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Chapter Text

He wanted to blame the nausea on the airplane. People got sea-sick, they must have gotten air-sick too. And it felt much better to think that the uneasy pit in his stomach was from the environment around him and not his life choices. The turbulence was something that caused him to grip the armrests, almost instinctual, another aspect of the environment to focus on. None of how he felt was his fault, it was all the airplane’s fault. The sweaty palms and upset stomach and spinning head were all at the fault of the airplane. 

“Would your son like anything to drink?” The flight attendant asked the woman sitting next to Davy. 

She laughed, “Oh, he’s not my son.” Now the flight attendant and the woman both looked at Davy, almost like they were expecting him to point them out. 

“I’m not a kid.” His voice was not convincing though. “I’m not.” 

It was embarrassing, to always get mistaken for a kid. All he wanted was to be treated like a real adult, have the chance to be treated like a real adult. He thought he could prove it, no, he knew he could prove it. That’s why he sat where he did. He had an opportunity and he seized it. An opportunity of his own creation. He was not going to just sit around and wait for life to come to him, follow some pre-determined path, he was going to make his own destiny. 

Davy Jones walked off the plane in Southern California with not nearly enough effects for someone uprooting their entire life and moving around the world. But he had everything he needed. That he thought he needed. His passport, his small personal suitcase, and a pocket full of gold he stole from his grandfather. It would be okay, he had taken note of all the things he had taken and planned on buying back exact replicas. He hadn’t taken anything that was an heirloom, at least not anything he thought was an heirloom, and gold went a long way. He thought he had more than enough to get him to America. Because getting to America was the difficult part, paperwork and plane tickets, all sorts of things that Davy did not completely understand. But now he was in the Southern California sun. Basking on the tarmac, assuring himself it was smooth sailing from here. 

“Next.” Was called by the lady at the information booth. Davy walked up, grin plastered across his face as he held his suitcase in front of him. “What can I help you with?” She spoke softy, almost concerned. 

“Yes, I am here to become a movie star, where do I go for that?” He asked in complete earnest, eyes bright and bushy-tailed. Head full of dreams and heart full of passion. He got to America, he was sure they had a desk for it somewhere, where you just walk up and put your name on a list and you get an audition and before you know it you are a household name and people would be standing their children up on the dining room table saying how much they looked like Davy Jones. Davy knew he was meant to be a star. He had been told how much he looked like movie stars by his grandfather's friends his entire life. How he was a delightful dancer, a splendid singer, an authentic actor. It almost felt foolish that his grandfather had not shipped him off to America sooner. 

None of that mattered now, he was here now, and he was ready to be a star. 

The boardwalk was busy with people that had to be weaved through. Heel toe heel toe heel toe, back and forth so as to not hit anyone. Just like surfing, just on the street. It was considered a public nuisance, but Mike just thought it was a clever way to get from point A to point B. He ignored the scoffs and the comments. He didn’t hurt anyone. Or at least he tried not to hurt anyone. Early on he had run into some people and caused more than a fair share of groceries to go flying across the sidewalk. 

More than once he had heard a comment about how ‘young people these days care about no one but themselves.’ Mike would always try to help pick up the groceries, but it never helped what people thought. Still, he rode his skateboard down the boardwalk, guitar on his back as he tried to make it to the club for that night’s gig. 

He got to a certain point where there were too many people. He had to stop and pick up the board, be a young person that cared about someone else for a change. “You want to see a magic trick?” a kid asked him, pulling at his sleeve. 

He looked down at the kid and frowned, “Sorry, I got to go.” 

“Come on man, for a quarter, it will only take a minute.” The kid looked frantic and tired, it nearly broke his heart. 

“That’s a minute I don’t have.” Mike still reached into his pocket and handed the kid a quarter, “No magic trick needed.” He said with an awkward smile, pulling his sleeve from the kid, breaking free from the crowd, getting back on his board and riding the rest of the way to work. 

It was not what Mike considered riveting music, but at least he was working in music. Quiet lounge jazz in a club hazy with cigarette smoke and patrons who loved to mention how back in their day there was no such thing as a conscientious objector. When Uncle Sam needed men, people actually did the right thing instead of growing out their hair. The first few times Mike had heard it, it frustrated him, made him want to explain how it was different now, but he had heard the song so many times that he would just hum along. Kids these days knew no responsibility. 

The boardwalk was fairly empty after his gig was over, but he was slow in his ride back home. His bowtie stuffed in his guitar case. His stomach growling. He was trying to be better about cooking at home, but so often after work all he wanted was a burger. Tonight he was going to be good though, he was going to go home and make whatever can of soup he had in the cupboard. 

Then he passed by a bench that had a familiarly tired face. It caused Mike to stop the board and push himself backwards a few times until he was in front of the bench. “Hey kid,” He said, and the magic trick kid just looked at him confused. “You hungry? I’m buying.” 

Like that the kid was on his feet and they were strolling across the seat towards the diner. It made Mike feel like he was doing some good, giving back to the community in some way, as he watched the kid stuff his face with milkshake and fries. 

“Where are you from, you don’t sound like the other people in California.” The kid asked as he continued to scarf down his food. 

Mike was much slower as he ate. “That’s because I’m not originally from California.” He was trying not to dumb himself down, but it was almost a habit. “I grew up in Texas.” There was silence for a while, Mike’s face growing more stern the whole time. “Where are your parents anyway? You don’t sound like you are from California either.” He asked, it was dark out and he was out all alone on the boardwalk. Mike's mind immediately went to the worst case scenario. 

“I’m old enough to be without them.” The kid said practically rolling his eyes. 

Worst case scenario it was. Mike knew how he was, he was the type to nurse baby birds in shoe boxes. His cat allergy the only thing keeping him from taking in every kitten he saw on the street. He liked to do his part, he liked to help, and now here was some poor kid who probably ran away while on vacation with his family and had nowhere to go. Doing magic tricks on the street for quarters. “I have a telephone back at my place if you want to call someone.” 

The kid stopped eating. “Back at your place?” He seemed to think it over for a moment. “Alright.” 

That made Mike feel better about the situation. “Alright.” He said with a nod, digging his cash out of his pocket to leave for the waitress. That was his good deed for the day, that would help him sleep at night. 

Chapter Text

The bus station was fairly empty. Cold and damp, everyone was bundled in winter coats. Slush on the ground that turned everything into a sloppy mess. 

“Six tickets to New York City.” The lady behind the counter rolled her eyes while she sold the tickets. Both the man buying the tickets, and the group standing behind him, looked like a parent's worst fear. The man buying the tickets had overgrown hair and a mustache, and would probably be a nice enough kid if he cleaned himself up. The lady selling the tickets could not tell which ones in the group behind him were girls or boys, yet she tried not to judge. None of her business. Not her hill to die on. She tried not to think about where the money came from that she was handed. 

Peter was breathing over his hands to keep them warm as he was being handed one of the tickets, stuffing it in his pocket before moving to go help the rest of the band get their stuff on the bus. It was a daunting move, for all of them, but most of all for Peter. He had never been so far from home before. He had been the one most anxious about the move. “Come on Petey, stop being such a scaredy-cat.” He had to be coaxed onto the bus, even if he had already agreed to it. One of the girls in the band pulling at his hand. Tense and anxious as he made his way to the group of seats his bandmates had taken over. He was thankful for them. That they were taking him with. It made him feel included, feel wanted. 

“Pete, you sit by the window, okay?” He was quiet and he listened, switching seats when he was told. It was the least he could do. It was the best way he knew how to show thanks. Stay quiet and nod his head, go along with the group. He liked his band. They were the closest thing he had to a family anymore. And sometimes family did things you didn’t entirely agree with, but you still went along with it, because that was the best thing to do. And at least this family let him be himself.

The others were quick to make friends with other people on the bus, “That’s Petey, he’s a sweetheart, doesn’t talk very much though.” He would give a wave and a smile, but for the most part he kept quiet. Let others do the talking. He was much better at watching other people talk than talking himself. He felt less in the way that way. Curl up in the seat and let himself drift off. He got less car sick that way. 

The next station the bus stopped at, everyone got off to stretch their legs. The others in the band discussing if they wanted to grab food or not, Peter silently peeling off and making his way towards the bathroom. The rest of the band sometimes joked that they should put him on a leash to keep him from wandering off, a joke he would sometimes laugh along to. Sometimes it felt a little too real. He whistled while he walked, taking in the sights of what he would consider a far-off land. The trees were the same though, and so was the slush on the ground, he still had to breathe over his hands to warm them up. 

He wanted to stop at the newsstand to get a newspaper or a magazine or a book or something to read on the bus, to keep himself quietly entertained, but instead he found himself stopped in his tracks. He saw a woman at the ticket counter, she was older, greying blonde hair pulled into an updo, scarf over her head, her pocket book that she held in her gloved hands matched the luggage that sat next to her. A putrid green that Peter had been told his entire childhood to stop climbing on. Sensible heels that Peter remembered getting scolded for dressing up in. Same with the scarf around her neck that he had stretched out when he used it like a jump rope. She was far away but something in him knew, he knew it was her, it had been years but he knew. 

Peter looked down at his clothes, put his hand in his hair, his other hand held onto the beads around his neck, and all he felt was shame. If she saw him now, long hair and loose clothes, not even a proper belt to keep his pants up, would she sit him down right there in the bus station and give him a stern talking to about how nice young men did not act like this? She only wanted the best for her son, she only wanted to help him, she tried to give him the best life she possibly could, but all he seemed to be able to do was take her for granted. 

Fight or flight and Peter was running at full speed back towards the bus. He couldn’t do that to her. He couldn’t force her to see him like this. Not after everything he had already done. So he ran, back to the bus, back to the band, where they would probably ask him what's wrong and he would shrug. The girls would giggle and pinch his cheeks, call him a sweetie pie. The guys would make a joke about how he probably saw something a little too scary and everyone would laugh. Peter would laugh too. They would all laugh together. But most importantly, they wouldn’t make fun of him for getting frightened. Not in the way that hurt, they would make jokes, but not in the way that hurt. Not in the way they were supposed to hurt. 

He was essentially on auto-pilot as he made his way onto the bus, looking down at his feet, trying to control his breathing. The bus jerked forward before he could make it to the back, and Peter found himself stumbling into the closest open seat. That would be good enough. He was sure within ten minutes one of the other band members would come grab him. Pull him back to the group. Make some joke about how he was always getting lost. Peter would laugh and shrug and find himself curled up next to the window with someone’s jacket over him like a blanket. 

But for right now he found himself in an aisle seat next to a man who stared at him the same way a xerox machine looked at a document.

“Alexander?” The man asked slowly with a point of his finger. Peter just shook his head no. “Damn, you almost like a guy I knew once.” 

Peter sat there quietly as the bus rolled along. The man next to him talked almost constantly. Most of the time Peter not so much listened but more watched people talk, nodding his head or shaking his head when appropriate, but right now he was fully engaged. A few times even laughing, or maybe something closer to snickering, when he said something particularly humorous. He tried to glance back towards the band a few times, but every single time the guy sitting next to him would pull back his attention. Ideas bounced from place to place, but Peter followed. To him it was crystal clear.

“I just think there is such a monopoly on the news, everyone always has some sort of agenda, even if that agenda is to sell more newspapers, it creates all sorts of,” An abstract hand movement was made by the man and Peter nodded, “So if someone developed a free paper, a truly free paper, both for the writers to report the real honest truth and for the people to be able to read for free, it would start to help everything. You know freedom of the press means nothing if all the journalists are under the ball and chain of sensationalized marketing.” And Peter just enthusiastically nodded. “See, you get me. You get it. Love to know what you think.” The man was leaning against the window almost expectantly, and Peter felt put on the spot. 

Most questions that were asked of him could be answered in a nod or a shake or a shrug or a thumbs up, one of the other members of the band always jumped in to elaborate if needed. All he knew to do was shake his head no. 

The man looked confused. “Oh, are you one of those people who like, can’t hear? I heard they made a telephone you guys can use. And you guys have like a whole university, right? Is that where you're headed?” The man had a wide grin, like this was a great thing. And all Peter could do was shake his head no. “Oh, sorry, my bad, do you just like, not talk,” He was rummaging through a paper bag he had next to his feet, “I think I have a notepad and pen if you want to write it down instead.” 

Peter’s face felt warm with guilt. “I don’t think.” He said quietly. The other man was sitting back up and looking at him with a confused look. It felt silly to say outloud but that was the best way Peter had to describe it. He didn’t think. He just went along. Nodded his head. Smiled. 

“Everyone thinks.” The man scoffed off. 

He was right, he did think, he thought an awful lot about an awful lot of things, but those thoughts never left his brain. If someone else said them he enthusiastically nodded along, but he never said them himself. He was the quiet one, who sat and smiled and tried not to get in the way. But right now, someone was asking him what he thought. No one ever really asked him what he thought. Nothing that couldn’t be answered with a nod. “I should get back to my band.” Peter said as he turned to find them on the bus. 

“Band? You're in a band, that's so cool man. What are you guys called, you know I used to play a little guitar, not much though, enough to make me cool at parties,” Peter did not see the rest of the band at the back of the bus. He just saw normal, typical, everyday people. 

“Where is this bus going?” He interrupted the other man’s ramble. 

He was digging through the paper bag again, producing a bus ticket, “I’m riding all the way through, California, sunshine, unless something happens of course, then who knows when I’ll get off,” Peter was sinking back in his seat, the air felt thick and he gripped at his clothes. This could not be happening. He was all alone. All alone. Not knowing where he was. In a place he was unfamiliar with. Completely surrounded by strangers. It had been hours, who knew how far he had gotten. “Hey man, you okay?” 

Peter shook his head, “I’m supposed to be going to New York.” His voice had almost a squeak to it. 

“Don’t worry, next bus stop you can just get on the right one again.” The man said it like it was no big deal. It was an amount of confidence that gave Peter a certain amount of relief. 

Quickly he found a new worry. “I don’t know if I have enough money though.”

The man brushed it off again, “We’ll figure it out, money is easy, practically grows on trees,” That gave Peter relief, “Before you know it you will be in the big apple and broadway and other New York things.” 

Peter nodded. Worry was still in his chest, but the man spoke in a way that made him want to believe. “Thank you.” He meant it genuinely. Here was a stranger, willing to help him with his mistakes. Here was a good person. A person who was not judging or laughing or telling him off for getting on the wrong bus in haste. He knew even his band would not be so forgiving of that. 

“Tis’ nothing, my dear Watson.” The man was grabbing his hand and shaking it vigorously. 

“Peter.” He quickly corrected. 

The man was still shaking his hand, “What?” 

“My name is Peter, not Watson.” He was not normally one to introduce himself, but no one was around to speak for him so he had to.  He got to. 

“Peter, like the pan.” The man was laughing at his own joke, and genuinely he couldn’t help but laugh along. So often he laughed to be polite, but once again he found himself giggling up. “Name’s Micky, like the mouse.” 

Peter nodded, finally getting his hand back. Running the name over in his mind. His seat partner until the next bus station, and Peter could not be more thankful. 

Chapter Text

The house was far too big for Mike to be living alone in. He didn’t always live alone, sometimes he had roommates, never for long though. It was a difference in expectation. Mike had the idea that roommates would be like built-in friends who you could hang out with that also happened to live with you which made the hanging out easier. Most other people saw being a roommate as the situation of living with someone else. Hopefully temporarily. So Mike found himself at a crossroads of trying to keep his distance and also being friendly. Both of which manifested in ways that were less than appreciated. More than once had a roommate moved out for him being, ‘overbearing.’ In his mind he was just being friendly. 

He opened up the door to the house and flicked on the light. Davy walked in with wide eyes looking all around. Almost in awe of the place. “Do you got flatmates?” Davy asked, walking into the middle of the living room. 

Mike pondered for a minute, “Flatmates, do you mean roommates? No, not currently, don’t have to worry about anyone else showing up.” Mike said it to be reassuring, a, ‘don’t worry, this is not some sort of place a bunch of people might show up at, you are perfectly safe.’

Davy wandered farther into the house, “you’ve got a jukebox,” it was like he almost floated towards it, finding himself in front of it in nearly no time. 

“Yeah, a diner went out of business, bought it for cheap and fixed it up, I’ve been slowly trying to get records for it, but I take what I can find.” Mike was laughing awkwardly, yawning as well, it was late, and he was tired, “The telephone by the way is right over there.” He said with another yawn. He didn’t move towards the telephone though, just stayed at the jukebox until there was music playing. Horns and silky lounge vocals filling the room. “No rush though, I am sure you’ve had a rough day.” 

The day had been slow for Davy, nothing good, nothing bad, just his usual hustle to scrounge up extra money from people who were willing to throw coins in his hat as he performed on the boardwalk. He had to move where he was, he was starting to get trouble in his last spot, but this one did not have as good of foot traffic. Davy tried to keep his chin up though. He had heard it described paying his dues. He couldn’t just walk up to a movie studio and tell them he was ready to be a star, he needed life experience first, he needed a story. 

“I love this song,” Davy said as slowly swayed in the living room. He didn’t really care for the song, but he knew other people did. This was part of it, this was part of becoming a star, Davy just repeated it to himself over and over and over again. He had done step one, he had made it to America. Now he was onto step two, staying in California until he got his audition. Staying included having places to stay. Places to stay were expensive, but Davy had figured out that he could be very persuasive in people letting him spend the night. “Isn’t it groovy?” 

Mike nodded along, “Yeah, yeah, real groovy.” awkwardly dancing as well. 

It was not Davy’s first rodeo, he knew the steps to the dance, not the dance he was expecting to do tonight but it was cheaper dance than getting a motel room. The pieces had fallen into place. The guy had bought him dinner and invited him home to ‘use his telephone’ for crying out loud. Of course he was going to do the dance. He practically asked him to. Sway back and forth and smile, let himself get closer to the guy, Davy was trying to remember if he knew his name. His name probably didn’t matter. He was just going through the motions. Smiling. Reaching out for him. 

As soon as his hands were falling on Mike's chest, Mike was stepping away. “I think we have two different definitions of groovy.” Mike was walking past him to go turn off the jukebox. “Okay Robert, that is enough of you.” It was awkward laughter as he was pressing the buttons to get it to stop, kicking the jukebox out of frustration, until it finally resulted in just pulling the plug from the wall. 

Mike was in over his head, he was just trying to be nice, give the poor kid a break. But signals got mixed, and now here he was. “Sorry mate, I thought buying me dinner and inviting me back to yours, you were trying to make a move.” He was shrugging awkwardly like it was an innocent mistake, and that just Mike left all the more horrified. 

“Why would I try to make a move, you were a kid doing magic tricks on the street for quarters!” He was making his way over to the kitchen to get some water. Try to clear it from his mind. 

Davy trailed behind, crossing his arms, “I’m not a kid you know, I am nineteen.” He was tired of getting mistaken for a kid. Sure he played into it sometimes, people are more likely to throw change at a kid dancing on the boardwalk than a young adult. But that didn’t mean that it didn’t bother him. 

Mike turned around and looked him up and down, “You’re nineteen?!” Mike needed another drink of water. Honestly he probably needed something stronger. “I thought you were, twelve, fourteen at most.” Mike watched him do a nearly full body eye roll. 

“I get it, I look young, but I am old enough to make my own decisions.” There was something sad in the way he said it, like a plea to be taken seriously. 

Mike refilled his glass another time, filled up another one for him too, leaving it on the table if he wanted it. “I think it is fair to say that I am not interested.” 

Mike was sitting at the table, but Davy just grabbed the water, standing a little bit away. “I think I got that part.” He was more embarrassed than anything. Maybe he was not as good at this as he thought.

“You seem like a nice guy, uh,” Mike was fishing for his name. 

“Davy.”

“Davy, Davy, right, Davy, you told me that, and I’m Mike, anyway, you seem like a swell guy.” Mike barely knew him. Sure they had talked on the walk but not about anything important, not about anything that gave any sort of insight into the type of person someone was. “You just seem more like a friend.” Mike wanted to curl up and die. He was just trying to help, why did helping always seem to backfire for him? He couldn’t even remember his name. 

Davy stood there for a moment. Looking back over to Mike, really looking at him this time, taking him in without the factor of being a place to stay. “That’s a relief, you're not really my type.” Maybe humor would help. He didn’t know if it did, he was going to pretend that it did. 

“Hold on, not your type?” Mike sat and thought about it for a while, “Not your type! Then what was with the music, and the dancing, and the touching?” 

“It’s a very simple system you see.” Davy made his way over to the table now, not sitting down but setting down the glass and leaning on the chair. “If a man has a place that he lives alone at, and he shows any interest in having me over, I go, regardless of my opinions of him, and normally regardless of what happens, I have a bed to sleep in for the night. And if I play my cards right, shower, maybe even breakfast.” He said it like it was some sort of tip. Some sort of trick. A smile on his face like he had it all figured out. 

It horrified Mike. The concept. That he would go home with whatever man showed interest in exchange for room and board. “So you’re a homosexual prostitute?” It was a clarifying question more than anything. 

“I am not a prostitute, and I’m only sometimes a homosexual.” Davy was getting defensive, and Mike just held his hands up in truce, “It’s being thrifty, taking advantage of opportunities, it’s what show business is all about.” His voice cracked as he said it, Davy was nodding, he was thinking outside the box, he was using his resources, why would he say no to a perfectly good place to stay? It didn’t cost him anything. It was fair enough to say that he would have gone home with those people if he didn’t have something else to gain from it. They were nice enough guys and a good enough time.

But would he have gone home with Mike? If he had anywhere else to go? 

It wasn’t like that though. Davy always told himself it was different. It really wasn’t even something most of the guys he went home with knew he was doing. They just thought they were having some type of one night stand, if that. It didn’t happen often that he actually slept with them, and it never was about money. He wouldn’t go home with someone if they paid him. He told himself that he didn’t. That he wouldn’t. That he wasn’t that desperate. 

Was he?

It was quiet for a while. A heavy quiet. One Mike did not know how to break. One he did not know if he should. Not a kid, but still someone in trouble. A bird that was stuck in a revolving door. Mike had gotten him into the shoe box. Only natural he would try to nurse him back to health. “Well, um,” Mike was standing up from the table. “There is a cot in the downstairs bedroom you can sleep in, and I can go grab some towels for the shower.” He was nodding to himself. Yes, that was the right thing to do. It was the kind thing to do. 

Davy nodded his head and followed. Mike showed him where the room was, where the shower was, and before he knew it he was left with his thoughts again. He didn’t want to think about it, think about reality, the fact that he came to California under the delusion that he was going to be a star and instead spent his days doing mini-shows on the boardwalk for money and his nights sometimes doing private ones. 

Not often. He kept trying to remind himself of that. It was not like it happened often. But it happened enough that he couldn’t say it didn’t. Most of the time nothing even really happened. Dancing, kissing, a shirt or two lost, sometimes pants too, but it wasn't often. He didn’t go home with people often. It didn’t happen often. He didn’t do it that often. It wasn’t that often.

Maybe it happened more often than he wanted to admit. 

He did not know if the shower helped. Now he was clean, but at what cost, shards of his carefully curated perception were scattered all across the ground now. Reality proved to be a much harsher world. 

He found Mike sitting at the table. Davy opted to keep his distance. “Thanks, mate. For letting me stay. Even after the whole-” 

“It’s no issue. Really.” Davy nodded but he didn’t move. “Anything else you need?” 

He needed a one-way ticket back to England and an opportunity to beg for mercy from his grandfather. He needed to put California behind him and give up on his dreams and go back home and meet a nice girl and have a nice family, go to church on Sundays, go to the pub after work, he needed to go live the boring life he was destined for. But for right now he just opted to shake his head no. There was nothing else that he needed. Nothing other than a good night’s sleep. 

Chapter Text

The bus was bright with laughter and shared conversation. Micky was still doing most of the talking. Peter would pipe in occasionally, or Micky would leave space for him to give input, it felt like more than Peter had talked ever in his life. Maybe it was. So much of his life felt like people were waiting for him to stop talking, that they were being kind by listening. But right now, as the bus barreled down the highway, Peter believed that Micky was genuinely interested in what he had to say. It could have very easily been a foolish belief, but Peter was used to playing the fool. Comfortable. And right now he was happy to play the part with his entire heart and soul regardless of the consequences. 

Other people glared at them as they cracked each other up. Trying to subside their laughter didn’t help. It left Micky leaned against the window with his hand over his stomach. Peter was practically hiccuping as he laughed. His cheeks hurt from smiling. He was unsure if he had ever smiled so much, so widely, before. Scoffs and eye rolls from other passengers as they disembarked the bus at the station. The bus was fully empty before they got up. “You’re a hoot man,” Micky said as he finally made their way off the bus. 

This time it did look different around the bus station and Peter tried not to let it bother him. Just stay close, not too close, to Micky’s side as they made their way to the ticket window. Micky had offered to cover the bus fare, saying it was a fair exchange for the actual conversation Peter had given him on the bus compared to all the other, ‘mindless passengers that had the emotional depth of a kiddie pool filled with plain yogurt.’ Micky’s words, not Peter’s. 

“One ticket to New York City my dear madame.” Micky said as he leaned against the counter. The woman looked between the two of them, it was late and if she asked questions about every curious character that came through she would never stop asking. 

“Theres no direct lines from here, you're going to have a few transfers.” She said as she started writing things out on a bus map. 

Micky glanced over to Peter who just gave a single nod. “Perfectly adequate.” 

The woman explained the transfers to Micky, Peter watching over his shoulder, he almost expected Micky to shoo him off, but he never did. 

It was not long before they found themselves sitting in the small diner at the bus station. Peter slowly worked away at a club sandwich while Micky practically inhaled a plate of bacon and eggs. The waitress refilled his coffee almost every time she passed. “Okay, you’re going to stay on the same bus as me until the next station.” Micky had the map laid out between them, pointing things out as he explained. “There you're going to get onto the 220 bus, you’ll ride that until the end of the line, then there should be a bit of down time at the station, but then you get onto the 116 and that should get you to Manhattan.” Micky continued to drink his coffee, his eggs long gone. 

Peter nodded, not out of agreement or complacency but out of genuine understanding. “Thanks again for helping me with this.” Peter was scooping up the map and the ticket, letting them find their new home in his jacket. “I think if I had enough time I could figure it out, I just…” Peter trailed off. He didn’t know what he was going to say, he felt like he needed some sort of excuse. “I just am not used to traveling alone.” He wasn’t used to traveling period. 

“Really, no problem.” Micky was stacking his dirty plates and putting them at the end of the table. The coffee cup still glued to him. “I’m just glad my basically years zipping around the country in glorified sardine cans is finally good for something.” The waitress was walking back over and that just prompted Micky to present his coffee cup again. “Would it be possible to get a slice of pie? Dealer's choice.” He was almost halfway done with the coffee before the pie got there. It was eaten in the same haste as the eggs. 

Peter didn’t comment on the speed at which he saw him eat. He knew that self conscious feeling around pacing. He expected Micky to tell him to hurry up, to go go go, that if he wanted to graze the cow pasture had plenty of openings. Comments that he had heard before. Both in jest and in frustration. But for right now he just ate his sandwich. He thought it almost tasted better without the pressure to finish it. 

It was dark by the time they were back on the bus. “Window or aisle?” Micky asked as they walked back to the seats. 

“Do you mind if I take the window?” It felt strange, the same way it felt strange when the band had dragged him all across the city and taken him out to parties. It was something he didn’t really know he was missing. 

“All yours,” Micky replied, and Peter once again found himself sat next to the window. This time because he wanted to. 

His head leaned against it as they started moving, his coat over him like a blanket, him falling asleep was a question of ‘when’ not ‘if’. His mind wandered, memories bubbling up that he used to look on fondly. Now feeling closer to bitter sweet. He dreamt of lights and taxi cabs and the band walking down the street late at night singing songs from their hearts. Peter was singing too. That made the dream sweeter. That he also got to sing. 

Micky had had far too many cups of coffee for sleep to be an option. That was by design. He did not like sleeping in moving vehicles. Planes, trains, or automobiles. If he was moving he wanted to be conscious the entire time. Nothing more panic inducing than waking up in a place that you did not fall asleep in. 

He let Peter sleep though. He did not want to impose his own tendencies onto others. Doing his best to keep quiet, not just for Peter but for all the people who were trying to sleep through the night, feet tapping softly against the floor as he hummed. 

His paper bag of knick-knacks was at Peter’s feet. Everything in his life that he cared about in a brown rectangle. He tried to reach for it, pull it free so that he could rummage through it and find something to fiddle with. He was not successful, a small bump to Peter left him shifting the way he was sitting, now leaning more the the direction of Micky. So he opted to ignore the bag, and just try to sit as still as possible. Be a leaning post for the poor soul that had gotten stuck sitting next to him. Letting his head lean against the top of his. Much closer than he ought to be. 

He was not the type to get close. Friends were not something he kept. His lifestyle was not conducive to it. Place to place to place it was too much to keep in touch. Sure there were moments where he was physically close with people, nights of passion with bodies and names he couldn’t recall or kneeling back behind a bar as blood ran down his face. Both required a level of intimacy. Neither as vulnerable as gently leaning your weight against someone. A vulnerability that he shouldn’t engage in. He didn’t even know why he did. All he knew was that his head felt heavy and that Peter, this passing stranger, was the closest thing he felt comfortable resting his head on. That he trusted to take the weight. 

When the bus was coming to a stop Peter was still fast asleep. He looked calm in the shadow of darkness, a calmness Micky was unaware was abnormal. He didn’t want to disturb Peter, but the bus had emptied and he knew there was only so much time for Peter to make his transfer. “Peter,” he whispered loudly as he lightly shook his shoulder. Peter didn’t budge. “Peter, we're at the next bus station,” He shook him a little bit more, but Peter just rolled over towards the window again.

Micky sat there, poking him occasionally, giving his best effort without trying to be rude. He thought Peter was a nice guy. Too nice for his own good. Far too trusting for his own good. But there was something comforting in being trusted and he did not want their goodbye to be a rough awakening. So he let him sleep. Digging into the paper bag and pulling out a few more necessary items. Journal. Pen. Extra cash. He did not want to try to pull the entire bag out from Peter’s legs. Letting him rest felt far more important. 

Micky saw buses starting to pull away. One of them was bound to be the 220. “Well you are going to need a valid bus ticket.” Micky was patting down his pockets looking for his to California. Least he could do, he thought. At least leave him with a valid ticket. 

Micky knew it was in his coat somewhere, he just couldn’t find it. It was low light and he was tired. People were starting to board the bus for the next leg of the trip, and Micky needed to bounce. He knew this station was where they were supposed to part ways, he had told himself that this is where they were supposed to say goodbye, this had to be, and if Peter wasn’t leaving he was. He just had to. Sure Peter had been good company but the idea of being on the same bus any longer made him start to feel sick. Not in disgust but in doubt of his own logic. His insides like spiderwebs of all the things he needed to do. People coming back on the bus and it tugged and echoed until it felt like it was closing in on him. The bus’ engine started again and all Micky could do was trade out the coats before he booked it off the bus. It was all too much. He couldn't be on the bus anymore. Off the bus and down the road until he was out of breath and he was leaning forward with his hands on his knees. Bus station far from sight. Heaving and coughing as the cold midnight air brought a shock to his system. He didn’t know how long he stood there for trying to breathe and stretch out his aching shoulder Peter had been leaning against. His chest eventually feeling less tight, his head feeling quieter, no idea where he was but if he started walking he would figure it out. 

