Well, not really. I… shit, it's just that I forgot, Mick, I forgot how horribly awful this shit makes me feel. When I wasn't on any medicines, I felt so good. It was such a relief and then to be here, to feel too awful to not be able to ride in a fucking car, it's such a drastic change. Something so simple, and I… can't fucking do it. Because I feel terrible."
A hollow, empty feeling was beginning to spread throughout Peter's body and he felt as if at any moment he'd just topple backwards, fast asleep. He was suddenly so exhausted, so tired. It felt as if he hadn't slept in months. Micky was still silent, still stiff sitting next to him.
"I just don't know how much more I can take of this," Peter sighed, "A friend from the hospital, Mark, he told me about how some guys have just been letting things run its course, without any medication. I didn't really see the appeal until now, I guess. I'm just tired. Tired physically and tired of feeling awful."
Peter felt Micky's hand brush against his, almost as if Micky were trying to reassure himself that Peter was really still there. It occurred to Peter that maybe Micky didn't want to hear this sort of stuff. Maybe this was too much for him. It was too much even for Peter. But if Peter had to face this, then so should Micky. If Davy and Mike were here, he'd subject them to this too.
"Peter, I… know it's hard, but you can't stop taking the AZT and stuff," Micky began tentatively, as if he wasn't entirely sure of how to go about saying what he wanted to say.
Micky wasn't to blame though. Had their positions been reversed, Peter doubted that he'd be able to know exactly how to go about saying what he wanted to say to Micky. All Micky needed was a moment and Peter allowed him that much.
"I wish you didn't have to suffer. I wish there was more I could do to help you," Micky continued, "And I don't want to force you to do something that you don't want to do. But… But I don't know if I could accept a decision that would involve stopping the medication."
There were too many emotions whirling around inside of Peter for him to know exactly how he felt about Micky's words. The blond laid down onto the bed, resting his hands on his chest. Heaving a sigh, Peter closed his eyes. He felt the bedsprings move as Micky laid down next to him. This conversation was too taxing. Why had Peter brought any of this up?
"I know, Micky, I know," Peter murmured after a minute or so of silence. "I just wish it didn't make me feel so goddamn awful all the goddamn time."
He felt as if he could fall asleep at any moment. But then, Peter got a pleasant surprise. Micky was suddenly pressing his lips against Peter's. Peter kissed Micky back, an arm pulling the curly-haired drummer closer to him. Micky's fingers brushed a loose strand of Peter's hair behind his ear.
"I'm sorry it makes you feel awful. But, look, me, Mike, and Davy, well... we're here for you. Boss us around all you want, if that'll help you feel less awful," Micky said, his words brushing hot air against Peter's face, "But… don't stop taking it. Please. I… I know it's selfish but I…"
Micky trailed off, as if he were about to start to cry. Peter felt a pang of guilt. Here he was, making his lover cry. How could he be so cruel? Yet there was another part of him that wanted Micky to man up, almost wanted to see Micky cry. If Peter wanted to stop taking his medicine, who should have the right to stop him? It was his life, after all. Yes, it was his life, but that didn't give him any right to hurt those he loved, did it? Peter brushed the tips of his fingers against Micky's back, as if reassuring himself that Micky was indeed there. That, at least in this moment, there was nothing separating them. And there was no reason to put Micky through any more pain than he was already being put through.
"It's alright," Peter said to him after a moment.
It was alright. At least, Peter thought it was. It had to be alright.
"I was just… talking, that's all. I wouldn't dare stop taking my medicine. I couldn't do that to you guys," Peter continued.
No, Peter thought to himself, no he most certainly could not do that to the men he loved. He pressed Micky closer to him, wondering how it had all ended up like this. And when it would all end. God, when had he become such a sad sap? Despite himself, Peter smiled.
"I love you so much, Micky," he mumbled.
Micky lifted his head up slightly, presumably to give Peter a look despite the fact that Peter was still gazing up at the ceiling.
"I love you, too, Peter," Micky replied after a moment.
Neither one spoke after that. They laid in Peter's bed for about an hour, perhaps even an hour and a half. Peter thought that it felt good to just lay there with Micky, without having to put in much energy into conversation or movement. Eventually, Peter couldn't help but fall asleep. It had just become too much of a struggle to keep his eyes open and nearly as soon as he closed them, he was pulled into the world of unconscious.
