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There’s things Pete expects when Mikey texts him first, especially since the last days of the tour have been creeping up on them. He’s learned to watch for signs, watch for what Mikey would say next. It started off small. Sometimes it’s how he’s bored, what’s happening on the bus, what Gerard is currently reading. Other times it’s more real, like how he misses Pete whenever he has to do a set, how he feels whenever they have to leave each other for their respective buses after a stop.
He’s pretty familiar with it by now, which is why when it starts it’s unexpected and exciting.
Mikey isn’t watching Fall Out Boy’s set today because he’s hungover, sleeping in Frank’s bunk and wearing one of Pete’s shirts after throwing up on his own yesterday. Pete cleaned him up and picked him off the lounge floor and maneuvered him (with an equally drunk Frank’s help) into whatever bunk was in front of him. Pete kissed Mikey goodbye on the nose because his mouth was too disgusting for a full goodnight kiss.
Pete can feel the adrenaline before each show. It rushes through him when he sees the band before theirs come off. He loves watching the crew work, setting up the instruments and preparing for the next band.
He’s leaning from one foot to the other when his phone buzzes from his back pocket. He picks it up and snaps it open, noticing it is from Mikey, who probably either only just woke up or finally had his first coffee of the day and can process more than one thought at a time. Pete excitedly opens the message, feeling himself grin, when he’s greeted with a photo instead of a text.
He immediately snaps his phone shut.
Patrick, who is standing next to him and preparing to go on stage, tuning his guitar, notices this. Pete awkwardly smiles and turns his back around and goes near a dark spot in the side stage wings, as far away from any visible eyes as possible before slowly opening his phone again.
It’s a picture of Mikey. That statement is true. But it’s not entirely accurate, because while it is a picture of Mikey that doesn’t fully encapsulate what the picture actually is.
It’s a picture of Mikey, the bottom of his face only slightly on screen, his eyes not visible. It’s a photo of his torso, with his shirt—Pete’s shirt—pushed all the way up to his chest. His jeans, the same ones he was wearing yesterday, are unbuttoned and unzipped and pushed down so his boxers are visible. And his hand is inside. His back is clearly arched and he is pushing into his hand, buried deep inside of his grey briefs and touching himself underneath, his dick not visible on the screen. But it’s definitely there.
Pete’s stomach does a backflip and his brain stops working. He looks at the picture intensely, examining every detail as if there’s a hidden message scribbled inside and it might burn into his eyeballs from how close he’s pushed his phone up to his face so that no one else can see his screen.
Fuck. He can feel himself getting hard from just a photo, what the fuck. He’s about to go on stage. His band is literally tuning and waiting to go on. Pete can’t look away from his phone.
Someone calls him over from where he’s lamely standing next to some tapped over cables and audio equipment. Before he can even register what’s happening, Mikey is typing another message.
srry im missing ur set. good luck. Thx for yesterday.
Pete only gets to read the message four times until Patrick says they have to get on stage now. Pete, with sweaty and hot fingers, snaps his phone close and pockets it so hard he thinks it might break. He rubs his oily palms on the side of his jeans.
Now he’s on stage, sporting a semi, thrashing around as hard as he can and attempting not to look Patrick in the eye because Patrick totally noticed how Pete is acting. He collapses on the floor, moving with his bass to the sky and dancing to the rhythm, focusing on the vibrations on the floor and imagining anything but summer skin and hands in jeans.
It’s not like they’ve not had sex before, Pete thinks, letting the notes ring out. They fuck all the time, mainly handjobs and blowjobs behind buses. Sometimes they fuck during hotel nights, face to face, sharing moments that feel like more than a summer relationship. They’ve slept together before, many times, Pete is far from a gay sex virgin now.
This is new. It’s not even that bizarre, just a sexy photo early in the morning. It’s literally eleven in the morning. The sun is up and heating Pete’s face and he feels like he’s on fire in more places than he thinks the sun can reach.
A sexy photo isn’t weird, but it isn’t something they have done before. It’s the kind of thing girlfriends send their boyfriends—not summer flings—the kind of thing that you save into your phone to admire later. Fuck, Pete wants to admire that later. Pete wants to save the photo forever, print it out, engrave the text message Mikey sent at the bottom. He wants the words ‘thx for yesterday’ marked into his skin.
He spins around, trying to distract himself, leaning into Patrick, then hitting Joe with his foot, slamming the neck of his bass into Andy’s cymbals and hitting his knees so hard onto a loudspeaker he thinks he hears a crack.
Stupid Mikey Way and his stupid body. Stupid Mikey Way and his stupid, real feelings. Pete lets himself fall onto his back and points his bass to the sky.
