Keg In The Closet

or

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

:::
by: Akiko, Keeper of Sheep

Part Three: Tequila Makes Her Clothes Fall Off

It had been some time later, a couple of days or so after Davy and Mike had moved in to help take the pressure of rent payments off of Micky, that the drummer had accidentally started a band.

Peter, as Micky knew well, was an excellent guitarist, bassist, and (although Peter didn't know Micky knew) pianist. Mike played, as well, and was actually very skilled (though not as freakishly-naturally as Peter). He sang, which Micky loved and hated, because he always got the worst kinds of flutterings whenever Mike did so. And everyone had heard Davy sing - the guy was always grooving around the Pad like his whole life was a musical number. None of them, though, knew about Micky.

There was a reason for that - Micky didn't want them to know. They knew he was a passable drummer - he'd been backing Peter up clumsily when Mike had first caught their gig - but he had tucked his drums away to make room in the spare bedroom for Davy and Peter, and he definitely didn't sing around the guys. Somewhere in the back of his mind, there was a niggling thought, angry words in his father's voice, reminding him that music didn't make money. It had been a sticking point in their relationship, and had ultimately been what made Micky leave home.

He hadn't been on the street long before he'd discovered that his father was right. Music didn't feed him, didn't keep shoes on his feet and a roof over his head, and those had quickly become priorities in his life. So he'd taken all those wants and dreams and plans, the visions of stadiums and crowds and lights, taken the love and the music, and he'd folded them up neatly and tucked them away at the back of his mind where they would gather dust, and he did his best to forget about them entirely.

He hadn't minded playing with Peter a couple of times a week - it didn't require a lot of practice, didn't detract from whatever other odd jobs he'd managed to pick up. It was harmless, like a hobby or something. It wasn't serious, so it wasn't dangerous. This, though, this thing that was starting between his three roommates...this was dangerous.

He didn't want to round out their blossoming group, he told himself when he heard Mike trying to teach Peter to harmonize. He didn't want to play, because he didn't want to starve, and he could already see the other three members of the household forgetting all about getting steady, paying jobs. He didn't want to starve, and he especially didn't want to see his friends starve, so at least one of them had to be practical.

Honestly, if anyone had asked, he would have put his money on Mike being the sensible one. The Texan fairly breathed common sense, so it had come as a surprise to Micky that his taller friend pretty much lost his mind when it came to music. Peter, of course, lived music. The idea of him giving it up actually gave Micky a physical sympathy pain. And Davy, well...Davy had turned out to be quite like Micky - he thrived in the spotlight, blossomed when people's eyes were on him. He needed that admiration, that love, like most people needed air. Micky supposed that, to an extent, they were all that kind of attention-whore. Davy, though, in true Davy style, not only acknowledged that part of himself, he embraced it.

So Micky, perhaps the least eager of them to return to starving in a gutter for the sake of a childish dream, had decided quite firmly that he would have no part of it. Unfortunately, he'd forgotten to let everyone else know about that decision.

The catalyst, he supposed, was Davy overhearing him singing 'Dream On' in the shower.

He'd been hitting the high notes fairly well, scrubbing up a rather delicate bit of his anatomy, when the door had slammed open so forcefully that it bounced off the wall and nearly smacked the intruding Brit in the face. Micky hit a note he'd never reached before, hurling his bar of soap at Davy's face in shock. Luckily, his aim was fairly poor, and the Dove had sailed harmlessly over Davy's head, skidding across the hall.

"Jesus fuck, Jones," he screeched, reaching for the shower curtain to cover himself with. As his fingers met empty air, he remembered that they'd used it to cover up the gaping hole where a large windowpane had been, back before Mike had moved in and brought his football with him. Clearing his throat, he did his best to conceal the danglier bits of his anatomy with his hands and gesture for his towel at the same time.

Davy, seemingly oblivious to Micky's distress, walked right past the towel rack and stepped into the shower, standing far closer to Micky than the taller man would have been comfortable with even if he'd been clothed. "You can sing!"

