Life went back to as normal as possible, considering both Davy and Peter were practically despondent. At times Peter would see Davy watching him from across the room, or from their respective beds at night. Just a look-that was all it took. Astonishing, thought Peter. Those dark eyes penetrated like no other eyes he'd ever gazed into. Davy's eyes could make a person feel as if Davy could see every dream a person had ever had, every secret they'd ever kept.

And even though Davy's eyes were steely, they drew Peter in. It wasn't a cold, hard, callous type of steely-rather a determined search to see inside Peter's soul. Steadfast. Honest. At these times, Peter could almost feel Davy's hands on his body, his lips on his own. Those shaded, cryptic eyes made Peter go to mush inside.

Sanity was always beckoning, begging Peter to be rational, but he didn't know whether he should heed it or ignore it. It went mostly ignored. After much thought, he had concluded what he was up against -he wanted Davy, but he didn't want to want him. That's what the whole problem was, in a nutshell. He wasn't being honest with himself. But he was scared. Life wouldn't be the same again, now that this radical change had impacted their lives. And he knew how pivotal the impact was -there was no question in his mind. If this were insanity, Peter wondered if he was willing to confront it.

Davy had stated he'd leave him alone from now on-that if Peter wanted him, he'd have to approach him. If only it were that simple. Davy had awakened feelings in Peter that had been there all along, semi-dormant, and Peter had obviously been in denial. He saw the transparency of his reactions to Davy so clearly now that he felt like lauaghing out loud at the irony of it.

Peter supposed Davy frightened him with how much he yearned for him. It felt so dense, so rich. The blood sometimes felt frozen in his veins, other times it pulsed with restrained desire. The poison was strong-and deadly. Once bitten by the Davy bug, Peter was in fear of his life. Not literally, but emotionally. He couldn't imagine wanting anyone else after the kissing they'd done that night. It had sealed the deal for him, even though he still stubbornly battled it. Davy could break hearts with only a look or a word, and Peter was terrified of being on the receiving end of that. Davy could destroy a person as carelessly as a drunk person might have a one-night stand, and not even be aware of it.

As for Davy, he was exasperated with himself. He abhorred the thought of putting any kind of pressure on Peter-especially emotional. Now, if he and Peter were on the floor wrestling around, and Peter were receptive, he might, just might, put some pressure on-sort of like how he'd done in bed with Peter. But he was damned if he was going to make Peter feel badly about the fact that Davy wanted him. That wasn't Peter's fault, and he shouldn't have to suffer for it.

It still irritated him to all hell that he'd been so pushy with Peter that night in bed, and he'd hardly been able to harness himself, rein himself in long enough to catapult himself from Peter's bed, and back into his own. He shouldn't have been so aggressive. It should have been a lot more mutual, the very word Peter had used for it that night that now seemed an eternity ago.

If Peter were interested enough, he'd come to him, and Davy was unwaveringly determined that's the way it was going to be. Either that, or nothing would ever happen between them.

Peter, in the meantime, was torn. Ripped apart jaggedly-not even a neat, straight line. A jagged rip takes much longer to heal. And the healing is more complicated. Not to mention much more painful. On the one hand, he knew it best to try to avoid close encounters with Davy. But on the other hand, his instincts told him this was what he truly wanted to take a chance on-regardless of the danger of a shattered heart hanging over his head.

In spite of Davy's resolve to not approach Peter unless Peter were to make overtures, Peter continued to taunt him. And the funny thing was, Peter was unaware of it. He was just being Peter... but how was Davy expected to rip his eyes away from those dimples, from the tent in the front of Peter's underwear as he undressed for bed? Or the towel Peter wore around his waist when he emerged from the shower? Or how golden Peter looked in the sunshine rays that played between the not-quite fully-closed curtains in the late afternoon? The many-colored strands that ranged all the way from light blonde to a darker golden honey that was Peter's hair, gleaming and soaking up the sunbeams? Or the absolute worst torture-the way it hung over Peter's eyes as he practiced his bass?

Mike was quickly losing his temper. This was the fourth time Davy had messed up. Davy never messed up four times in a row. The music was sounding good, but Davy's vocals weren't cutting it. Either he forgot the lyrics or his timing wasn't right. In fact, it was way off. Mike couldn't figure it out.