.
When Pete comes back to the bus, Mikey is resting on the couch. My Chemical Romance’s set is in the afternoon, for some reason, and Mikey is thankful but he also doesn’t really feel like ever getting up again. His band isn’t even here. Frank left an hour ago to find this awesome guitar shop he has been raving about all weekend. Gerard and Ray left discreetly to almost definitely go get coffees and hunt obscure comic books in the city and almost definitely buy Mikey a present as a get-well-soon hangover gift. He pretended he didn’t notice them leaving.
Bob left ten minutes ago, saying he actually has something important to do, all mysterious and weird. Whatever, Mikey doesn’t mind the alone time.
Pete walked in exactly ten minutes after Bob left, visibly hard in his jeans and not hiding it at all. Mikey smiles when he sees him enter, because Pete has the code memorized and didn’t even bother texting. It’s like he came running from the stage.
“You’re an asshole.” Pete’s smiling so wide Mikey could probably count all his teeth. He climbs straight onto the couch to straddle him, trapping Mikey underneath him.
“Hmm.” Mikey holds onto Pete’s hips gently. “You didn’t like it?”
“No.” Pete answers, leaning in to kiss Mikey on the lips. They move their mouths against each other gently, holding back. Mikey doesn’t take control of it because he wants to see what happens next, what Pete will do next. He grins into the kiss.
“Mikeyway. You’re evil.” Pete says against his lips. “I couldn’t even play, that's how evil you are. I close my eyes and see you.” Pete is already grinding down against Mikey, incredibly hot and bothered.
The tour is near its end and Mikey still isn't used to this level of honesty. Even the picture itself was a level they hadn’t actually reached yet. They’re not dating. They’re just sleeping together, and everytime Mikey thinks it’s more he has to pull back. The picture isn’t pulling back at all. It’s stepping forward, three steps above the one they’re supposed to be at. Mikey pulls Pete in close, guiding his hips down, pushing up against him.
“Pete.” Mikey whispers when their jeans rub against each other. “Pete.” He says again, for himself, maybe, because even the sound of Pete’s name is enough to calm him down sometimes.
His head is full and empty at the same time. He lets Pete kiss down his neck, push a hand under his shirt, Pete’s shirt on him, and allows for his touch to turn from gentle to desperate. If time could freeze in this second, Mikey would let it happen.
.
The tour ends. It ends so quickly and so suddenly that Pete thinks he dreamed it all and woke up back in his bedroom in Chicago.
The last few days were all blurry, really. It was all sound checks and erratic sets and kisses shared in bunks and hands touching below the belt in places that Pete thinks he will remember for a lifetime.
On the last hotel night, in New York, the day before they finish off in Jersey, Pete attempted to memorize every part of Mikey like a photo. His cheeks, his jaw, his neck, his hips, thighs and chest. He kissed him as hard as he could, feeling them like a camera film burn, trying to absorb all of Mikey’s taste onto his own lips.
They spend the entire afternoon there, not checking a single message, just staying in each other's presence. When Mikey finally pushed into Pete, after weeks of no hotels and too much time spent apart, Pete’s body felt like it ached from how much it missed the feeling of Mikey. It was devastating, watching Mikey’s face twist, going from pleasure to sadness in a matter of seconds. It felt like a memory, not like an action happening in real time.
Pete can’t remember New Jersey. He remembers the night before minute by minute, but he can't remember Jersey. He remembers touches on his arm, hugs goodbye, and a kiss. A kiss that tasted like a promise.
He remembers how heavy his shoes felt when he climbed into the bus, how his eyes burnt when he saw the band he’d grown to know wave goodbye from across the parking lot, how Mikey’s face held back a million and one expressions inside despite him not displaying a single one. Pete could read them all. He knows those by heart.
Pete’s back in the bunk of his disgusting tour bus, on route to Chicago, listening to Patrick who’s in his bunk composing something on his laptop based on a scribble Pete handed him last week. His phone buzzes but he can’t check it because his body feels heavy and moving feels like a level of effort he doesn’t have.
It buzzes again and Pete can’t ignore it any longer because he knows Patrick will point it out the second it gives a third buzz. He reaches for where he threw his phone at the end of the bunk and pulls it up to his face, flipping it open to read the message.
It’s a text from Mikey. It’s the first text from Mikey since New Jersey. It’s only been nine hours, he’s almost home. It’s his first text from Mikey where he’s too far to walk to his bus instead of replying.
Pete doesn’t want to open it. He thinks he should save it as some digital memorabilia that will be stuck in his phone forever, but that won’t work. He thumbs his phone slowly, clicking anywhere but Mikey’s name before it gets too much and he reluctantly goes to read the text.