He knew what he did was wrong, deep down he knew. The longer he walked the more he was sure of it. Leaving Peter all alone on a bus going in the wrong direction. The guy had done nothing to deserve it. But walking away when things went off course was one of his specialties. Micky tried to tell himself that he had done some good things, he had left him with a bus ticket and a bag of books and other what nots. Micky couldn’t recall everything in the bag now. His head too cloudy with guilt. Yet he couldn’t get himself to turn around. Couldn’t get himself to go back. The bus was probably gone by now anyway. Going back would do nothing productive. Just make him feel more guilty. All Micky could do was pull the corduroy jacket closed and breathe over his hands to warm them.

Davy stared at the ceiling for a long time after he woke up. The sun slowly rose outside the window until the entire room was bright. Davy still stayed in bed. He wished he could stay there all day. Stay there until all of it was over. Until he found himself back in England. But he knew better than anyone that nothing changes unless you change it yourself. He just wished he knew how to change them for the better. 

It was a smell from the kitchen that finally drew him out of the room. His nose gained a mind of its own, dragging the rest of his body along with it. 

“Ah, good, you’re still here. I was worried that you had left before I woke up.” Mike was standing in the kitchen with a pan of something in his hands. Davy was more distracted by the apron and the chef hat. Confused may have been a better descriptor. He was confused by the apron and chef hat. 

“What’s all this?” He vaguely gestured. Slightly on edge. Still keeping his distance. 

Mike looked between the food and Davy, “Eggs?” Mike sounded unsure, not in the contents of the pan but more why they were being questioned, “And SPAM? You know, breakfast food.” 

Davy did not budge in where he was standing, just watched as Mike filled two plates. “Why?” 

Mike did not expect breakfast to be such a complicated concept to explain. “Well, uh, last night when you were explaining your ‘system’ to me you said that if you got lucky you even got breakfast.” Mike was gesturing towards the food again, “breakfast.” 

The breakfast he normally got was some stray thing in the kitchen he would snag on the way out, never something he was supposed to take, never fresh cooked, never made for him. He still couldn’t wrap his head around why Mike was doing this. “I’m sorry, is this a normal thing in America? To just make random people breakfast?” 

“If I say yes will you eat it?” Mike knew he was probably crossing a line. But he didn’t care. Or more accurately, he did care. He cared a little too much. He cared to his own detriment at times. But he thought maybe, just maybe, if cared as much as he possibly could, he could change things. And big changes started with small ones. Mike Nesmith could not solve world hunger but he could feed Davy Jones. And he would do everything in his power to do so. 

As hesitant as he was Davy couldn’t say no to free breakfast. So he approached the table and sat down. Mike just followed suit. Most of the meal was silent, Mike poured his own coffee offering some to Davy who declined. The closer he got to finishing it the slower he ate. Prolonging the inevitable. 

“If you’re still hungry I can make more.” Mike offered quietly.

Davy just shook his head. “You’ve already been far too kind.” Davy was finishing up his last few bites of food before pushing the plate away from him. “I am deeply grateful that you let me stay the night.” 

“Where else were you going to go?” Mike said it like it was obvious that he would let Davy spend the night. That it would be far more outlandish to turn him away. “You know, I have been looking for a new roommate, if you want that can be your room.” 

“Oh, I don’t have enough money to lease a room.” Davy was shaking his head. A pit slowly starting to form in his stomach. 

Mike waved it off, “Don’t worry about the money, having you around would help with the rent plenty.” While many of the things that Mike said could have been a red flag, that was the first one that Davy took serious note of, quickly scooting his chair away from the table and standing up. Mike on the other hand took an extra moment to process how it sounded. “You wouldn’t have to do anything!” The words quickly spilled from his mouth, “It would help with the rent because then I would have an easier time working. Because I wouldn’t be alone all the time.” 

“I don’t see how those are related.” Davy questioned. 

Mike thought for a moment about how to explain it. “I’m not very good at being alone. Just having people around makes it easier to do things.” 

Davy was slowly approaching the table again. “What happens when you're alone for too long?” Far too personal of a question, but if Davy was going to consider it, and he was considering it, he wanted to know what he was in for. 

Mike took a deep breath and leaned back in his chair. “It’s like I get sick. Everything just gets so much more difficult. Which means it's harder to work, which means it’s harder to pay rent. It’s why I have always tried to have a roommate.” 

“What happened to your last roommate?” Davy continued his line of questioning. 

It was another deep breath from Mike, “He found a place to live alone, and was not a fan of the fact that I wanted to be friends.” 

“Well why me?” Davy was crossing his arms. He had not been in America long, but he had learned very quickly that if something seemed too good to be true, it probably was.

“You need a place to live, don’t you?” Mike was smiling, he thought it was a win-win. He hoped that it could be a win-win. He wanted to help the hurt, do his part, one helping hand at a time. It broke his heart to see someone cower like a scared animal. Mike knew the feeling, he knew the feeling well, far too many responsibilities far too young that wrote failure into his destiny. The situations were different, but the response was the same. 

Davy thought about it for a while. He felt like it was obvious he should, a free place to live. An actually free place to live. But the pit was still there. “I think I need some time to think about it.” 

Mike nodded, “Take all the time you need, I know it is an unusual situation,” He paused for a moment. “But if you ever need a place to stay, just, swing by maybe? Instead of… you know.”

Davy understood the pit in his stomach now. The elephant sized pit that he pretended was the size of a mouse. That he didn’t even know was the size of an elephant until Mike had pointed it out. Skirting around uncomfortable topics. Davy wanted to make a joke, make light of it, pretend that it was not a big deal. Instead he opted to just nod his head, “I’ll keep it in mind.” He said softly. He would swear he heard Mike say thank you.  

It was morning when Peter woke up. Face against the window and spine twisted like a screw. He had to give himself a few good stretches before he started to feel like himself. 

It took him an embarrassingly long time to realize Micky was not sitting next to him. He looked around the bus, but he couldn’t seem to spot him. Peter did not consider that he left, his bag and coat were still here. “Micky?” He quietly called out, people turned but none of them him, “Micky?” he called out a little bit louder, more people turning, still none of them him, “Mi-” A man across the aisle from him grabbed his attention before he was able to say it any louder. 

“Are you alright sir?” He asked in a stale tone. 

Peter blinked a few times, almost like he was waiting for someone else to talk for him, but no one did, “My friend, he’s missing, he was sitting right here last night, and now I don’t know where he is. His name is Micky, like the mouse, and he is very good with buses and can talk for a very long time, much longer than me. Have you seen him?” His mind was all over the place, he was just trying to list any fact he could think of whether it was relevant or not. He did not know many, he may have said Micky was his friend but for Peter that was not a high threshold to meet. 

The man stared blankly for a while, like he was trying to figure out if it was worth answering, “Maybe he got off the bus.” He finally offered. 

Peter just shook his head. “This is his coat, and his stuff, why would he not take it with him?” 

The man just shrugged. Shaking his head. “Maybe he forgot.” 

Peter didn’t like that answer, but he had to accept it as a possibility. There must have been other possibilities too though, right? It couldn’t be that he just left. 

Chapter Text

The bus ride was long. Sometimes there was more to look at outside and sometimes there was less. Either way he sat gazing out the window. Micky’s jacket over his lap. Silent once again. 

He stayed on the bus going towards California, for one, it was where the ticket he now had was for and he didn’t want to try to buy a new one. For two, he needed to return Micky’s things. They seemed important, why else would he take them cross country with him? It would be very impolite of him to just abandon his things. So he took a small detour to return the coat and paper bag of assorted items, then he would start the journey back to New York City. Back to the band. He would finally have a story to share that none of the others already knew. 

A few people sat next to him, but only when the bus was full. He didn’t really speak to anyone else, he didn’t really consider himself the type. He didn’t consider himself the type to do a lot of things. He certainly never considered himself the type to do something like travel cross country. But here he was watching the American countryside pass by his window with no issue. 

It was late morning when they pulled into the last bus station. Sunny was the only descriptor he had. Warm and golden, a completely different planet than the dreary New England slush he had come from. He wandered away from the bus, eyes guiding his meandering as he took in both everything that glittered and everything that didn’t. Sometimes he took in the things that didn’t more than those that did. It was not long until the bus station was lost to the spread out streets of Southern California. Loose like a dandelion seed in the breeze. The entire world ahead of him. 

Bells grabbed his attention, causing him to stop in his tracks, turning to face a church that was across the intersection. People spilling out the front of it. He couldn’t get himself to look away, to move, the breeze was gone and he felt like he was in a vacuum. Stuck where he was. 

…
Peter sat quietly on the couch. Hands folded in his lap to keep himself from pulling at the collar of his shirt. “It’s not polite to slouch.” His mother said, and that prompted him to sit up straight. Trying his best to smile. Sunday after church and everyone was gathered at one of the neighbors houses for a barbecue. Children ran around the house, teenagers mingled in the yard, but Peter just sat quietly, occasionally looking up to his mother who was standing next to him. 

She never looked down. It took him pulling at her sleeve to get her attention. “Peter, I am in the middle of a conversation.” 

“May I go get food?” His voice was quiet, barely above a whisper. 

His mothers face went dark red. “Of course, it’s a barbecue.” She laughed about something, but he was unsure what, “You make it sound like I don’t feed you. Go make yourself a plate.” 

He could still hear their conversation as he walked towards the kitchen, “he’s talking more now. That’s good.” One of his mothers friends said.

“Yes, and he’s very articulate.” She said it like a point of pride. 

He only scooped potato salad onto his plate, it was the only thing that seemed appetizing. Finding a spot near the corner of the dining room to stand out of the way and slowly work away at the potato salad. People milling about, the room loud with conversations that all turned to mush in his head. 

“Pete?” The girl calling his name was around his age, a year or so older, they had played with each other as kids but at some point in time she had grown out of playing pretend and Peter took until his mom told him he grew out of it. Peter just nodded his head in acknowledgement. “Wanna hang out?” Peter looked around for his mom for a moment, he couldn’t find her, so he nodded again. She smiled and reached for his hand, “Follow me.” And Peter did. Out to the backyard, up to the girl’s mom, “Look mom, I’ll even take Pete with me.” That seemed to be the only argument her mom needed, that if it was the type of thing he would be alright at it must be innocent enough. 

She was giggling as she pulled him down the sidewalk, all the way to the bus stop. Peter didn’t know where they were going and hesitated, and she just pulled at his hand, “Come on Petey, stop being such a scaredy-cat.” She said as she pulled him onto the bus. He squeezed her hand harder as the bus moved. She just patted the top of his hand, Peter couldn’t decide if it helped or not. 

It wasn’t long until she was pulling at his hand again and they were getting off the bus. Over a few blocks and knocking at someone's door. The girl let go of his hand to hug the girl who opened it, grabbing his hand again to lead him through the door and down into the basement. 

The basement was hazy. People lounged around on couches and on pillows. No one else was in their Sunday's best. “This is Pete, we go to the same church.” she was leading him over to the couch, directing him to sit next to a girl who he could tell was older than him. Hipper than him. “I’m gonna go freshen up. I’ll be right back.” She said before disappearing up the stairs with some other girls. 

He tried to sit politely, hands in his lap and trying not to slouch. Everyone else was looking over at him. He just sat politely and smiled. Eventually someone laughed and then everyone was laughing, there were mumbled conversations that he had trouble following. So he just sat and let himself space out until the girl sitting next to him was tapping his leg. “Want some?” she said, offering something like a cigarette. He nervously took it from her, holding it for a moment, looking around at the others, they all looking back at him seemingly waiting for something, “There’s no trick to it, just like a cigarette.” The girl who handed it to him said. He had never smoked one of those either, but he had seen plenty of other people, it couldn’t have been that hard. 

He quickly found himself in a coughing fit and everyone around him laughing and clapping. The not-cigarette being pulled from his hand. It took him a moment to catch his breath, his head a bit dizzy from the coughing, his posture slightly deteriorating. 

The girl who brought him was coming back down into the basement, she had changed and was sitting on the other side of Peter. The other girls dispersing amongst the boys. “Your church boy there has a wild streak.” One person said. The girl who brought him playfully hit his arm. 

“I thought that would take more convincing than the bus.” Peter just shrugged, trying and failing miserably when it was passed to him again. And that was that, the others accepted that quiet awkward little mama’s boy Pete who would probably still play with army men and matchbox cars if he was allowed, would also smoke weed. 

His Sunday afternoons were often spent sunk into that basement couch, someone on each side, leaning against him or playing with his hair. He listened as the others talked about everything and anything and all the nothings in between. Things he had never thought about before. Things he didn’t even know about. Things that he didn’t even think were options. Music and poetry and sex and politics and gossip and protests and all the things his mother never told him about. 

“Your little Pete has been spending an awful lot of time with that Anderson girl.” One of his mother’s said to her as they were at the grocers. 

They spoke of Peter like he wasn’t there, “Isn’t it sweet? I think he might have a crush on her.” He blushed as his mother put her hand on his shoulder. 

“Look at him, he must.” Her friend giggled as she pinched his cheek. But that's not why he blushed. He blushed the same way that someone laughed at an inside joke. Blushed because while she was the one who held his hand as they walked down the street and sat on his lap when spots on the couch ran out, he was not who she kissed at parties. 

Peter fretted more and more with his hands at church. Tugging at his collar, slouching his shoulders, it always resulted in his mother giving him a reminder, to sit up right, to smile, but it got more and more difficult. The more nights he let himself be willingly dragged around the harder it was for him to sit in church and not feel guilty. For him not to hang his head during service. He wondered how the others did it. How the guilt didn’t eat at him. How they could walk down the front steps at the end of service and the bells not feel like cables wrapping around their ribs and pulling them apart more and more with each toll.
…

As soon as the bells ended Peter picked a direction and started walking in it. 

Church bells used to never bother him. But right now he thought of his mother. He thought of her telling him to fix his posture, of her parading her teenage son around the same way someone might parade around the winner of an elementary spelling bee, of her buying a bus ticket looking not a day older than the day Peter left. The thoughts not good or bad but just existed, did not let themselves be forgotten. And that was almost worse. A carousel of memories that he had never taken the time to ride. Now he was strapped to it regardless of his want. 

“You, you there, do you want to see a magic trick?” He looked up to see a short man in an oversized suit with an oversized grin pointing in his direction. Peter looked around himself for a moment, pointing to himself to make sure it was directed towards him, and the man just nodded, ushering him closer. 

Peter stepped forward towards him, nodding. 

“Alright,” the man almost seemed shocked that Peter said yes, “Uh, quarter, right, I need a quarter.” Peter rummaged through the pockets of Micky’s coat until he found one, handing it over. 

The man smiled again, “Right, magic trick,” he was trying to position the coin between his fingers, “Keep your eyes on the coin.” Peter watched as the man strained his fingers to get them around the quarter the way the trick called for. But Peter stood patiently, waiting for as long as the man needed. 

He had some sort of satisfied smile when he finally got it. His voice now exaggerated and grand. “Yes, watch the coin and be amazed as-” Both of them looked down as the quarter fell from his fingers and onto the boardwalk. 

Peter was the one to bend down and pick it up, placing it back in the man’s palm. “It might be easier for you with a nickel.” Peter said like he had any authority on magic other than being completely enthralled when he saw a magic show in the park once. 

The man just stood there, staring at the quarter in his palm. Peter suddenly rummaging through the pockets of the coat again, locating a nickel and placing it in his palm over the quarter. 

Chapter Text

Micky walked down the side of the highway until the sun was breaking the horizon. Only then did he start holding out his thumb for a ride. He wasn’t picky about where they were going, he just didn’t want to be on his feet anymore. 

The first car to pullover asked him where he was going, “The next closest motel in the direction you are driving.” He wanted to lay down, he was willing to pay money to do it. 

The driver of the car was the type to ask questions, who picked up hitchhikers to hear stories, to learn about the colorful lives of those out on the road. It was Micky’s least favorite kind. They treated stories like currency. It was their compensation for you getting to ride shotgun in their mustard yellow pontiac that smelled vaguely of vinegar and glue. 

“So where are you from?” The man asked as Micky yawned, trying to fight off the fatigue. 

He glanced over at the man, almost as if to ask if he had to do this. The answer was he did. Price of the ticket to ride. So he took a deep breath and looked forward through the windshield again. “Well my birth certificate says I was born in Canada, but I have actually never been to Canada in any way I can remember, and really have no plan to, it's the latitude really, I don’t like going that north. The first house I remember living in was Colorado, see, my father went back to being a gold miner after the war, World War Two, it happened after the first one, but it was a really small house and eventually my father developed this condition called miners madness, and the doctors recommended we move as far away as they could justify. My mother, who was french Canadian, wanted to move to France so that her kids could also speak french, Ta mère est tellement petite que sa tête pue des pieds, my sister was not happy about the move so they ended up leaving her with my dads sister in Florida where she ended up learning french anyway so I really don’t know what her hang up was, but I didn’t see her from then until she graduated high school so sometimes I forget I have a sister. We didn’t live in France very long, my mom ended up hating it and after a year we moved to Portugal, we only lasted three months there, after that we moved to Ohio. That’s where I lived the longest, but I never really considered myself from Ohio, but it is my home in a way. There is something so comforting about the fact that it both starts and stops with an O. It really is the superior letter to end a word with. I am not trying to ruffle any feathers but I think the letter A is a little overrated to use at the end of words. But I don’t think we have enough time to get into that conversation, it just makes me really emotional sometimes, I just find language so beautiful, almost as beautiful as kansas city. See, I got married at eighteen and we moved to kansas city, and I was so in love then that the city is as beautiful as that marriage, or at least, the first three months, after that my wife disappeared to south america, and by the time I found her she had already gotten remarried and started a new life. Ever since then I have been on the road, from nowhere, going to everywhere, I am from your car just as much as I am from the gas station bathroom I slept in last week.” Micky paused for a moment, “We did bury my childhood dog in New Jersey though, and you know what they say, home is where the heart is.” 

The man sat quietly for a while, like he was trying to process the information. “I’m from Reno.” He said simply. An awkward tension growing in the car. 

“And did you find that an enlightening experience?” Micky asked, but there was no answer. The man driving the car just reached for the radio to turn it on. 

Micky was satisfied as the man turned on the radio. He took a risk and it paid off. Talking long enough and erratic enough to overwhelm someone so they decided that they were now done talking. Sometimes people were okay with it, they took it as part of the experience, the hitchhiker they picked up was erratic and unstable. They got to go home and talk to their friends and families and coworkers about the crazed drifter who scared them within an inch of their life. All the while Micky just wanted to quietly get to a motel or truck stop or bar or bus station. 

Micky found himself slightly nodding off every once in a while. Startling himself every time his chin dropped. Growing anxious to get to anywhere. But they were nowhere. Absolute middle of nowhere. Yet still a peeling sign of salvation stood in the distance. 

“I can take you all the way to civilization, don’t want to leave you stranded.” The man offered, but Micky was sitting all the way up. 

“No no no, I said next motel and that,” he was dramatically pointing through the windshield, “is the next motel. So you,” he was laughing, stressed and anxious, in desperate need of sleep, “are either going to drop me off at that hotel or I am going to roll down this window and see if I can stick the landing!” 

The man was pulling into the motel, driving off in great haste after Micky stumbled out of the door. Micky looked around, nothing but the motel in any direction he could see, but that was a problem for after he got some sleep. 

The bed was hard. Barely any give to it at all, but Micky didn’t care. He had been up for more hours that he wanted to admit and now he was face down on a musty mattress. His boots not even off yet, but his mind completely out of commission. The dead were far more lively. 

Loud banging at the door had him shooting up out of bed. Tumbling to the ground before he opened it up, being met face to face with an angry innkeeper. “You need to leave.” His voice seething. 

Micky was not nearly awake enough for this, “what?” He said brushing his hair as flat as he could with his hand. 

“Check out was thirty minutes ago, you need to leave.” The man was pointing out to the road. 

“I thought check out was at 10 am.” Micky was met with a watch being shoved in his face. “Huh. Look at that.” Close to twenty hours of sleep and he was ready to lay back down. Micky started rummaging through his pockets, “well how about I pay you for another night, then we’re even. And I can check out tomorrow.” The man was just grabbing him by the shoulder and pulling him out of the room. “Hey, what gives? I got money.” 

“Vagrant money.” The man practically spat towards him. He wanted to argue, that his money was made by upstanding means, even if it wasn’t, and that he had an actual home, even if he didn’t, but the next town would be a far walk, and he did not want to make it with a busted eye. So he swallowed his pride, stuffed his hands in the pockets of the jacket he had on, and started his way down the road again. 

The next motel he made sure to shower at. Make himself look more presentable. His clothes washed the best that he could in the sink, letting them dry over the heater as he slept. He needed a haircut, it was getting long enough that his pomade was not keeping his curls slicked down. They would pop up in awkward spots and make his head look like it was covered in cow licks. 

He stayed there for a few days, planned on staying for a few more, not too much of a plan past that. He needed food, it probably had been a bit too long since he had eaten a real meal. That led him to a diner where he was shoveling his face full of something smothered in gravy. Chef's Mystery Special is what was written on the board, and it went down nicely with a half dozen cups of coffee. Most things went down nicely with enough coffee. The cash in his breast pocket a little light for his liking after paying for his food. He needed money, that led him to a bar. 

The haze of cigarette smoke was illuminated by dim lamps. No music played, just the sound of pool tables and gruff conversations. Micky looked like a fish out of water here. A young face amongst a sea of tradesmen. Not yet weathered by the world. His soul not completely broken. He hunched his shoulders as he lurked around the side of the bar. Like he was afraid to really enter the space. Slowly inching his way along until he made it to the pool tables. 

He stood there for a while, watching the men play, every once in a while stepping forward like he was going to try to join but never making it all of the way. “It’s rude to stare, kid.” One of the men finally paid acknowledgement to him, but Micky stayed glued to the wall. 

“I just didn’t want to interrupt your game.” He nervously smiled. 

The man laughed, pulling a cigarette case from his coat and lighting another one. The ash tray at the corner of the table almost full. He was walking over to his friend on the other side of the table, whispering something in his ear, and Micky just stood and waited. 

“Are you wanting to play?” The man finally asked. 

Micky nodded his head, and he was being handed a pool cue.

“Haven’t seen you around here before.” The man's friend said as he sized him up.

Micky just avoided eye contact, “Well, I used to play billiards with my cousins, but I just moved to town, I’m taking classes at the university, and someone said this was a good place to play.” His voice was nervous and hopeful. 

The men just laughed. “Billiards? You hear that, fuckin’ billiards.” The man said. “No, you're going to play a real man's game, you are going to play pool.” That was when the man was pulling out his wallet and putting one dollar on the edge of the table. “You put in one as well. We play a game. The winner keeps the money.”

So Micky followed instruction, bet his cash, and played the game. The men laughing to each other throughout. They gave him tips that Micky followed, and by the end of it, Micky had two dollars in his hand. 

“Look at that, kid. You're a natural.” The man’s friend said as he returned from the bar with drinks for him and his friend. 

Micky just smiled brightly, and the two men looked between each other. “You know, we could play another game, both pay in another five, make the game more interesting with some higher stakes.” Micky was quick to pull another five out of his pocket and start another game. 

Once again the men gave him pointers and Micky followed, a few times pausing, acting as if he was going to ask a question, but never really working up the courage. He still won, the men patting him on the back as he held the money. “Good job college boy.” The man said. 

“You’re practically a natural.” His friend added. Micky smiled, wide and bright. 

“Out of curiosity, how much more cash do you have?” The man asked, moving away and lighting another cigarette. 

Micky reached into his pocket, it was stray bills and coins, but somewhere around $17 not including his winnings. The two men looked between each other again, both pulling out their wallets, “You know kid, you’re really on a streak,” His friend said as he pulled out another ten. 

The man pulled out another ten too. “And if you really want to make this interesting, we could do two against one.” 

Micky hesitated for a long moment, but then he was leaving all his cash at the edge of the table. 

This time though, he did not listen to their advice, or their tips. Their tips had been garbage the entire time, but Micky had played along, leading them into a false sense of security, that he was some kid in a new city with no knowledge of the mechanics of pool betting. Now he played with precision and certainty. The men barely stood a chance. 

After he made his last shot Micky could not wipe the satisfied grin off his face. “Talk about beginner's luck.” He said as he was picking up the money and counting it. Far better than he was expecting to do. Leaving with just shy of $50. “I should probably get going, curfew and all that,” He did not get the luxury of walking away though. Instead he was being shoved against the wall. 

“You little fuckin’ cheat. You fucking hustled us.” The man was spitting in his face. His breath wreaking of cigarettes and beer. 

Micky swallowed sharply, “Is it really cheating if you were also trying to hustle me?” That was when he was getting slammed against the wall again. The back of his head hitting hard. “Really you should respect the craft.” That was when he was met with a fist in the face. It cleared his mind for a moment. A near weightless feeling before the pain set in. 

“I don’t get hustled by some schoolboy wannabe.” The man barked as Micky tried to blink himself back to reality. 

“You really believed all that?” Micky was laughing, “No wonder I barely had to try.”

It was another punch, and another, and one more for good measure. Micky still laughing all the way through. “What’s so funny?”  

It took him an extra moment to compose himself. “It’s just, you got me pinned against this wall, but I never remember you buying me a drink.” That’s when he got a knee to the stomach, or at least he thought it was a knee, it might have been another punch. What it was really didn’t matter. Regardless of how Micky was getting hit, it ended just how he expected, sitting on the curb three blocks over in an alleyway behind an Italian restaurant as blood slowly dripped from his face. A dishwasher had given him a rag. He was just waiting for the bleeding to stop before he headed back to the motel and cleaned himself up again. 

“I can’t imagine that was worth it.” A waiter on his smoke break asked him. He was looking down on Micky with pity. Poor kid getting his ass handed to him while trying to hustle pool. 

Micky just looked up, his eye already starting to bruise. Contemplating the question with a laugh. It felt silly to answer. “Well of course it was.” It hurt for him to smile, but he did the best he could. God it hurt. Pulsing and aching and thumping. “It’d be rude to rob a man’s wallet and his ego.” 

It wasn’t always those types of hustle schemes. Whatever town or city he would roll into he would try to make a buck or two. Get what he needed to get to get by. Stops by second hand stores to get new clothes, normally his got ruined somehow. Blood or mud or just not the right kind for the weather. He had no issue throwing them away. He wasn’t the type to get attached to things. He liked to travel with as little as possible. He’d sell the clothes off his back for a bus ticket if he was itching to skip town. 

He had picked up a ‘new’ jacket at his last clothing swap out, but the corduroy one was still tied around his waist. He thought it was a nice jacket. Even if the pockets were too small. 

“You, sir, would you like to hear about a once in a lifetime opportunity?” He stood on a street corner in a shabby suit and bowler hat, he was in the vicinity of banks and lawyers and all things official, but just far enough that he could probably get away with it. 

Men would walk up, and he would say he had connections with gold or diamonds or fishing or mining or the movies or really whatever thing any particular man seemed to believe in the value of. He would say this was an opportunity to invest. He would take their name and address and one singular dollar, seal it in an envelope and write their information on a ledger, the entire scam only possible because he had come into possession of a briefcase as stationary set at a bargain. It was similar to fortune telling but without the part where you had to get people to believe. Fortune telling always included a part where you had to convince people that you were psychic. This was just telling them what they wanted and taking their money. 

“What if I invest more than a dollar, do I get more in return.” So many people were suckers, they did it to themselves, Micky only asked for a dollar but they sometimes asked if they could give him two, or five, or ten, or even twenty. 

“Why of course!” But he never took more than twenty. Rob someone of a dollar, oh well, they lose a dollar. Rob someone of more, they might call the cops. 

The scheme was up when he ran out of stationary or the cops told him to move along. 

Sometimes he did more honest work, loading trucks for a few days or some other sort of manual labor, but far too often those paid in checks and he needed cash to keep moving. Always moving. Staying in one spot for too long made him antsy. He used to have a shelf life of 48 hours. Now it was a week at most in any one place, after that he would recognize too many faces, remember too many names, it would make him nauseous and he would find himself on a bus or a train or walking down the highway looking to hitch a ride. 

He had finally gotten a new paper bag. It had the normal things. A book, a newspaper, a magazine. Whatever other things called to him. Medicine. Socks. Parts of things he found. Notebooks. Pens. Stamps. Envelopes. Tools. Shiny things that caught his eye. Anything that he felt like keeping around for a while. He didn’t like carrying a normal bag or luggage with him. Far too bulky. This made him feel like he was just on his way back from the grocery store. Back to where? He didn’t think he would ever find it. Mostly because he didn’t know what it was. So instead he kept on going somewhere. 

He walked down the street with purpose, unsure of where he was going but he was going there. Maybe the bus station, maybe the train station, whatever he found first. 

He found neither and instead found trouble. Something he was exceedingly good at finding. A group of guys, around his age but could be younger or older, standing on a corner and commenting on women who walked by. “Hey sugar, come here, I wanna show you something,” they would yell towards anyone in a skirt. Laughing to each other. There was an itch in Micky’s brain to tell them off, even if he knew better. He was never very good at ignoring itches though, and soon was finding himself crossing the street. 

“Can we help you, half-pint?” All the guys were bigger than him, broader, taller, and Micky knew better, he really did. There was no reason for him to do this. Except for an itch that told him he should. That he needed to for one reason or another. The same itch that made him run from town to town. 

So even if Micky knew it was going to hurt far more than it was going to help, he ran his mouth anyway, “yeah, I was just wondering, do you kiss your mother with that mouth.” 

It was a few blinks of processing then it was a punch in the gut. They had probably said things, he had probably said things back, but Micky was skipping to this part. Bending over at the waist, reeling in pain, those moments where his mind was blank and everything felt weightless and numb, until he was curled up on the sidewalk in a ball trying his hardest to not get kicked in the face. 

He didn’t know how long he laid there. He didn’t know when they stopped, but eventually they did. His body felt heavy, his stomach growled and he tried to recall the last time he ate, his head hurt, his heart raced, he couldn’t tell how much he was bleeding. And Micky wondered if it was worth it. 

Of course it was. 

Of course he told himself it was. 

Place to place to place, never anywhere long, he found himself in the cafe car of a train heading west. Far past midnight as a game of poker played on. Dim lights left everyone with their noses in their cards. 

Micky Held a straight face. Trying not to give anything away. But he knew how this game ended. Him with the pot and being set for far longer than he anticipated. He could make it to San Francisco easy, then figure it out from there. Maybe he would head north, or maybe he would head east again once he saw the ocean, he wouldn’t know until he got there. 

It had been a tense night. A high stakes night. Micky normally tried to deal in smaller betting pools, where the risk of loss would not completely screw him over. But somehow he found himself with all his cash on the table. A stupid move on his part, even if he won. 

“As much fun as this was, I think that was my final hand.” There were frustrated groans as he counted his cash. He knew how to quit when he was ahead. He only played an impulsive gambler when it worked in his favor. 

It often got him into trouble, when the jig was up and the cards were shown, that he had known exactly what he was doing all along. That the crazy was just an act. Yet he still threw caution into the wind. Still took the risk. 

“You would play one more game if you knew what was good for you.” One of the men said. 