"David, you're not concentrating. We both know you can do a lot better than that. Is that girl you're carrying a torch for troubling you so much that its affecting your work?" Mike asked, eyeing Davy closely for any give-aways from Davy's ever- expressive face.

"I'm okay. Just give me a minute." Davy looked a bit grim, and without his usual vigor. He was fighting some kind of inner battle-that much the observant Mike could see.

"Man, you're not okay. If we want to make an impression at the gig in that swanky club, you're gonna have to get your act together, and fast." Mike walked away, set his guitar down and sat on a stool, his chin in his hand.

Micky just sat behind the drums, not knowing whether to leave Davy alone or stay where he was. Peter sighed, realizing he was the only one besides Davy who knew the real story. Davy wasn't as capable of putting personal problems aside to perform as Peter was. Peter was fortunate in that way. Peter was an accomplished musician, and he could almost put himself into an auto pilot mode when playing. Even when Davy lingered in the back of his mind, stoking a steady blaze-a flame that never went out. And Davy had no idea...Davy thought he was the only one with wanting, needing, on his mind.

"David, you're gonna have to straighten out these girl problems you're havin.' I'm tired of your brooding, and then not being able to concentrate because of it. Our music is first, damn it!" Mike was trying to light a fire under Davy's ass, but he did sympathize, whether he wanted to or not. When you were a young, hot-blooded guy, girls were a fact of life. And they did interfere sometimes. It was unavoidable.

They were able to limp through the practice session, and at least Davy was now putting effort into the timing. After he applied himself a little, the lyrics came back to him too. He heaved a huge sigh of relief. He found he could do it after all, even with Peter's glorious face so close, haunting him, tickling sweetly at his insides.

That night when Peter came up to bed, Davy's eyes were on him the moment he stepped in the bedroom door. He could actually feel them, like an physical touch. Those piercing, soul-searching eyes.

So Peter took a detour and did a 180, coming back from the direction of his bed to Davy's-sitting on the edge lightly. "Wanna talk about it, babe?" Peter made sure his voice was gentle and nonconfrontational.

"There's really nothing to talk about, that I can see," Davy's voice was noncommital and a little tight sounding. "Thanks for asking though, Pete."

Peter reached over and skated his fingers over Davy's skin, up and down his arm. He did it without even thinking-without even considering consequences or misinterpretations. Davy's eyes flew to his. "What's that all about?" he asked, flicking his eyes to Peter's hand. Davy was holding his breath-Peter sensed it. Tension suddenly lay heavy in the air.

"Just trying to comfort you."

"So I fucked up at practice. It won't be the last time."

"I'm just here for you... just know that." Peter didn't know what else to say, so he gave Davy the gift of his dimpled smile before shuffling off to his own bed.

"Ouch! Damn it!" This was followed by a loud thump. Peter's eyes popped open. He had just been starting to drift off to sleep, a fragment of a very pleasant dream beginning to claim him. A torrent of curse words flowed off Davy's tongue smoothy and fluently. In spite of himself, Peter smiled. Davy was a master cusser-except when women were around.

"David... are you okay?"

"No! Stepped on your damn shoe and twisted my bloomin' ankle on the way down!"

"Oh god, I'm sorry," Peter was out of bed in an instant. "What were you doing out of bed, anyway?"

"Looking out of the window."

"Why?"

"I couldn't sleep."

"How's the ankle?" Peter asked as he offered a hand and helped Davy to a standing position. "Can you walk?"

"Not bleeding likely... I take that back-I don't think its that bad." Davy limped a few steps. "I'll live," was his conclusion a few seconds later.

"David... I was just drifting off to sleep and I think I started dreaming about you."

"What?"

"Yeah... you ran your hand over my arm like I did to you earlier tonight. It was like a hallucination you get right before you go to sleep."

"No it wasn't."

"What do you mean?"

"Peter, I... touched your arm... sort of... on my way back to bed, from the window."

"Oh." Peter didn't know what to say, but he knew how it had felt. It had been more a caress than a touch. It had also been amazing. Tingles had shot from his arm where Davy touched him, and straight down to his crotch.

"Sorry about that... it just kind of happened." Davy climbed back into bed.

"What were you looking at out the window?" asked Peter, somehow needing more from Davy.

"Into the night."

"Thinking about?"

"You."