With a day to spare, Micky had decided that he'd take the opportunity to go out and purchase a new photo album. The one he was currently working on was nearly complete and it was about time Micky got himself a new one to fill. But Davy had taken their car out for god only knew what and Micky didn't feel like hoofing it to the store. So he decided that the logical, and only, conclusion was to bum a ride from Coco. Except that Coco was busy that afternoon. Yet luck seemed to be on Micky's side because it just so happened that Coco's lover, Beth, was free and had a car of her own. She offered to drive Micky to and from the store and, thus, Micky found himself combing the aisles of the local craft store looking for just the right photo album with Beth. They hadn't really said much to one another on the ride over and it was throwing Micky's game off.
"So, how're you enjoying life with my sister?" Micky asked, hoping that was a casual enough topic.
He spotted a particularly interesting green photo album.
"I'm loving it," Beth replied. "Coco's really great. Such a sweet woman. I love her to death, even if she can be a bit of a nag."
The way the photo album felt in Micky's hand was too… off. It felt a little too heavy and the cover felt like leather rather than the usually weird cardboard plastic stuff most of his albums back at home had. It just wasn't right. Micky put it back on the shelf.
"My sister, a nag?" Micky arched an eyebrow, throwing Beth a quick look.
Beth didn't seem up to the challenge and knew immediately that Micky wasn't surprised to hear such criticism. It made Micky laugh, the rumble in his chest spilling out into a warm chuckle.
"Well, it's not that she's a nag," Micky continued, picking up another photo album that caught his eye. "It's just that she likes order and control. And when things don't go as she planned them to, she starts to panic a little. Something she inherited from our father, unfortunately."
Again, the album that Micky had picked up wasn't what he was looking for, even though it had held promise, so he put it back on the shelf.
"So what did you inherit from your father?" Beth asked.
"Male-pattern baldness, probably," Micky shrugged, patting his hair lovingly. "So I'm living this up while I can."
Beth laughed at that one. Her laugh was a high pitched snort and it filled Micky with a warm feeling. It was a very lovely laugh, in his opinion. Not that he needed to approve of Beth's laugh or anything. That would be ridiculous, and a bit creepy. A slightly off-colored blue photo album stuck out against most of the other ones surrounding it. Micky plucked it off the shelf, turning it over in his hands.
"Well you can just pop on a hat or something, when you lose all your hair," Beth grinned, peering over Micky's shoulder. "Oh, I like that one."
It was quite a nice photo album, Micky thought as he thumbed the back of the album. Maybe this one was worth getting.
"Yeah it's nice," Micky agreed, "I think I'll get it."
"Good choice, really splendid, sir," Beth declared, her chest puffing out as she straightened out her shoulders.
Putting on some sort of act. Micky arched an eyebrow, doing his best to look disapproving of her actions. Without a spoken word between the two, Beth gently punched Micky in the side, laughing.
"Come on, you can't judge me!" Beth countered, "Coco has told me about all of your silly personas."
Micky brought his hand to his chest, hoping that it looked as if he had just heard one of the most scandalous things ever to have been uttered by another human being.
"How dare she!" Micky exclaimed in the most shocked voice he could muster. "Coco must know that those little humorous personas were personal!"
Micky emphasised the word personal, speaking to Beth in a hushed whisper, as if Beth were attempting to blackmail him or something. For a moment, a brief period of silence followed, before both parties cracked up, the laughter spilling from their lips and mingling in the space between them.
"Come on then," Beth wiped away the sparse tears that had formed in the corner of her eyes, having laughed so much she had almost started to cry. "Let's go check out."
Micky nodded his agreement and the two made their way out of the aisle, towards the checkout counter. There was a line that consisted of four people in front of them, so they waited patiently. Micky kept looking down at the photo album, wondering what sort of pictures he'd be putting into this one. Would Peter's funeral show up in this one? Perhaps Micky's first hospitalization might make an appearance. God only knew, frankly, what would happen in the near future and god only knew what sort of photos would end up being displayed in this album.
"We're up," Beth's sudden whisper broke Micky out of his thoughts.