The money was being split between the breast pocket of his jacket and the back pocket of his jeans. “Huh. You know, I think I’ll choose what’s bad for me then.” 

He couldn’t help it, the snarky remarks. Especially when he was ahead. He felt on top of the world. He felt unstoppable. One of the few moments when he felt like he was really living in reality. 

He started to walk back towards his seat but he was stopped between cars. “You don’t really think I was gonna walk away with that cash, did you kid?” A gruff voice from the poker table that had gripped him by the shoulders and was pushing him up against the door of the train car. 

“I think if you are gonna push me up against a door you really ought to buy me a drink first.” Micky smiled as he said it, waiting for the impact of the punch. Almost giddy in anticipation. It was a phrase that always earned him a solid punch in the face or the stomach. And he said it over, and over, and over again. 

The punch never came, “I think one way or another you are gonna give me my money.” There was something pushing against his chest and a small click. The smile instantly dropped from Micky’s face. “What, no more smartass comments?” 

He opened his mouth to speak but there was just silence. Pure and utter silence. He could take a beating any day of the week, smile through the punches, but guns were not something he liked to mess with. You had to punch a man hard to make him bleed, but it was so easy to press a trigger. To beat a man within inches of his life left someone exhausted, they had to want it more than they cared about their own well being, but to shoot a man all someone needed was to want you dead. 

“If you're not going to talk, pay up,” The man said with emphasis on the gun barrel pressing into his chest. Micky’s hands shook as he reached for the money, he didn’t try to play tricky, he didn’t try to keep anything for himself, he did as he was told. “See, nice and easy.” The gun was being pulled from his chest but Micky still stayed put. Frozen where he was. “Glad you didn’t make me get it myself.” Then finally Micky was alone. 

He was quiet for a long time. His heart raced, but not in the normal way it did, this time it beat like it begged for escape. Full speed down the tracks faster than the train. He eventually let himself slide down to the floor. Hand on the center of his chest where the barrel had been. His breath shaky as he tried to take deep ones. His hand smoothing over his chest and his shoulders and all the way down his stomach until he was certain that he was still alive. Part of him worried that he wasn’t, that he was slumped against the ground because he was dead and just had not figured it out yet. But he must have been. If he was dead he would have felt his soul slip through the floor of the train and all the way down to its true final resting place. And instead he was dry heaving on the floor between train cars. 

He pulled the corduroy tightly around him, his knees drawn up to his chest as he fought his way through the panic. Willing it to subside. But tears still pricked the corners of his eyes. He couldn’t cry over this, he couldn’t cry over this, he was not going to let himself cry over this. 

He couldn’t do that again. He didn’t know where he was going to end up next but he had to make sure that never happened again. It wasn’t worth it. 

Chapter Text

He slept without a pillow under his head. Curled up on his side and the sheets wrapped tight. He didn’t want to get up. He knew he did. He knew he had work. But sometimes there were moments where it was hard to convince himself. Poisonous thoughts creeping into his head that he could find another job. He didn’t particularly like working at the lounge. Maybe if he just stayed in bed he could find a better job playing the actual type of music that he liked. Maybe this was what he needed to do to move forward. To stay exactly where he was. 

He had to push the sheets off of him and onto the ground to gain the motivation to get out of bed at all. His joints felt stiff and his limbs felt heavy but he was up. Against God's will and gravity he was up. His full weight against the hand rail as he made his way down stairs. He made coffee on the stove, checking behind him every single time he heard a noise. He knew he was alone in the house and it made him more jumpy. He thought at moments that he needed a pet of some sort, something to be there with him, but then he would think about them being alone during the day and he could not in good conscience leave an animal alone all day long. 

So he drank his coffee and ate his oatmeal all alone. Looking around, everything exactly where he’d left it, and there was something unsettling about it. Something cosmically unpleasant. He sat alone at a table, in a house far too big to live alone in, on a street he knew so few neighbors, in a city that he knew so few people. Met plenty, but really knew almost none. No one he could depend on. Alone at no fault but his own. 

He experienced some sort of gap, a memo he never got, his attempts at being friendly did little for him. Got him met with strange looks. He had been raised to have an open heart and open home. That if you had care in your soul, community would blossom. Maybe he didn’t care enough. Of course he didn’t care enough. He didn’t know how to care enough. Every way he knew how to care were ways people here did not see as caring. He had moved into a larger space with the hopes of having roommates, people who weren’t his family, but would become like that. A large communal space so their friends could have a place to stay when their luck was down. But that didn’t seem to be how things unfolded. Roommates were quick to skip and friends were hard to come by. And Mike was left in a large two bedroom with no one but the furniture to keep him company. 

He tried his best to dodge people as he rolled down the street. ‘Young people these days, they care about no one but themselves,’ He wanted to care, he tried to care, hold open doors and smile and make small conversation. Do all he knew to be kind. But he rolled down the street on a skateboard, he cared about no one but himself. It did not matter his good deeds, or his intentions, or his desires, the world had made it clear that his existence was an act of selfishness. 

And was the world wrong?

He stashed his skateboard in the back part of the lounge, putting on his bowtie as he walked out into the dining room. Everyone was getting ready for the afternoon so aging socialite wannabes could pretend that they were being waited on hand and foot when in reality they were listening to a D list singer perform Bobby Darin covers and ate the same cocktail meatballs Mike was fairly certain were served at the first trans-atlantic phonecall. The gig paid him money, that was the main draw, and if he smiled and nodded and tried to be helpful between sets sometimes patrons even gave him tips. 

His boss was arguing with someone else in the band, and Mike was trying to ignore it, not his problem to fix. He told himself it was not his problem to fix. He had tried to help with problems at work before and it had done more harm than good. So he tuned his guitar and tried to ignore it. 

And when his now-ex work bandmate splashed water in their bosses face he ignored that too. Tuning his guitar over and over again. 

“Mikey!” His boss yelled, and Mike’s stomach dropped to the floor. He glanced over to the other people in the band who all looked away from him. He was on his own. 

He tried to have a smile, but he looked far more afraid, “Yes, Mr. Morris.” 

His boss stood in front of him, covered in water that was practically steaming off. “We have an hour until we open, I need you to go get a bass player.” 

“I’m sorry sir, I don’t know anyone who could cover on that short of a notice.” Mike knew people, people who maybe if he begged enough might do it, other musicians that he had worked with that might cover, but it was not like he had one in his pocket. 

“Yeah, well you are the only one here who seems to care about putting on a half decent show, so go get me another bass player, or…” Mike knew the implication of the or, or don’t come back. 

“I will find you a bass player.” Mike nodded, he had a task now, he was going to do it. 

Mr. Morris smiled, “That a boy, Mikey.” 

Mike looked over to the rest of the band, they were all trying not to look but they couldn’t help it. “The show must go on, one bass player coming right up!” Mike tried to smile but it was pained. He wanted to be helpful, didn’t he? Was it too much to ask to be able to be helpful of his own volition? Or could he only be helpful when it was demanded of him? 

He still started frantic trips to everywhere he knew, trying to find ex-coworkers, ex-roommates, ex-lovers, anyone who he knew played music regardless if they played bass or not. Cast his net as wide as possible. 

“That’s a big ask, Mike,” His first stop was a sandwich shop. He knew the guy behind the counter was in a band, he had seen a few of their shows before, “I appreciate you thinking of me, but I can’t just drop everything to help you.” It was an expected answer. Putting him back on his board and going back across town. 

“We lived together for a week. Isn’t there anyone you know better?” He found himself at a grocery store, pleading with a cashier. 

“I know, I know, but please, my job depends on it.” Mike was just met with a shake of the head. So he was back on his board and back across town. 

He knocked at an apartment door, a girl he had gone out with a few times that he knew was in a band, but she just slammed the door in his face and Mike was back on his board. 

“I’m sorry Mike, I have a different gig,” And he was back across town. 

“I don’t play the bass.” And back across town. 

“Do we even know each other?” He was running out of options. All his almost ‘friends’ already declined and his pleas of desperation convinced no one. 

Mike found himself in an alleyway not far from the lounge kicking a brick wall. “This is what you get for trying to be helpful, Michael.” He didn’t even care that he was ruining his nice work shoes. He wouldn’t have work to go back to anyway. “Not only do you let everyone down but you also lose your job.” There was a yell of frustration. “What did you think, a bass player was going to just fall out of the sky?” 

A crashing sound behind him caused a pause in his kicking. Turning around and seeing a man sitting on the ground in a heap of broken cardboard boxes and knocked over trash cans. Mike looked at the man, then up to the sky, then back to the man. 

The man just sat there on the ground as he smiled and waved.  

“Where did you come from?” Mike asked as he slowly glanced back up towards the sky. 

“Conneticut.” The man said simply. 

In reality the man had been climbing out the window of the building behind him. He didn’t want to bother the other people in the place that he was staying at as he was trying to leave. He had just misjudged how far the ground was. Leaving him in a heap on the ground. 

“Where did you come from?” the man asked. 

Mike was walking forward and offering him a hand up off the ground. “Texas.” He said as he helped him up. Mike glanced up towards the sky one more time, and the man glanced up as well. “You don’t happen to play the bass, do you?” Mike was still looking at the sky, wondering if maybe that was where bass players come from. 

“Probably.” The man seemed to weigh it in his mind, “I used to play the piano sometimes at church, and I play the banjo in the band.” The man was deep in thought, miming playing a piano, then miming playing a banjo, then miming playing an upright bass, like he was learning in that moment. “Yeah I could probably play the bass.” 

It was a hail mary, “Do you want to come play bass right now?” 

The man thought for a moment. “Sure!” 

Mike did not know how many good deeds it would take to make this up, but that was a later problem. Instead he was walking at full speed back towards the lounge, the man in tow behind him. 

“Mr. Morris, I got you a bass player!” And there was some part of Mike that felt accomplished as he presented the man. 

Mr. Morris looked the man up and down, “Where’s his tux, Mikey? We are trying to run a classy joint here.” 

And just like that, that tiny sliver of accomplishment was gone. He got a bass player, still not good enough. “I got a bass player in less than an hour, a tux was not on my priority list.” 

Mr. Morris was shaking his head, “No tux, no good, I thought you understood this.” Mike's shoulders hunched and he nodded his head. 

“Yes, Mr. Morris.” Mike glanced over to the other band members, all of them practically ready. None of them got sent on wild goose chases, none of them got talkings to, none of them tried to be helpful. “I’m sorry Mr. Morris.” 

“Just go get him on stage, make sure he is standing in the back, and next time make sure he’s in a tux.” Mr. Morris walked away, but it took Mike a moment. A few deep breaths before he could swallow it all down and lead the man up to the stage. God, Mike prayed that he could play bass. 

Mike tried to make introductions, “Everyone, this is our bass player for the night…” 

“Peter.”

“Peter. He’s uh,” The rest of the lounge band was not paying much attention, they never paid much attention. And that made Mike's shoulders hunch more. He was going to say more, maybe a pep talk or words of encouragement for a great night of music, but he didn’t have much more energy than it took to help Peter get set up with the bass and tune his guitar one last time. 

The evening dragged on, mostly without a hitch. Peter stumbled through the first few songs but he eventually fell into rhythm. Like he had always played with the lounge band. But that barely did anything to help Mike’s mood. He still carried a solemn disappointment in his chest. There was more that he could have done. Maybe if he asked about the tux first it would have never been an issue. Or maybe just made sure Peter had one on before they showed up. Or maybe if he asked the other guys in the band they would have known someone. Or maybe if he had intervened Basil wouldn’t have quit. But instead when he got to work he had chosen the selfish answer of keeping to himself. 

“You have no idea how much you saved my butt today.” Mike said as the night was wrapping up. 

Peter followed close behind, nodding his head, but not saying anything in return. 

“And no pressure to come back tomorrow, but I think the spot is yours if you want it.” They were now outside. Mike was taking off his bow tie again and stuffing it in his pocket. 

“Will they pay me again, or was that just this time?” Peter had his hands stuffed in his pockets as he watched the ground as he walked. “I mean, I’ll do it again, but the money was a nice surprise.” 

Mike couldn’t help but laugh, “yes, they will pay you again.” Mike was setting his skateboard down on the ground, getting ready to wave off. 

“Wait, Mikey, do you know where I can get a tuxedo?” Peter called after him. 

Mike looked back, still laughing, “God, if you start calling me Mikey too I’m gonna maybe lose it. Mike is fine.” Peter nodded in acknowledgment and Mike was looking him up and down, trying to guess his size. “I can bring some extra stuff, just try to get some slacks.” And Peter nodded with a smile. 

Mike wondered if it was the right thing to do, to just pull Peter into a job without properly asking, but he seemed like he needed money, he was excited about the money part, he was going to help him with the tux, and that would be helping. Mike tried to remind himself that he did not have to do good all the time, sometimes he could just do, and that could be good enough. 

It’s why he came to California, to do as he pleased. 

He stopped at a corner store on the way home for coca-cola and cigarettes. Small indulgences, things just for him, to help soothe his soul. The rest of the ride he tried to keep himself distracted. Slow drags as he rolled down the boardwalk, looking out to the moon's reflection in the ocean. He liked the ocean. It was one of his favorite things about California. 

He had seen it a handful of times as a young child, he would run into the waves as soon as he got a chance, instinctual wonder as he splashed and swam. The ocean still reminded him of that. It reminded him of being carefree. He wished he still had that. 

He saw someone sat at the doorstep as he approached the front of the house. His stomach dropping to the floor again. He worried it was the landlord there to collect rent, rent that he would have had if not for his little treats. He prepared himself to beg, give him another day, he could even pay extra, just please don’t evict him. 

It was a much more relieving sight than the landlord. “I, uh, place to stay fell through and I was, was thinking about what you said and,” I It was Davy sat on the stoop, anxiously running his hands through his hair. 

Mike thought that he would never see him again, that like everyone else he was just another passing face. “The downstairs room is all yours.” He said as he unlocked the door. Davy followed him, he seemed more cautious this time, sitting on the couch with his arms crossed, only uncrossing them when Mike offered him the coca-cola. Davy took it but didn’t drink much. Just held it near himself, tapping on the glass. 

Mike watched his face, stressed and tense, he barely knew Davy, he knew he had no business asking, “Everything okay?” but he still asked. 

Davy looked over to him. “Yeah, yeah,” The words were weak, “Well, not really, but,” Davy was looking down into his lap. “Not really anything to talk about.” 

“Did something happen?” Mike was cautious, not wanting to push him farther than he should. 

Davy was shaking his head, “No mate, nothing like that,” He anxiously laughed, “I just, I didn’t want to do the work of finding a place to stay.” 

Mike nodded his head, he didn’t push it, it was not something that needed to be pushed, even if there was a part of him that wanted to. “Well, there’s not much in the kitchen, but you can help yourself to anything you like, and if something happens or you need anything at all, I’ll be upstairs.” Davy was nodding again, and Mike made his way upstairs. 

He laid in bed for a while, tossing and turning, until he heard muffled music coming from downstairs. Something about it made him smile. Maybe it was Davy also singing along, but it didn’t really matter. It got him to properly yawn. Got his mind to slow down. Got him to properly drift off to sleep. 

Chapter Text

Davy tried not to go over to Mike’s too often. He didn’t want to overstay his welcome. Even if every time he knocked at the door Mike welcomed him in with open arms. No matter the time of night. Davy showed up once well past two in the morning, the rain in near torrential downpour, and while he had to wait for a little bit at the door Mike still let him in and he was met with a towel and dry clothes, blankets and warm soup, a type of kindness Davy did not know people could have. 

Through his grandfather’s eyes, it was foolish behavior to ask anything of the world. They were not the type of people that got to ask things of the world. That was a right reserved for the queen and those of the like. The faster Davy learned his place in the world, the faster he could settle into a normal quiet life. The faster he learned to keep his dreams within reach, the faster he could reach them. But Davy had his head in the clouds. He wanted to jump, and reach, and climb, he never considered that he would fall and scrape his knees. A harsh lesson to learn halfway around the world. He knew was not the type of person who should have someone else tending his wounds. He was the type that was supposed to suffer. He was the type who was supposed to bleed. It should have been an honor for him to bleed. It should have been an honor to stand at attention for queen and country ready to be cannon fodder. It should have been an honor to follow in his fathers footsteps. 

Mike had offered to clean his wounds, give him a clean bed and warm food. All the things that he was told he would never be given. Things he knew he was supposed to do for himself. Davy was not the type that should accept so much help, but he still did. Not every night, but many. 

Mike offered him coffee in the mornings, kept some foods in the house that Davy showed preference to, Davy told him repeatedly that he didn’t need to, but the foods would still be there when he showed up. 

“Thank you, again, for letting me stay the night.” Davy said as he sat at the table, eating oatmeal he couldn’t keep Mike from making. 

“Thank you for coming over instead of… well…” Mike still danced around the topic, so did Davy, “Can I actually ask a question? You don’t have to answer if it is too uncomfortable.” Davy nodded, “When you said that you were only sometimes a homosexual, did that mean you just did it for places to stay?” 

The question caught him off guard. “Um. No.” He was drinking the coffee, it was filled with cream and sugar to make it drinkable. “It means that I only do those things, sometimes. I’ve gone out with plenty of girls.” 

“Well so have I.” Mike said it like it didn’t change anything, “But I wouldn’t describe it as ‘sometimes.’” 

Davy looked at him for a moment. A silent conversation that neither of them knew how to have but they were having regardless. Something that Davy already figured Mike was at least indifferent to with always letting him stay there. But it was always a possibility that Mike had been trying to save him from the degenerate throws of homosexuality, lead him back to the light to live a ‘normal’ life. But Mike was only trying to save Davy from rocks and hard places. “Well, I still would.” Mike nodded, and part of it was relief, that there were no second guesses or arguments, just acceptance. 

It was not something Davy was used to. He was used to justifying his existence. Proving himself. But Mike always seemed to trust his word. The only time he ever seemed to question was when Davy would say he had other places to stay. And even then, he didn’t question Davy, he more concerned himself with what Davy had to do to stay there. 

Davy still tried to lurk for auditions, and the longer he had been in California, the more he realized that it was not as simple as showing up and giving a bright smile, you needed to know someone. Maybe if he was actually a child with big eyes and rosy cheeks he would land in California and he would be starring opposite Walter Pigeon by the end of the week. But instead he stood on the boardwalk practically begging for spare change. 

“You, you there, man in the yellow jacket, do you want to see a magic trick?” Davy’s voice showed his heart was not in it anymore, but he still called out, he still begged. 

The man stopped, approaching slowly, looking all around him, “This is a terrible place for a magic show.” he said. 

“Well you could keep walking.” 

“No no, I want to see what you got.” He stood with his arms crossed, waiting, and Davy tried his best. 

“Well, keep your eye on this nickel.” Davy felt more off than normal as he started the trick. He had been practicing, but the man seemed serious, far more serious than anyone who had ever stopped for a trick. It bumped him off his already shaky game. “And, well you watch it, and,” He attempted to make the coin disappear but it was more than obvious in his other hand. 

The man laughed, full and hearty, “Oh, that was terrible!” Davy felt his face turn red, "Absolutely utterly awful!” Something so many people had been kind to say. They said he was getting along, even if Davy knew, Davy knew he was bad at it. That his can barely a ¼ full of quarters were simply out of pity. The laughter cemented it, he was worse than a joke. 

Then the laughter suddenly stopped. “I love it, I can work with it, I can more than work with it, we,” The man was pointing between the two of them, “We could clean up real good.” The man was stumbling over to a bench and leaning against it, “Oh, I need lunch, what about you, could you do lunch, talk shop?” 

Davy was hesitant, standing stiff, not knowing what to make of it. 

“Sorry, where are my manners.” He was taking an exaggerated bow, maybe it was closer to a curtsy, “Micky Dolenz, professional at large.” His grin was wide as he came back up from the bow. Sticking out his hand for a handshake. 

Davy was not in a place to turn down lunch, so he shook his hand, and damn was his hand shook. 

“So what are you a professional at exactly?” Davy asked as they found themselves with sandwiches as they walked down the boardwalk. 

Micky was already half done with his sandwich, eating it as fast as he could possibly chew. “Yes, next question.” 

“I don’t think that is a yes or no question,” Davy was far slower in his eating. 

“Well choose something, whatever puts your mind at ease, that's what I am a professional at.” Micky talked through bites of food, continuing to walk, and Davy was having a bit of a hard time keeping up. 

“I don’t think that makes me more at ease at all.” Davy watched him, trying to watch their surroundings as they walked, “Where are you taking me?” 

Micky laughed, “I have no idea.” That's when Davy stopped in his tracks. Micky turned to look at him with a tilt to his head. “I need to walk to think, I am not trying to take you anywhere.” 

“Can we walk the other way then?” Davy wasn’t expecting him to listen, but he did, dramatically turning on his heels and walking in the other direction. 

Micky had been there for two days and he was already going stir-crazy. Itching to jump town. Something he did not have nearly enough money for. He needed something to focus on. A scheme of some sort, a complicated one, one that would distract him for long enough to do his laundry, to get a full night of sleep, to pad out his pocket a little bit more. It was not sustainable to spend every night and day on the move. He needed something, anything, to tether him down. He picked the first thing he could pour all his energy into. For better or for worse, Davy’s magic show was the lead that tied the horse to the well. 

Micky was vague with Davy, he got not answers if he was lucky about who he was, where he was from, why he was doing this, eventually Davy just learned to accept that he was not all the way there. 

Or maybe he was, because within one day he was making significantly more money. He didn’t think Micky had changed much about the act. Or really anything, he just added a sign and soapbox for Davy to stand on. Made some suggestions on how Davy should speak. But it had made the difference. “Told ya I was a professional.”

“I can see that.” It still was not much money, but it was something. 

Every day it was something, a suggestion or a pondering or a question, erratic and disjointed but Davy was getting better at parsing it. And before Davy knew it he had a more proper stage to stand on, he was in a far more successful location, a flashy coat and hat, a box of tricks, none of which he had any competency in, but people still watched him try and gave him spare change out of pity. It was a whirlwind. And Davy barely noticed it happen. It just did. Something about it all made him feel like he was getting somewhere. Not just begging for spare change but performing in some way. Earning it. He tried to ignore what it meant that it took Micky to make it happen. 

“Look at you! Like an actual act!” Micky clapped his hands as he walked up. Davy didn’t ask where he disappeared to for most of the day. He probably did not want to know. He was honestly afraid of the answer. 

Micky slept during the day most of the time. In his hotel room practicing death. The rest of the time, he was out trying to get things to work. Running like a rat on a wheel. Enrichment in his enclosure to figure out how to make the show happen. Something to focus on so he didn’t claw at the walls. 

“I should start a circus, you think I could run a circus, right?” Micky asked as he helped Davy pack up the various things. 

The answer should have been no, that Micky had no business being in charge of anything, but there was something there. Something clicking in his head, just not easy to see. “Sure, mate. I think you’d run an excellent circus.” 

“Huh. I thought you would have said no.” Davy was beginning to understand, or he thought he was beginning to understand. He wanted to ask Mike’s opinion on the whole situation but he knew how it looked and he had a feeling he knew what Mike was going to say, ‘so you have a pimp now?’ so everything having to do with Micky he kept to himself. He stumbled into this situation, he was sure he could stumble out. 

It was nice, to a certain extent, to not spend all day on the boardwalk by himself. And sometimes Micky did things too, little skits or monologues, things to draw people in, not often but occasionally. 

“I just don’t fully understand why me,” It had been a few weeks, things were settling into place, a new normal routine. 

Micky shrugged, “Wrong time, wrong place, and I thought your act had potential.” Davy was trying to pawn a sandwich off on him. While he had not learned much about the mysterious professional at large, he had learned that he drank coffee at every opportunity, rambled for as long as his lungs would let him, was prone to skipping meals, and could do arithmetic far better than he would ever admit. Far more than just cuckoo clocks and half baked souffles. 

“So are you like a talent scout or something,” Micky had only taken the sandwich after Davy proved he had a second one for himself. 

“You gotta stop bringing me sandwiches, it's far too friendly.” But he still ate it in great haste. “And no, I could be though. I think I could have the eye for it.” Blink of an eye, the rest of the sandwich was gone. “I am more of a cash scout, I try to figure out how to get it, and then do that.” 

Davy accepted that too. More of an answer than he had ever gotten before. “Guess that makes sense, like a banker.” Nothing like a banker, but it justified it in Davy’s mind enough. Made him feel like it was something more official. 

Micky laughed, laughed in the way that Davy sometimes didn’t know how to feel about, before stopping suddenly, “sure.” Something about the deadpan statement was more unsettling. 

Davy was quickly being distracted, “Davy!” A voice calling after him. One that he recognized. One that he used to like to hear. He turned his head to see a face that he used to dance with, late at night with the curtains drawn, not much talking but lips moving an awful lot, until it was far too late for Davy to ‘justify going home,’ he would smile and bat his eyes and pout and very quickly find himself in a warm bed with arms wrapped around him. He had thought he was clever. Now he just felt anxious. He didn’t even exactly know why. “I feel like it’s been a while,” but Davy still smiled, he was good at smiling. 

“Yeah,” He was shifting his attention from the box he was digging through to pay attention to him

“Maybe we could catch up later,” Davy glanced him up and down. And it was strange, Davy remembered that he was nice, not pushy or demanding, he had remembered having a good time, and maybe under different circumstances it very well could be. But Davy had a place to stay the night, and he didn’t know if he was the best judge of what he wanted. Everything felt complicated and uncomfortable. He felt no draw now. 

Davy’s smile grew weak, “Yeah, maybe. But, not tonight, I already have plans tonight.” Davy looked over to Micky, who just seemed to watch on. 

The man also glanced towards micky, his tone shifting, “Just ditch him,” The man was standing ever so subtly closer. “He seems not to be able to take a hint.” It was said like a joke. And all Davy knew how to do was smile. 

“Hey buddy, he said he was busy, you best make like a tree.” Davy wasn’t expecting Micky to intervene, he didn’t seem like the type, but he also didn’t know what Micky was the type for. He didn’t know his morals or opinions or anything more personal than his sandwich order. 

The man was turning towards Micky, he was looking around, it would be so easy to make a scene, “I was just catching up with an old friend.” 

“Wrong!” And once again Micky was laughing, “You were taking a long walk.” Micky was grabbing the man by the shoulder but he was pushing Micky away immediately. All Davy could do was back away. Back away and watch like a train crash he couldn’t look away from. 

The man looked like he was going to say something, maybe he did, but Micky just assumed a boxing stance and that was his last straw. The commotion would not be worth it. He was turning around and walking away. Some statement was being yelled that Davy could not make out, but Micky obviously had. 

“Ha! Here’s a tip! There’s a real short pier at the end of Ocean Drive! You should check it out!” Micky was yelling towards him. 

Davy was stood near frozen. Just trying to process what had just happened. Micky packing up all of Davy’s magic show. “Okay, we got to get out of here.” Davy was being grabbed by the wrist and pulled down the boardwalk until they were well a half a mile away and sat on a bench. “I’m sorry about all that, he just seemed like he was really bothering you.” Micky was taking a deep breath, “And I try to keep out of others peoples business, but,” Micky shrugged. “You’ve given me enough sandwiches that it is probably warranted.” 

“Thank you.” Davy said. 

“Eh, he didn’t even hit me, no thanks needed.” Micky was quiet for a while, tapping his foot, “By the way, if you ever need someone to throw a punch, I am not your guy.” 

It was the most coherent thing he had heard Micky say. There was something heartwarming about it, something heartbreaking too. To look at a man and wonder if the band was playing in full upstairs, and it was, for the most part, but he would have you believe the raccoons had taken over the amphitheater. 

Peter liked playing with the lounge band, or at least tolerated it. He liked that it paid him money. He liked talking with Mike before and after gigs. He liked the sunshine. He liked the idea of beaches with sand. He liked no one telling him what to do. Everyday thoughts of New York tasted more bitter than sweet. 

He wondered if the band was looking for him. If he was considered a missing person. If there were posters of him on telephone poles and pictures of him on milk cartons. He knew he should be getting on his way back, people were waiting for him, people were worried for him, but he liked playing at the lounge. He liked being free. 

He was staying not too far from the lounge. It was a place to stay. A place to sleep. It was the type of place that was short term. He paid for a spot in a bunk bed but that was it. It was the first place he had found, and he thought it must have been as good as any. He was not the most familiar with that kind of stuff and he thought he was getting by well enough. But tight quarters meant that many nights he just wandered the city for hours before going back. A map slowly building in his brain. He was growing comfortable. 

And sometimes he wondered, what was the worst that could happen if he just didn’t go back to New York? What would happen if he just stayed here?

There was a laugh, a nearly unnerving laugh, coming from an alleyway, “You know if you're going to pin me against the wall you should at least buy me a drink first.” followed by what Peter could only guess were punches.

Peter knew he should have kept walking, what ever other people were doing was not his business and it was rude to watch peoples personal matters, but morbid curiosity won, and he was stopping and looking down the alleyway. The man up against the wall was reaching his toes down to the ground, not even struggling that much. Peter thought if he was in that predicament he would be screaming and thrashing. He watched the man take hit after hit. 

At one point his head fell to the side, and Peter very quickly became aware that he recognised the face, or at least thought he recognized the face. He knew damn well that he recognized the jacket.

He was walking at full speed down the alley. “Hey asshole!” Peter was not one to yell, he was not one for violence, “Fuck off!” His voice squeaked as he said it. Not something he was used to saying. The man letting go of Micky and coming towards him. Peter didn’t think about the consequences of his actions. People normally told him what they were going to be beforehand, but now he was in the same predicament. Peter was right. He was screaming and thrashing and kicking. He looked over to Micky who was sat on the ground. And he just kicked and thrashed and screamed. Tried to get in whatever hits he could. “I’ll bite! I’ve done it before and I’ll do it again!” That’s what finally earned him his freedom, and Peter mostly meant it as a threat. 

His heart was racing as he sat on the ground next to Micky. “Peter?” Micky still seemed like he was gasping for breath. “Peter, like from the bus Peter?” Micky coughed a few times. “What are you doing here?” 

Micky was slightly out of it. Tired, hungry, hurt, he was used to it, but being used to it didn’t change the fact it still made him dizzy, still made thinking hard. “You needed help.” 

Obvious to Peter, Micky needed help and so he helped in the way he could. He thought that’s what friends were supposed to do. “No, I mean, you were going to New York.”

“Well, I woke up and you were gone, and my jacket was gone, and my bus tickets were gone, and the map was gone, but your things were still there, and so I stayed on the bus.” Brushing himself off and pushing himself up off the ground and offering Micky a hand, “And I thought after I returned your stuff then I could head to New York.” 

Micky kept fairly quiet, an unusual state for him, he was thankful for Peter wanting to return his things. Even if he had already replaced them all. The paper bag was worn and had sand in it, but also had all the whatnots that he left in the past. It forced him to reminisce, to remember. Seeing Peter was like seeing a ghost. Haunting him from his past. Someone who he had accidentally pulled from his path. Micky was always moving forward. He stopped for no one. Sure, he had moments where he helped. He saw Peter look utterly lost on the bus and had helped him try to get back to where he needed to go. He tried to get Davy’s little magic show a fighting chance. He gave a helping hand when it was called for. But nothing ever stopped him. He could not let himself be stopped. Right now he was just pausing, getting his ducks in a row, helping other people get their ducks into rows, and soon he would be moving again. 