"Uh..."

"You never said you could sing, Micky," Davy bubbled happily, bouncing a bit. "You can actually sing!"

"I...um..."

"This is fantastic! This is brilliant, absolutely brilliant!"

Right, Micky thought. Brilliantly awful.

"And you're a drummer, aren't you? Peter and Mike both say you can sort of play! Oh, this is perfect! Wait'll I tell Mike, we can start rehearsing tonight, and-"

"Davy. Shut up," Micky hissed, grabbing his friend by his shirtfront and shaking him a bit. "If you even think about breathing one word of this to anyone, especially Mike, I will gut you and strangle you to death with your own intestines."

Blinking up at him in an admittedly adorable fashion, Davy pursed his lips thoughtfully. "I think you might be overreacting a bit, there, Mick. Do you want to let go of my shirt, or do I have to start making you?"

Micky released him slowly, moving back until the shower spray separated them. The shower rack pressed against his shoulders, and the taps dug into the backs of his knees, but he needed some kind of distance from Davy before he murdered him.

"You can't tell anyone," Micky murmured, not liking how the words echoed so loudly. "You just can't, Davy. I can't join the band."

"Why not? Micky, did you hear yourself just now?" Davy waved his hands around, uncaring as he knocked several bottles of hygiene products off the windowsill. "You're really good, nearly as good as me, and you can drum!"

"You can drum," Micky muttered, grasping for Peter's loofah and trying to use that to cover himself. "I don't know why you don't just do it."

Davy flushed a bit, frowning. "Well...I kind of disappear behind the drums. Besides," he added, brightening, "I'm not very good at it - Peter says you're really coming along."

"Peter says his stuffed giraffe is a certified NASA astronaut," Micky replied tartly.

Huffing, Davy hopped out of the shower, grabbed Micky's towel, and skipped from the room with it. "Don't care what you say," he sang, "I'm telling Mike and you can't stop meeee!"

"Davy!"

Micky stood under the spray, staring out the wide-open door, with only a powder-blue shower puff to cover himself, and considered his options.

He could certainly leave the bathroom, hunt Davy down, and shove the loofah down his throat until he choked to death on it, but he was pretty sure Peter would be devastated - he'd bought the loofah with a bit of his Treat Jar money, and it was one of his favorite bathtime things. Also, he was kind of fond of Davy.

He could deny everything the Brit said, refute all of his claims, demonstrate terrible vocal abilities, and use every bit of guile in his arsenal to convince Mike he had no musical talent whatsoever. That didn't sit right with Micky, though, because it involved lying to Mike. That was a shady area, because if Mike found out, he would be disappointed in Micky. Mike valued honesty, exuded honesty, and he expected people to show him the courtesy of being honest with him. He expected it of everyone, including Micky, and he would be hurt if he ever knew that Micky had betrayed his trust. The last thing Micky wanted to do was hurt Mike.

THINGS (and it was always capitalized in Micky's head, and was a handy stand-in word for the somewhat less-truncated 'Circumstances Involving My Absolute And Total Inability To Not Fawn, Pine, Fanboy, Drool, Fantasize, And Otherwise Make A Fool Of Myself Over Robert Michael Nesmith') had not gotten less complicated following the addition of the Texan to their household. A lot of that had to do with their rooming situation - apparently, sharing a bedroom with the object of your absolute devotion was emotionally and mentally draining. Go figure.

There had been a moment, near the beginning of the talks, that Micky had thought the rooming situation could be worked out simply and without fuss. Boy, had he been wrong. Micky was a snorer, which Davy couldn't deal with. Peter tossed in his sleep, which Mike couldn't stand. And for some reason, Mike seemed to think that if Micky shared a room with Peter, they would wake up to the Pad burning down around them.