His head jerked up and he saw that he needed to move up in line, it was his turn to be taken care of by the cashier. Beth's arm ghosted against Micky's elbow, urging him forward on numb legs. The man behind the counter smiled at Micky, asked how he was. Micky didn't reply and Beth told the man that they were good. The man nodded and scanned the photo album.
"Will that be all today?" he asked as he deposited the album into a plastic bag.
"Yeah," Micky mumbled, handing over the money and taking the bag.
He didn't wait for change nor did he wait to see whether or not Beth was following him. Micky just walked right out of that store. His thoughts were occupied with the looming, and honestly overwhelming, task of having to tell Peter he had AIDS. That would be tomorrow, or the next day at the latest. Either way, it would be soon. And it wasn't as if Micky was having second thoughts about telling Peter. He'd tell Peter. It was just the fact that Micky didn't want Peter to hate him for getting it, hate himself for giving it to Micky. The anxiety sent chilling fingers throughout Micky's body, making him feel as if it were around ten degrees colder than it actually was. He shouldn't be thinking about any of this right now. Now was not the time to think. Stop thinking about it, Micky told himself. Stop thinking about it. Stop it.
"Hey, Micky, wait up!" Beth's voice seemed distant for a moment.
She bumped clumsily into Micky, hurting his shoulder just a little. Her hand was clenched into a fist and upon catching up to Micky, who at this point was just waiting beside Beth's car, she opened her hand. In her palm were a few quarters.
"You forgot your change," Beth explained, moving her open palm closer to Micky.
Micky grabbed the quarters and shoved them into his pocket.
"Thanks," he said.
Beth shot Micky a quizzical look but Micky ignored it. Frowning, Beth unlocked her car and Micky quickly took his place in the passenger's seat. Beth clambered into the driver's seat and started up the car.
"Say, Micky, everything alright?" Beth asked as she pulled out of the parking lot.
Micky tightened his grip on the plastic bag in his lap, wondering if he should tell Beth. Everything wasn't alright and he had just reminded himself of that in the store, staring at that stupid photo album. Why had he thought about Peter dying? Thought about himself being hospitalized? What had been the point, besides making himself desperately upset? But he hadn't told Coco yet. How could he tell Beth if he hadn't told Coco? Hell, he hadn't even told Peter yet. But he was in a sort of crisis, a sudden moment where Micky needed the stability of another human being. He was weak. Far too weak for his own good.
"N-no," Micky mumbled, trying to prevent himself from saying anything more but the words sort of seemed to just tumble out of his mouth on their own accord. "I found out I-I have it, about a week ago. I've only told Mike and Davy, and now you, I guess, fuck. Fuck I… everything's just falling apart."
Micky leaned his head back against the headrest behind him, eyes screwing shut in an attempt to hold off the tears. There didn't seem to be enough air in Beth's car and Micky's stomach lurched at the realization of what he had just done. Coco didn't know. Coco couldn't know, not yet. No one could know yet, Micky wasn't ready for anyone to know. It was bad enough Mike and Davy knew. God, how did Peter seem so calm going through this? Sure, he had been a wreck, but when it came to telling people, Peter had seemed to have it together. And then here was Micky, hardly able to tell his own damn partners about his diagnosis. Here he was spilling his guts to his sister's girlfriend, instead of his own damn sister. And he hadn't even said AIDS. He had just said 'it', such a vague description. God, what was wrong with him? Various emotions threatened to take a hold of Micky. Various thoughts threatened to flood into his mind. Everything seemed to be happening all at once and Micky could hardly handle things one at a time. Micky physically felt Beth glance at him, her eyes quickly returning to the road as she headed towards the pad. Micky knew that Beth knew that Micky hadn't told Coco. She was going to be upset that Micky hadn't told Coco yet. She'd lecture him, maybe shout a little or something. Maybe Micky would shout a little right back at her. God only knew.
"Fuck, man," Beth sucked in a shaky breath, "That's some heavy shit."
That's all she said. Micky waited, his muscles tense and his eyes still shut, as if that would protect him from whatever would happen next. But nothing happened. There was just silence, not even the radio was on. Micky tentatively opened his eyes. Beth was just staring straight ahead at the road. She flicked on her turn signal and took a left.
"Yeah," Micky nodded his head in agreement. "Heavy's an understatement."
"When are ya gonna tell Coco?" Beth asked after a moment.