It’s another photo. It’s in a bathroom, cluttered with a straightener and hairbrush in the sink, makeup palettes and brushes lining the counter, a few bottles off the side next to the mirror. The photo is dark, the camera flash blinding most of the background contents. It’s a photo of Mikey in what seems to be his family home’s bathroom in Jersey. He’s wearing one of Pete’s shirts, the clandestine shirt, the one he gave him on the second day of tour. His hand is firmly resting on his stomach and his face is obscured by the camera flash. He looks like a memory.
Miss you, is what the text under the photo says. Pete’s heart hurts.
He stares at the photo while Patrick hums something in the background, muffled by Pete’s bunk’s curtain. He examines every inch of the frame, all the useless shit in the sink, what small details he can see of the bathroom, the door closed behind him, a shelf next to it. He looks at Mikey’s body, first his shirt, tight on his skin, then his jeans, low on his hips. Pete thinks he can see the band of his underwear climbing up them. He bites his lip.
He can’t type, his fingers sweaty. He has half a thought to just click the call button, what he’d do when Mikey would text saying he’s bored. They had sex over the phone, once, and it was weird and exciting and intimate. Pete called him first, but Mikey was the one who answered, who instigated it. But Pete can’t call now, because there’s miles between them that feel like years away. He can’t call because of the possibility of Mikey not picking up, which is too scary and too much to even think about.
Pete focuses his eyes on Mikey’s hand resting on his stomach. It’s above the place where Pete’s tattoo is, a place Mikey is beyond familiar with, a place of worship. He’d run his tongue on it, tasting the salt, biting a ring around the wings, vampire-like. Pete would wear his smallest shirts and his lowest waisted jeans on those days. The heart still has traces of New York on it, a bruise Mikey burned with his mouth. Pete pokes it with his thumb, feeling the pain, making himself remember.
Pete places his hand in the same place Mikey has his hand placed in the photo. He touches it, gently tracing the fabric of his shirt over it. He pushes the shirt up slightly and lays as far down on the bed as he can before thumbing open the button on his jeans. He only pushes his boxers as low as he can make the tattoo visible without taking his pants off. He puts his hand just above it.
He snaps a photo of himself, awkward and close up on his tattoo, but you could tell from the photo his jeans are pushed down. The phone camera makes a clicking noise and he tries to silence it with his open hand to no avail. Patrick doesn’t seem to care, though, either too engrossed in his music or too focused to hear.
Pete checks the photo once, twice, before sending it to Mikey. He types, shaking, miss you too, before clicking send and shutting off his phone, throwing it back at the bottom of the bunk and snapping his eyes shut.
Patrick’s voice singing lullabies of his own love songs put him to sleep, only a few hours away from Chicago.
When Pete wakes up, Mikey still hasn’t answered. Pete doesn’t think he needs a reply to be able to tell what it means.
.
The three hours before boarding his flight to Europe, Mikey spends half wishing he was drunk and half wishing he was high. Gerard is sketching something, a character that bizarrely resembles him, except he’s got this crazy red hair he’s using a sharpie to color in. Frank and Bob are asleep, resting against each other. Ray has his headphones on, listening to his own CD on Mikey’s discman after he pulled out Mikey’s Take This To Your Grave demo from inside of it, the only disc he is bringing to Europe.
His glasses are digging into him from how hard he’s been scrubbing at his eyes every few minutes, attempting to get rid of any emotion left behind them. Fuck this, fuck being sober and fuck Europe. He thinks he’s going crazy.
Gerard turns and asks if Mikey would like a coffee when Mikey’s phone buzzes in his coat pocket. He digs for it before telling Gerard he can just get one himself, then opens his phone to see one new message from one Pete Wentz.
Mikey doesn’t open it, he can’t, not here, not when they might be boarding soon and Pete is so far away.
“I’ll be back,” he says to Gerard, getting up while Gerard calls after him to bring him a coffee too.
But Mikey dodges past the shitty airport cafe and goes into the bathroom next to the smoking rooms.
Once inside, the door snaps shut and he double checks its closed before leaning against it, hard, opening his phone back up after gripping it in his pocket so tightly he could feel his hand getting sore.
It’s a video. There’s no other message. It’s a video, a video Pete sent him, a video from Pete. Mikey shakes against the door, thankful he chose the male handicap bathroom to run into. Whatever, if someone walks in, he’ll just say everything else was closed. He can’t fucking see. His glasses are fogging up from how hard he was breathing against the collar of his buttoned up coat.
He turns the volume up before he opens it, decently high, but not high enough so that anyone outside could hear. He presses the phone as close as he can to his face before clicking play.