Micky took great offense to that last one - he and Peter had managed to live together for years before meeting Mike, and not once had the Pad actually and completely burned down. Micky was a lot of things - impatient, attention-seeking, selfish, manipulative, opinionated, and erratic came to mind - but he was never careless with Peter's safety, and he had really rather thought Mike would have known that.

In any case, he couldn't really give a good reason as to why he shouldn't be bunking with Mike (not without either hurting Mike's feelings or getting punched in the face), so he'd opted to not protest, and had settled in for an eternity of devastatingly painful longing and cold showers stretching into infinity.

Micky did not like to think about how pitifully, pathetically awful the thought of actually hurting Mike made him feel. He tried not to contemplate why it was that so much of what he did these days revolved around Mike's feelings. It made life very difficult (and wasn't his life already plenty difficult?), not in the least because he had never really thought of himself as being considerate of other people's emotions, and it would be no different in the case of Micky's Ambition To Not Waste Away In Poverty Like A Bum vs. The Band.

He really, really didn't want to think about how hurt Mike would be if he did admit to being able to sing, and still refused to be their fourth man.

All-in-all, this did not look like it was going to turn out to be a successful chapter in How To Not Be A Starving Musician: A Californian's Tale.

Sure enough, as soon as he'd managed to naked-tackle Davy to the floor and wrestle his towel away, Mike had wandered in. After a bit of an awkward pause, during which Micky had fumbled the towel awkwardly about his waist and Mike looked everywhere but at Micky, Davy let the circumstances of the entire encounter pour out.

As soon as the maraca-wielding spawn of Satan got to the bit where he'd discovered Micky could sing, Mike's sharp, dark gaze had zeroed in on the still-dripping drummer, narrowing thoughtfully as Davy continued to prattle on. Micky shivered, swallowing hard against the sudden anxiety he felt. Later, he would think back on his jumbled thoughts and try to smother himself with his pillow, but at the moment it was all he could do to just think them.

'Oh god he's looking at me fuck you Davy just fuck you and your stupid big mouth oh god why does he have to be looking at me I'm too naked for him to be looking fuck it's freezing who the fuck turned down the thermost- we don't have heat you doofus jesus tits Mike stop looking at me I'm skinny and gross and did he just say gig what no no NO-'

"What? No! I can't..." Micky swallowed again, feeling Mike's eyes burning into his brain. "I mean..."

"You can manage the drums well enough, Mick," the Texan murmured, arms crossed as he leaned against the counter in a much-too-sexy-to-be-legal pose. "The songs ain't hard to learn, mostly just ol' standards, and we won't make you sing all of 'em - Davy'll handle most of the vocals until we get you up to speed."

"But-"

"We could really use another bandmate," Mike added softly, and the years of resolve Micky had built up didn't even crumble - it was like they'd never existed at all.

"Okay," he said, the sound of the word echoing in his head, a head that felt suddenly empty of all the shouts of 'no don't can't won't'. In the silence that remained, he imagined he could hear the rusted creak of an old key turning in a disused lock, and he stumbled to his feet and up the stairs, tumbling back into the bathroom and slamming the door.

It all poured out as he slid down to sit in the tub, his knees drawn up under his chin. The longing, the love, the loss, and none of it to do with stupid Mike Nesmith. Need filled his body, clattering against his skull and sizzling along his nerve endings like hot grease. It hurt, hurt so beautifully, and he didn't even try to stop the ugly sobs that rattled his ribcage.

It had been so long, and so much of him had been hollowed out when he'd packed away all his dreams, and he hadn't realized, hadn't understood until now, just what he'd done, how much of himself he'd cut away for the sake of being realistic. Practicality had likely saved his life so many times in the backalleys of reality, but for what? So he could survive to work some dead-end job, live a long and healthy life of making-ends-meet and getting-by? That was a sorry life, indeed. Even the dancing, the sad addiciton that had first brought Micky and his Cowboy together, was a sorry consolation prize, a pale imitation of what he really needed. Why, why had he given it up?