“I know it’s not much but it's better than that pathetic excuse for a hostel you were in.” Letting Peter stay with him for a few nights was part of that helping. His motel room was cramped and musty, but it was a place to stay that had a shower and a couple beds. “The one next to the wall can be yours, I can’t sleep next to walls, if I could have it my way I would put a bed in the middle of the room.” 

Peter was sitting on the bed, letting his gaze wander around the room. He had a duffle bag he was dropping on the floor, and there was something off putting about that to Micky. All of it was slightly off-putting. The fact that Peter had been in California. The fact that he talked about having a job. The fact that unprompted he had jumped in to help. All of it made Micky uneasy, made him itch, made him nauseous. Peter remembered him. Remembered him enough to recognize him down an alleyway. Remembered him enough that Peter blindly accepted when he offered him a place to stay. It caused Micky to pick at the sleeve of the jacket. 

Peter was only in California because of Micky, and that made him responsible in a sense. At least responsible for getting him back to New York. And until he could figure out how to do that, or get the money to do that, it was probably best to keep an eye on him. 

Chapter Text

The magic show was always on the go. Micky had collected enough aspects that the police wanted to get them on public disturbance. They always happened to be one step ahead somehow. Micky would show up abruptly, seemingly out of thin air, say Davy needed to wrap it up and then they would pack everything and play dumb. 

The magic show was not ‘good’ but it surely was a show. Or as much of a show that was possible to do on the sidewalk and was easily moveable. A balancing act of being competent and entertaining. Davy often leaned towards entertaining. If he messed up a trick he tried to make it look like it was on purpose. It got nickels, dimes, and quarters into the top hat. That was the important part. 

Sometimes he would hear an especially rowdy applause as he did his little bow, and Davy knew that when he looked up a handful of pennies would be dropped in his hat. “You don’t have to keep putting coins in the hat, mate.” Davy would say as people dispersed. 

Peter shrugged, “It’s not much. Just some pennies.” He would hang around to talk for a little bit if he could. Micky was around less and less, so it was nice to see a familiar face. “Plus, it’s like a scavenger hunt. Never know where the show is going to be.” 

Davy was packing everything away, taking off his hat and effectively ‘taking a break’ from a job he did not have. “Well, I appreciate the regular audience. Makes it feel like a real show.” 

“It is a real show,” And Davy almost believed him. Peter was so sure in the words, but Davy knew it was just begging with flair. “Oh shoot, I’m late,” Peter said as he was checking his watch. 

There was no goodbye, just Peter running full speed down the road. Davy chuckled to himself. Sitting down on his little stage to sort the different coins in the top hat. 

The city had too many lights to see the stars so Micky walked under the inky blackness. He wanted to sleep, he was tired, exhausted, but if he didn’t move he felt his chest grow tight. An overwound pocket watch ready to snap. So he left the motel and let the city become his pacing grounds. He wanted to run. Full speed in any direction until he collapsed, get up and keep running, run some more until he fell apart, but he was tired and hungry so he settled for pacing until he grew bored enough to be able to lay in bed and stare at the ceiling. He didn’t get much sleep at night these days. He had been sleeping through the afternoons. Most nights he read or listened to the radio or parsed through bus maps to try to figure out the easiest way for Peter to get to New York. He tried to keep the noise and light down at night, even if Peter said it was fine. So the radio was as quiet as he could get it and he set up a newspaper next to the lamp to try to block some light. 

Tonight though, tonight the four walls of the motel room felt infinitely crushing. So he paced. His head down and his hands in his pockets. Mind racing with thoughts and worries and ideas and dreams all jumbled together into the most horrifying casserole one could possibly conceive. The rest of the world did not exist, just swirling thoughts in his mind and the need to be moving forward. 

Until he felt himself falling to the ground. He was hit with something that left him going shoulder first into the pavement. He groaned, trying to push himself into a sitting position. First he did his regular checks, see if he was bleeding at all, see where it hurt, it was mostly his shoulder, it was always his shoulder. Other than that he was mostly good, maybe some bruises but he barely counted that as an injury. 

His next step was figuring out what hit him. That was a quick mystery to solve, not far from him was the culprit. A man who was trying to get up but was having a much more difficult time. “I am so sorry,” Micky couldn’t tell if they were gasps or sniffles, “Are you okay?” 

Micky was helping the man get to sitting on the curb. “I’m fine. Just a bump.” The man was not though, the knees of his pants were ripped to shreds, his palms and wrists scraped up pretty good too, blood running down the side of his face. 

“Well, uh, my apologies. I didn’t see you as I made the corner.” The man gave an artificial laugh that turned into a cough, “‘Those damn sidewalk surfers.’” His voice exaggerated. 

“You’re bleeding.” Micky’s voice almost trembled as he said it, he hid it well, made it sound close to calm. 

Mike was reaching up to his temple, looking at the blood on his hand, almost in disappointment. “Well look at that, I am.” Mike was trying to get up off the sidewalk, “I live not far from here, I’ll be alright.” Micky scrambled to grab the skateboard before going to give the man an arm to lean on. “Oh, you don’t need to help, I’ve got it.” But as Mike tried to step he winced. 

Micky maintained himself as a point of support. “You said you lived not too far.” Mike tried to protest, but it proved fruitless, and it was not long before he was handing his keys to Micky to unlock the door. He helped him all the way to the couch. “Do you have a first-aid kit?” Micky was helping him get settled. 

“You don’t need to do that.” Mike tried to say. But Micky was already bringing a damp rag from the kitchen and putting it in Mikes hand, guiding it up to his temple. Making sure no hair got stuck underneath. Gently positioning him to be laying down. He looked serious and concerned, a type of concern that Mike was not used to seeing from other people, a type of concern that almost left him disoriented. “Under the bathroom sink.” 

Proper introductions had not even been made but Micky was asserting himself as a voice of reason and expertise. And Mike was not in much of a position to argue. Normally he would, but right now his entire body hurt and it wasn’t like there was anyone else to help him. Maybe Davy, but it was not like he ever knew when he was going to be over. 

Micky quickly fell nearly silent. He had the small metal box with Mike's small collection of first aid goods. Bandages and antiseptic and a myriad of different medications and tinctures. He pulled a chair up next to the couch, taking the damp towel from Mike. He was careful and precise with his movements. Getting more clean rags when needed. “This will sting.” Micky said before there was the familiar burn of iodine. Mike did his best not to move, and before he knew it Micky was starting the same process on his palms. 

Mike watched as Micky cleaned his scraped palms with damp rags and iodine, warned once again for the sting. “Are you a doctor or something?” Mike asked as his palms and forearm were wrapped in gauze and bandages. 

Micky lightly laughed, “No, not anything like that.” 

Mike was being guided to sit up, pulling up his pant legs so Micky could take a look at his knees. “What are you then?” Mike would have believed whatever he said, even if he said that he was a ghost, or maybe even an Angel. 

His knees were not nearly as bad, the jeans doing their job. Micky still wiped them down. Back and forth between the sink and the couch, trying to do acceptable first aid. “I am a lot of things,” he was gently drying off Mike's knees in careful dabs. “Con artist, scammer, drifter, vagrant.” Micky spoke bluntly as he was packing away the first aid kit. Washing up the best he could. His own was no issue, but he hated getting other people’s blood on his hands. 

Mike sat on the couch fixing his pants. Ripped through at both of the knees. And he liked those jeans too. “Damn good technique then.” He was doing his best to stretch his wrists, there was restrictions in movement but not much. It ached but not as much as he thought it would. “Better than I could do.” 

“You learn all sorts of tricks on the road.” He was walking out of the bathroom and clasping his hands together, taking a deep breath, like some sort of reset, “well, my deepest condolences to your skateboard, but I must now bid you adieu.” It was followed by a bow. 

That confused Mike more. Watching him walk towards the door. It felt like an unfair interaction. Mike had run into him, he was the one at fault, yet somehow he was still the one being carefully tended to. “I’m sorry, for hitting you.” He called out, he tried to get up but he felt a pain in his hip at the sudden movement. Micky still stopped in the doorway to look back, “And, thank you. For patching me up.” 

Micky smiled wide, dramatic and over the top. Hand over his heart as he spoke. “No, thank you for helping me clear another square on my bingo card.” 

Before Mike could ask what he meant he was alone. Looking at the door for maybe a bit too long. Followed by him looking at the bandages on his hands for a little too long as well. He wished he had gotten a name, but maybe ghosts and angels didn’t concern themselves with that sort of thing. 

Chapter Text

Peter did not mind staying with Micky. He was used to staying with other people. Different members of the band had been kind enough to let him bounce between couches and daybeds, Micky was kind too. Maybe one of the kinder people he had met. 

“I can really pay for my own bus back. You don’t have to cover it.” Peter tried to offer Micky but he wasn’t having it. 

“No, no, no, no, no, no. It’s my fault you didn’t get back to New York, it is the very least I can do to help you get back.” Peter had tried to tell him it really wasn’t that big of a deal, that it was just a small detour. “And it’s my fault you took that detour in the first place and I,” whenever the topic came up it always seemed to upset Micky, “and I shouldn’t, I shouldn’t have. I shouldn’t have done that. And. And.” 

Peter understood the feeling, trying to explain something and it just not getting across. Repeating yourself over and just wishing you knew how to say it in a way that made people understand. “Thank you, for covering it.” Peter could accept kindness. He could accept Micky helping him. And in a way that seemed to help Micky too. Being told that he could. 

Kindness was a funny thing. Peter was told constantly to be kind and considerate to all of those around him. That not being a problem was the kindest thing of all. To rarely be seen and even more rarely be heard was optimal. To do as told. Sit with good posture, stop asking questions, stop wandering off, speak when spoken to, stop asking silly questions, read your Bible before bed, stop slouching, don’t stare, act like an adult, stop acting like you're all grown up. All of it seemed endlessly counterproductive to him. Kindness at home, the one with his mother, looked like sitting still and knowing when to do what, going to church and going to school, doing his chores and being helpful. Deceptively straightforward. It was a kindness he was not very good at. Kindness with the band was easier. It was going along with things. Staying quiet and sitting where told, playing music when told, going where told, keeping his thoughts to himself. Not that he ever tried to share them, but they never asked, and since he wasn’t spoken to he never spoke. They didn’t mind though, they still let him bounce between couches and brought him to parties and let him play in the band and were taking him to New York. They pinched his cheeks and didn’t make him do anything too difficult. He thought that was the greatest kindness that someone could have. To let him exist without criticism. 

Micky was still Kinder than that. Micky asked him to exist. Asked him what he thought. Helped him even when he messed things up. Micky acted like it was the obvious action. Said that Peter helped him too. Peter didn’t know how he was helping but he was happy to. 

Micky would sometimes be asleep when Peter was heading out for the day. Sometimes he was laying down for bed. Sometimes he was pacing the motel room. Sometimes he was no where to be found. Peter was never a fan of that, waking up and Micky already being gone. Or not being back yet. What was worse was when he would wake up in the middle of the night and Micky would be cleaning his injuries in the bathroom. 

“Is everything okay?” Peter asked softly. Micky shook his head no, sniffling as he leaned against the sink. 

“I didn’t mean to wake you up.” Micky continued to sniffle. 

A part of Micky that was only seen late at night as he washed blood from his face. One that stopped pretending he wasn’t at least a little bit miserable. “It’s okay to wake up your friends when you need help.” Peter did not have much practical experience in friends but he thought that’s what would be kind. 

Micky nodded. “Do you mind, um, just staying awake? Just so I don’t have to be quiet as I clean myself up?” 

“I do not mind at all.” Peter was even happy to. He grabbed a magazine and sat on his bed, waited for Micky to return from the bathroom and flop into his. 

Peter sat there for a while reading, existing. He liked being able to just exist. “We aren’t friends, Peter.” Micky said it with pain in his voice. Peter was setting down the magazine, getting ready to argue that they were, in fact, friends. “You would be a great friend, anyone who is your friend is more than lucky, but I,” Micky was taking a deep breath, “I don’t stay in places for very long. It doesn’t make much sense for me to make friends with people when I am just going to leave.” 

Peter just nodded. He understood. It hurt but he understood. “I’m sorry for saying that were friends.” He thought they were. “I guess I just am not very good at knowing what friends are.” 

“What about your friends in New York?” 

Peter thought for a while before shaking his head. “That’s different, they’re different,” They never called Peter their friend, yes they were nice and got him in and out of trouble, but over the years he felt more and more like their responsibility. Closer to a pet. Not a friend. “What if we were friends until we went our separate ways?” 

Micky thought for a long while, and Peter was prepared for a no, an explanation of how that was not how ‘friends’ worked, “Friends for now.” Was what he got instead. And that felt nice to hear. That at least for a little bit he would have an actual friend. 

Peter dropped Pennies in Davy's hat. He liked the show. He thought it was clever. His clapping was genuine. “I swear, you might be my biggest fan. Honestly, my only fan.” Not many coins in the hat as Davy picked it up. “Certainly the only person who is looking for my shows.” 

“I think they’re clever.” Peter tried to be honest. It did help that it was a very cheap form of entertainment. 

Davy was shaking his head while smiling, “It’s not that clever.” 

“Yes it is, you make up jokes on the fly and are always figuring out how to make things work.” Peter was smiling cheek to cheek, “I think that’s clever.” 

“You might be the first one to think that.” Davy was packing up everything into his little cart. Starting to pull it along. Slowly strolling along with Peter. 

“I’m sure other people think it to. Or will think it. I’m sure one day you’ll be a big star.” The words meant more to Davy than Peter knew. Because Peter said them with belief, because he meant them. 

Davy still shook his head. “I am starting to think I don’t have what it takes to be a star.” Mid afternoon and the sun was shining. Davy was looking at the ground as they strolled along. 

“I do.” Peter spoke quietly. It was a personal opinion. Davy may not have thought it, but Peter did. He did think. He thought lots of things. He thought that. 

It meant the world to Davy that someone thought it. That someone believed in him. Actually believed in him. Not just believed in him to make ‘the right choice’ but believed that he could do what he put his heart to. 

And even if they never discussed it, Peter knew that Davy was his friend. They talked and ate lunch, and Peter would find his street shows and support him, and Davy would listen to him talk about whatever book or magazine he’d been reading. Peter just didn’t want to jinx anything by saying they were friends. Didn’t want to repeat his previous mistakes. 

The world on his own was not nearly as scary as Peter had always thought it would be. But in many ways he wasn’t alone. He found making connections with people was not nearly as scary either. 

Mike was stood next to the back door of the lounge, trying to finish his cigarette as fast as possible. Still dressed in bandages from his tumble a few nights prior. Peter had not even said anything but his face was all worry as he approached, “I’m fine, just a bit of a stumble.” Mike was preemptive in the explanation. 

“You know, if someone is beating you up, biting works,” Peter offered, Mike just laughed. 

His cigarette was dropped to the ground, smushing it out under his foot. “No, no, I mean it. I fell while skateboarding, and the pavement won.” Mike was pulling out his pack of cigarettes, one for himself before offering one to Peter. He paused for a moment, then proceeded to take one, Mike lending him a light as well. “Apreciate the concern though. And the tips.” 

They stood, and smoked, and chatted, and Mike slowly took off the bandages. His palms scraped but already on the up and up. His forehead not nearly as bad as he thought it would be. Peter helped clean up the dried blood. Fix his hair to tow the line between covering the scrape and following grooming guidelines. Make Mike look presentable enough for going up on stage. “My friend gets into tussles a lot and sometimes I have to help him with this stuff.” A quiet moment as they stood in the bathroom and Peter tried to sculpt Mikes hair with pomade to get it to stay in place. 

“I just feel a little dumb, I should have been able to take care of these sorta things at home. Myself.” Mike lamented. 

Peter was giving a final wipe to Mikes forehead with a damp handkerchief. “Sometimes you just need a little help. I know I do.” Not nearly as much as he thought, but Peter knew he still needed some. 

Mike sat with the words, nodding to himself. Taking a deep breath, “Well, thank you for helping me, Peter. You're a good friend.” Mike said as Peter finished up. 

It caused a moment of pause. Him and Mike were friends? Mike had gotten him a job and he was grateful for that, and he would be happy to be his friend, he was happy to be his friend. He just thought Mikes friends slots were already filled up. He was nice, and caring, yet somehow Peter made the cut. 

He smiled, “you’re a good friend too.” And he meant it.  

Thinking about New York hurt more and more, he knew people were waiting for him, he knew people were worried about him, but California had his friends. He still got to play music, and the band was probably fine without him, Micky was going to leave one day, but he would be fine, he would still have other friends, he could make other friends. He would not be a very good friend if he just abandoned all the people who took care of him before though. Even if he had been fine without them. Even if he was perfectly capable of taking care of himself. Even if they never considered themselves his friends. 

Chapter Text

Four weeks, Micky had been there for four weeks. He couldn’t remember the last time that he had been somewhere for so long.

Yes he did. He tried not to. He tried not to think about the past in any way shape or form. But now here he was, seemingly stuck. Accidently getting comfortable with familiar faces. Still tired. Still hesitant to move on, even if he needed to move on. He needed to move on, he didn’t want to move on, of course he did, he needed to physically move on. 

He still needed to get Peter a bus ticket. And he didn’t have the money for it. He just paid for another week at the motel. 

So for right now he tried to find other ways to scratch the way his skin itched from the inside. He went for late night walks and picked fights and gambled and drank and smoked and did whatever it took to keep him in one place for long enough that he could maybe fix his mess up. 

Mike was sitting on the couch practicing guitar when he heard the screaming. It startled him at first, he thought it must be just a one off thing, but then it continued. Pained and strained, it bothered Mike. It made him want to help, someone was hurt or needed help or something, and he couldn’t help himself. He couldn’t stop himself. He was putting down his guitar and going to the front door. He had expected to open the door and see a car crash waiting for him. But there was nothing and the yelling was quieter. 

He made a perimeter of the house, finding himself in the back garden, the sun setting over the ocean. It would be relaxing, if not for the man screaming his lungs out down on the beach. 

“Are you okay?” Mike yelled down towards him. 

The screaming continued. 

“Are you hurt?” Mike continued to yell. 

“Mind your damn business!” Was screamed back towards him. 

That was something Mike was never very good at, he had a nasty habit of poking his nose where he thought it should be, and someone screaming on the beach below his house was the exact kind of thing that he thought was something his nose had business. “No! Why are you screaming?” 

“Because I can!” The screaming continued, and then it suddenly stopped. “Are you going to do anything about it?” 

“Do I need to?” Mike yelled back. 

There was quiet for a while. “Yes!” Then the screaming continued. 

It was not the answer Mike expected, but it was a call to action. A call to action that led him going down the staircase that led all the way down the beach. The sun setting lower and lower into the ocean. The man was turned from him, screaming, almost laughing, “Are, are you okay?” Mike was hesitant, a safe distance, wondering if he was making a mistake. 

“No, yes, maybe! I think I am finally losing my mind!” Mike could not tell if the man was laughing or crying, maybe both. It hurt his heart. 

He wanted to help, even if it was a bad idea, so he walked forward and reached out, a hand on the back of the man's shoulder. And it was certainly a bad idea, he was met with a slap in the face, or maybe it was a punch, it was sloppy and weak, but enough to startle Mike. 

“Oh, it's you, skateboard guy.” Mike blinked a few times, trying to let his mind catch up. “You don’t seem like the hitting type, are you the kind of guy who beats people up?” Micky asked. All Mike could do was shake his head no. Micky paused for a moment, thinking, “New plan. I’m going to walk into the ocean.” 

And that’s what he did, he turned on his heels and walked forward, shoes and jacket and all, directly into the waves. Mike didn’t know what to do, he couldn’t just stand by and watch this happen, just let this guy walk into the sea. “Wait!” He called out as he started to pull off his shoes, shed off his shirt, pull off his watch, on instinct run in after him. Wading into the waves. “What are you doing?” 

“Swimming.” Micky said, his voice shockingly calmer. “I always forget how relaxing the water is.”

Mike was treading water, looking at him, confused, far past confused, “I thought, I thought,” He was not sure what he thought. “Why did you walk into the ocean?” 

“To swim.” Micky was ducking his head under the water and coming back up. “Why did you follow me in?” 

“I don’t know!” He did know, he thought he was going to watch him walk into the ocean and never see him again. “I was doing something about it.” 

Micky smiled, it was getting dark but Mike could still see it. “Trying to be a hero?” 

“I’m trying to be a Good Samaritan.” 

“I see,” He thought for a long while, “I dragged you out of the street, so you were going to drag me out of the ocean.” Micky said, nodding his head. “Too bad I’m just swimming. No Samaritaning needed.” 

Mike was dumbfounded as he watched Micky. Splashing in the water and giggling. A smile that was contagious. One that made Mike splash back. He couldn’t remember the last time he splashed someone in the water. The last time he laughed like that. The panic and worry dispersing out of him and into the water. splashes and smiles and giggles until the sun barely left a glow. Like it was any moment of casual fun. A light moment, a fun moment, one where Mike probably let too much of his guard down. “You know, I thought you walked into the water, well, i thought you were going to try to kill yourself.” 

The laughing subdued, Micky paused for far too long. “Maybe!” And all of a sudden the laughter was gone. The moment wasn’t fun anymore. Treading water was growing difficult in all of his clothes, “I can’t remember.” He didn’t want to remember. He didn’t want to think the answer could have been yes. He reached out for a moment, never actually reaching Mike, pulling his hand back before it got too far, “I’m not now.” 

Mike watched as he slowly began to struggle more and more. He knew the look of when someone started grabbing at the water for survival. He knew the feeling of the water coming up over your face. “Well maybe we oughta head back to shore.” Micky nodded, following Mike the best that he could, as soon as it was shallow enough Mike was helping, water pouring off of him as soon as he was back on land. Mike slipped back on his shirt, grabbed the rest of his things and waited. “You alright, man?” 

“Oh I am absolutely peachy,” Micky was trying his best to be convincing, having to take large steps, his feet caking with sand. “Well, Mr. Skateboard, once again I must bid you adieu.” Micky tried his best to bow as he did before, his clothes slopping around. 

If Mike knew better he would let him walk away, let him walk into the darkness and chalk it all up to two very strange nights that could act as a funny story to tell to friends, but Mike did not know better. “No, no ‘bidding adieu’ you're soaking wet and it’s dark, and you helped me even though I told you not to so now I’m going to help you.” Mike had to turn around for a moment to take a deep breath. “Please just at least come up to the house to dry off?” 

Micky still wasn’t used to it. He wasn’t used to Peter staying up so he had someone to talk to, he wasn’t used to Davy bringing him sandwiches, he wasn’t used to people wanting to help. He never used to let people help him. Only hurt. but he understood tick for tack, wanting a balanced scoreboard. And he could let Mike have that. He could let him have peace of mind. Even if it left him nauseous.

Mike lent him some dry clothes to change into. They were slightly big on him. Most clothes he wore didn’t fit him the best, so really not much difference from his clothes before. These clothes didn’t smell like moth balls though. Micky didn’t know what they smelled like. Soap and detergent and aftershave. Nothing like his own. He wished the smell bothered him more. Micky dug through the cabinet under the bathroom sink looking for the first aid kit. His head hurt and he thought he remembered seeing pain killers in there. He didn’t know how he felt about remembering what medicine there was in the first aid kit. He didn’t know how he felt about feeling almost comfortable. 

Mike wrung out the clothes after rinsing the saltwater out of them and hung them out back on the clothesline. A pot of coffee on the stove, it seemed like the only food or drink Micky would accept. Mike had rattled off a list as they walked back up to the house and coffee was the only one he hesitated in denying. Still denying it, Mike just said he was making some for himself. He looked over to Micky on the couch repeatedly. Almost expecting him to disappear. But he didn’t. He stayed put for long enough to bring him a hot cup of Folgers. “Cream or,” Micky was already drinking it before the question was finished. “Or I guess not.” 

Micky sat stiffly on the couch. Willing himself to not get comfortable. “Coffee is coffee is coffee.” 

Mike sat next to him, leaving space, stiff but for completely different reasons. He was unsure how to proceed. Mike was raised to have an open heart and open arms, and maybe he left his heart too open. Right now he sat there, thinking about the sting of iodine on his palms, the gentle swipes of damp rags on his forehead, and all of a sudden he needed to get off the couch. “More coffee?” Mike did not wait for an answer. He just got up and grabbed Micky’s cup from his hands. Standing at the stove. Turning on the burner and holding his hand over it. It was a selfish thought. A selfish want. But if he did ‘accidentally’ burn himself, would his wounds be tended to with that same gentle consideration?

“I don’t want to overstay my welcome,” the words got Mike to pull his hand away from the burner. “Really, I only care about the coat, the rest of it is replaceable.” 

Mike was returning to the couch, coffee cups refilled. “No, no, no, you are certainly not overstaying your welcome, it’s late, and you don’t even have dry shoes.” The coffee was drunk just as quickly as the first time. “Can’t walk home in wet shoes.” 

“I’ve walked plenty of places in wet shoes.” Sometimes shoes were wet, sometimes that was the only choice, “Walked plenty of places without them too, shoes are really more of a state of mind." 

“I don’t get it.” Mike was leaning back into the couch. “I don’t, no, shoes are shoes.” 

Micky was giggling, cracking himself up, “You’re funny.” He was leaning back against the couch too. “‘Shoes are shoes’.” Mike was quiet as the laughing subsided, as Micky looked over to him, Mike looking away in the process. “Funny is good.” 

Mike smiled awkwardly. “Thanks, I think.” He was getting up again, he couldn’t stay on the couch, refilling Micky’s coffee cup again only to watch it shortly get emptied, “do I need to start another pot?” 

“Oh, no, no, I really should get going.” Micky was getting up off the couch, clapping his hands together. “My clothes are out on the back line, yes? I’ll come grab them tomorrow, maybe the day after, we will see where the days takes me.” Micky couldn’t sit there. He couldn’t just sit with his hands folded making small talk and watching his host smile. “For the final time, Mr. Skateboard, I bid you adieu.” 

Mike had no reason to stop him this time. Shoes were a state of mind, or whatever that meant. So his ghost, sometimes angel, disappeared out his front door once again. Leaving Mike just as bewildered as before. He had proof this time, clothes that were set out to dry. He didn’t know if that helped or hurt his fascination. That’s what he was going to call it, a fascination. Because he had no business falling in love. All he was was a stranger who he happened to have a few strange nights with. Not even full nights, strange interactions with. A story to tell to friends of a man he once met who was a not-doctor he watched walk into the ocean. 

He was more than that though. Or maybe Like just wanted him to be more than that. Maybe Mike was in love with the idea of someone who would comfort him even when he was at fault, who afterward would let him play the hero. 

Some part of Mike hoped the knock at the door would be him again, turning around and saying his feet hurt, Mike could pull him inside and do what he did best, have an open heart and open arms. Instead it was Davy. “Sorry to keep bothering you.” 

It was an appreciated distraction. “You have no need to apologize.” Davy still would though. “The downstairs room is yours. It’s not going to anyone else.” No matter how many times Mike tried to make it clear that he was not getting kicked to the curb. 

A cycle, but it always ended in Davy finding himself more and more comfortable. “I really do appreciate it, always letting me stay.” 

“Well, it’s what friends are for.” Mikes mind still in other places despite his best efforts. His coffee cup something he was still slowly nursing even if it was growing cold. Almost a comedic sight for Davy. Seeing Mike look nearly lovesick as he gazed out the window. 

Davy knew Mike to be sturdily stoic, who would have people believe that he did not have the same types of needs as others around him, that he did not yearn the same way others did, “What’s his name?” Davy practically teased. 

Mike shook his head, “what? I don’t know what you are talking about, ‘his name,’ I’m not, I don’t even know who I would be thinking of.” he nervously laughed and drank the coffee, the coffee was not helping. 

“You basically have love hearts flying around your head, mate,” Davy was joining in on the laughter. 

Mike was still shaking his head, “oh, you don’t want to hear about my, well,” it was more nervous than anything, partially embarrassed. 

Mike had heard plenty about Davys. Dates and dances that were not nearly as successful as they used to be. Moments that were far more than personal where Davy would question his own motives. Mike always listened. Closely and thoughtfully. Offering hugs when things got a little too personal. 

It led Davy to walk over to him next to the window, a firm pat on Mike's shoulder, “I do think that is what friends are for.” And Mike knew, he knew it was a matter of time before it would go both ways. He looked to Davy who had the biggest shit eating grin, and he knew it was time to practice what he preached. 

Mike thought for a moment. “Oh, oh no.” 

“Oh no what?” 

“I don’t know his name.” Mike sounded in slight horror. “Do I have his clothes? Yes, but not his name!” 

“You got his clothes?” Davy was trying not to giggle, “and you didn’t get his name?” His efforts in thwarting giggles were not very effective. “No wonder you're in love, must have been a whirlwind romance. Literally.” 

Mike was lightly pushing him away, Davy still laughing. “Oh not like that.” But Davy just nodded. He did not believe Mike in the slightest. Even if he was telling the truth. 

Chapter Text

It was the welcome ruckus that Peter would normally make when Davy was finishing up whatever little show he was doing. The kind that left a smile on his face and made it easier for him to do it the next day. And the day after that. And the day after that. Having someone believe in you helped. 

“I swear, every day you clap louder and louder.” Davy was trying to pack up the stage, get it on the cart and get a move on before any sort of trouble decided to develop. Peter helped, or helped as much as he could, it was mostly a one man job. Peter still lent company. Davy hadn’t seen Micky in days, still brought him sandwiches, but now they were being pawned off on Peter. 

“I always like when people clap for me when I’m performing.” Peter was much slower at eating, practically day and night from Micky. Careful bites, never talking with his mouth full, he wouldn’t eat while walking if he could help it. Right now he could not. 

If Davy could have it his way he wouldn’t walk while eating either, but he had not had that luxury in a while. “Hold on, you perform? You’re a performer? How could I not know that about you?” 

Davy shrugged, “Guess I never really talk about work.” It was a long pause as he ate some more of his sandwich. “Right now I play at like, a lounge place? Not very interesting, but I have a different gig coming up soon at a cafe that I’m excited about. And back east I played in a band, play in a band, once I get back to New York I will play with them again.” Peter was trying to convince himself more than anyone. 

“You are an actual musician.” Davy spoke in awe. “You play music for work and perform, what are you doing watching my shows for?” 

Peter shrugged, “I like them.” It was another long pause as he ate more of the sandwich. “Your shows are clever and predictable, and a little mysterious, and I think those are all things I like.” The sandwich being finished off with a final bite. 

“You think you like those things?” 

Peter took a deep breath as he gathered his words, “Well yes, I think I like those, I mean, I didn’t think much about what I liked or thought or anything before. My mother made it very clear what I needed to do and like and how I had to be and the band was, is, very understanding of my lack of input, I don’t talk very much you know, don’t have much to say, not much to contribute.” 

“This is the first that I’m hearing you don’t talk much.” It was supposed to be a joke but Peter’s face grew sour, embarrassed, “But I get it, your entire life laid out in front of you, you didn’t have to do anything, just nod your head and go along with it.” 