She seemed hesitant, almost as if she didn't really want to ask. Micky wondered what was going on inside her head. What was she thinking about?
"I'm telling Peter this weekend, after our little ceremony, or whatever it is," Micky replied, "Then I'll tell Coco on Monday or sometime soon after the weekend. Then probably my parents the same day. Then… I don't know. A few guys, I guess, just so they can get tested if they haven't already."
Micky thought about the six guys he'd have to eventually call. He'd been putting that off simply because he wanted to tell Peter first before anyone else, minus Mike and Davy, and now Beth. But it didn't truly matter for Peter whether or not Micky had AIDS. It wasn't as if Peter could get AIDS again. The reasoning behind Micky's decision didn't make much sense but the brain could justify anything given enough time. Which is precisely what Micky's brain had done, justifying that Peter had the right to know first, before a couple of guys from Micky's past.
"She's going to be devastated," Beth sounded far away, as if she were caught up in her own thoughts.
Micky's stomach dropped. The image of his sister's face, blotchy and puffy as she sobbed, came into his mind. Already Micky knew that the news was going to crush Coco. She'd seen men go through this, was witnessing Peter go through it, was witnessing Micky watch his lover die, and now she'd have to watch her own brother die. The thought of his parents' reaction to this news only added to the sickening feeling that was overcoming Micky, causing a sudden wave of nausea. For a moment, he thought he might have to ask Beth to pull over, but the feeling quickly passed.
"I know," Micky managed to say, although he wasn't sure if he sounded perfectly fine or if he had spoken in a strangled cry. "You have to promise not to tell Coco until I do. She has to hear it from me."
Beth flicked on her turn signal again, this time turning right. Micky realized they'd be at his home very soon, in about six minutes, give or take a second.
"I promise I won't tell her anything till you do," Beth said, "I'm really sorry, Micky. Maybe things will work out. I dunno. One way or another, things will be okay."
Micky stared at the road ahead of them, watching as the car seemed to eat up the asphalt. The sudden waves of emotion seemed to give way to an almost crippling numbness. Had Peter ever felt like this at some point?
"Thanks, Beth," Micky said.
They both stared straight ahead, Micky feeling numb and Beth focusing on driving. A few minutes passed and finally Beth pulled up into Micky's driveway. She put the car in park and unlocked the doors.
"Thanks for taking me shopping, Beth," Micky hesitated for a moment, glancing over his shoulder almost as if to check if the coast were clear. "I had a really nice time. Thanks for… listening to me."
Beth offered Micky a smile, her eyes lighting up and her nose scrunching up a little.
"Well, thank you for making photo album shopping so entertaining," she beamed.
Micky got out of the car, closing it behind him as he got out. He said goodbye to Beth with a wave, who returned the gesture in the same fashion. Micky watched her drive away, wondering how Coco had found such a cool girlfriend. He wondered about the future, what it had in store for him and his lovers. For his sister and her lover. For his parents. For himself. The future seemed like such a looming, intimidating thing, like a monster in some sort of fantasy novel. The future was the big, bad, dark evil Thing that Micky would have to defeat to save the entire world. HIV/AIDS was it's grotesque accomplice or henchman or whatever, like a goblin or something. But unlike a fantasy story, Micky wouldn't get a happy ending. Even if he survived, Peter wasn't likely to. And even if Micky had the chance to grow old with Davy and Mike, it wouldn't be the same without Peter. It'd be a bittersweet sort of ending, one that wouldn't satisfy Micky if he were actually reading such a story in a book. Micky liked happy endings, endings where everyone got what they wanted and the bad things were defeated. But this wasn't a story, Micky reminded himself. This was his life and life didn't always end as neatly and as happily as it did in stories. With a heavy sigh, Micky went into the pad, photo album clutched to his chest as if it were a shield and a smile on his face as if it were a sword.
Taking a naps weren't really Mike Nesmith's thing, but he'd do anything for Peter. About half an hour ago, Peter had complained of being tired but had declared that he didn't want to sleep anymore that day.
"God, why can't I just stay awake? Aren't I rested enough? All I do is fucking sleep!" Peter had snarled, fists slamming against the kitchen table.