The sound of the door opening and closing cut through the gross sounds of his sniveling, and Micky pressed his face against his knees, fisting his fingers into his hair and wishing he could just disappear. Then there was a warm hand at his back, stroking from the base of his neck down past his shoulderblades, then back up and repeating. It was a firm, assured touch, and it eased the angry, despairing tension from his body. Soon, his gut-wrenching sobs turned to hiccups and sniffles, and he let his arms drop to encircle his legs, daring a glance at his comforter.

Mike was watching him carefully, his pretty eyes so warm and understanding that Micky nearly burst into tears again. The taller man shifted in his seat on the edge of the tub, the forefinger of his free hand scratching at a chip in the acrylic. The fingers of his other hand were now closed gently around the nape of Micky's neck, kneading every-so-minutely.

"It's okay if you don't want to do this," Mike began, voice reverberating too-loud in the tiny room.

Micky cringed. "No," he rasped, rubbing at his eyes roughly with the heels of his hands. He sat back, pretending he didn't lean a bit into Mike's hand, and sorely regretting moving when the hand was removed with a final, barely-there squeeze. "No," he repeated firmly. "I want to."

It wasn't hard to make it sound sincere because it was. He really, truly wanted to be a part of this, wanted it so badly it ached. He was so tired of trying to be practical, so sick of feeling left out when his housemates huddled up for practices. He wanted the music, yes, more than anything, but he also wanted the band, this band. He wanted to be a part of what the guys were creating, because whether or not it was successful, it had the potential to be special. It would be music, sure, but more importantly, it would be them, making music together.

So he looked up at Mike, lovely, wonderful Mike, and he grinned. "We're gonna be great together," he said, and he didn't mean the two of them, but he couldn't pretend he didn't enjoy the way Mike's eyes flashed and his lips parted just slightly.

"Yeah," his Cowboy answered, warm and assured as his touch had been. "Great."

And it was. Oh, god, was it ever great. It was like a missing puzzle piece had slotted into place, and suddenly the picture made a weird kind of sense. Micky threw himself into it with a wild exuberance, because he had years of deprivation to make up for, after all.

If the others thought that he was a bit too enthusiastic, they said nothing. Sometimes, when he was being particularly passionate, he'd catch Mike looking at him, just the tiniest hint of a smile tugging at his mouth. They were special, secret smiles, and these ones really were just for Micky. It was the best part of all of it, better than reclaiming his dreams, because he was making Mike happy, and god, wasn't that just wonderful?

Every rehearsal felt like a party. It was nothing like playing behind Peter, nothing like writhing on a platform for the slavering masses. It was better, sweeter, and Micky felt like he was sixteen again, so sure that he could survive off of music for the rest of his life.

His housemates had launched themselves in headfirst as well, as though they'd been waiting for Micky the whole time, and now they could really start to play. Ideas were thrown back and forth, tumbling along, propelled by drumrolls and guitar riffs and laughter. Great ideas, wonderful ideas that blossomed into songs, their songs. That gave Micky an especially warm feeling in the general vicinity of where he was sure his heart used to be. It was nearly as good as Mike's secret smiles.

And then there were gigs.

That first time - Jesus, he felt like a virgin about to get laid when he sat down behind the drum kit. It was stupid, of course, he'd been on stage all the time, and not very long ago, but this wasn't just helping out a friend with a bit of lackluster drumming. This was...this was real.

It felt like flying.

He'd think about it a lot in the years to come, that first time on stage with his band. He wouldn't think about the songs they did, or how well they did, or the people dancing just beyond the footlights. He would remember Davy's silly little improvised dance, and the way Peter just let go and became one with the music, and the way Mike would tilt his head back and look at Micky between songs and just smile.
He ached afterwards, shoulders and biceps and hands. His cheeks hurt, too, because he hadn't stopped grinning the entire time, which had probably looked really stupid when Davy had sung 'Yesterday', but damned if he'd been able to stop. They had all ached in the best of ways, laughing and tangled together on the floor in a tired-but-gleeful dogpile.