“Exactly. It was easy. Keep quiet Pete, stop asking questions Pete, you're too old to play with toys Pete, speak up Pete, not that much.” It was a long sigh as they turned the corner. “And then when I ended up in California, all of a sudden no one was telling me what to do anymore. And it’s harder, but I’ve made friends. Friends make it easier.” It was another sigh, “And now I am just wondering if I can even go back.” A thought he’d been having but had never vocalized, but hearing the words out loud made them feel far too true. 

“What do you mean, go back?” Davy looked at him with concern and curiosity. 

Peter ping ponged the idea back and forth in his head, “Well, ending up in California was a mistake, I got on the wrong bus and this guy stole by coat, it’s okay, we’re friends now, but I didn’t know how to get back to New York and so I just took the bus all the way to California on a bit of a detour. But the band, they are waiting for me in New York, I think, they are probably looking for me, I think, I hope they are looking for me, that would be kind of sad if they weren’t.” He had to stop for a breath, “And I like California. I do, I have friends and a job and I get to do what I like when I like, I never got to do those things before. But I don’t want to just leave them.” A crack in the dam and quickly it was all spilling out whether Peter planned on talking about it or not. If Davy wanted to hear about it or not. “I owe a lot to the band, when I ran away from home they let me stay on their couches and made sure that I was fed and made sure I was safe. And they didn’t ask me to do anything in return. It feels ungrateful to run away from them too.” 

“I know how you feel.” Davy knew all too well. “The feeling ungrateful bit. It’s how I feel every time I get up and beg with flair.” The jazz hands that accompanied were more sarcastic than anything. 

“And I don’t want to seem ungrateful. I am very grateful for everyone and everything, but I also want to have some say in what my life is.” Peter took a deep breath, “Is that ungrateful?” 

All Davy could do was shake his head, “I don’t think it’s ungrateful at all.” He understood, he understood far more than he wanted to. “It’s the same way for me, I am thankful for my grandfather, he raised me into the person I am today.” A person who Davy did not always like. A person who did understand the concept of doing things for the sake of getting them done. He did have that virtue even if it seemed like he didn’t. He just used it in other ways. He did things because he thought that the reward far outweighed the risk. The same way a coal miner went down the chute to put bread on the table or brave young men lined up to be cannon fodder to have honor restored on their family name, Davy batted his eyelashes and laughed, danced to songs he didn’t particularly like, spent the night with people he didn’t particularly care for, did pathetic magic shows on the street because he knew a face like his gartered pity, and let sticky fingers take care of the rest. Ignored whatever weight it was adding to his soul. Not even because he wanted to, to a certain extent he hated doing it, but his ends always justified the means. “Would he be proud of it? Not particularly, but it was his old fashioned view on things that got me here.” 

“My mom would be horrified.” Their walk had slowed to a gradual stroll. “I have long hair, and wear beads, and don’t go to church, and I live in a motel, and I am pretty sure the guy who stole my jacket who is also my friend who also lives in the motel is a little bothered by something, which is fine, everyone's bothered by different things, he’s a nice guy, I mean he did steal my jacket, but he’s going to get me a bus ticket back to New York.” Peter had to take another deep breath, “She used to point out people like that at the grocery store, people who were bothered by things, people who acted ‘not normal’, and say that they acted like that because they made deals with the devil. And I would always wonder if they knew that they had made deals with the devil, because I don’t remember making one, and she told me so many times to just act a little more normal, to not let things bother me.” 

“But are you happier now? Even if she wouldn’t approve?” Davy watched Peter contemplate it, his face showing far more than he probably meant to, but Peter didn’t even have to ask him to keep that secret close to his heart. 

“Is it bad if I say yes?” Peter was quiet as he said it. 

Davy shook his head. “No, not in the slightest.” Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, that was part of America’s slogan, wasn’t it? “My grandfather would be equally scandalized, I think. I don’t know if he would be surprised, but he certainly would be disappointed.” Davy’s soul now on the chopping block. Peter was looking at him with big, understanding eyes. Eyes that told him he did not have to talk about it if he didn’t want to, but the words felt sticky in his mouth, and all he wanted to do was open his jaw and let them pour out. “My grandfather fought in the war, the first world war, so has always been a certain amount of distance from him. Men like him will keep those around them at arms length like they’re afraid of poisoning them or something.” Peter nodded along, almost like he understood. “I know he did the best he could, I gave him hell regardless, and I know I should be back in England getting married to Ethel Baker or any of the other girls I grew up with. But maybe I wanted to think I didn’t have to just pack myself into a box on a hill and fade into nothing. Maybe I wanted to try to do something different. Maybe I wanted to try to shoot for the stars.” Davy was becoming emotional as he spoke. “And when the stars proved a bit farther than I thought, I did what I had always been taught, played to my strengths.” Davy was pausing again to breathe. “Don’t know how surprised about that he would be either, ashamed, certainly, but he wouldn’t be surprised.” He thought of an argument he had gotten in with his grandfather, he couldn’t remember what had spurred it, maybe Davy’s lack of job or disinterest in furthering his education or his near apathy for the military, but it devolved into his Grandfather lecturing him on keeping tidy morals. Lectures that he never gave much thought.  

Davy stopped in his walking, Peter moved for a few more steps before noticing and backing up. “Is everything okay?” 

Davy was looking around, making sure no one within ear shot, “I just, I just want to think that that isn’t what I was bound to be. My grandfather always talked about how people had their places, the queen is the queen for a reason and all that, and I hope that was not mine.” 

“What wasn’t yours?” Even if he was a bit confused, he spoke quietly and with care. 

Davy checked around them again, “That becoming a half-rate harlot wasn’t where I was supposed to spend my life.” 

Peter paused for a moment, looking Davy up and down, something clicking in his mind, “I thought you were a magician.” Said in complete seriousness. 

Davy couldn’t help but laugh, grabbing onto Peter’s arm as he slightly keeled over. It’s what he needed to hear. Someone who believed him when he said things. “Yes, Peter,” he said through giggles, “I do perform as a piss poor magician too.” It took him a moment to collect himself. 

“But you're also a-“ Davy cut him off. 

“No. Kind of. Not really. It’s complicated. I don’t, I’m not, I actually don’t really know. Depends who you ask I guess.” 

“Is that something you want to be?” Peter asked, genuinely, he wanted to know. 

Davy shook his head, “Not particularly, it was just something I stumbled into and didn’t think too much about.” 

“Then you aren’t.” His words fair and true.

Davy stood there for a while, nodding, really letting the words set in. Looking over to Peter, seeing him smile, finally letting go of Peter's arm, something he had been holding onto for a little too long. He didn’t want to apologize, but he needed to change the subject. “Do you have the time?” Davy asked after a long moment. Peter held out his wrist, the face of his watch on the inside, “Oh no, I’m late. I have an audition and I’m late. Oh the one time I actually have somewhere to be and I’m late.” 

Davy was running off without a goodbye, but Peter still waved. 

Micky was climbing the fence to the backyard of the house. It had been a few days and he wanted to get his, Peter’s, jacket. He needed to return it. But Peter had not asked for it back so Micky had still been wearing it. It was a good jacket, even if the pockets were too small. 

The clothesline he stood in front of was empty, and there was some sort of gnawing feeling at his chest. He needed to return the jacket. And if he couldn’t, well, he might as well walk back into the ocean. 

There was the screech of a window opening, “Normally people use the front door.” Mike said, poking his head out. 

“The jacket,” Micky was quickly approaching him, “I just need to grab the jacket then I’ll be as breezy as a bird.” 

“It’s in the coat closet,” Micky did not ask him to move, just started climbing in through the window. Mike’s shoulder being used to help launch himself, “I didn’t want it to-” Mike had continued talking, but stopped as Micky was crashing to the ground, a mis-step off the window sill leaving him laid out on his back. 

He was dizzy, maybe hungry, tired but not sleepy, just exhausted, and the only thing clear in his field of vision was a man who he only knew to be the owner of a skateboard. 

“You don’t look too good.” Mike said as he helped him sit up. 

Micky looked him up and down, “Like you’re one to talk.” but the action still made his cheeks ever so slightly blush. 

“No, I mean, your face, you look how I feel on boats.” Mike was kneeling down next to him, but Micky shook his head, he wanted to say he was fine, that he was just there to grab his jacket, but his stomach acted as his enemy and grumbled. “Oh,” Mike’s voice was suddenly more chipper, “What kind of host would I be if I didn’t offer you something to eat.” And Micky could not complain. 

He sat on the lounge chair eating his sandwich in great haste, the chips on his plate went just as quickly. His cup of coffee already empty. Not the politest way to eat, but it was the only way he knew how anymore. 

“More coffee?” Mike asked, but he had a feeling the answer would be yes and was already working on refilling the cup. 

“Thank you.” Micky said it almost with defeat. “For lunch. I forget sometimes, been a bit busy as of late, but it seems that Mr. Skateboard has a few sandwich-making tricks up his sleeve.” 

“It’s Mike.” He said simply as he handed back the coffee. 

Micky had his hands wrapped around the warm mug for a moment, “What, no, no it isn’t.” He said nearly in protest. 

“My name, it’s Mike, not Mr. Skateboard.” He was sitting down next to him. 

“Oh.” Micky knew he shouldn’t know his name, this was his third time here, this was a pattern, a name to put to a face meant another person to recognize, he had already started almost avoiding Davy for that exact reason, of not wanting to get too comfortable. Peter was too late. He had gotten comfortable with Peter before they had even gotten to the diner. And he knew better than to give his own in return, “Micky.” but he still did. 

“Nice to finally properly meet you.” Mike smiled and put out his hand to shake. It was still shook it against better judgement. 

Micky started working on the coffee again as soon as he could, getting up to refill his own cup this time. “I don’t know what could be so nice about it, a guy breaks into your backyard then drinks all your coffee.” Micky drank a little bit out of his cup so that he could empty the pot. “You’re out by the way. Hope it’s alright I took the last of it.” 

“Well, you patched me up pretty good. It all healed up fairly well.” Mike was pushing up his hair, “Barely even a mark.” 

“What can I say, pick things up when you're on the road.” Micky wasn’t sitting back down, now more aimlessly walking around the living room. Most of the walls bare. Looking around almost judgmentally. “Have you ever thought about decorating?” 

The question took Mike by surprise, “Do you have any suggestions?” 

Micky just shook his head, setting his mug down on the closest surface. “Don’t people who live in places normally decorate?”

“I have furniture.” 

“That barely counts.” 

“I think it does count,” Mike was getting up and walking over to the stray coffee cup, taking it back to the sink, “And I want to make sure that anyone who moves in in the future has space for their things.” 

“Anyone who moves in?” Micky was stopping and looking at him, his face scrunched in confusion. 

“Well, I am sorta between roommates right now, last one, well we don’t need to talk about the last one, but next one will not need to worry about not having space.” Mike was almost nervous as he spoke, like he was trying to convince himself that there would be a next one. 

Micky lightly laughed, “I see.”

“What’s so funny?” 

“Nothing.” Micky continued to wander aimlessly. “Just, makes sense is all.” It almost entertained him. It felt nice. To have a proper read on someone, not even a read, to know something about someone. Something almost comfortable about it.  

“What makes sense?” Mike turned to watch him as he moved around. 

“Oh you know, guy who insisted on making me lunch and ran into the ocean after me wants to make sure everyone else has space for their things, what about your things?” Micky had no place to talk about personal belongings, the only thing he kept was not even his. 

“You bandaged me up, walking into the ocean was getting us even for that.” Mike wasn’t upset but his voice was still raising. “And I have all the things I need.” But the words stuck with Mike, almost stung. Maybe more than they should have. Or maybe he was just thinking about iodine again. Maybe he liked this type of sting. 

Micky was lightly laughing, the kind of laugh he should have been watching out for, the kind of laugh that was a little too friendly. “So now I owe you one because of lunch, I see, you're trying to get me on your debt list.” 

“I wouldn’t do anything of the sort.” Mike had to turn all the way around to keep his eyes on him, “I don’t keep ledgers.” And Mike would swear he saw Micky smile at that. Like he found it funny almost. Like he was determined to prove him wrong. 

“I do.” Micky stopped in his tracks, “this guitar has seen better days.” He was lifting it up carefully, almost inspecting it. 

A change in subject that was like whiplash. “Be careful with that, it’s…” Mikes words trailed off as soft guitar music began to play. Stuttered and slightly off rhythm, but technically a melody none the less. 

Micky was slowly making his way back towards Mike, sitting down next to him on the lounge seat. “It plays nice.” 

“You play guitar?” Mike asked softly, not wanting to speak over the music. 

The strumming still stopped. “Just a few songs to give me something to do at parties.” He was taking off the guitar and handing it over. “I know how guys can get about their guitars.” About as close to a sorry as he could get. 

Mike just gently pushed the guitar back into Micky’s hands, “Humor me.” He almost hoped Micky crashed and burned so that he had an excuse to not want to hear. But he wanted to hear. He desperately wanted to hear. 

In Micky’s mind this was balancing the ledger for lunch. “I haven’t played in years.” 

It was a bit off beat, and there were words being mumbled that Mike couldn’t make out, who knows how many notes were missed, how many times he got off rhythm, how many verses were restarted, but Mike just watched in awe. His heart picking up tempo and his palms having a familiar sting against his wishes. 

Mike didn’t mean to. But here was his ghost, his Angel, back again. Arguing with him like someone bickered with an old friend. Playing him out of tune melodies on Mikes own guitar. His mind stuck in thoughts of gentle touches and soft smiles. It was bound to happen to Mike, it was tragedy waiting to strike to leave a heart so open, he only knew how to keep his heart open, just no one had ever captured his whims so much before, no one had the opportunity to. He tried to keep Micky from having the opportunity to out of habit. But maybe you can only lick your own wounds for so long before it hurts to reach. 

This was an easy reach though, even if it was awkward. For Mike to lean over the guitar and kiss him.

Only for a moment, then he was pulling away, scooting away, in horror. “I don’t know why I did that.” It was selfish. Endlessly selfish. It was for no one but himself. “I am not the type of guy to just, randomly kiss people, I really don’t know why I did that.” It made him feel sick. It filled him with guilt. It practically hurt. 

Micky sat there for a while, staring forward, trying to process it. He put the guitar to the side and looked at Mike. A previously ignored reality. A reality he would not be opposed to. A reality that was easy on the eyes, a reality that was easy on the lips, a reality that was probably very considerate with his lovers. A reality he had not known in a while. A reality that he got a taste of and was made violently aware that he missed. A reality that smelt like soap and detergent and aftershave. A reality that felt impossible to turn away from. A reality that he did not want to ignore. 

He leaned forward, a small peck left on Mike's cheek. “Trying to get me to stop pretending I could play guitar, maybe?” 

Mike looked over at him, a smile on his face. Maybe it wasn’t so selfish after all, impulsive, sure, but not selfish. It certainly wasn’t selfish if it was wanted. And it wouldn’t be selfish to kiss him a second time, or a third, or even a fourth, “hold on,” Mike said at one point as he pulled away to breathe. Hands at the back of Micky’s neck. “Would you mind if we maybe moved this upstairs.” 

“Woah there cowboy, someone’s eager.” Micky was lightly giggling, and Mike could feel his face go red. 

“Oh, no, no no no, not like that, well I mean, maybe but that’s not what I mean. I just have this guy who’s kinda living with me, he is cool with this sort of thing, but I don’t want him to feel like he’s not welcome over because, well, um, I had someone over.” Mike thought about his words, “He’s a long story. And I just want to make sure he has a place to stay for the night.” 

It was more giggles from Micky. “So you want to go upstairs so your not-roommate doesn’t get uncomfortable?” And another kiss, “and I thought I was special, but you just have a habit of picking up strays,” and another kiss before Mike could answer. It was a very good way to get him to lose his train of thought. Then Micky was getting up, “won’t you lead the way my good sir?” Did Micky know better? Than to smile and giggle and steal kisses at the top of the stairs? He had to know this reality was only temporary. Closer to fantasy, really. 

It was a much more fun way to spend the evening than bloody noses and bruises. He’d gotten so used to just looking for people to hit him he’d almost forgotten about touch. That someone being close did not always mean pain. But he was being reminded, and Mike was very good at reminding. A slow sort or reminding. The sort of reminding that got less intense the longer it went on. Less intense but more needed. 

Hands did not push up shirts or pull at belts, just held. Held close and secure. Kisses slowing in frequency but neither pulling away. A moment of breathing that they both felt comfortable in. Entangled in each other for the sake of it. The feeling. The closeness. Micky thought it was a waste of time, all that making out and it just puttering out into some sort of endless, wordless, embrace. But he did not feel like it was a waste of time. He felt like it was the best way he had spent his time in a very long time. 

“I’m not the kind of guy you sticks around places, Mike. Remember, scammer, con artist, drifter, vagrant.” Micky still held onto him though. Face buried in the crook of his neck. 

“You trying to tell me you have to go?” Mike wasn’t letting go either. His voice almost sad at the prospect. 

Micky didn’t like to hear that tone in his voice. It didn’t suit him. He sounded much better when he was a little more lively, a little more upbeat. “Eventually,” Micky took a deep breath and all he smelled was soap and detergent and after shave. “But not yet.” He was letting himself settle a little more securely. “I can stay a little longer.” 

Micky felt a hand rub his back, “just let me know when you have to go.” And Micky just nodded. 

He kept on thinking he should leave, get up, get the jacket, go. But he just wanted a little bit longer. A little longer in that reality. Staying for as long as Mike let the reality exist. And Mike would hold on for as long as Micky let him. 

It had been a while since Micky slept all the way through the night. It had been a while since he was able to get any amount of sleep at night, and normally when he did he tossed and turned and woke up endlessly. He had almost forgotten what it felt like to not be tired. To actually get a good night's sleep. He didn’t know it was a way he could feel anymore. 

Chapter Text

Davy was making breakfast for himself in the kitchen. Pot of coffee, but that was mostly for Mike whenever he managed to roll out of bed. It was still strange to get used to. But maybe Mike had gotten it through his skull finally. Enough times opening the door and feeding him dinner and breakfast and urging him to take a sandwich or two with him for the day. Enough times of gently nudging when he seemed upset. He was never good at hiding when something was bothering him. But Mike still let him say it was fine sometimes, even when it wasn’t fine. And when things weren’t fine, and Davy needed to talk about it, Mike would do his best to listen. 

It wasn’t home yet, but it was getting pretty damn close. Most nights spent in the downstairs room even if he still spent some out and about. He still called it ‘Mike’s Place’, still acted like it was someone else's place he was staying at, but almost home meant he had no issue digging through the pantry and the fridge. 

Mike was still half asleep as he nearly stumbled his way down the stairs. Mornings like these he hated that spiral staircase, almost hated it enough to just rip it from where it was. But then he would be stuck without a way to his room. He could install a ladder, but that would be so much worse. 

His eyes were mostly closed as he poured a cup of coffee from the pot. A hefty sigh as he brought it up to his lips. His face in almost a scowl until he had a sip. 

“So no lover boy last night?” Davy said it far too casually.

Mike gave him a sharp look, it was a wake up call, a reminder that he had finally gotten his wish of no longer being alone in that house. “I have no clue what you're talking about.” He was standing up straighter, drinking more of his coffee, the almost scowl returning to his face.

“I can be a bit clueless but I can tell the difference from when you come downstairs all like this,” Davy was vaguely gesturing towards Mike, “tired, like a normal person, and when you float downstairs with a truly horrifying smile while humming love songs.” 

Mike continued with a stern look and crossed arms, “sometimes I just sleep particularly well.” 

“Yeah? Does that ‘sleeping particularly well,’ have anything to do with the guy who climbs out of your window and lands in the lilac bush?” Mike avoided eye contact as he sipped at the coffee. “Does he know you have a front door? I don’t know how many more hits your lilacs can take.”

Mike stood there for a moment, partially embarrassed, even if Davy was seemingly in support, or at the very least indifferent, he was still caught in rose colored glasses, glasses that he tried to pretend he was immune to, “He says that it’s faster to leave that way.” He spoke hush and embarrassed. 

Davy couldn’t believe that Mike was admitting to it, he thought it would take a bit more breaking down. “Oh it’s faster, is it?” Davy was trying his best not to laugh. “Where’s he rushing off to?” 

“I don’t ask.” Mike was looking down at the coffee cup, a smile threatening to break through. “It’s not anything serious.” Mike still was avoiding eye contact as he refilled his coffee and started making oatmeal. He needed a distraction, anything to lessen the nearly agonizing pain of the conversation. 

“Nothing serious? I’ve heard him land in that bush three times in the past two weeks.” 

“Five times.” Mike quickly corrected. His voice was careful and quiet. 

“He’s spent the night five times in two weeks?” Davy was laughing out of shock more than anything, “Tell the poor guy to take the stairs.” 

“I have!” Mike tried to stress, finally looking over to Davy, “but he says it’s far too formal. And he’s not a very formal guy.”

“Well he must come in through the front door.” Davy was sitting down with his cereal and his own milk with a dash of coffee. 

Mike just shook his head, “He climbs the back fence.” Mike didn’t completely understand, but he knew the reason, Micky was just passing through, ships in the night, a ghost who Mike promised to forget. Mike knew he wouldn’t though, he was not the type to forget, and even if he was, he didn’t know if he could forget a guy like him. But he said he would because it put Micky’s mind at ease, it helped him sleep at night, and Mike thought he looked so peaceful asleep. He would say anything if it helped him sleep. 

Davy watched as Mike sighed wistfully, a sigh he did not know Mike was capable of, “He’s really done a number on you, hasn’t he?” Davy continued to lightly tease as Mike tried to swallow down the feelings with his coffee. 

“No one has done any numbers on me.” Mike was trying to assure but his voice was not convincing as he joined Davy at the table. “It’s just, what do you call it? ‘Passing fancy,’? It’s just that.” 

“Passing fancies don’t come over five times in two weeks.” Davy continued, but it just made Mike more tense. 

“This one hasn’t passed yet. We’re still… fancying.” Davy giggled, he meant well, but Mike knew he had set himself up for failure, for heartbreak.

“Lover boy have a name this time?” 

“Not one you get to know.” 

“Why not?” 

“Becasue you will never let me hear the end of it.” Mike was finishing his oatmeal and coffee. Getting up from the table. Turning away. Trying not to think of it. He told himself it would hurt less if he didn’t let himself think about it. But yet his mind still wandered. 

He wasn’t wrong, Davy had grown comfortable to tease and taunt, comfortable enough to poke and prod, not comfortable enough to take the house key Mike offered him. 

Davy had lack luster applause at the end of his little performance. Not many coins dropped into the hat that day. It had been an especially slow morning. A type of morning that had him packing up by mid day, wondering if there was maybe a better spot for him. Or maybe he needed to just take a break. 

“Davy, baby, what’s got you glum?” The voice was shrill and exaggerated, but he recognized it. Larger than life smile and wide open arms, a face he had not seen in a while. 

Micky was checking in the hat, almost a concerned look on his face from the lack of spare change, “I was starting to worry something happened to you.” 

“Oh you don’t need to worry about me, I’m a professional, remember?” Movements large and grand and sweeping. Same old Micky, just as grand. 

Davy had almost forgotten how he could be, “Yeah, yeah, professional at large, where have you been?” 

“Doesn’t matter.” and just like that Davy could not get in a question if he tried. Micky was working, he was helping, he was doing what he did best, running a show. It was not indifferent to running any other type of scheme, plotting and planning, this type was just a little more honest. People got what they paid for, they got entertainment. Cheap street entertainment but entertainment none the less. 

Davy didn’t know if Micky had some sort of secret trick, but as soon as he showed up and moved things around things started to pick up. Maybe it was just the extra energy. Maybe it was just like when Peter was watching and cheering and somehow Davy felt like everything was just a little easier. Or maybe it was just dumb luck. 

“Not bad for dropping all your cards.” Micky teased as they were packing up the wagon and splitting the change. 

“Dropping the cards is part of the act.” Davy argued, and sometimes it was, today it wasn’t. Today it was him trying to make his shotty magic endearing. 

Micky just laughed, a laugh far less hollow than Davy had remembered, far more genuine, one that was accompanied by a smile. One that sounded happy. “I’m playing with you, you are the face of this entire operation, drop the cards all you want, people laughed, people gave money, one, two, three, bingo.” It was followed by more laughter. 

“You’re the brains here, I’d still be trying to pull quarters out of people’s ears if it wasn’t for you.” Davy couldn’t help but smile. 

“Finally, someone recognizes my genius.” Micky was still exaggerated, still smiling, “It’s not all just pointless ramblings and endless pacing, sometimes this thing up here,” Micky was pointing at his head, “Has ideas.” 

Davy wanted to ask more questions, where he had been, what had changed, but it was best not to spoil a good thing. Best to just accept the help and be happy along with him. Not that it was necessarily difficult to laugh along with Micky. Most of the time it was harder not to. 

Micky was whistling as he walked into the motel room, “I’ve got news Peter, not good, not bad, well you might think it’s bad, but it is more an update than anything else.” a bag of takeout in his hand. 

Peter was sitting in his bed, strumming at a guitar he was able to get at a pawn shop. First thing of his own, that was really his own, that he was able to buy. Not a gift, no helping hands, his money that he made himself that he chose to spend on something that he wanted. He had to get new strings for it, and it had some cosmetic issues, but it was his guitar. And no one could take it from him. 

“First, got you a club sandwich,” takeout boxes were being unpacked and handed out, Micky’s dinner proving to be less of a dinner and just two different slices of pie and a side of fries that he was just calling dinner, “Second, I am still trying to get together the money for your bus ticket.” Micky spoke between bites of food, “Unexpected expenses and all that,” 

“It’s alright Micky, you don’t have to buy me one.” Peter sat on his bed, most of his attention focused on the sandwich. 

Micky was up on his feet as he ate, “No, no, no, I told you I would help you get back to New York, and I know, it's been weeks, but I want to make sure it’s full proof-” 

“Micky, really, it’s okay.” Peter tried to interrupt, but Micky just continued. 

“It’s not okay Peter, I didn’t wake you up at your stop, and now your stuck here, it’s my fault that you're stuck here, and so the least I can do is get you un-stuck from here-” 

“I don’t know if I want to go back to New York.” A thought Peter had been thinking more and more but had not been brave enough to say. He felt like it owed it to them to make the effort. That was the least he could do for them. To go back and sit quietly and let his cheeks get pinched and play music when he was told. They had helped him get away from a life of being told to sit still and try harder. But now the idea of going back to New York felt just as suffocating as going back home. It felt like an admission of guilt, he tried to make it the way others said he couldn’t and they were right. But he could, he had a job and he had friends, and even before Micky he had a place to stay, and, and, and, and, “I like California, and there’s nothing for me in New York that I don’t already have here.” This was something that he wanted, something no one had told him that he couldn’t want. 

Peter watched Micky nod his head, still eating his food as fast as he could, “That’s great. No, that’s real great to hear Peter, because now, now, I don’t have to buy you a bus ticket.” Micky was walking into the bathroom as soon as he finished his food, or what of his food that he was going to finish. “I think I need a haircut, it’s getting long, don’t you think?” Micky’s hands running through his hair almost anxiously. 

“I think it looks fine,” Peter still slowly working at his sandwich, “And I am glad the staying in California thing is okay, I have been thinking about it, and I just, I just couldn’t pretend like I was going to leave anymore.” 

Something dropped in the bathroom. A tin of hair product. A string of words fell from Micky that were not nearly warranted but aimed at it anyway. “I’m not going to be back until tomorrow morning.” Micky was taking deep breaths, like he was trying to calm himself down. 

Peter was immediately growing worried, he may not have known Micky well, but he could recognize habits. That Micky would get frustrated, seem itchy, say that he would not be back until the next morning. Next thing Peter would know he was waking up and seeing Micky trying to quietly dress his wounds in the bathroom. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Micky’s voice was not convincing, “I just forgot, I have some things I need to take care of.” Micky was rushing towards the door. Pausing before he left, like he was going to say something, but he never did. 

All Peter could do was trust him. But it had never been hard for him to trust Micky, for better or for worse. 

Chapter Text

Peter still went out that night. Even if he felt like he should wait, make sure that Micky was okay at whatever time he got back, but instead he still grabbed his guitar and made his way down the street. 

Another thing he liked about California, he got to go do things if he wanted. He didn’t need permission, he didn’t need to tell anyone, he didn’t even need someone to accompany him. He liked it when people did, he didn’t like it when people made it seem like he couldn’t go without. Peter liked the taste of freedom. To walk and wander and meet new people. And now he was more free than ever. Him wandering off was not the ‘nasty habit’ it had always been called, it was how he explored. 

Wandering is how he met the people who ran the Coffee House. A dimly lit joint that served coffee far too late into the night. But how else would people stay up through all the variety acts that pranced across the stage. Peter had found himself amongst the parade of musicians that used the stage as a place to sing and play their hearts out. Not for the enjoyment of the audience, if Peter wanted to play music for the purpose of other people liking it he would just play music at work, here he got to play whatever he wanted and people still listened. Even if they didn’t like it. 

People didn’t hate his music, most of the time he got light acknowledgement, and light conversation afterwards. Conversations that he remembered the band having that he just sat quietly and listened to. Conversations that sometimes would be explained to him in more simple language even if he understood it the first time, he still let them explain. It would be impolite to interrupt. Now he got to speak in his own right. He liked speaking in his own right far more. 

Tonight though, it was more than the regular quiet acknowledgement to finishing his set. It was nearly rowdy applause. Uncrastically so. Almost disruptingly so. Everyone looking to the side of the room where the applause was coming from. A face Peter was not expecting to see, cheering just as much for him as Peter cheered for him. 

“You never told me you did a show too!” Davy was lightly hitting his arm as Peter walked over. “You do a real show, a proper show, how long have you been doing this?” 

Peter smiled, rubbing his arm. “A few weeks,” it was said with a shrug. 

“And you didn’t invite me?” It was another smack to his arm even if Davy said it with a smile ear to ear, “I thought we were friends.” 

“I never thought about inviting people.” Peter was still happy to see Davy, faces there were getting familiar but this was one he actually knew. “But I will make sure to invite you next time, if you want.” 

It was nice that someone wanted to see him perform. “Of course I want, you were wonderful, better than, well…” The next group had started setting up on stage. Davy looked at them trying to be discreet. Music starting to fill the space. Music that was to very few peoples taste. 

“He called it ‘dialectic jazz’ once when I asked him about it.” The man had also yelled at Peter to mind his own business. As well as a plethora of other things when Peter had tried to talk to him. It was one of the moments that made him wonder if he was cut out for this sort of thing, living on his own. It had made him feel for just a moment like nothing had changed. It made him wonder if he went back to New York, back to the band, and tried to speak up for once that he would just be tampted back down. 

Peter found himself talking to Davy though most of the night, chatting about music and their days, it was a far more casual environment than they normally saw each other in. Neither of them, ‘dressed for work,’ or in a hurry anywhere. It was nice. Leaning in close and smiling, whispering when the acts on stage got quiet. It made Peter feel like he was making the right decision to stay, if for no other reason than for this. If he had gone back he would have lost this, he would have to work much harder to get anything similar. But maybe the band would have understood, maybe once Peter spoke up and told the band he wanted to be treated like an actual person they would, but that was a matter of being able to speak up in the first place. He didn’t need to speak up here, Davy gave him as many pennies for his thoughts as Peter left in Davy’s hat. Looked at Peter with just as much wonder as Peter saw him with. 