He was in a mood. Mike didn't like it when Peter got angry like this and it was beginning to happen more frequently as the young bassist grew more frustrated with his situation. Mike certainly didn't blame him but his attitude only added more stress for everyone. And this time Mike had to handle Peter alone. Micky and Davy had gone up with Coco, Beth, and John to the cabin in order to set up for the ceremony that would be happening in two day's time. That left Mike in charge of keeping an eye at Peter for the set-up day and then actually driving Peter up to the cabin. So it was up to Mike to soothe his friend.
"Alright, then, shotgun," Mike had said, "You can humor me and take a nap while I take one too. So I won't feel weird 'bout sleeping around during the daytime."
At first, Peter had been hostile towards Mike, claiming that Mike was treating him like "some sort of fucking toddler" but eventually he caved in and accepted Mike's terms. As long as Mike was taking a nap too, Peter could take a nap. And so Mike had settled down on the couch while Peter settled himself down in his bed. Of course, that was half an hour ago now and Mike still hadn't gotten himself to fall asleep. All he was really doing was lying on the couch with his eyes closed. It was sort of nice and relaxing, Mike had to admit, but it was still very boring. But as long as Peter got his rest, Mike didn't really care if he was wasting his time. A couple more minutes passed and Mike figured he'd "napped" long enough. Getting up as quietly as he could, so as not to wake Peter in the other room, Mike beelined for the kitchen. But something gave him pause. The sliding door that lead to the back porch was ajar. If someone had broken in, Mike would have heard them. Already knowing what had happened, Mike popped his head into Davy and Peter's room. Peter's bed was empty.
"That sneaky son of a bitch," Mike swore under his breath.
When had he snuck out of his room? How quiet could the bastard be? It almost made Mike laugh. To prove his assumptions, Mike walked out onto the back porch, making sure to shut the sliding door behind him, and peered down at the beach. Sure enough, he immediately spied Peter standing near the water's edge. It looked as if it were out of a holiday postcard. Peter, a lone figure standing along the beach. L.A. could use that as some sort of promotional gig. If only Micky were here to take a picture of this. It was nearly four o'clock, which meant in another few hours it'd be getting dark. Mike decided he'd go down and bring Peter back to the house. Trying to hide his amusement, Mike made his way down the stairs that consisted of their beach access and causally went down to where Peter stood.
"Hey, I thought you were napping," Mike said in way of greeting.
Peter turned to give Mike a look that, for a moment, flashed with anger but quickly softened to something much more gentle. Mike wasn't entirely sure what emotion that was but he was relieved to see that Peter didn't seem to be in one of his more bitter moods. That made things a lot more easy.
"I was napping for a bit," Peter sighed, "But I couldn't really fall asleep. So I came out here, just to think a little and be alone for a moment. Doesn't look like you could sleep either."
Peter kicked at the wet sand beneath his feet, causing some of it to collide straight into an oncoming wave. A gull screamed overhead as it darted away, out towards the sea. It must have caught Peter's attention because Mike noticed the bassist intently watching the creature fly away.
"Yeah, I'm not a nap sort of guy," Mike ran a hand over his head.
There weren't a lot of people out on the beach this late in the day, but Mike heard the distinctive shout of children far off in the distant. Perhaps there was a family somewhere down the shore, playing in the water. Maybe they had a dog.
"Mike, are you afraid of death?" Peter asked.
The question froze Mike to the spot. He hadn't anticipated something like that from Peter, at least not right now and not like this. It also made Mike's skin crawl, as if Peter was gearing himself up to face death any minute now. But he also knew that Peter wouldn't be asking him something like this just out of the blue. He probably had thought it over quite a few times and had come to the conclusion that he could trust Mike. They could have an honest, open discussion rather than something else. Micky would have ignored such a question, brushing it off as best as possible. Davy might have tried to answer, but ultimately Mike imaged that Davy was a little too sensitive right now to handle such a question. Which left Mike and Mike realized that Peter must have come to this very same conclusion.
"Uh, well, I'm not sure," Mike admitted, "I think it's normal to be scared of dyin', like it's just in our nature as people to be scared of it. I ain't all that scared, I suppose, long as… long as I lived a life I could say I was proud of."
Was that the right thing to say? Even though it was relatively cool outside, a nice breeze blowing in from the sea, Mike began to feel sweaty. Maybe he hadn't said the right thing. It was a sensitive topic after all and he really didn't want to mess up anything right now. He waited anxiously for Peter to say something, to confirm whether or not he'd said the right thing.
