Keg In The Closet

or

Five Times Mike Was Unfortunately Drunk, And One Time He Was Unfortunately Sober

:::
by: Akiko, Keeper of Sheep

Part One: Hurricane

The very first time Micky ever saw Mike drunk was the night they met. It was honestly one of the best nights of Micky's life, and one of the worst, and all because of one doe-eyed Texan made almost entirely of legs and snark.

It was a hot night in Malibu, sticky and claustrophobic, and Micky's hair went very quickly from lush curls to outrageous frizz. He didn't really care. People would kill to run their hands through it either way, he reminded himself with a roll of his eyes.

The club was packed, as it always tended to be on a Friday night, wall-to-wall leather and fishnet and stringy neon hair. Glassy eyes and awkward piercings blurred by him, full of the gleam of strobe lights and the promise of satiation. It was here, in the middle of the writhing, flailing amalgam of the dregs of the city that Micky could see best that humans were really just animals underneath it all.

He only hated crowds most of the time - when he was part of them, shunted around in the roiling surf of bodies, sucked into the undertow and drowned in the noise and the stink of sweat and sex. It was so anonymous, being part of the crowd, one face amongst far too many faces, unseen and immemorable.

When he was in front of a crowd, though…oh. Oh, it was the greatest feeling, better than any pill he'd ever popped, any shot he'd ever done, any sex he'd ever had. It was the highest high he'd ever known, and he was definitely an addict. It was the best of drugs, the chemical he'd gladly given up all other chemicals for, because it wasn't as enthralling with his senses dulled by something so plebeian as LSD.

That was why, when he first met Mike in The Hurricane on that muggy August night, he was stone-cold sober.

It was only a half hour after he'd arrived, and he'd looked up from his contemplation of the multicolored lights playing in his glass of water and spied a dance platform being vacated. He didn't bother covering the glass with a coaster - he wouldn't be back.

The man policing the platform grinned when he approached. "Figured you'd be here sooner or later, Dolenz."

"Aw, you know me so well, Kev," Micky purred, dragging his fingers down the bouncer's arm flirtatiously as he passed.

He only jumped a bit when his bottom was goosed. "Not nearly so well as I'd like, honey."

Micky only smirked, licking his lips as he climbed easily onto the platform and, closing his eyes, started to dance.

The rush was incredible - it buzzed in his blood, fizzing and sparking like his veins were Tesla coils. He could feel the eyes of the dull, slow masses on him, tracking over every inch of him. Oh, the power of it!

Micky reached out with his movements and grabbed hold of every one of them, making them watch him, making them want him, making them feel. The pulsing beat of the standard club music pounded behind his eyes, his breath coming in short, heated gasps as he twisted and gyrated and drew the whole stupid lot of them in. At that moment, to those people, he was the center of attention, the center of their world.

Daring to open his eyes, Micky licked his lips and grinned. He ran his hands up his chest and through his damp curls, and he could see the crowd's thoughts, see them imagining their own hands on him, and he sneered inside. He was untouchable then, a gleaming idol clad in a fiery rainbow of lights, rippling across his face like gemstones. He was above them, beyond them, separate and ethereal. He was more than human there, on that sticky platform. He was a god.

Ebony and ivory caught his attention. It wasn't surprising - in the frothing sea of leather and neon and glinting silver, the newcomer was like ink as he slipped through the flailing bodies with a slight weave to his gait that told Micky the man was already on his way to being incredibly drunk. Micky's eyes followed him, intrigued despite himself. Something about this person arrested the dancing man.

Was it his clothes, the dark, criminally-tight jeans that made his legs seem a mile long, the plain black button-down with the rolled-up sleeves? So unremarkable, designed to blend in, except here the only way the blend in was to stand out.

Or maybe it was his looks - soft, dark waves of hair and pale, fine features that gave him the appearance of having been carved out of marble. He had such full lips, pink and plump and perfect for nibbling on. When he'd downed a couple of shots (such long, lovely fingers, Micky noticed, tracing the little glasses delicately) and turned around, Micky's gaze was immediately drawn to the stranger's eyes.

They were ridiculously pretty. Really, Micky thought as he tilted his head, absently slipping a finger into his mouth and pulling it back out slowly to the delight of the crowd, was it even legal to have such big, dark, mesmerizing eyes? They flashed with intelligence and the slight haze of someone three sheets to the wind. Drunk as the man probably was, he was regarding the club-goers with a sharp, analytical gaze. The gaze of a hunter on the prowl. Micky wondered what it would be like to have those eyes on him.

There, that was it, wasn't it? In the middle of a torrent of admirers, aglow with vibrant lights and sexual energy, working such addictive magic on everyone in the room, Micky had the eyes of the entire club on him, except this one man. And that…that was unacceptable. So, he did what any attention-whore would, and he stripped off his shirt and threw it into the crowd.

He figured it wouldn't be too long before an employee made him get down and retrieve his clothing - despite the nature of the establishment, there were some rules - but he didn't need more than a few moments.

Sure enough, the sudden roar of the crowd drew the newcomer's attention. He lifted his head and looked at Micky.

Everything seemed suddenly slowed down and silent, as though underwater, and Micky's universe tilted on its ear.

It was so good it was almost painful, feeling that gaze move over him from head to toe, as heady and arousing as if it were those pale, perfect hands touching him. Pretty lips parted, a sweet flush spread over the stranger's cheekbones like a splash of rose wine. Micky felt his own cheeks heat up, something that hadn't happened in a very long time, and he felt suddenly hesitant and awkward.