Act after act paraded across the stage, the coffee house growing dimmer and dimmer. Normally Peter stayed for a bit and made his goodbye far before the closing act was up on stage but tonight he found himself stood in the back until they began to shoo people out of the building. Late into the night as him and Davy continued to chat. They talked about nothing, purely nothing, and that was okay. Not everything had to have some deeper meaning or be some answer. They could just talk. Or not talk. Bouts of silence were okay too. It was all okay.

“I should have left hours ago, now I have to walk all the way across town in the middle of the night.” Davy lamented as he bumped against Peter’s shoulder. The night was brisk and a breeze swept through. Peter could feel himself shiver, he looked over to Davy and could only imagine how cold he was. 

“I could walk with you.” 

“No, mate, I think if you showed up at the doorstep my housemate would try to adopt you like a turtle.” It was quiet for a while, “But I appreciate the offer.” 

Davy walked close as they continued to stroll, huddled in on himself, trying not to let the chill bother him. “Well I’m staying not far from here, and my friend said he’s not going to be back until morning, so you are welcome to crash there.” 

“Oh, I wasn’t fishing for a place to stay,” 

“I know.” Because Peter believed him. He believed the words that Davy said. He trusted them just as much as he would trust Mike, or Micky, or his old band, or his mother. “You said it yourself, it's far and it’s cold and this is less far and less cold.”

It was not very difficult for Davy to follow men back to apartments and motel rooms. It was easy in fact, far too easy, smile and bat his eyes, dance to music he didn’t care for, dance with men and women he was fairly indifferent to, tick for tack, and by the end of the night he got what he wanted. This was not that though, this was not sneaking whispers as his hand was being tugged down an alleyway or up a flight of stairs. This was a friend letting him crash for the night since they stayed out a little too late. Really nothing different than him showing up at Mike’s doorstep. 

The motel room was small. One bed moved to be in the center of the room, the other pushed against the wall. A few dufflebags sat around one of the beds, Peter’s bed, while the other almost looked void of life other than the paper bag that sat at its foot. “Don’t mind the bed, he’s particular.” Peter was taking off his guitar and leaving it next to his bed before going to draw the curtains tight. They were already closed, but he was still making sure. “If you want to sit you can sit on my bed, like I said, he can be particular.” 

It was almost funny to Davy, to sit on a bed in a cut rate motel that he was invited back to, he didn’t think Peter the type. Maybe he wasn’t. He hoped he wasn’t. Davy just sat there with his hands folded in his lap as he watched Peter go about some sort of night time routine. The radio was flipped on before Peter headed to the bathroom. Dejavu, Davy had seen similar enough routines before. 

‘I don't want to sound complaining
But you know there's always rain in my heart’

Davy got up and searched for a different station. A song he didn’t care for, not right now, a song he didn’t want to chance dancing to. 

‘Is this a lasting treasure
Or just a moment's pleasure?’

Not perfect but better. At least better enough that he could listen to it if push came to shove as he hurried back to where he had been sitting. 

“I changed the station, hope that’s alright.” Davy said as Peter emerged from the bathroom. His clothes more relaxed. Peter just nodded. He watched Peter slightly sway to the music, and Davy just felt himself stiffening up, “You didn’t invite me back to yours to…”

“To what?” Peter was turning to face him, a genuine question, and it was a relief.  

Davy shook his head, “Sorry, I just, normally, well,” Peter was sitting next to him, eyes wide with concern, “Strange to go back to someone’s motel room and sit on their bed and have no intentions of trying to seduce them.” Awkward laughter followed from Davy, almost pained, not funny at all but all he knew how to do was laugh. The only thing that could get him through those moments sometimes. 

“Oh, no, I wasn’t trying-” Peter was getting caught up in his own words. 

“I know.” Davy assured. “Just the motel and the curtains and the changing and that god awful Beatles song,” It was a dramatic sigh as Davy leaned his head against Peter’s shoulder. “And if you made a move, I probably just would have gone along with it.” an admittance of guilt more than anything else, “I really am very skilled at going along with things.” 

“So am I.” An arm was being put around Davy. It was out of comfort more than anything else. A reminder he was not alone. “Always try to not be difficult, best way to say thank you is to not complain.” 

Davy let himself lean, it was comfortable to lean, safe to lean. He was going to trust that it was safe to lean. “Are you just going along with this?” 

“No.” It was a light squeeze to Davy, “I am doing this because you are my friend and you are upset, and maybe if I do this you will be less upset. I care about you, that’s why I’m doing this.” Peter spoke slowly and clearly, like he was telling himself it more than he was Davy.

It did help. It helped far more than Davy thought it would. “Sometimes I can’t tell if I am doing things because I want to or because it will get me something if I do.” His arm wrapped around Peter, all of his weight against him. 

“Sometimes I can’t tell if I am doing things because I want to or because it will make other people happy.” Peter took the weight. “Are you doing this, the leaning, because you want to?” 

“Yes.” There was no hesitation in the answer, it wasn’t even a question, “Are you doing this, the letting me lean, because you want to?”

“Yes.” Peter answered just as quick. 

A strange moment, one where he felt the dread leave him, he was sure, or he thought he was sure, this was okay. Peter was telling the truth. His heart wanted to believe Peter was telling the truth. It sure beat like it believed. 

‘Ballads are being sung’

Davy smiled as the next song started, a song he actually cared for, a song that felt truer and truer as time went on. Not a happy song, not by a long shot, but one that sang to Davy’s heart. “Do you know this one?” Talking about music was always a welcome distraction. 

‘Church bells are being rung’

“Not well.” Peter had heard it before, couldn’t put a name to it if his life depended on it. 

‘Warm and tender for some’

“I think this song is one of the cleverest songs.” Davy gave another pained huffed laugh, “I think it sums up every endeavor I have ever had.”

‘Poems are being read’

“I’ll have to get more familiar.” Davy shifted in Peter’s arms, more properly cuddling close as opposed to draping himself. “Getting comfortable?”

‘Prayers are being said’

“Is it alright if I do?” 

‘And maybe there is such a thing’

Peter was leaning back in the bed, “as long as I can get comfortable too.” It was more readjusting to get back to comfortable. Their position not scandalous or even romantic, just cozy and safe. 

‘So let all of your singers sing’

“You know what’s funny,” Davy was pushing himself up to better look at Peter, “All this talk between us of not knowing what we want and I think I do actually know.” 

‘And let all of your church bells ring’

Peter brought one of his hands up to Davy’s cheek, thumb cautiously running over it, “I think I do too.” 

‘And if tomorrow
All your sorrows should be
Just like mine then you cry’

“Peter, will you kiss me?” Davy’s mind was running a thousand miles an hour, he did not even know if he meant the words, but he had said them, and now he was going to see if he did actually know what he wanted, if this was it. 

Peter was leaning upwards towards him. A small peck being left on Davy’s forehead. Gentle and tender. Honest. Sweeter. Better. In this moment far better than a kiss on the lips. Far more needed. “Always for you.” Peter spoke in heartfelt hyperbolism, but at the moment he almost couldn’t help it. 

Mike was sitting in bed reading when he heard the knock at the door. He glanced over at the clock, roughly the right time that Davy would be showing up for the night. Slipping on his slippers and throwing on his robe he made his way down the stairs. Preparing himself to try to convince Davy to just walk in. He did not have to knock anymore. Half the time he did, or maybe Davy let himself in when Mike was too preoccupied to answer. 

“I appreciate you trying to be polite but-” Davy was not on the other side of the front door as he opened it. “Micky.” Mike’s voice was almost in shock, “Your hair.” Much shorter, not yet cropped but about as close as you could get. 

“I got it cut.” Micky tapped his foot, “I know it’s late, and I am sorry to bother you, but I forgot the jacket here? I was wondering if I could grab it before I head out of town.” A jacket that had been sitting in his coat closet for weeks. 

Mike let him into the house, he watched as Micky tried to limit his pacing, restricting himself, “Is everything alright?” 

“Yeah, yeah, it’s fine, I just need the jacket and then I need to get on the road.” Micky was avoiding eye contact. Looking anywhere but Mike. He knew this day was coming, the day that the fancy would pass and he would once again have to let him become a ghost. 

Mike did not like fetching the coat from the closet. But it would be selfish to refuse. And he had already been plenty selfish with Micky, Mike had a tendency of making arguments for him to stay all night when he would move to leave. ‘Come back to bed, it’s cold, aren’t you cold, here, let me keep you warm.’ Thoughts that he had to swallow down for his own good. Because it already hurt enough to take that jacket from the coat closet and help Micky get his arms into it. Still holding onto the lapels as Micky continued to refuse to look. “I guess this is goodbye then.” Micky nodded, still not looking, it hurt, it burned, and he knew it would. The longer he held on the worse it got, but he still held on to the lapels. 

“This is the longest I’ve stayed in an area in a while.” Micky was putting his hands over Mikes, slowly pulling them from the lapels but not letting go of them. Doing the opposite of letting go, letting their fingers wrap around each other. “But it looks like we’ve made it to the end.” Micky finally looked at him, and that hurt too. It hurt more than it ought to. 

Mike didn’t know if he had pulled Micky in or if Micky fell into his arms willingly, but he was there now. And the longer he was there the harder it was for him to let go. The harder it was for him to do the right thing and let Micky walk away. The tighter Micky held on the more it hurt, the more it burned, the more it stung. But that’s what happens when you tend to wounds. Or when you pick at them. “You can stay a bit if you’d like. Wouldn’t want you to get cold out there. I know it’s a chilly one.” 

Mike felt a nod against his shoulder. It felt like relief. It let him hold on a little bit tighter. Even if it was selfish. For right now he could do that.

Chapter Text

Mike had his head laid on Micky’s chest. Both of them with dumb smiles on their faces. Cuddled up in bed, under the covers, ignoring reality. They were in their own little world. One where they could pretend all was fine. A world where they were able to ignore everything that kept them at arms length. Late night whispers with giggles and smiles. Everything that they pretended they could have. Things had hurt but they could move past that. They could distract each other with gentle words and soft touches. They were very good at distracting each other with those. 

Mike’s hand trailed on the underside of Micky’s jaw. A small scar, it was barely noticeable but Mike was close enough that he could see it. “Where did you get this one?”

Micky was running one of his hands through Mike’s hair, “That one I got from a guy in St. Louis. I was trying to hustle a game of darts. I was real lucky I didn’t get a dart in my foot.” 

Mike frowned slightly, letting his hand lightly trail up his cheek, finding another faint scar near his eyebrow, “What about this one?” 

“Omaha, no, St. Cloud, back alleyway behind a burger joint, the cook did not appreciate my, what he called ‘back talk.’” It was more personal information than he normally shared, more about the past than he normally liked to think about, but right now he felt like he owed it to Mike. Or maybe he was just giving Mike something to hold onto so it would hurt more when he walked away. 

Mike’s hand still slowly traced over his face, most of the scars so faint Mike had never noticed them before. Down the bridge of his nose he found another one, “This one?” 

Micky had to think for a moment, “Atlanta, she threw a ketchup bottle at me.” It was far too easy for Micky to hand over his past. Far easier than it should have been. Easier for him to hand it to Mike than it was to think about it on his own. 

Mike’s hand still trailed, all the way down to his shoulder and collarbone, “what about these?” 

Micky took a deep breath, “Gun.” It was said simply. No elaboration, no location, just the single word. 

Mike looked at him, “Gun? Did you say gun?” Micky just nodded, “How the hell did you get shot with a gun?” No longer silly little stories that Mike could frown to.  

Micky held his hand up to Mike’s face trying to soothe his concern, “It’s not something I really like thinking about,” Not something that he really ever thought about. 

“Oh,” Mike moved away slightly, “I get it, I mean, there's plenty of things I don’t like talking about either.” Micky didn’t like that, he would rather tell every secret than feel him pull away. 

Micky pulled closer again, “I’ll tell you,” There was a difference between thinking and talking. 

“You don’t have to,” 

“No, no, I’ll tell you.” It was another thing to hand Mike to hold. He thought for a long while, like he was trying to gather the courage. “It was a bank robbery.” 

“You robbed a bank?” Mike sounded just as shocked. 

Micky laughed, “I was a teller at a bank.” Mike was settling back in again, “After I finished high school, which I did finish, I got a job, and I hated it but I was trying to do the right thing, and my coworkers were at least nice.” Micky took a deep breath, “And banks get robbed, and,” It was another pause. 

Mike stayed close this time, a point comfort, something for him to hold onto. And Micky held like his life depended on it, it felt like it did. 

“And I was one of the fortunate ones that lived to tell the tale.” Mike didn’t interrupt him, just let him say what he needed to say, tried to be a good listening ear. “It was just a normal day, had to do a thing with one of my coworkers, and we heard gunshots. He dropped to the ground like someone with a brain and I turned to see what was happening like an idiot.” His voice grew hollow as he spoke. “And then next thing I knew I had three new holes, one, two, three,” Micky pointed out the three scars on his shoulder, “It hurt like no one's business. I fell to the ground and I remember sticks, my coworker, crawling over to me and leaning over me and thinking, ‘this is the last thing I am ever going to see, isn’t it?’” Micky had to pause again to take another breath. Mike tried his best to comfort, unsure if he was helping. “I woke up three and a half weeks later in the hospital. I had lost a crazy amount of blood, but bullets didn’t hit anything too important. My shoulder just gets sore really quick now. And after I got the all clear the idea of going home just made me queasy. So I didn’t. I started traveling, everywhere and anywhere and nowhere in between.” 

It was quiet for a while, a sad look on Mike’s face, not that the story necessarily made him sad, not because Mike pitied him, but because he wanted to make it better. He wanted to make it not hurt. The quiet grew heavy, grew crushing. Made it hard to breathe. And Micky wished that he was better at holding his breath. That he could just hold onto Mike and stay there submerged in pillows and kisses. But he itched to breathe, to run, to go as far as he could and then a little father after that. Leave all that pain for Mike to have as he ran as far as he could from the aftermath. 

It all was too much, he didn’t want to leave but he had to, “It’s getting late.” He was moving to sit at the edge of the bed trying to find his shirt to slip back on, “I should, I should get going, get moving, I should get the jacket.” 

Mike was trying to be strong, trying to let it happen, watching Micky gather his things. He was frantic and stuttered, bouncing back and forth, disorganized, disjointed, “Okay.” He was trying to accept it. Nearly pathetic as he sat up. 

Micky stopped at the sound of his voice. Sad. Hurt. He did not want to hurt him, it was never about hurting him. But he had, and Mike was just taking it. Taking whatever Micky gave him. He didn’t beg for mercy or try to fight back, he just let it happen. He would let Micky break his heart. Micky didn’t want to think that Mike might have even welcomed it.  

“Ask me to stay.” Micky said as he walked closer again. 

Mike shook his head, “If you have to go, you have to go,” He couldn’t hide the sadness in those words. There were sniffles, he didn’t want to cry, this was not worth crying over. 

“Give me a reason to stay, Mike. Tell me anything, that you're sick, you're hurt, lie to me, I don’t care. Name any reason and I’ll stay.” He needed to leave but he would look for any excuse not to, he just didn’t know how to stay. “Please, Mike. Please don’t let me just walk away.” He was desperate, anything he could hold on to, a balloon begging to be tethered down.

Mike looked at him, sniffling but not yet crying, trying to come up with any excuse. But it felt wrong to ask, to beg, “I’m cold.” Was the only thing he could come up with. Sitting on the bed in just his underwear, of course he was cold. But he couldn’t ask Micky to stay because of it, he could just pull up the covers.

Micky nodded, it was something to get him through the night, something to get him to crawl back into bed. Mike was cold, he couldn’t just leave if Mike was cold, “Thank you.” Micky spoke in a hush tone.  

Falling back into a world of soft embrace. Holding onto that world a little bit longer. Holding onto it for as long as he could, until he lost the fight to the caresses and softly hummed songs, letting Mike see that peaceful sleeping face one last time. 

Chapter Text

The radio station had their final DJ sign-off somewhere around one in the morning. The background to their meandering conversation being soft static instead of whatever singles happened to be within reach at the station. It was quiet and comfortable. It was something new for the both of them. Going at their own pace. Occasional kisses to temples and cheeks but not more than that. Both of them had settled that for at least right now they were keeping things to just that. A truce in a way. Neither would try to make any sort of move. That made things easier. Made it easier to giggle and mess around. 

Neither was the type to enjoy staying still for very long, it was only a matter of time before a pillow got thrown, before someone was tackled, before there was laughing so hard one of them was gasping for breath, before rough housing got a little too rough and Davy was apologizing. 

“God, I hope I didn’t give you a black eye,” Davy was trying to look at Peter’s eye socket in the buzzing light of the bathroom. A slight red mark but nothing yet that would signify bruising. 

“I’ll be okay, it was an accident,” Peter smiled, trying to soothe Davy’s nerves, but it only helped so much. Davy didn’t want to suck Peter into the destruction that he seemed to leave in his wake. Peter just told him it was okay, accidents happen. All Davy could wonder was how he possibly could’ve gotten here. How this, the simple act of forgiveness, was something that he was getting. Something that he was getting so easily. 

It was no longer late night, somewhere closer to early morning, when Davy finally found himself in a warm bed with arms wrapped around him. Soft snores quietly behind him. Just like the radio, he knew a song and dance far to similar, and it was keeping him awake. “Peter?” Davy said in the loudest whisper he could manage. 

Peter stirred awake, “Huh? Oh, hi.” It was a gentle squeeze. “I guess I dozed off there for a minute.” 

“Peter,” Davy’s voice was far too serious, “May I go sleep in the other bed?” 

It took Peter a moment, “Oh, I’m so sorry,” He was pulling his hands away and getting up, “I can go sleep in the other bed, you stay here, really,” Before Davy could answer Peter was jumping over him. 

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Davy was laying down, quickly being overcome with yawns, “It was nice.” He watched as Peter laid on the other bed, not pulling up the covers or anything, just laying on top, looking over to where Davy was. 

“I think you’re nice too.” Not what Davy had said but he would take it. He would take it as a compliment to fall asleep to. 

Light poured in through the windows, but he wasn’t ready yet, he still wanted to stay in their secluded little world. Micky’s face buried under the blankets, for the first time in a long time, he wanted to stay. He actually felt like he wanted to stay. Practically every morning he woke up here was spent with Micky anxiously jumping out of bed and getting himself put together enough to sneak out the window. Mike would try to lure him with coffee and breakfast but the most he ever got out of Micky was rushed kisses through the window. Now he groaned and rolled over, searching for that last little bit of sleep he could pull out of himself. 

“Good morning.” Mike’s voice practically creaked as he spoke. 

It was another groan from Micky, something close to ‘no’ but mostly unintelligible. 

“No? Not a good morning?” Mike lightly teased as he messed with Micky’s hair. 

Micky just moved closer, ignoring the world ignoring reality, “Not morning yet.” His words muffled against Mike. Morning meant getting up. Getting up meant getting dressed. Meant trying to figure out what to do next. As long as it wasn’t morning he could stay right here and keep Mike warm. Because that is why he was staying, that’s what he kept telling himself, he stayed through the night because Mike needed him to stay because he was cold. That’s why he wanted to stay. He could forget about everything that was said before. He liked that story much better, that it was Mike who desperately did not want him to leave. 

Mike didn’t want to argue. Like this he got more time. He got to be selfish, “You’re right, it’s not morning yet, my mistake.” 

“I’m glad to hear, because once it’s morning I have to go, and I don’t know if I can-” Micky stopped himself. “I have to go in the morning.” It was a tightness in his chest, the kind of tightness that normally left him catching a bus or trying to find someone to piss off, but right now he just held on. 

Mike would lay there for as long as he could. He would live in eternal night if needed. He was off the deep end and he knew it, head over heels and back again. It was a recipe for disaster. It was walking his heart willingly into a meat slicer. Micky gave him extension after extension, acted like every time was the last but always came back, a vile type of hope that almost made Mike think it was his business to even ask him to stay. “You don’t have to.” 

“Yes I do.” Micky groaned, “I didn’t pay for any more nights at the motel.” His face still buried against Mike. 

He planted his heart clearly in Micky’s path, “You could just stay here, plenty of room in the bed, plenty of coffee in the tin.” 

“The only clothes I have are the ones I showed up in.” Micky was barely arguing. 

“You can fit in mine,” Mike rubbed his back, “And we can get you more.” 

“I don’t own anything.” Micky was looking up at Mike more and more. Morning was becoming undeniable. 

“Neither do I.” There was a flash of something across Mike’s face, a realization, “You can help me decorate.” 

It was a nice thought, a very nice thought, far too nice of a thought. Mike smiling so sweetly, he didn’t deserve this. “I can’t stay, Mike.” His chest felt tight and his joints itched, “I have been here for too long, and when I stay in the same place for too long I just feel… sick.” 

“You’re sick of me?” Mike’s voice cracking as he said it. 

Micky was sitting up more and more. “No, not you. Here, California, I have been here for too long, and I just feel… unwell. I don’t know how to describe it.” 

“Well, if your sick I can take care of you.” Mike was following, staying close. 

Micky looked down at the floor, he felt faint and dizzy and itchy. This was one of the reasons he did not like staying in places for too long. But he had been tired and he thought nothing bad could happen if he stayed for a little longer. And then he stayed a little longer and a little longer and a little longer. “You are really making it hard for me to find a reason to leave.” 

“You asked me for reasons to stay.” Mike was letting his hand fall over Micky’s, shoving his heart into Micky’s hands, telling him repeatedly to take it, that if he wanted it it was his, all he had to do was nod his head. “I’m not very keen on demanding people do things, but you are walking away and I thought I should at least try to stop you.” His own words haunting him. 

If Micky could go back to that first night, would he help Mike back to the house? Would he tend to his wounds? Would he still smile and bow and make a show? Bid him adieu and cross off on his mental bingo card of strangers that were easy on the eyes? Maybe that’s where Micky went wrong. He thought Mike’s face was worth remembering. Even if it had been all scraped up. It was a face he had come to know, come to cherish, a face he didn’t want to lose. 

And that’s why he had to leave. He wasn’t stuck anymore, he wasn’t stranded, he had no reason to stay. And if he stayed here, what did the last two years even mean? 

His head felt loud, flashes of hospital beds and blood on his hands, so much blood, he thought of shooting pain in his shoulder as he woke up alone in that hospital bed, so much pain, sheets that were too thin but the hospital bed was his, such bad sleep, waking up in panicked screams covered in sweat, such bad dreams, no one to comfort him, no one to calm him, medical personnel too tired to even check, just telling him to keep it down, he didn’t mean to scream as much as he did, he didn’t mean to bleed as much as he did, he didn’t mean to make it to that hospital bed but he still did. 

He grabbed on tightly to Mike's hand. Only thing he could do to quiet his mind. What he really needed was to piss off some patriot next to a real nice curb and let his teeth become trinketry. That had always been a good way to keep from remembering. Of keeping his mind quiet. But for right now he could hold Mike’s hand, and it was a fairly good replacement.

“Can you do me a favor?” Micky looked over at Mike, wondering if he could see how hard this was. If he could see Micky desperately trying to distract himself. 

“Anything.” And Mike meant it. Like a fool he meant it. 

“I’ve been living with this guy, he’s nice, but I did kinda pull the rug out from underneath him, I mean, he doesn’t know he’s supposed to be out of the room by 11, and he’s capable of taking care of himself, but do you think I can at least introduce you two? So if he ever has a real shit night he has a doorstep to sleep on? Also if he shows up at your doorstep do you think you could let him sleep on it?” Micky spoke quietly. It was a big ask, and he hated to ask, but it was the only thing he could think of to distract himself from the rest of his mind. 

Mike nodded with a small smile, “Of course.” 

Chapter Text

Peter was brushing his teeth when the door to the motel room flew open. He felt like he almost swallowed his toothbrush as Micky rushed into the room practically in a frenzy. “I’m so sorry Peter but we have to be out of here by 11, last night I just, well I was somewhere else, even when I was here I was somewhere else,” Micky immediately began trying to get the room back in order, going nearly a hundred miles an hour. “I’m heading out later, but if you need a place to crash tonight I have a f- I know a guy, he's nice, he’s strange, the good strange, like you and me strange.” 

Peter was scrambling to try to help gather his things in the room. Most of the items in the room were his, Micky had just rearranged all the furniture. “You’re leaving?” Peter asked as he stuffed clothes in a duffel bag. 

“Yup, high time I hit the road, you know me-” Micky stopped talking as he turned around, the lump of blankets on Peter’s bed slightly moving, “Peter.” His voice was calm and serious. “Why is your bed moving?” 

Peter looked between Micky and the bed, “Oh, well, it was late and my friend came over, and I knew you weren’t going to be back until morning so he spent the night.” 

Micky stood there for a moment, trying to process what he had just heard, “You invited a ‘friend’ over specifically because I was going to be gone?” Peter nodded, Micky couldn’t blame him, how many times had he snuck off to Mike’s? 

“What’s with all the commotion?” The voice was coming from the bed, and it nearly sent a shock wave through Micky, he could have sworn it sounded exactly like-

“Davy?” Micky spoke almost in disbelief, saw him sit up in Peter's bed, hair messy, eyes sleepy, the buttons on his shirt undone. 

“Micky?” Davy just sounded confused, “I know you have all of your freaky tricks with how you track everything that’s going on, but come on mate, you can’t just show up where I spent the night.” 

“You are in Peter’s bed.” Micky was looking between the two of them. “You are in Peter’s bed.” 

“Hold on, you know Peter?” Davy asked, also looking between the other two. 

“Obviously not as well as you do.” Micky snickered. 

“Woah, I know I am sleeping in his bed but I do not appreciate the accusations.” Davy was trying to get out of bed as fast as he could, tumbling to the ground in the process. 

“What accusations, did I accuse him of anything?” Micky was looking over to Peter who shook his no, “Unless you think I am claiming you did something wrong by sleeping in Peter’s bed, which may or may not have also had Peter in it.” 

“I was not in the bed while we were asleep, just to make things clear.” Peter finally piped in. 

“And I don’t appreciate those allegations either.” Davy was dusting himself off as he got up off the ground. 

For a moment everyone was finally able to breathe. A moment that made Micky’s chest feel tighter, this wasn't right, they shouldn’t have known each other. 

“Hey Micky,” Peter decided the moment was long enough, “Did your hair get smaller?” 

They were all walking down the street, each one of them with one of Peter’s bags, Peter with his guitar, Micky almost felt sea sick over the whole ordeal. “Davy, just so you know, if you ever hurt Peter, I will shave your head in your sleep.” Micky sounded dead serious. He was. Maybe one of the most serious things Davy had ever heard him say. 

“You said you were leaving, how would you even know?” 

“I’ll just know. And I will find you. And when you wake up you will have no hair.” Micky smiled, smiled like a promise. A smile that Davy knew better than to argue with. 

“What if he hurts me, huh? Are you going to shave his head too?” Micky looked over to Peter. He wasn’t actually scared or nervous but his eyes were still wide. 

“It would only be fair.” Peter added. 

Micky hated this, it made the air feel sticky and his ribs constrict. It was friendly, it was casual, it was far too comfortable for his liking. 

“You know Peter, you could always stay with me, if this weirdo Micky is friends with ends up not working out.” That made it easier, that Peter would still have someone who liked having him around. “I live not too far from here.”

“Not my friend.” Micky corrected, “He is a man I know, who is responsible, and you know, when things get rough best not to face them on your own.” Micky was walking faster and faster towards the house. 

Davy was putting dots together as they approached the door. He looked between Micky and crushed lilac bush on the side of the house, “no.” He tried to keep it under his breath, but Micky still stopped, “You’re lover boy?” 

“What did you just call me?” It made the air feel stickier and his ribs pull tighter. 

“Lover boy, you climb out the window and jump in the lilacs, honestly I don’t know how many more hits they can take.” Davy was treating it like a light hearted joke but Micky was ready to walk back into the ocean. 

“How do you know about that?” His voice sounded hollow, frail, scared. 

Davy gestured towards the lower window, "That's the bedroom I sleep in sometimes,” Then gestured towards the upper one, “That’s the one you jump out of sometimes.” 

Cogs and gears turning faster and faster, “You’re the stray?” Micky asked frantically. 

“And you are lover boy.” It was a shit eating grin, and it was all becoming too much, this was all too much, all too complicated, all too connected. 

“Hold on,” Peter was butting in, “If this is where you live that means this is the guy who is going to turn me into a turtle?” 

Micky couldn’t do it, he couldn’t, the turtle might have broke him. He rushed towards the door and knocked as fast as he could. 

Mike once again in his bathrobe as he answered, “Hey, hey, hey, Micky, everything alright?” 

Micky never got the chance to answer, “Hi Mike!” Was being yelled from Peter. 

“Oh, hi Peter, what are you doing here?” They knew each other, they already knew each other, and it pulled and it crushed and Micky could swear he was going to be sick. 

That was it. That was the moment he couldn’t do it anymore. It was all too much. He had to turn around, he had to walk away. He had gotten too tangled. It was all too much. Far too much. It was loud and it was bright and he couldn’t do this. He couldn’t be surrounded like this. It was hot, far too hot for his liking, and he was pulling off his coat, it was suffocating him. Throwing it to the ground. 

The sleeve on his shirt was being grabbed. Not his shirt, Mike’s shirt, Mike’s shirt that he happened to be wearing. 

“Where you going?” Mike asked, he was confused, concerned, caring. 

“I’m leaving, I don’t know where, I think for now this way,” Micky was moving to step again but Mike still lightly grasping the sleeve, just enough to cause him to pause, Micky could have pulled it away with little effort, but he let Mike hold on. 

“But I thought, well I thought you were staying.” Mike’s face was full of pain and want. “And you can meet Davy and Peter, they both are real nice guys,” Micky could see Davy ushering Peter into the house behind Mike. “and I can make a pot of coffee and we can order a pizza and-” It gutted Micky to blow the stars out of Mike’s eyes. 

“I’m leaving,” Micky just repeated himself. 

“Come in for lunch first at least,” A beg in his eyes, Mike’s heart on the floor, still there for the taking. 

“No. I’m leaving.” All Micky could do was repeat himself. 

“You say that every time, but I don’t know if I am buying it anymore, because we keep going back and forth and back and forth but I keep hoping you’ll come back and you always do, and I mean, I don’t believe in fate but maybe this…” It was barely a tug at the shirt sleeve, but Micky still stepped forward. “Maybe this could be the start of something.” It broke Micky’s heart to see so much hope in his eyes. Always a shame when people tried so hard to save the hopeless. 

“Can you let go of me, please?” The words soft, causing Mike to look down and see where he had been grasping the sleeve. He let go immediately, stepping back and giving Micky space. 

Heartache replaced hope in his face, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have, I, I, I,” Mike was slowly walking backwards, pulling his hands in towards himself “You need to go now, heard loud and clear.” Mike was nodding, forcing himself to accept it. 

Micky opened his mouth to talk but nothing came out. No words, no screams, nothing. So he did the only thing he knew how to do anymore, leave. He turned his back and started down the street. 

Mike stood there and watched. Putting his arm out like a gate when Davy came rushing out the front door. “Don’t go after him.” Almost every emotion had been stripped from his voice. 

“Don’t go after him? Are you mad? Go be Romeo, go, I don’t know, save him from walking into something!” Davy was nearly screaming in his ear. 