"Yeah, I guess you're right," Peter nodded his head, as if he were agreeing with Mike. "I… I'm scared."
Peter kicked another clump of wet sand into the ocean, an oncoming wave sucking it in.
"Like I said, there ain't nothing wrong with that. Everyone's scared to die. It's natural, almost," Mike said, brushing his fingertips against Peter's hand.
In one swift motion, Peter interlocked their fingers together. Mike prayed his palms weren't really sweaty. The last thing Mike needed was for Peter to be grossed out by Mike's sweaty palms.
"Do you think I lived a life I could be proud of?" Peter asked, his voice very quiet.
It wasn't an odd quiet, though. It was more as if Peter were lost in his own thoughts, articulating only half of what he was thinking in that moment.
"Of course ya have, shotgun!" Mike immediately responded, "You helped start our band. You've done those protests. You helped Micky bring us all together. I could go on about the good you've done in your life, without really having to think hard about it."
"Thanks, Michael," Peter glanced over at Mike, giving him a half-smile.
It was nearly surreal, hearing Peter call Mike by his full name. There were really only two people who called him 'Michael': John and Mike's father. It was nice hearing Peter call him Michael. It felt right, just like when John said it. Hearing Peter call him Michael reaffirmed that his full name wasn't all that bad, even though it was still ruined thanks to his father's usage of the name.
"I'm here for you, Peter," Mike replied, "We all are."
"I know," Peter nodded, "I know. I'm very grateful."
Mike squeezed Peter's hand, hoping to reassure him with such a simple motion. It didn't seem enough yet at the same time, it felt just as important as some huge gesture might. A feeling of peace had settled upon the guitarist. He wondered if Peter felt the same sort of calm, standing here next to him. If Peter did feel the peace that Mike was feeling, would he feel just as peaceful when Micky told him about his diagnosis? The thought made Mike's insides twist with an unidentifiable, uncomfortable feeling. With the peace nearly gone, all Mike felt was a weird, almost skin crawling uncomfortable feeling. Mike felt awful and the worst part was the fact that Mike had felt this way before.
"Hey, Peter?" Mike tentatively said.
"Yeah?" Peter picked his feet out of the sand so that he was standing on the sand instead of sinking into it.
"I'm really sorry about everything I said to you… when you first told us that you had AIDS," Mike could barely get himself to speak above a whisper.
It was almost as if it were painful to say what he was saying. Most of him didn't want to say anything. Don't bring this up, his mind was screaming at him. Why would he bring this up now, of all times? Why? It didn't make any sense. But… it did, didn't it? He had to bring it up because he still couldn't forgive himself. Those words still hung in the back of Mike's head, haunting him like ghosts or, more accurately, demons. With all these conflicting emotions whirling inside of him, Mike didn't register the fact that Peter was laughing, not at first. It took him a moment to realize that Peter had let go of Mike's hand, so that he could hold his sides. He was doubled over with laughter.
"What's so funny?" Mike frowned, confused as to why Peter was suddenly in hysterics.
What had happened? Had Mike missed something?
"Sorry, sorry," Peter wheezed, wiping away a few stray tears. "It's just that, out of anything you could have said just then, I was not at all expecting you to bring that up. I dunno. I… it's just really funny."
Mike looked at Peter, who looked right back at him. His face was lit up, smile shining like the sun and laughter still trickling out as he tried to compose himself. Somehow, it almost made Mike feel worse.
"It's not funny," Mike pointed out, feeling at a loss for words.
"I know, I know it isn't, it's not suppose to be," Peter nodded his head, "I… Mike, I forgave you already. You don't have to apologize for something you already said sorry for."
"No, I do," Mike snapped, "I…. it wasn't right of me. And I ain't never gonna atone for that sin."
"Sin? God, sometimes you're so antiquated," Peter rolled his eyes, grabbing onto Mike for support as he started to laugh again.
"This ain't funny, Peter!" Mike insisted.