It would have been an absolutely perfect night, actually, if Davy hadn't broken out a couple of bottles of white wine.

"Aren't you supposed to toast with red wine," Mike drawled breathlessly as he detangled himself from Peter's legs and went to help their English bandmate find suitable glasses.

"Can't be having with red wine," Davy muttered, snatching up the corkscrew from where it hung on the lucky bamboo plant. "Makes me queasy."

"I didn't know you could get queasy," Peter said guilelessly. Micky could understand the confusion - he had yet to see Davy get physically sick due to eating or drinking anything. The guy had an iron stomach, which he always said was due to "experience". Micky never pried; he had a feeling he knew what kind of experience Davy was talking about. There wasn't much Micky would turn down when he was starving, either.

It wasn't too far into the second bottle that the trouble started, and Micky really should have seen it coming, but he was too high on their success and too warm from the wine to brace himself. It would turn out (much, much later) that what happened wasn't so bad after all, but at the time, all he could feel was miserable.

Somewhere along the way, he'd ended up draped across the couch. His shirt had long since been confiscated by Peter for use as a drawbridge for his and Davy's imaginary fortress, and he hadn't thought anything of it. Drunken Mike, however, seemed to be thinking all sorts of things of it, because suddenly he was there, crawling up Micky's body clumsily, his special Micky Smile looking a bit lopsided.

"Hey, baby," he slurred, fingers wandering up Micky's abs and across his ribs.

Micky squirmed a bit. There was something he was supposed to remember when Mike got drunk, wasn't there? But, oh, his roommate was nibbling on his collarbone, and his thumbs were tracing wonderful little circles around his nipples, and was that a pistol in Mike's pocket or- no. No, definitely not a pistol.

But he wasn't supposed to be sliding his hands into Mike's back pockets, was he? Or hooking one leg around Mike's, or arching up to press their bodies together so very perfectly. He was supposed to be doing something else, and he would do, as soon as he could remember what it was.

"Mmm...not gonna tell me no this time?" his Cowboy whispered against his neck.

Oh.

Oh!

"Ahhhaha," Micky stuttered, wriggling until he could get his hands against Mike's chest. Now, he just needed to push.

Now.

...

Now.

Oh, for - screwing his eyes shut, he shoved until Mike was sitting up, Micky's legs still pinned at the knee beneath him, but at least he wasn't plastered all over him.

"Right, okay, we've talked about this, Mike. Not when we're both drunk, right?"

Mike wilted pathetically, and Micky did his best not to reach out and cuddle him. He looked so disappointed, and not even a completely-let-down sort of disappointed. That would have been better. No, this was an I-was-expecting-it-but-it-still-hurts disappointed, the kind that really stings, because it's confirming something you knew, but didn't want to believe. It made Micky sad, but it also made him mad, even if he wasn't sure who to be mad at.

Mike was mumbling apologies again, sounding just as contrite as the last time, and Micky melted inside.

'None of that, Dolenz. Don't fall for his big, soft eyes and his pink, soft pout and his smoky, soft voice and...and...nnf.'

Leaning forward awkwardly, Micky caught Mike by the back of the neck and pulled him closer. "Just this once," he said softly. "Just one kiss, and then you go to bed and sleep it off."

Mike's smile was precious just then, shy and sweet, and Micky felt it tingling all the way to his toes. Either that, or the weight of his bandmate was cutting off the circulation to his feet. It was anyone's guess.

Long, pale fingers curled against his bare chest, catching at his collarbone lightly as he tugged Mike closer, brushing their lips together. His Cowboy's sudden intake of breath sent a shiver of satisfaction down Micky's spine, and he pressed on, kissing Mike firmly.