But Mike didn’t move. Just held Davy back and watched Micky walk away. “If people want to go, it's best to just let them go.” Mike was turning around and walking back into the house. “Hello Peter,” He moved to go up the stairs to his room. He didn’t have the energy to question why Peter was here. “Make yourself at home, if you have any questions ask Davy.”

“Are you alright?” Peter asked. No. The answer was no. He was not all right, he was the farthest thing from all right. Right now it was all wrong. Every part of him was all wrong. 

“Just a headache. I think I am going to lay down for a little bit.” He closed the door behind him with a deep breath. Going forward and letting himself fall face first into the bed. 

Chapter Text

It was a bashing at his bedroom door as he was collecting the last few of his things that had not yet been packed into his truck. 

“Open this door Michael or I swear to God I will tear it down!” Was being yelled through it. 

He finished a bottle of coca-cola that was sitting on top of a dresser, flat from the night before but he didn’t care, a half second of stale room temperature sweetness helped him power through, “Tear down whatever you want! It’s your house!” He hated yelling, he hated fighting but he couldn’t take it anymore. He couldn’t live there anymore. He had done his best for twenty miserable, isolating, numbing years, and he had just had enough. He wasn’t strong enough to take it anymore. Maybe that was one of his shortcomings. 

His last few items of importance being packing into a satchel, he knew he would not be able to carry much as he tried to make that final walk to his truck. 

He opened the door to see her standing outside of it, still trying to pound on it, almost hitting him in the process. “This isn’t funny Michael, this little joke of yours isn’t funny!” She was following closely behind him as he went into the bathroom to gather whatever toiletry goods he could fit into his satchel. 

“It isn’t a joke, I am actually leaving.” Mike said it as calmly as he could, trying to leave the bathroom but she was blocking the way, “May I please get through?” 

“You can’t leave, no, because if you leave, who will be the man of the house?” It was hard for Mike not to laugh at the argument. 

“That is not my problem,” She had moved enough that Mike could squeeze through, moving past her so that she was trailing behind him again. Crying, whaling, it was hard to tune out, but Mike was doing his best. 

Mike was trying to make his way down the stairs, “So this is it? I mother you for twenty years and this is all the thanks I get? Refusing to help?” 

That made him stop, that made him boil, that made him turn around. “You have not done a day of mothering since the day I was born.” His voice was cold and seething, “I practically raised myself and all your other kids while you disappeared to who knows where with who knows who. Sure Grammy and Aunt Kate helped, but most of that was me.” He was trying desperately not to lose his cool, “In fact, I distinctly remember staying home from school to make you chicken soup when you were sick. How’s that for mothering.” 

“Well you were always just so responsible-” 

“And why do you think that is? Do you think that it has anything to do with the fact that you were too damn incompetent to keep your kids in line? Clothed? Fed?” Mike was shaking his head, “Aunt Kate already had her hands full, Grammy only had so many years left in her, someone had to step up since you sure as hell weren’t going to.” 

Mike had to walk away for a moment, had to let himself take a breath. “You have no idea how hard it actually was for me to raise you kids. I was a single mother. I could barely hold a job-” 

“Funny, because I had no issue holding a job at thirteen years old!” Mike hated yelling, yelling only made things worse, but sometimes he couldn’t help it. Sometimes the only way to say something was loud.

“Don’t act so high and mighty around me. It took you two extra years to finish high school.” She was crossing her arms and rolling her eyes. Like it was some sort of gotcha. A petty argument. 

“Yes, it did take me some extra time, because I was busy working two jobs and raising five kids. All the while you were jumping from boyfriend to boyfriend, only ever calling home when you needed money.” Mike had to walk away again. He was getting too worked up. He did not want to say something he might regret. 

“You make me sound like I was an absent mother,” she was pouting, sniffling, wiping tears that weren’t there. 

“You are an absent mother!” His voice bellowed louder than he meant, “The twins didn’t even know that you were technically their mother until you started crying on mothers day.” 

“I am trying to turn over a new leaf, Michael. I am here now.” She was smiling, playing nice, acting as if she had not been throwing something close to a temper tantrum for the last three hours. It was exhausting, all of it utterly exhausting. 

Mike was walking towards the door. “Well too little, too late, I am still leaving.” 

“You are just like your father!” She nearly screamed, “Leaving as soon as the going gets tough!” 

Mike paused before the door. He didn’t turn, he knew if he was facing her it would be far louder than he wanted. Far meaner than he wanted. “You’re damn right I am just like my father. Proud of it too. He said enough was enough and walked away. Just like I am.” 

Mike walked through the front door, his guitar on the porch, it was the only one he cared enough to take with him. His truck packed for the road. He didn’t know where he was going yet but some place far away where a long distance phone call would cost too much even if she did somehow find him. “What about your siblings? If I am such an awful mother wouldn’t you be just as awful to leave them here with me?” She had followed him out onto the porch, grabbing his arm as he tried to walk down the stairs. 

“Let go of me.” Mike tried to struggle with her. 

“No. Say it. Say you are just as awful as me for leaving. That you are a selfish asshole for abandoning your family. Tell me again how you are just like your father. A man who never loved anyone a day in his life!” The last thing wanted were for things to get physical, for the police to get involved. 

He pulled his arm again but she wasn’t letting go, “I’m not abandoning anyone. You were the one who walked away from me. From all of us. You were the one who ran off with your boyfriend knowing full well you had a house full of kids.” He tugged more but she still wouldn’t budge, “I said let go of me.” 

“Please stay, Michael, at least through new years.” She was crying, actually crying, sobbing, begging, pulling at him with all her might. It almost made him consider it. Make him think that if he was a good son and good brother he would just stay. 

But he knew what would happen if he stayed. “If I have to stay here until New Years you’re going to be putting me in the family plot before Christmas.” That shocked her enough that she loosened her grip slightly, she didn’t let go, but Mike was able to pull his arm away. 

“You really shouldn’t joke about those things, Michael.” 

She was staying on the porch as he walked towards the truck. “I wasn’t joking.” 

He could tell she was yelling something as he started the truck, but he just ignored it. Choked back tears as he turned up the radio. He could see her following in the rear view of the truck as he made his way down the driveway. At some point in time she had started throwing rocks towards the truck, dent after dent being added to the tailgate. And he knew if he was less upset he would not have rolled down the window and given her the bird, but he was exhausted, so he added that to the laundry list of selfish deeds of the day. 

It had been two days since Davy had seen Mike. At first he opted to just give him some space. But every time he went to check in Mike said the same thing through the door, his head still hurt, he just needed to lay for a little longer. 

He knocked at the door again, “Mike? You awake?” 

He heard a groan from inside the room. “Yeah, that headache still got me down, I think I just need a little longer.” 

“Is it alright if I come in?” Davy didn’t want to just barge in. 

“It’s just a headache, I’ll be okay.” Davy didn’t like it, but it was not a no. So he opened the door and walked in. “I said it’s just a headache.”

“We haven’t really talked to you in a few days, mate. And neither Peter nor I have seen you go use the bathroom or get anything from the kitchen, and we are starting to get worried.” Davy found a spot at the foot of the bed to sit. 

“Just a little headache, I just need to sleep it off, think I might be coming down with something.” Davy thought so too. He looked pale and sullen, but that could just be from laying in bed for a few days. 

“Well you told me once that when you don’t see anyone for a while you get sick, and if you’re that type of sick right now I didn’t want to sit around waiting for however bat it might get.” It was a tough thing to argue with, Mike couldn’t come up with a reason fast enough to why he shouldn’t stay, so he let Davy sit at the end of his bed. “Peter wanted to make you some breakfast, but he's, well, he's no Betty Crocker, so after the third attempt I asked him to go to the store to get some TV dinners. He should be back, at some point.” 

“What’s Peter doing here anyway?” Mike asked, pushing himself up into a sitting position in bed. Finally having the energy to wonder. 

Davy gave a puzzled look for a moment, “Well, from what I understand, Peter was living with Micky, and when Micky was leaving he wanted to make sure Peter had a place to go just in case so he asked you, I was over at Peter’s, and before you get any ideas nothing scandalous happened, and micky saw me there, which was strange, because Micky helps, or I guess helped, run my little act, but in the process of getting Peters stuff from the motel to here we figured out that we were both going to the same place, and then, well I think you remember the rest.” 

Mike was drawing squares and triangles in the air in front of him to try to logic it out. 

“Kinda freaky, right?” Davy was trying to keep the tone light, “I mean, I understand why it freaked out Micky.” 

The frown became more prominent again. “No, that was my fault.” Mike would accept that as his selfish deed. “I asked him to stay even after he said that he couldn’t.” 

“That’s rubbish, really, sure he can be flighty, but he always comes back around.” 

Mike shook his head. “He’s gone, and it's better if I just think about him as gone. I would drive myself crazy if I just hoped he’d come back.” And just like that he gave up. Micky became a ghost of the past. A face to haunt certain memories, but not one he would ever see again. 

“I’m back with food!” Peter called from downstairs.

“Want some lunch?” Davy was being gentler with his questions, softer with them. 

Mike shook his head, “I don’t think I am up for getting out of bed if I am being honest.” 

“How about I bring some up to you then, just to peck at.” Davy had experience, he could convince Micky to eat sandwiches even when he said over and over again he wasn’t hungry. 

Mike still shook his head. “Oh, no, you don’t need to do that. That would be a terrible thing for me to ask you to do.” 

“Well it’s a good thing you're not asking me to.” Mike didn’t know how to respond, "I'll be back with food.” 

Mike ate some of the TV tray. Not all, but at least a little of everything that was on it. He didn’t want to make Davy or Peter clean up after him, so he stuffed the TV tray under his bed. He could clean it up himself later. Later when his head didn’t hurt. 

“Where’s the tray?” Davy asked when he went back upstairs to check on him again. 

Mike shook his head. “You don’t need to wash my dishes. It’s already enough that you brought it to me.” 

“It was a frozen dinner tray, not exactly a lot of work.” But Mike still hesitated, still didn’t want to let him, he would hate for those to become expectations. 

Davy was sitting down on the foot of the bed again. Taking a deep breath. “You haven’t been out of bed in days, and I’m worried about you and Peter’s worried about you, and if you can’t get out of bed that’s fine, but as your friends we want to make sure you are at least eating something.” He paused for a moment, “and you are letting us live here, Mike.  Both of us are grateful for that. If we can show that gratitude by just making sure you have a clear space.” 

It was impossible to argue with. Or maybe he just wasn’t strong enough. So he let it happen. He let Davy and Peter help. They told him to take his time in getting better. Which was something Mike had never done a day in his life, especially not for himself. He got a few days to be ill and then he swallowed it down and sucked it up. Mike thought it would be a few days this time too, that he would snap right out of it. But days stretched out into weeks and Mike still not 100%. 

Davy would bring up his breakfast in the mornings, sit there and eat with him, or sit there while Mike ate, just to help him feel less alone. Oatmeal and coffee that slowly got more and more eaten as the days went on. 

Then Mike would go back to sleep, or something close, rest for far longer than he had rested at any other point in his life. Sometimes he heard faint music from downstairs, either the jukebox or Peter playing something, some days it could rouse him from his mid morning nap enough to join them downstairs. 

If Davy was home he would be on top of Mike about eating lunch. If he wasn’t there was normally a plate of something in the fridge that if he didn’t eat Davy would be on top of him about all evening. He sometimes had a small snack in the afternoon, and never thought about the fact that the cupboards and fridge were still stocked even after almost a few weeks since Mike had been to the grocery store. 

If Mike had wandered out of bed he often would go out on the back patio and look out at the sea, breeze in his face, and try to tell himself that what was happening was okay. He was slowly getting better. Getting out of bed more and eating more and doing a lot more in general. That he was slowly becoming less of a burden. Even burden didn’t exactly feel like the right word. Davy and Peter didn’t treat him like a burden, even if he wasn’t pulling his weight, they made sure he was eating, talked to him about his day, helped him with silly little things like checking the mail and washing dishes, things that should not have been hard but sometimes felt impossible, they made sure he didn’t feel helpless with nowhere to turn. 

And things got easier. Mike read the newspaper in the mornings and joined Peter sometimes when he was messing around on whatever instrument he brought over this time. He washed up after dinner and got dressed and ate his entire sandwich. Until things almost felt normal again. 

Until he started to feel like himself again. 

“Oh, I probably have to go pay the water bill, don’t I?” Mike was sitting on the lounge seat sorting the mail, “And the electric, and the rent, and the, well the everything, oh…” He groaned at the realization. “This is what I get for sleeping for a month.” Feeling normal again, feeling stressed again, they were one in the same. 

“I thought all that stuff was due at the beginning of the month.” Davy looked almost confused. 

“Well, yes, but I didn’t pay them last month, so now there's going to be late fees, and I don’t have a job,” Mike was starting to spiral, starting to panic. 

“Oh. Peter and I took care of all of it.” Davy said it like it was obvious. 

“You paid my rent and my bills?” It wasn’t clicking in Mike’s head, “Why would you do that?” He laughed, like it was a comedically outrageous thing. 

Peter and Davy both looked at each other, slightly confused, “Because you’ve been sick.” Davy said. 

“And they are kind of our bills too.” Peter added. 

Mike’s face grew tense, “Where did you even get the money?” 

“Peter’s still working at the lounge, and has all his other gigs he’s been doing.” Davy said. 

“And Davy got those two commercials from that audition.” Peter added. 

Mike sat there, still as can be. Parts of the month were fuzzy. He had been sleeping more than he was thinking and couldn’t remember those parts the best. But he remembered most of it. Davy and Peter helping him despite the fact that Mike never asked, helping him even when Mike told them to let him suffer, going out of their way to help him suffer a little less. 

All that for what? Because Mike gave them a place to crash? Sometimes fed them? All that care and comfort for someone like him? 

Mike stood no chance at holding back tears. It was just too many emotions all at once. Ugly sobs and snot running down his face. He was being handed tissues and that just made him cry more. “Good- crying-” He was able to choke out between sobs, “Good- Crying-” trying to make sure the words got across. Both Davy and Peter were at his side and were unfortunately within arms reach to pull them in for a hug. He tried to say other things, but they were fairly unintelligible. But that was okay, both Peter and Davy were happy to give him the time he needed, the comfort he needed, to help him through this. 

When things get rough, best not to face them on your own. 

Chapter Text

He was in Fresno- No. That was still California. Omaha- No. He had been there before. Bangor- No. What could he even do there? Pittsburgh- No. Hialeah- No. Cleveland- No. Jersey City- No. Tampa- No. Raleigh- No. El Paso- No. Boston- No. Madison- No. St. Louis- No. Wichita- No. Chesapeake- No. Memphis- No. Denver- No. Greensboro- No. Tucson- No. Mesa- No. St. Paul- No. Charlotte- No. Houston- No. Cincinnati- No. Rochester- No. Henderson- No. Fort Wayne- No. Indianapolis- No. Albuquerque- No. Scottsdale- No. Arlington- No. Durham- No. Boise- No. Detroit- No. Newark- No. San Antonio- No. New Orleans- No. Akron- No. Jacksonville- No. Dallas- No. Chicago- No. Tulsa- No. Buffalo- No. Seattle- No. Lincoln- No. Baltimore- No. Columbus-

Micky was in a motel on the outside of town. Desert. He knew it was the desert. About an hour or so walk from the train station. And it itched, it pulled, it squeezed, it felt like he was going to be sick, it felt like his vision was going blurry, it hurt, more than anything it hurt, and he wanted a distraction. Anything. He needed anything. He leaned over the sink in the bathroom getting as close as he could to the mirror, trying to remember what scars Mike had pointed out on his face. But it didn’t help enough. Maybe it didn’t help at all. His head felt like white noise and he didn’t know what to do, he couldn’t think, he couldn’t think, he couldn’t think, he couldn’t think, he couldn’t think, he coul-

Micky’s fist made contact with the mirror. The glass a spiderweb instantly. He looked at his knuckles, mostly fine, and punched it again. And again. And again. Until all the glass was shattered out and he started leaving a dent in the wall behind. Blood running down his arm. It made him shake to see. Which was strange, normally his own blood didn’t bother him. But right now it did not feel like his own. It was all just happening and he had no choice but to watch. No chance to change anything. 

Micky shot up in bed almost out of breath to the sound of a bang, bang, there was a bang, he could have sworn he heard a bang. Bang. He scrambled around his bed looking for someone, bang, looking for someone, looking for someone, looking for someone, there was no one, bang, there was no one, why was there no one, alone, alone, why was he alone? 

Where was the bang? Why hadn’t it come yet? 

“Hey, Micks. Micks, wake up, it’s just me, I’m right here.” It was dark but he knew the voice, he reached for it, reached in the direction of it. It was pulling him out of his cot and into the one on the other side of the walkway. Arms wrapping tightly around him. All it took was a moment and it stopped, got easier to breathe, easier to open his eyes. 

“Did you hear that?” Micky asked as he was sitting of his own volition. 

Sticks lightly laughed, “What did you hear this time?” 

“It sounded exactly like a car backfiring.” Sticks laughed louder, trying to keep it down. “I’m serious!” 

“A car backfiring, that's a new one.” Sticks spoke softly, trying not to wake up anyone else. 

“Better than other things.” Micky was reaching across the walkway to grab his canteen. Gulp after gulp of water. “I really should have eaten all my vegetables as a kid, this shit sucks.” 

Sticks was lightly laughing again, grabbing the canteen from Micky’s hand, “What would have eating all your vegetables done?”

“I don’t know, just the only thing I think I could have changed.” Micky grabbed the canteen back, drinking more. “How are you holding up?” 

Sticks was leaning on his head on Micky’s shoulder, “I am going to shoot the Secretary of War once I get home.” Now Micky was the one who was trying not to laugh too loud. “You laugh but you know I am a good shot.” 

Micky gave him a pat on the back, “I can’t wait to read the headlines.” Micky was moving back over to his own cot. It was hot and humid and it was already hard enough to fall asleep without the nightmares. Micky didn’t think they were nightmares but Sticks always said they were. Most nights Micky just laid there tossing and turning. Sometimes that was better than the night terrors. It was a choice in the type of exhaustion he would have the next day. 

Bang. Micky thought he heard the sound of a bang. Silence. It was silence. Silent. (Bang.) Was he (bang.) alone? Bang. Waiting. Did he miss it? Did he hear that? All that quiet? Waiting for it. Bang. No, waiting for it. (Silence.) That's what he thought. He was firing on all cylinders, like a car backing up, backfiring, backing up. Bang, bang, bang, bang- he waited for a noise. Waited and waited and waited and waited…

What was he waiting for again? Was it the silence or the bang? 

He spun tales, big and small, some of the only entertainment he had, like when they asked him how he slept. “Like a baby,” he would laugh and smile. A comment would sometimes be made about his little episodes, “well don’t you know babies sleep like shit?” Balling his hands into fists. 

“Okay Micks, calm down.” He got in a lot less fights because of Sticks. Almost a shame. He wondered sometimes if he would be marked unfit for service if it wasn’t for all of his efforts to help Micky feel sane. To help tether him back to reality. To let him be a person again.

Another day of awful heat and even more awful sun. God, did Micky hate it. Every part of him sweaty, and dirty, and it didn’t matter how much he tried, blood sweat and tears would cover his hands soon again. He tried his best to keep clean. It was one of the few things he did anymore that made him feel human. Not just human, there were plenty of human things that were not treated as such, just things, but being able to wipe off the grime every once in a while made him feel like a person. Even if only for a little bit. A person who laughed and cried and sang and danced and loved. He was a person who loved. Who loved so much. 

BANG! 

His shoulder hurt from the recoil of the rifle. He shot at nothing. Nothing. Nothing. (Bang.) Waste of taxpayer dollars. He shot for nothing. No god, no king, no American Dream, he shot because he could squeeze. Easier to kill a (nothing.) that way. The sweat and dirt and blood, all dried to his skin and clothes. He felt- Bang. and it itched. Made his chest feel tight. Ba(Bang)ng. He reached for something, for someone, no one was there. No one. No one. No one. Who would even be there? A hand to hold. Any hand to hold. A soft touch. A gentle touch. Someone to help him forget all the nothing. No one was (bang.) there. There. There. Their. Bang. There. Help. Micky called out for help. Micky was called out to help. BangBangBangBangBang he rubbed his shoulder as he laid in his cot. He wondered how thin he could stretch his soul before he crumbled into nothingness. 

He waited for the bang. He was told there was going to be a bang. 

“Hey, Micks. It’s okay. It’s just me.” Sticks gently waking him up. And Micky reached for soft hands that were growing rough. He remembered that first time he woke up in a panic at boot camp. That had been a proper nightmare. That night he dreamt of war, stuck in the trenches not even knowing who he was fighting just that he had to fight, and it scared him so much that his bunk mate had to crawl up to his bunk and calm him down. His hands were soft and gentle and very convincing. Far too soft then to be the hands of a carpenter's son. But his hands were tougher now. “What did you hear this time?” 

“Gunfire.” One of the other things. One of the harder things.  

Sticks just pulled him into a hug. A hold. How he loved to be held. He had always loved to be held. He loved to hold too. He loved to be close. He loved so much. 

All he got was silence. 

Micky continued forward even if his feet hurt. When did they not hurt? Sticks walked in front of him. He didn’t know where they were walking and he didn’t care. Part of being a good soldier was taking orders. Not questioning why. March forward, do your time, point your gun, the American Dream. 

He heard a bang. He didn’t think to drop down to the ground. He just turned in its direction. He felt Sticks pull at his pant leg. But for some reason he didn’t go down. He just stayed standing. An easy target. 

Bang. Bang. Bang. 

Sticks was leaning over him, “Hey, Micks. I’m right here. Just focus on my voice.” It hurt, hurt more than anything had in his entire life. But for the first time in almost a year his head was completely quiet. All he could think about was the sweet relief of pain. 

“Hey Sticks?” Micky could tell that there was pressure being applied to the wound. He was doing proper procedure, “Hey, Sticks, you don’t need to do that.” 

“Are you fucking crazy? You’ll die.” Sticks didn’t listen to him, just kept working on it. 

“Yes I will.” It hurt, every part of him hurt, it barely made sense, it hurt more than he thought he could, but he still spoke “I am going to die right here.” He nodded his head like it was his final decision. Calm and collected, a certainty you could not fight. “And you, you are going to not die. You are going to survive this hell hole, go back home, marry some smoking hot babe, name your first kid after me, boy or girl, then assassinate the secretary of war.” 

It earned a chuckle from sticks. That was good enough for him to die happy. See one last genuine smile. “Just like that? No more Sticks & Micks?” 

“Nope, no more.” He felt his vision start to blur, start to darken, almost happy that it was. It almost felt comfortable. Micky was finally becoming a good soldier. He could find comfort in that. 

He looked up at Sticks. A smiling face to go out on. There were far worse ways to die. “You know Micks, I-” 

He blinked and he didn’t know where he was. He didn’t like that. He didn’t like that one bit. 

“Oh, look who's up again,” A man next to him, a man standing next to him, said. 

“What?” Micky looked around. “Where am I?” 

“Field hospital.” The man said, Micky was processing more and more of what was around him. 

He started shaking his head, “No, that can’t be right, I am not supposed to be here.”

“Where are you supposed to be?”

“Dead.” Micky said it in complete and utter confidence. 

Micky had been there for three and a half weeks. He didn’t remember any of it, but apparently he had been in and out. More out than in, they said most of his ramblings had been nonsensical, but that was not a blood loss issue, that was a Micky Dolenz issue.

His mind was cloudy, certain things slipped away from him more than he would like, they thought he must have hit his head on something. They said that it would eventually pass. They said a lot of things to him. Micky was fairly sure they just told him what he wanted to hear to get him to shut up. Maybe they thought if he went to bed happy he wouldn’t toss and turn and thrash and scream in his sleep. Micky would reach, but he was alone, there was no one to reach back. 

Day in and day out he watched doctors and nurses who were far better people than him save poor bastards with unlucky birthdays. A different war all together. They were actually fighting for something. He wondered if he’d be happier in that one. One where he cleaned grime off of peoples faces and dressed their wounds, help them become a person again.

“Dolenz, come with me,” a daydream for a different time as he was being beckoned from his bed by one of the higher ups. 

They were walking quickly down a hallway towards the back entrance. “Today is your lucky day, hospital needs your bed, and you get to go home.” An envelope was being handed to him. Filled with all sorts of paperwork. 

“I was under the impression that I was supposed to go back to my platoon.” Micky tried to argue. 

“Like I said, it’s your lucky day.” 

Something didn’t sit right with Micky. “Do they even know if I’m alive?” There was a small bus pulling up. His stomach did flips. 

“Probably not.” The door to the bus was opening. 

Micky dug his heels into the ground. “I can’t just let them think that I’m dead. That’s messed up man.” 

“Better that way than the other way around. Now, get on the bus and get out of here.” Micky just shook his head no. He couldn’t, he couldn’t just leave. There were people who cared about him here. There were people he cared about. “Kid, listen to me.” The man took off his glasses, the lines in his face probably deeper than what they should be. “You think you don’t deserve it. You think one of these other guys do.” The speech sounded rehearsed. One he had given time and time again. “Well guess what, I can’t send one of these other guys. But I can send you. I can get you out of here.” 

“I can’t leave if Sticks thinks I’m dead.” It filled him with dread, the idea of leaving. Yes, he wanted to go home, he wanted to go home more than anything. But he felt like he was getting shot out of a canon. Made his chest feel tight. Made him itch. 

The man rubbed his face, “Kid, Dolenz, whatever, listen to me.” The man was putting his hands on Micky’s shoulders. “You’ve probably just had the worst year of your life. You got shot a couple times. You made your peace but still kept kicking. Don’t give it another chance to get you. Don’t ever come back, you got it?” 

Micky didn’t sleep on the bus. It made him uneasy. It felt too close to dying. 

He worried about a bang. 

Micky didn’t sleep on the plane. It made him uneasy. It felt too close to dying. 

He wondered if there was going to be a bang. 

Micky didn’t sleep very well for a while. He thought about going home, home, he wanted to go home. But he didn't want questions. He didn’t want to talk about it. There was nothing to talk about. Nothing happened. Nothing happened. Nothing happened. He didn’t want to talk about nothing. Nothing was a very boring thing.

Micky didn’t sleep very well for a while. He took the first bus to leave the station. He got off when he was too tired to keep his eyes open. He was tired, oh so tired, he couldn’t stop. Toss and turn and toss and turn and toss and turn. And he couldn’t stay. He didn’t know why. He didn’t know why. He wished he knew why. 

Micky didn’t sleep very well for a while. He watched people sleep on buses and wished that could be him. Tired and alone. Wished he didn’t have to pass out from exhaustion to be able to sleep more than a few hours. To be able to sleep without screaming out. Tired. Alone. (Bang.) He watched a man eat a sandwich. Slowly. Carefully. It made him want to cry. He wanted that. He wanted to be able to savor. 

Micky didn’t sleep very well for a while. He was back in the sun, back in the heat. More difficult to hate without all the (bang.) around. People walk by on the boardwalk. Faces he would never see again. He was alone, so very alone, so purposefully alone. How alone he needed to be. Alone. A misfit. There were other misfits too. Full of stars and songs who people clapped for. Who Micky had to be cautious around. He cared about his work. Even when he hated it. He cared so much it hurt, it itched. Even when his work was nothing. He knew it would be far too easy to get attached. Best for him to leave. 

Micky didn’t sleep very well for a while. He got blood on his hands again. The smell of soap and detergent and aftershave. The sting of iodine. He was careful, he had been so careful, he had to pretend it didn’t cross his mind. 

But it helped him sleep. 

Micky shot up in bed almost out of breath. He thought he heard a bang. His hand reaching to his side, looking for someone, anyone, there had to be someone, he didn’t want to be alone. He found a hand with soft palms and calloused fingertips. It didn’t help his heart slow down, but it did soothe him.

The hand reached back, holding onto his, intertwining their fingers.

“I think I was dreaming about it again.” Micky said, trying to collect himself.

The man connected to the hand, not just any man, Mike, yawned as he sat up. Arms moving to wrap around his waist and his chin resting on Micky’s shoulder. Holding him. He loved to be held. Micky leaned back against him, letting him take all his weight. “You should be dreaming about me.” Mike said quietly, almost cautiously.

Micky cracked up laughing, the arms around his waist keeping him close. It made him smile more. He knew Micky loved to be held. “That would be much nicer. Much nicer than…” nothing. Micky dreamed of nothing, he didn’t dream about (bang.) or (bang.) or bang bang bang bang-
It was another squeeze to his waist that helped him find his actual thoughts again, a gentle pull that had him leaning back in bed again. Micky turned over, curling up against his side, head on his chest, arms around Micky. “We should go to the beach tomorrow.” A better train of thought for him.

“You know, Peter has been dropping hints about wanting to go on a picnic.” Micky looked up to him as Mike spoke.

“We could make sandwiches,”

“And lemonade,”

“And…” Micky yawned as he spoke, “potato salad,”

“We can bring the umbrella,” Mike was rubbing his back again, “and that nice big beach blanket.”

Micky wanted to continue to add to the plan, but it was far too easy for him to fall back asleep. Far too warm. Far too comfortable. Far too safe.

Micky shot up in bed almost out of breath. His hand reaching to his side, looking for someone, “Where are you,” his voice was shaky as he rummaged through the blankets. His mind still somewhere else. He felt himself start to panic, he was looking, searching, for something, for someone. His hand reached the corner of the mattress. 

Right. He was alone. 

Micky took a deep breath, running his hands over his face. Taking a moment to collect his thoughts. Separate the reality from the fallacy.  

His head hurt, it had been aching for days, alleyway behind a bar, it was a curb, or a broken bottle, or a fist, or a boot, specifics didn’t matter. He did it because that was what he was supposed to do. It was the best way he knew how to get a good night’s sleep. He’d still been sleeping like shit. 

He reached over to the lamp on the bedside table. It flickered on with a weak buzz. The motel room was in complete disarray. Furniture knocked over, things strewn about, the picture frame on the wall just as broken as the mirror in the bathroom. Micky had not liked that he could catch a glimpse of his reflection in it. It felt like a mockery to see someone desperately begging to have his little slivers of comfort back look at him. Or maybe he just needed something that could make him bleed. 

Chapter Text

Breakfast had become some kind of commotion. Everyone normally wanted something different, oatmeal and cereal and eggs and leftovers all were in the general rotation. Coffee and tea and milk and orange juice all finding homes on the table as well. “Peter, you cannot have a slice of pie for breakfast.” Mike said as they all tried to cobble together their various meals. 

It caused Peter to pout, “He’s a grown man, Mike. He is completely capable of eating pie for breakfast.” Davy was quick to call Mike on some of his behaviors. He did it because he cared. Both of them did. 

“Well you probably shouldn’t eat a slice of pie for breakfast,” Mike corrected, “It might give you a tummy ache.” 

Peter contemplated the slice of pie, really weighed the pros and cons before putting it back in the fridge and instead getting a bowl of cereal. “For my birthday though, I want to have pie for breakfast.” 

It was strange for Mike to have people actually living with him. Not bad, not bad at all, but almost felt unreal. He would have moments where it would dawn on him, where he became a shoulder to lean against or needed one to lean against himself and they would have that. They were not all just hopelessly floating through existence trying to make it all on their own. It would make Mike sentimental, a state he would try to hide the best he could but Davy would normally point it out. 