Why was he laughing? What was so funny? Peter should not be laughing right now! Mike's reaction only seemed to make things worse, as it triggered another round of hysterics. Mike opened his mouth to say something to him but hardly got to start the first sentence. A relatively large wave came crashing to the shore, the water swelling up to Peter and Mike's ankles. Peter must have lost his footing due to the shifting sand beneath his feet, since the blonde's grip on Mike increased. This only lead him to pull Mike down to the ground with him. They clung to each other like nearly drowning rats as the force of the wave attempted to drag them out to sea. But it hardly dragged them a foot. Peter was still laughing as Mike scrambled to his feet, pulling Peter up with him.
"Come on, ya big dummy," Mike grumbled as he hauled Peter's ass back to shore.
He might have sounded grumpy but Mike was beginning to find this whole situation almost as funny as Peter did. But he wouldn't give Peter the satisfaction.
"Oh god," Peter wheezed, "You should have seen your face!"
"My face? You were the one who looked like he pissed his pants," Mike hit back.
"I did," Peter said with a suddenly dead serious face.
Whether it was meant to be serious or not didn't matter, not in that moment. The sudden shift broke Mike and he snorted in his attempt to stifle his laugh. He lightly shoved Peter, who hit him in the shoulder in return.
"What, do ya think you can take me on?" Mike raised an eyebrow.
"Of course I can," Peter puffed his chest out before he pounced on Mike.
The suddenness of the action caused Mike to fall to the ground. He gripped Peter's shoulders and rolled over, even as Peter attempted to push against Mike's movement. This ultimately pinned Peter to the ground. The blonde began to kick at Mike's back, thrashing his body underneath the guitarist in an attempt to dislodge Mike from his position of power on top. It was no use though. Peter was too weak to do much against Mike. This realization came to Michael and he felt a pang of sadness. Grinning broadly, he rolled over again, so that Peter was on top of him.
"Hey, don't cheat!" Peter exclaimed.
"I don't know what you're talking about," Mike lied.
"You're letting me win," Peter said, looking almost as if he were pouting.
Mike could feel sand everywhere. In between him and Peter, in his face, on his face, in his clothes. They were surrounded by sand and the ocean waves were crashing. Deafening. Sea birds were screaming, cawing. Peter was on top of him, smiling down at him. The setting sun circled his head, making it look as if Peter were wearing a crown made of light. He looked like an angel that God had sent. An overwhelming feeling of love and admiration overcame Michael. It was so sudden that Mike nearly found himself crying. There was the man he loved, sitting on top of him and wearing a golden circle around his head. There was the man he would be losing soon.
"I love you, Peter, I really do," Mike said.
It sort of just slipped out. At first, he wasn't even sure if he had actually said the words aloud. But then Peter said, "I love you too, you silly old queen", before leaning down and pressing their lips together. The kiss lasted ages and seconds, all at the same time. It was a kiss filled with love and sand, the last part not being all that pleasant. After they parted, Peter flopped down beside Mike. Mike turned his head so that he was looking directly at Peter. The other man had his eyes shut and he was yawning.
"You tired now?" Mike asked.
"Mmm, yeah," Peter nodded, a smile still spreading itself across his face.
"Well, let's get you to bed, mister," Mike said, standing up and brushing as much sand off of himself as he could.
"Alright," Peter stood up, doing the same thing, only Mike aided him.
Then an idea occurred to him. Without warning, Mike scooped Peter up in his arms. He had expected Peter to be heavier, knew that Peter should be heavier. He was far too light weight. Far too easy to carry. But he couldn't think about that right now.
"Hey, ah, what are you doing?" Peter exclaimed, arms instinctively wrapping themselves around Mike's neck in order to support himself.
"I'm going to carry you back to the pad," Mike announced as he started to walk towards the staircase that lead back to their house.
"Fuck, Mike, please put me down!" Peter said, "You'll trip or something, we'll both die."
"Nonsense," said Mike, still determined in his mission, "Just think of me as your personal Superman."
"Michael Nesmith, you put me down this instant!" Peter demanded but Mike decided to ignore him.
"Just enjoy it, won't you," Mike rolled his eyes as he began to climb the stairs.
As he made his way up them, Peter didn't say anything and eventually, as Mike was nearing the end of his slightly hard journey up the stairs, Peter's head was snuggled into the crook of his shoulder. Mike wanted this moment to never end. He wanted to live here, in this hour, for as long as he possibly could. But he knew that it would end. So he'd enjoy what he could while it lasted.