If it was going to be their last kiss (he had no way of knowing - Mike might never get drunk again, so any one could be the last one), he was going to make it a good one. He put everything into it - months of frustrated longing and all the sappy, shmoopy feelings that had been blossoming in his much-disused heart like so many strangling weeds. It was soft and hard and bittersweet, passionate with just a hint of teeth, but that was Micky, and if Mike ever decided he wanted to give this a go sober, he'd need to know what he'd be asking for.

It was an awkward kiss, too, but that was hardly surprising - this whole situation was getting to be so awkward, it was almost unbearable. It only made sense that this kiss would be just as uncomfortable. Micky was leaning forward as best he could without being able to move his legs, and he could feel the strain in his hips already. Mike was still sitting on his knees, which meant he had to curl forward. His back was probably not thanking him for that, but he didn't seem to be paying much attention to it - he was too busy sliding his hands up Micky's neck to cup his face far too carefully for Micky's poor, dusty heart to take.

'Pulling away would be a good idea, Mick. Like...now. Or now. Now.'

But he didn't pull away. Instead, he let out a ridiculously girly sigh, slipping the fingers of his free hand up Mike's shirt, tracing his name all over his Cowboy's ribs. Mike's breath stuttered, and he squirmed a bit, breaking the kiss and pressing his face into Micky's shoulder.

"Tickles" he breathed, his lips dragging across Micky's skin deliciously.

Micky blinked at the far wall, gasping for air and trying to pull the threads of his sanity back together. He'd said only one kiss, after all, and he'd meant it. Never mind the almost-painful desire to pull Mike in for another, to pull him down onto the couch, to pull off his clothes and-

Mike was snoring.

Pushing aside the inevitable and most unwelcome flashback to their very first encounter, Micky sighed. He wriggled until he was no longer pinned beneath the passed-out musician, then did his best to rearrange Mike's gangly limbs so that they weren't hanging off the couch.

"Sometimes I think you're more trouble than you're worth," Micky grumbled as he brushed Mike's hair out of his face. He thought it a lot, but he never really believed it.

Suddenly, he became aware that someone was holding a blanket up in front of his face.

Icy fear flooded Micky's veins as he turned to look Davy in the eyes. Of course he'd seen everything, he'd been right in the room. How the hell had Micky forgotten that their housemates were still there? How had he gotten so careless? He was really going to get punched in the face this time.

But Davy didn't look like he was on the verge of a homicidal, homophobic rage. Not that Micky really thought Davy was so narrow-minded a person, but he was fairly uncomfortable with the idea of guy-on-guy action, or so Micky had inferred from the few times they'd talked about it. He didn't think Davy was about to try to drown him in holy water or burn him at the stake or anything, but he could definitely see their interactions becoming even more strained.

"Uh..."

"He'll get cold if you just leave him down here," Davy said softly, eyes dark and honest. He was frowning, but not angrily or in disgust. Rather, he looked confused and sad, and Micky looked away.

"Yeah, thanks," he mumbled, taking the blanket and draping it over Mike's limp form. He stood back, rubbing the back of his neck, trying to think of something to say.

Davy beat him to it. "You know he fancies you, yeah?" Micky stared at him, and he shrugged. "Not that he's ever said, but you can kind of tell, y'know?"

Huffing a humorless laugh, Micky crossed his arms. "Doesn't really do me a lot of good."

"Why not?" Davy, bless him, looked nine kinds of uncomfortable, but he pressed on. "I mean, he likes you, you like him - and, yeah, that's not even a question - so what's the problem?"

Micky regarded Davy contemplatively. The small man had never really made any bones about the fact that homosexuality made him uncomfortable. It wasn't even a 'gays are unnatural, ew, burn in hell' kind of uncomfortable. Something about it just made Davy uneasy. It might have bothered or offended Micky more, but Davy was Davy. The guy didn't shy away from his flaws, he accepted them, and if they were harmful, he did his best to change them. It gave Micky and odd sort of respect for him, because Davy was so honest about it, and so earnest in his efforts to change, which couldn't be said for most people.