“No, no, no, like this.” Davy was showing Peter proper form for ballroom dancing. Standing tall with his arms out, Peter did his best to mimic the pose. “There, and now I will stand here and you will put this hand here,” Davy was guiding one of Peters hands to his waist and the other in his hand. “See? Now we can dance.” 

It had been a few offhanded comments about Davy’s dancing abilities that had left Davy urging Peter on his feet, that he could show him proper dancing. “Don’t we need music?” Peter asked as he tried to keep his shoulders back.

Davy looked over to the record player, but he didn’t want to move away from the position. “Mike! Could you please start the music!” Davy called out far louder than needed. Mike had been on the other side of the living room reading a newspaper, occasionally looking up to see what they were up to. 

The newspaper got set down with exaggerated annoyance. His smile was far more prominent than the artificial scowl he was wearing. He dropped the needle on the 45, listening to the song for a moment before returning to his newspaper. 

The first few steps were more than rough. Davy was sure that once the actual beat of the song started maybe their steps would fall a bit more in sync. 

‘Listen’

“Sorry that I keep stepping on your feet.” Peter continued to look down, trying to do his best not to keep his feet clear of Davy’s. 

‘Do you want to know a secret?’

Maybe Davy should have led, but he got caught up in the moment, he had always been told to follow when he was younger because he was shorter, “Look at me,” Davy said softly, “I know it seems backwards but if you don’t look at your feet it’s easier.” 

‘Do you promise not to tell?’

Peter tried to look up at Davy, but his eyes kept drifting downwards, “Okay, you can dance, I’m sorry I said anything.” 

‘Closer’

Davy lightly laughed, “Oh, I don’t care about that.” Davy continued his pace, “If you step on my feet, you step on my feet, that’s part of learning to dance.” Anytime it seemed like Peter might topple over he held onto him a little firmer. 

‘Let me whisper in your ear’

Another thing that Peter was not necessarily used to, being encouraged. It was different than being told right and wrong, do this, do that, sit here, stand there, Davy told him to stand up straight with his shoulders back but it would be okay if he didn’t. He told him to look up to help him, not as a rule. So he did try, even if it was scary, even if toes might get stepped on. Palms sweaty he danced on. Danced unashamed. Danced close. 

‘Say the words you long to hear’

Mike was watching from behind his newspaper. Watching them dance more and more in time, drifting closer and closer together. It quickly became a moment he felt like he might be intruding on. A personal moment, a private moment, one that warmed his heart. He tried to act at times like love, care, and affection were things that he did not need to the same degree as others, that he could be happy with just seeing others be happy. And he was, it made him happy to see his friends happy. 

But he still made a quiet exit onto the back patio. The afternoon sun overhead. Looking out towards the ocean as he lit a cigarette. He tried not to watch too much but he would look inside and saw Davy and Peter dancing. The song was bound to be over now, but they still moved to some sort of rhythm. Peter, growing more comfortable in the lead. Until there was a bit of a stumble and Davy was sat on the ground next to Peter making sure he was okay. At least that’s all Mike could imagine was happening as he watched Davy brush Peter's hair out of his face. That Davy was telling him that it was okay to do something not perfect. 

The kiss to the forehead was when Mike finally properly looked away. Something he probably was not supposed to be seeing. Even if it was sweet to see. He could divert his attention towards the ocean. Light another cigarette and ignore the feeling in his chest that almost threatened him to sniffle. That feeling must have been from the long drags. 

After a while he heard the door to the patio squeak open with Davy soon joining him. “There you are.” Davy seemed almost surprised that Mike had slipped away. “What you doing out here?”

Mike couldn’t help himself, he really couldn’t, “Davy and Peter sitting in a tree,” Mike sang like a taunting schoolboy. “K-I-S-S—“ Davy was punching him him the arm to get him to stop. “What?” 

“I come outside to check on you because you’ve been standing out here chain smoking and I am verbally attacked.” Davy said as he lightly hit Mike in the arm a few more times. 

Mike was laughing as he was putting his cigarette to rest in the ashtray. “I thought it was sweet.” Mike was looking at him with a dramatic pout, “teaching him how to dance.” It earned Mike another hit in the arm. 

“It’s not like that.” Davy said weakly. “It’s…” Davy smiled as he thought about it, “it’s not like, that. Peter is, well truthfully, he's out of my league.” Davy looked back into the house as Peter was wandering out of the bathroom. “I mean, look at him.” 

Mike looked back too, seeing Peter slightly wander around the room before finding somewhere to settle. “Now this isn’t a slight to Peter, love the guy, but do you really think he’s out of your league?”

“Of course he is.” Davy thought it was obvious. “He’s dashing, and talented, and kind, and funny, and considerate, and loyal, he’s very much out of my league.” 

Mike was not used to hearing Davy talk like that. Davy had confided in him plenty of times about girls and boys he danced with at parties and social clubs, how they were the prettiest or handsomest person he had ever met, how he thought while they were dancing he was actually in love that time. Never once was anyone described as, ‘out of his league.’ “You're those things too.” 

Davy shook his head, “not like Peter. Peter is properly dashing. You couldn’t puzzle piece him together, but he still is, he is unique. And I’ve yet to see him not know how to play a song on the guitar, and he may say he’s not the best singer but I would beg to differ. And he’s always thinking about others and what they might or might not like. And he makes jokes that you wouldn’t even think of, but they are funny. And he stays by your side for as long as you’ll let him. And I, I sometimes get so caught up in myself I forget to think about others, and I say the same jokes in every single street act I do, and my act is only a comedy act because I couldn’t figure out how to actually to the magic tricks, and the only reason why I have always known I am some amount of ‘attractive’ is because I spent my entire childhood being stood up on tables and told how much I look like ‘that adorable little Huw Morgan,’ and I couldn't even be loyal to my grandfather, he took me on out of the goodness of his heart after my father died and my mother left and how do I thank him? I rob him and run off to America after he explicitly tells me he would not let me go.” Davy was trying to choke back tears. Wiping the few that threatened to escape with the back of his hand. “He deserves someone more like him. But I’m glad to at least be his friend. And maybe if we’re friends for long enough I’ll become a better person. Maybe I could even become a good enough person for him.” 

Mike didn’t know that to say, all he knew how to do was offer comfort. Comfort that Davy took. Arms wrapped around Mike and Mike just patted his back. “He kissed you on the forehead, after you helped him after he fell, I think maybe he thinks you're good enough for him.” 

Davy peeled himself away from Mike, “I know but, he’s told me a bit about his life before coming to California and I don’t want to be another person who takes advantage of him. He doesn’t deserve that.” 

The table had a decent spread. A cup of coffee. A strawberry milkshake. A slice of chocolate silk pie. A club sandwich with crinkle cut fries. Micky sat in front of it all. Sat there looking at it. An exercise in normalcy. He grabbed a fry and tried his best to eat it normally. Even if there was nothing normal about what he was doing. He just needed something, anything, to give him a shove in any direction. He needed a point of proof, a stake in the ground to hold onto, he needed an excuse. He needed to see with his own two eyes that he had changed. That he could change. There was a time where he could take his time and loiter, did that same part of him exist? Was he capable of going back to what he missed? Because he did miss it. He missed Davy and doing silly little skits, being able to riff off of someone and do some honest work for once in his life. He missed Mike and taking any excuse he could to stay in bed, letting himself be loved and held just as much as he was willing to love and hold. He missed Peter and having someone to talk to, someone who he felt like understood him even if he didn’t know all the details and made it dangerously easy to become comfortable. It had been so long since he let himself miss. So long since there was something worth missing. It terrified him, the idea of going back, it made him itch from the inside and his chest feel like it was collapsing in on itself. But the thought had gotten into his head that maybe, maybe, if he had something, someone, to hold onto the feelings may pass. He just needed to see if he was even capable of first. 

Peter had picked up a magazine to read. He saw Davy and Mike outside, but it seemed best not to disturb them. Air on the side of the caution. They were hugging, it was probably personal, he didn’t want to walk in on something personal.  

So he flipped through the magazine, reading the articles that interested him as well as some of the ones that didn’t, just because he wanted to know what they were about. The only thing that got him to set down the magazine was the ring of the phone. He waited for a moment, Davy and Mike still talking outside. Neither of them came in for the phone. So Peter it would be. He always liked answering the phone, he never was allowed to answer the phone at home with his mother. 

“Hello.” A simple greeting. 

The operator spoke in a calm voice, “You have a collect call from Micky Dolenz, would you like to accept?” 

“Did you say Micky?” Peter felt like he couldn’t believe his ears. 

“Yes, Micky Dolenz, would you like to accept?” She asked again. 

“Of course I would like to accept!” Peter was looking out to the guys out on the porch, hoping to get their attention. 

The phone clicked, “Hey Mike, I hate to-“ his voice was soft and tired, but Peter was too excited he didn’t care. 

“Micky!” Peter yelled out, probably far louder than needed, “Micky, I knew you would call. Well, I didn’t know you would call but I knew you wouldn’t be gone forever!” 

There was a pause over the phone, “Peter?” 

“Yes! That’s me!” Peter tried to continue to get the attention of the guys outside. 

“Peter, what are you doing at Mike’s place?” 

“Well I needed a place to stay, and Davy said I could move into his room, we got a bed for me and everything!” 

“That’s good to hear.” Micky paused for a moment “You know, it’s also nice to hear your voice, Peter.” 

“It’s nice to hear yours too.” Peter continued to wave to Mike and Davy outside, “have you been, well, have you been alright?” 

Micky paused for a moment, “doing better now that I’m talking to you.” 

“I’ve just been worried, you forgot your jacket and-” Davy and Mike were finally walking back inside, “Do you want to talk to Davy or Mike? They just walked in!” Both Davy and Mike gave him a strange look. Peter tried his best to mouth the word, ‘Micky.’ 

“You don’t have to rush off the-” Micky started to say but the phone was quickly being handed off to Mike. 

“Micky?” Mike was trying his best to not sound overly concerned, even if he was far past concerned. 

“Hey Mike.”

Both Davy and Peter stood close, trying to hear the conversation. “You called, It’s, uh, well it’s nice to hear from you.” Mike was trying to keep his cool. 

“Mike, I really hate to ask this, but, well,” Mike could hear a deep breath over the phone, “Would it be alright if I maybe crashed on your couch for a few days? Not any time soon, but I might be passing through again and-”

Mike didn’t let him finish. “Where are you?” All Mike heard was someone who he had cared about being scared and maybe hurt and all of those feelings came bubbling up again. Feelings that never really went away in the first place. Feelings that he just had not thought about for a bit. And now, he selfishly let his heart beat as fast as it possibly could, “We can come get you, make sure you get back safe.” 

“You don’t need to do that,” Mike could hear the nervous laugh through the phone. “I don’t want you to put your lives on pause for me. Plus, I’m pretty good at getting where I need to go.” 

“Let us come get you please,” Mike spoke softly, “I don’t care how far, I just,” Mike stopped himself, looking at the other two, they were looking at him with wide, worried eyes. “We just want to make sure you are okay.” 

Mike thought he heard sniffles from the other end of the phone, and all he wanted to do was reach out and open up his arms, let Micky fall into them, not with any type of ulterior motive, but simply to comfort, Mike just wanted to comfort those he cared about. He wanted to make sure they were safe and warm and loved. That they knew they could be safe and warm and loved. 

“Micky?” Mike asked gently, “Micky, are you still there?” 

There was a more prominent sniffle that time, “Reno.” He almost sounded defeated. “I’m in Reno.” 

Micky sat on a bench at the train station, shivering. It got cold in the desert at night. Colder than he was dressed for. He had watched the trains come in and out of the station. He felt sick. He felt like a failure. He felt numb. But he continued to sit there, mostly because he had nowhere else to go. He was tired, too tired to figure out how to get more money. He was hungry, too hungry to think of anything more than a cup of coffee and a cheeseburger. He was lonely, too lonely to turn his back on a promise of being saved. He knew, he knew he should have been able to save himself. But he was not very good at that. He was good at getting by, not very good at saving, and he could only get by for so long. 

When he saw the three others get off a train car at the end of the platform it was only a moment before he was spotted. One of them in a full sprint towards him. By the time Micky could get to his feet he was almost being tackled to the ground. 

“Micky! Oh Micky, I’m happy to see you again.” It took Micky a moment, but eventually he let his arms wrap around him as well. “If you’re coming back does that mean we get to be friends again?” 

That caused Micky to hold onto him tighter. “I don’t think we ever stopped being friends.” 

Davy and Mike were slower to approach, though they still sped walked. Peter finally pulled away and was quickly pulling off his jacket and handing it over to Micky, “here, you forgot this.” 

Micky held the yellow corduroy jacket, tears welling up in his eyes, then without warning he was pulling Peter back into a hug. “I’m happy to see you too Peter.” 

Micky was trying his best to keep his composure after the hug was over. Holding onto the jacket for a little longer before slipping it on. “Davy, Mike, nice to see you too.” A strange thing for him to say. It was nice to see people. But it was, it was nice to see people. It was very nice to see familiar people. 

“What happened to your eye?” Davy asked in near horror. Deep blues and purbles and some fading greens. 

Micky paused for a moment, “Ran my mouth at a bar.” Like an admission of guilt. Micky looked over to Mike, he looked like he was going to say something, but never got around to it. Kept on stopping himself before any words came out of his mouth. “But, uh, thank you. All of you, for coming to get me.” 

They did not talk much at the diner, a few short things but mostly they just ate. Micky was doing his best to not scarf down all his food. Trying to pace himself. Trying to let himself enjoy the moment. 

It was late in the evening when they made it back to the train station. Mike buying them tickets back. Micky said thank you, again and again and again. Said he would pay Mike back for the train ticket and the collect call. Mike told him over and over again that it was alright. That if he was going to pay anyone back it would be Davy, since most of the money in the ‘bills jar’ right now was from him. 

The train car was warm. All four of them sitting in a section. Micky was used to sitting next to strangers, now every face he saw was familiar, familiar and kind. Davy returned from the cafe car with a few snacks, a coffee for Mike, a hot chocolate for Peter, a tea for himself, Micky said that he didn’t want a warm drink. 

He sat next to Peter, Mike and Davy sitting across from them. A box of Cracker Jack being passed between them all. Stars could be seen through the window, and Mike found himself gazing at them more and more. He didn’t get to see the stars like that often anymore. One of the exceedingly few things he did miss about Texas, sitting out on the roof of the house and watching the stars late at night as he smoked until his nerves calmed down. Now he just watched them with wide hopeful optimism. 

Davy was asleep before he even finished his tea and Micky felt himself yawn repeatedly. He had not been sleeping well recently. He didn’t expect to sleep well any time soon either. But he was tired. Far too tired and far too comfortable to not feel his eyes flutter closed a few times. “Peter?” Micky said, lightly poking his arm.

Peter looked at him, offering him the box of Cracker Jack, Micky just shook his head no. 

“Could you,” Micky spoke softly, almost scared, “Do you mind staying awake while I try to get some shut eye?” Peter just nodded his head. 

Micky nodded back, nervously linking his arm with Peters and leaning his head against his shoulder. He hated sleeping in moving vehicles. But he trusted Peter. Probably more than he had any business trusting him. And if Peter was keeping watch, he would be okay. Hopefully. 

Chapter Text

The cot had been set up in Peter and Davy’s room. Both of their beds pushed up against the walls so that Micky’s could be in the middle. Peter had been very specific to how the room needed to be set up. He wanted to make sure Micky was comfortable. Or as comfortable as he could be. He knew what it was like to be told to take what you were given. That sometimes what was given was not something you wanted. And if he had anything to offer so that what Micky was given was something closer to what he wanted he would offer it. So there was space on all four sides of the cot, extra bedding just in case he didn’t like the kind that was already on the cot, certain foods that had been left out like water crackers so that Micky could see they were available for snacking. Little things that Peter thought were important to make the place welcoming. It was important to him that it was welcoming. 

It did not take Peter long to warm up to the idea of actually living at Mike’s. He was much faster to warm up to the idea than Davy. Davy still would spend the occasional night away, but Peter, Peter was happy to have a place to really call home. A place where he was not just at because people were letting him crash there out of the goodness of their hearts, but because he was actually wanted. He didn’t even really realize how much he was just dealt with until he was wanted. 

His mother’s was home because he was her responsibility. She had had the misfortune of getting a difficult one. One that that was needy and whiny and never listened when it mattered. One that she had to hold the hand of through almost everything. One who did not understand he was not like the other children, that he could not do the same things as them, that he had to work twice as hard to be half as good. Peter did understand though, he heard the way the adults in the room talked about him, the same way people talked about a car that was making a weird noise, or a dog that would not stop getting into the garbage. His mother had once commented on how quiet he was, that he never said a word, but as soon as he tried to he was told to quiet down. He tried to be a good son, he really tried, sit in church every Sunday, close his eyes when people prayed, use his very few talents the way God would have wanted by spreading the good word, take out the garbage and wash the dishes but make sure you do them at appropriate times, go to school, be dressed right for school, sit up straight, don’t look in pain when you do, he was never very good at following all the rules his mother would have liked. But he tried, he tried very hard. 

In the end he was not a very good son, good sons didn’t run away to sleep on couches of a rotating group of beats. But who could blame him? His mother sometimes acted like she was undeserving of such a difficult child. Peter heard her pray even though he knew he wasn’t supposed to listen to those sorts of things. And the band, they acted almost excited to take responsibility for him. Trading off where he could stay the night and taking him places. That became a new home, who ever said they could take him on for a few nights. He didn’t have to talk, he didn’t have to do anything, it was in fact easier if he didn’t. Every once and a while play along on stage and then after sit where he was told and follow who he was told to follow. They talked to him like he was a pet, the absolute best pet in the world, yet a pet none the less. One who was adorable and obedient and oh so talented. But they never told him he did anything wrong which he greatly preferred to his life before. He would have followed for as long as they let him. 

He was not really good at following either, he had a tendency to wander off. Normally they would redirect him on the proper path, but now he was across the country. No plans on going back. He much preferred staying at Mikes, where he got his own bed, not a couch or a sleeping bag on the floor, he didn’t get his own room, but given the option he would still ask to share with Davy, and he got to make his own money, even if a decent chunk of it went to the bills jar, and he had actual friends that he could help too. It was not just them helping him. Right now he was helping a friend. Helping a friend realize that someone cared. Just as that friend had done for him. 

It was late when they all returned, teetering on early. Mike didn’t even say goodnight, just made his way upstairs. Micky never made it to the cot in the downstairs bedroom, he laid face down on the lounge seat and called that good enough. 

“I don’t know how you stayed up that whole train ride,” Davy was yawning, both of them doing their best to move around the cot in the center of the room. 

Peter shrugged, “He wanted someone to stay up.” 

“Poor guy, seems that he’s been through the ringer.” Peter looked away as Davy changed, he knew it was not polite to stare. Starting his own nighttime routine. Putting on pajamas and brushing his hair. “I thought I was never going to see him again.” 

Peter looked back at him, confused, “But you always told Mike you were certain Micky would make his way back around.” 

Davy was sitting on his bed, seemingly tossing the idea back and forth. “I was sure he would come back around, but I also had this feeling deep down inside that all that sureness was pointless. That wanting something to be true and it actually being true are two very different things.” Peter was walking over to Davy’s bed and sitting next to him. Only a moment before Davy was leaning against him, and Peter was leaning back.  “I have a bad habit of thinking things are true when I want them.” 

Many nights were spent close with quiet moments of vulnerability. Small snippets of each others lives coming to light more and more, though neither of them were particularly eager to talk about the past. Often times there would be joking and laughing and rough-housing, but tonight they were both exhausted. Tonight they just leaned against each other. Peter yawned, normally his signal to go lay down in his own bed, but he stayed for a moment longer. “I think anything we set our minds to can come true.” A hopeful thought to end the night on. Peter liked going to bed with hopeful thoughts. He liked hoping for things. Being optimistic. Doing things in the name of it. So much better than just waiting around to see what happens. 

It was all still sort of surreal to Micky. To wake up day after day in the same place, to go back every night. But that is what normal people did, right? They got up in the mornings and drank coffee and came back home at night and showered and went to bed. It felt deceptively easy to stay. He thought it should have been harder. That there should have been some kind of catch. But all he had to do was call, and there was a cot made up for him and coffee in the tin and clothes for him to borrow. Maybe it was just because he was tired, but it was easy to accept. For him to accept all of it for now. He was just too tired to fight it. To fight coffee and breakfast being made for him in the morning, to fight blankets being wrapped around his shoulders in the evenings, to fight any of it. 

Maybe it was because it was not just him, he watched Davy steal Mike’s oatmeal on more than one occasion, Peter offering to grab coats or blankets for anyone as soon as it got the slightest bit brisk, Mike always being eager to support Peter or Davy in any way they would let him. Micky said he was tired of running and was met with a place to rest. Not just a place to rest, but also ears that would listen and hands that would help. It felt like it should have been a shock to his system, it should have overwhelmed him and sent him running again, like a refuel to his sympathetic nervous system, but instead he found himself preferring to toss and turn in a cot near people he now considered friends than in a hotel bed all alone.  

Chapter Text

Micky tossed and turned in the cot. He normally woke up once or twice throughout the night. It was a good thing that both Peter and Davy were decently heavy sleepers, that he could get up and pace for a bit to get out some energy before laying back down, he didn’t know what he would do if it woke them up. He probably would have found himself forgoing the cot and just sleeping out in the living room. 

He didn’t know what time it was when he woke up. Still pitch black outside, a light breeze made the curtains over the window lightly dance, and Micky just laid in his cot hoping he could fall back asleep. He didn’t know how long it had been, it could have been an hour, it could have only been a few minutes, but he needed to get up and move around. There were leftovers in the fridge, maybe if he had a snack and went for a quick walk he would feel tired again. 

As soon as he walked out of the bedroom he could see the light on in the bathroom, he could hear the sink running, he could see Mike standing in front of it. He tried to stand a bit away and wait his turn. That was until he heard a quiet, “shit,” come from the bathroom. 

He walked up quietly, but Mike caught sight of him in the mirror. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t wake me, I just… woke up.” Micky was stepping into the bathroom, seeing Mike’s hand under running water, blood running into the sink, “What happened?” 

“Oh, little accident in the kitchen, it’s no issue. Really.” Mike was trying to smile, trying to keep Micky from worrying, but it was already too late for that. Micky was bending down and getting into the sink cabinet to get out the first aid kit. Mike didn’t stop him, didn’t argue, didn’t even try to move away, just watched as Micky got things out of the first aid kit. 

Once again a careful tenderness as Micky tended to his wounds, the kind Mike knew he was weak to, the kind that made him want to be helpless, made him want to be clumsy so that he had boo-boos that needed kissing. “This will sting.” Micky said before once again iodine was being applied to the wound. Micky was careful, gentle, taking his time as Mike’s hand was being wrapped in a bandage. “What sort of kitchen accident?” Micky asked as he was finally pulling his hands away, taking a moment to wash his own hands and put away the first aid kit. 

“Potato peeler.” Mike was smoothing out the bandage on his hand. “I was using it in the dark and my hand slipped and, well…” Mike shrugged, “Well then you found me in the bathroom.”

“Why were you peeling potatoes in the dark at,” Micky paused as he grabbed Mike’s wrist to check his watch, “At two in the morning?” 

“Well it could be two in the afternoon.” Micky couldn’t help but laugh at that. “I was peeling apples for a pie. It is Peter’s birthday tomorrow and I wanted to surprise him with a fresh pie for breakfast.” 

“Peter can sleep through garbage trucks, nothing that you can do in that kitchen could  possibly wake him up.” Micky was finally letting go of Mike's wrist.

It was quiet for a moment, “Well, um, I still have a pie to make, and you are, well you are probably wanting to use the bathroom so you could get back to bed.” Mike was holding the bandage on his hand again, not waiting for any sort of answer before he was squeezing his way out of the bathroom. 

Mike didn’t say anything when Micky brought a lamp into the kitchen and turned it on. “You are going to hurt yourself again if you keep cooking in the dark.” Micky said as he let himself linger in the kitchen.

“Well, good thing you're back to patch me up.” Mike was mostly joking as he spoke, but was he? If letting the knife slip again meant Micky would tend to him, he would. It was an accident the first time, he didn’t mean to peel his hand instead of the apple, but now his hands were covered in vegetable shortening and it would be so very easy to slice his hand open again. 

“Well, I hope I don’t have to patch you up again,” Micky said as he leaned against the counter, “I don’t like seeing you hurt.” 

It was mostly quiet after that. Micky helped at moments, grabbing things for Mike as he needed them, helping roll out the dough, until the pie was in the oven and it was just him and Mike quietly standing in the kitchen. A soft glow from both the lamp and the oven. The light making Mike look far softer than he acted. 

“You’re very sweet for staying up extra late to bake Peter a pie for his birthday.” Micky didn’t know what to say, he wanted to apologize for leaving, but maybe that was cheap. Micky left, Mike had tried to stop him and he still left, and it ate at him. 

Mike just shook his head, “Oh, I’m really not, I just want him to know that he's cared for and appreciated.” 

Micky watched as Mike looked to the ground, refusing to accept that simple acknowledgement, that what he was doing was kind. Did Mike not think he was kind? Did he not think he was understanding? Did he not think he was sweet? Did he not think he was better than what most people deserved? Certainly better than what Micky deserved. “Hey Mike,” Micky said to grab his attention. Mike looked at him, eyebrows raised in question, though Micky did not see his eyebrows for long as he leaned in to kiss him. It was probably too sudden, he probably should have asked, him and Mike had not talked much since he came back and certainly not about anything of that nature, but it was late and Micky was trying to prove a point. Mike looked completely dumbfounded as Micky pulled away, like the gears in his head were skipping teeth, “Nope, I’m right, you’re sweet.”

It took Mike a moment to process, “That’s uh, well, that is probably because we were eating the extra pie filling earlier.” Micky watched as he blinked a few times, “Sorry, I’m just, well I just, well,” Mike paused again for a moment, like he was trying to gather his thoughts, or more accurately trying to scatter Micky’s. Kissing him again, but this time with a careful gentleness. Not that Micky wasn’t gentle, but Mike was certainly much more careful. Cautious, anxious, nervous, like it was something he had never done before. But it was something that he had done before, caressing Micky’s face as he wordlessly begged to be loved, even if for just that moment. Him and Micky had been good at that, pretending, ignoring, having moments. Mike had to think that’s what this was, for his own sake, that this was just another moment. 

A passing fancy, that’s what he had called it once. That’s what he accepted it as. Or what he thought he accepted it as. Mike at one point had known that’s what it had to be. ‘Remember, scammer, con artist, drifter, vagrant.’ And yet Mike had still reached out for Micky when he tried to walk away. Mike could argue it was more complicated than that, that things had changed between that first and last night, but when fancy tried to pass he tried to get fancy to stay. It had not worked. Now they were on just another revolution around the record player where the needle could get stuck in a scratch until he was set back on the straight and narrow.

Mike knew it was selfish, to demand that sort of attention, he knew he could not expect for Micky to just fall back into his arms. He had already demanded so much, and he saw where that got him last time. Micky owed him nothing, not his presence, not his time, not his words, not his comfort, not his love, and yet Mike still kissed him, pathetic and hopeless like it was the last chance he got. Did Micky see Mike’s heart bleeding on the floor? Is that why he let Mike kiss him for as long as he did? A sedative for the pain in a way. Even if it would still be on the ground bleeding. Mike could be okay with that. He told himself he could be okay with that. Maybe if it bled enough he would learn his lesson to not force his heart onto others. He obviously did not learn it the last time, the last time he held onto Micky and begged, now here he was again just waiting for the moment when it had to be over, when Micky would turn around and walk away. Why wasn’t he pulling away? 

Mike was eventually the one who had to pull away for a moment, even if he did not want to, his heart too frantic and his breathing too irregular to continue on. He couldn’t get far though, he was being held. Not tightly, but enough that he would have to make an effort to get away, and the last thing he wanted to do was get away. “I missed you.” He heard quietly whispered. 

“I missed you too.” Mike whispered back. Arms finding their ways back to how they comfortably wrapped around one another. That’s how they stayed for a long while, tangling themselves in each other again. “Just let me know when you need me to let go.” Because Mike knew he wouldn’t, he would have to be told, or better yet warned, that his heart was going to be dropped from Micky’s hands again. 

Micky laughed, the kind seeped through cracks in sadness, the kind that was accompanied with Micky holding on tighter, “If I ever ask you to let go again, that’s not me, okay? That’s an imposter.” Micky leaning more against him. It still felt selfish, to wrap his arms around Micky and hold him. Holding him for his own comfort. His own desire to be close. But Micky didn’t leave his side regardless of whose sake it was for. 

Peter was the first one to wake up in the morning, bright and early, it was not uncommon to see Micky’s cot empty, but Peter still didn’t like it. It had always made him worry that he would find him downplaying his injuries. Still he tried to tell himself he was probably already up and about. Many mornings he walked out and found Micky already up and on who knows what cup of coffee. 

Micky wasn’t in the kitchen either. No evidence of him, no mugs or bowls in the sink, no note saying he was going out, there was a pie on the counter but that meant nothing to him. He tried to walk out onto the back patio and see if he could see him down at the beach, but he saw nothing. Maybe it was his birthday, his nerves of excitement being turned against him as nerves of anxiety, but it wasn’t long before he was sitting on Davy’s bed, lightly shaking him awake, “Davy, Davy, Davy.” 

“Peter? What’s going on? Is everything alright?” Davy was minorly confused as he woke up, seeing Peter in obvious distress from the first moment he opened his eyes. Reaching out to him like somehow that would help. 

Peter still took Davy’s hand into his, “Micky’s missing again. Well, not missing missing, but I can’t find him.” That got Davy to sit up and try to rub his eyes more awake, “Which I know that doesn’t mean he’s really missing, but I am just worried, he said he would come to the aquarium with us today, and now he’s not here.”

It took Davy a few more yawns before he could form proper sentences, “Is Mike up yet? Maybe he’s seen him.” Davy said, he saw Peter shake his head. Looking down at the ground almost in shame, “Hey, it’s alright, it's normal to worry about your friends,” Davy watched as Peter nodded, “How about I go upstairs and ask Mike,” He watched as Peter nodded again. 

Peter followed him up the stairs, staying close by, while Davy lightly knocked at Mike’s door. There was no answer. Davy knocked again, once again met with silence. He did not like opening the door without warning but in the moment he felt it was called for. Cracking open the door to check inside. If Davy was any more awake than he was he would not be surprised for a second about what he saw, but still half asleep and his other half being just worried, seeing Mike draped across Micky’s chest left him slamming the door far more violently than he ever intended. 

“Is Mike here?” Peter asked, more worry growing in his voice, and before Davy could get the words out it was Micky opening up the bedroom door. Looking between the two of them. It was only a moment before Mike was walking up behind. 

It was a long, quiet, awkward moment between the four of them. An elephant who sat down in the middle of the room that no one wanted to acknowledge. “Peter, uh,” Mike was attempting to break it but was fairly unsuccessful at dispelling the awkwardness, “There is a pie downstairs for you for breakfast.” Mike was trying his best to nod his head, his cheeks getting more and more red the longer they were all standing there. Davy looked at him with a smug look that he probably deserved. “It’s apple.” Mike’s voice slightly cracked as he spoke, “I hope that’s alright.”