Not one to let sudden shyness (however strange) deter him, Micky sucked his bottom lip in and bit down gently, letting it slip between his teeth slowly as he drifted his fingers down to the waist of his leather trousers. The stranger shifted in his seat, seemingly unable to decide whether to stare at Micky's mouth or his wandering hands. At the sight of the tip of the man's pink tongue darting out to wet his lips, Micky felt his already-too-tight pants getting that much tighter.

Teasingly, Micky ran his thumbs under his waistband, then down his thighs, pivoting on the spot to run them up over his bottom. Craning his neck, he peeked back at the man in black, winked, and gave his butt a smack. He was rewarded with narrow-eyed look and very obvious evidence that his arousal was mutual as the man's long legs parted a bit more.

He took it still further, reclining on the platform and arching his back, thrusting his hips into the air, his eyes never leaving his new friend's. In response, a wicked grin stretched across the stranger's face, and he leaned back against the bar, tilting his head back and exposing his milk-white throat, and let his legs fall even further apart.

Micky groaned out loud and rolled over, crawling to the edge of the platform and sliding off shakily. Electric sex was crackling in his bones deliciously, making him shiver and flex. The grasping of hands at his body didn't even slow him down as he slunk over to the bar, swaying his hips in a way he knew to be sinfully tantalizing. He didn't stop until he was positioned between his new friend's' thighs, only an inch from bringing their bodies together.

Leaning forward, he braced his hands on the bar behind the man and let his lips barely brush that smooth, ivory throat. Trailing his way up to the stranger's ear, he grazed the lobe with his teeth gently.

"Hey there, honey - looking for a sweet California welcome?"

"Something like that," Tall, Dark, and Handsome drawled in a sweet tenor that had Micky's insides quivering. Lord, but he was a sucker for an accent.

The man had a voice like honey, golden and smooth and a little smoky, and his breath was warm against Micky's cheek and smelled strongly of cheapwhiskey.

"Hmm, what a coincidence," Micky purred, lifting one hand from the bar to slip it under the collar of the man's shirt, pressing his palm the the side of his neck and reveling in the fluttering pulse he felt there. He nipped a bit harder at his friend's ear and smiled when the man gasped. "I'm the welcoming committee."

There were a few clumsy, too-slow minutes between yanking Cowboy off of his bar stool and making through the crowd to the men's room, and it gave Micky far too much time with which to contemplate the way Cowboy's strong, calloused fingers threaded through his so perfectly, the way their palms pressed together in a way that made Micky's heart do stupid, fluttery things.

He didn't let go, though, not even when they stumbled into the handicap stall and Cowboy shoved him up against the door, his free hand slamming into the thin barrier next to Micky's head with startling force. There was no fear, though - those big, soft eyes were neither angry nor malicious, and when Cowboy brought their lips together, it was almost disturbingly gentle.

The slow sweetness didn't last long, though, escalating quickly into a searing intensity that left Micky feeling quivery and boneless, as though they'd already had sex. Cowboy leaned against him, pushing him into the door, grinding against him instinctively.

The kiss was hot and slick and tasted of Jim Beam and jalapenos. It was a little clumsy, not hesitant so much as inexperienced, and Micky's heart fluttered again.

"Do this a lot?" he asked breathlessly when Cowboy released his tongue in favor of attacking his neck. He felt the tall man's lips twitch into a smile against his skin as he ran his hands up underneath Cowboy's shirt to grip his waist.

"Not exactly," was the slurred answer.

"Never would have guessed."

A quiet chuckle was his only response, and he let his hands slide down until he had two palms full of gloriously shapely Texan ass.

It was then, unfortunately, that the owner of said ass, forehead still pressed against Micky's neck, started snoring.

Micky made a strangled sound as his knees wobbled, his grip on Cowboy's backside the only thing keeping the lithe man from sliding to the dirty linoleum floor.

"You have got to be fucking kidding me," the conscious one of the pair hissed, torn between being furious and being morbidly amused.

After a long moment, Micky managed to shift his grip on the guy, hauling one arm up over his shoulder and shuffling to the door to find a phone.

From the moment he shut the cab door on the drunkenly-slumbering Cowboy to the moment he'd meet that same pair of criminally-beautiful eyes across a dance floor at a very different venue, two weeks would go by. Micky filled those weeks with the usual debauchery, but somewhere in the back of his mind, there was the feel of those hands, the taste of whiskey and heat, and a honey-smoke drawl. There was a craving, too, albeit a weak one, filling his gut.

When he did approach Mike again, this time in a brightly-lit teen hangout where Micky and Peter had been playing twice a week, a flirty smile plastered on his face, the Texan was puzzled.

"Have we met?"

"Er…" Micky leaned back a bit, frowning. Surely his Cowboy hadn't been so drunk he'd forgotten…surely…

Mike's eyes were suddenly wary, and he crossed his arms. "Where did you meet me," he asked with an iron tone.

This was not the reaction he'd been hoping for. This was a defensive reaction, the attitude of a man who was worried about what he might have said…or done. The attitude, Micky suddenly realized, of a man who wasn't out, and probably hadn't even fully accepted himself yet.

Fucking fuck, Micky thought to himself as he forced a neutral expression onto his face. "Oh, we met outside some club or other. You were pretty plastered - conked out right onto me, almost knocked me over. I called you a cab," he finished, breathing a mental sigh of relief when Mike relaxed.

It wouldn't be terribly long into their friendship that Mike would realize that Micky's sexuality was about as straight as his hair, but he never seemed to suspect that their first forgotten meeting was anything more than what Micky had claimed. And Micky never, ever told him.

A/N - Written for my sister, to help her combat her isolation and boredom as she waits out Frankenstorm in NC. It is a modern-day AU, and is a fanfic of the series, not RPF, as per usual for me. Part 1/6.

Songs: Circus [Britney Spears], Hurricane [Panic! at the Disco], S&M [Rihanna]