"Actually, Micky's in love with Mike," Peter piped up from inside the blanket fortress he and Davy had constructed.

Davy's eyebrows shot up until they'd disappeared beneath his hair, and if Micky had been less tipsy, he might have laughed it off or protested. But he was drunk, and sore, and tired, and a bit heartbroken, so instead, he crawled into the blanket fortress and laid down with his head in Peter's lap.

Following him in, Davy tugged their makeshift walls shut and sat crosslegged facing Peter. He propped his chin up on his fist, fingers of his other hand tapping out 'Funny Honey' on his knee.

"So, you're in love with Mike," he murmured, almost to himself.

Micky groaned, covering his face with his hands. "Yeeeessssss. Stupidly, ridiculously, completely in love with the bastard. God, I'm so fucked."

"Or not fucked," Peter said absently, brushing his fingers through Micky's hair, "which is kind of the problem."

Groaning again, Micky turned and wrapped his arms around Peter's waist, pressing his face against his best friend's stomach. "Not helping, Pete," he whined into the blonde's shirt.

"Sorry."

They sat like that for a bit, until Micky had nearly fallen asleep to Peter's comforting petting, when Davy spoke up again.

"Right. Okay. I'll need to hear the whole story if we're gonna work this out."

Micky rolled over, one hand curling around Peter's knee, the other resting under his head, and blinked at his British friend. The man was watching him carefully, hands folded as if in prayer and pressed to his lips. He looked thoughtful, and determined, and for a long moment, Micky was stunned speechless.

"Huh?" was about as articulate a response as he could manage, but Davy seemed to understand.

"Well," he began, shifting a bit, "things can't go on like this. Mike's miserable, you're perhaps even more miserable, and if you two are miserable, it probably won't be long before we're all miserable. I mean, we're not just four strangers who work together, you know? We live together. We're friends," he said with the usual wide-eyed sincerity Micky had come to expect from Davy. "More than that, we're sort of like brothers. At least, that's how I feel," he finished quietly, looking away briefly.

"Yeah," Peter agreed, thumping Micky on the shoulder lightly. "We're like a family, right? A real family that sticks together. So we have to make this right, because I really like having a real family again."

Davy hid his face behind his clenched hands for a moment, but Micky could see the edges of a shaky smile peeking out. He could feel his own face being stretched by a grin, and he pressed his forehead to the hand clasping Peter's knee, his throat tight with emotion.

Peter grasped Micky's shoulder tightly. "Did I say something wrong?"

"No, Pete," Davy said thickly, clearing his throat. "No."

Sighing in relief, Peter brought them back around to the issue at hand. "So." Poking at Micky's shoulder until the brunette looked up at him, he grinned. "What's the story, morning glory?"

"Yeah, the whole thing," Davy added, looking up at them again. "From the beginning."

Micky sighed, staring at the bottom of the kitchen table, and clasped his hands over his stomach.

"Well...it definitely started at this club called Hurricane. It's, uh...it's a club for people who, er..." he glanced at Davy, but the smaller man was already nodding.

"I know the place."

Micky blinked. Davy shrugged. Peter grinned.

"Right," Micky said eventually. "Anyway. I was dancing, up on the platform, when this guy walks in..."

:::

A/N - ::GASP:: I FINISHED IT. chapter was way more involved than it was meant to be. I swear! This was supposed to be a collection of little drabbles about Mike getting handsy with Micky when he's drunk. WHAT HAVE I DONE.
Not sure when the next chapter will be out, but we're closing in on the happy ending...or are we?
Mwahahahaha.
Haha.
Anyway. Since I have such limited internet access for the next week or so, I probably won't get much posted, but I should get a whole lot written! I'm already nearly done with that New Years' ficlet I started on the 31st, and I'm about to start on the third chapter of For What We Could Become.
Welp...hope you enjoyed this train-wreck of emotion! As always, I would love any concrit y'all have to offer.