When it plays, the video opens with a shot of Pete’s lower body. He’s laying down in a bed with light blue sheets, his feet hitting the end of it. He doesn’t have a shirt on and his pants are pulled down, just low enough so his tattoo and boxers are visible and he has his hand resting on his thigh. Fuck, Mikey can’t fucking breathe. He watches as video Pete rubs his hand up and down his hips, just like Mikey likes to do. He watches as Pete cups himself through his boxers, letting out a sharp gasp, feeling himself through the fabric.
Mikey watches as video Pete teases himself through his boxers, using every part of his hand to touch himself over the fabric. There’s a wet spot building up. Mikey inhales deeply when Pete’s fingers move up and down, then back up and slide underneath his briefs. He holds his breath as Pete begins to touch, his dick visible through where he shoved his hand in. He exhales as Pete lets out a moan, his hands sliding against his cock, quickly growing harder.
The video cuts there. Mikey can’t fucking think. He has to wait a full minute before he presses replay, because that cut so abruptly and wasn’t anywhere near enough. He watches it again, this time paying attention to the details. Pete’s letting out gasps from behind the phone, low and private for Mikey’s ears. They echo in the closed stall. He’s moaning, quiet, something that sounds like Mikey’s name. He looks at Pete’s tattoos, at the wet spot on his boxers. Mikey’s legs shake as he holds himself up trying to watch the video for a third time.
He can only watch it twice before a text from Gerard comes through asking Mikey to come back to the gate because the flight boards in fifteen minutes. Mikey thinks he’s going to pass out from how hard he is if he opens the bathroom door.
There’s no fucking time and he has no idea what to type in return. He bites the inside of his cheek, scrubs his eyes again and attempts to pull himself together by splashing cold water on his face in the tiny sink. His coat is long enough that it covers Pete’s actions.
He washes his hands and goes to the cafe, getting something for Gerard only and returning to the gate empty handed.
“You didn’t get one?” Gerard asks when Mikey sits back down in the chair next to him, fiddling and looking for his passport and attempting to look like a normal person.
“No.” he mumbles. “I’ll just get one on the plane.”
.
Pete doesn’t normally know when too much is too much. And because of this, the messages don’t stop.
He gets shameless. He will send Mikey a photo of him in whatever disgusting venue bathroom they’re playing at that night, hand tracing his tattoos or buried in his jeans. Mikey always sends something back, even if it’s just a text, even if it’s small. Sometimes it’s not explicit, just a photo of him and Gerard in front of an art museum or a photo of the opener before their shows. Sometimes it’s just what he had for lunch. Most of the time, however, it’s a photo Pete burns into the metaphorical film camera that lives inside his head.
He traces every detail of Mikey in each photo. The one he sent in Berlin, palming himself through his jeans like Pete did in the video he sent before he left on tour. One of the inside of his thigh, his hand pinching himself and turning the skin pink. Another, the lower half of his face, his fingers inside his mouth, red and wet.
Pete feels insane. He can’t stop sending pictures. Most times they don’t even communicate for days, don’t check in on each other and how the tour is, just send each other whatever freaky nude position they’ve come up with next. Pete has the idea of just sending a full flash photo of his dick and Mikey responds with a less than three heart emoticon. It should not have made Pete feel anything, but it made him shudder from just seeing the response.
It gets dangerous, too. It starts happening at award shows, where Pete has to talk to important people, executives and producers and models. He feels his phone vibrate in his pocket when shaking a beautiful model's hand and he already knows it's Mikey before he even checks it. He’s in the bathroom for longer than he needs to be at every possible celebrity meet and greet he attends.
Likewise, the same is certainly true for Mikey. Pete starts planning his photos, deliberately sending them before a show he knows will be recorded. He watches live journal uploads of shitty camera footage some teenager recorded of stage right, where Pete just knows Mikey is hard in his jeans based on the positioning of his bass, the way he moves.
Mikey mirrors Pete on stage when he sends the photos, getting into a set more than usual, like he’s prodding for a reaction. And Pete always gives him one, because Mikey will fucking crush a show, look so fucking good on stage, and Pete can’t do anything except send him a video of him fingering himself to show what effect he had on him.
One night, when Pete is in a hotel room he doesn’t have to share because he’s a fucking celebrity now and his song is on the radio, Mikey calls him. Pete’s phone drops from his hand when he sees the contact who is calling. He doesn’t let it ring any longer.
When he answers, there’s a moan coming from the other line that sounds like summer. Pete can’t even process what he’s listening to before he hears his own name.
“Pete.” Mikey says through the line. “Pete, Pete.” He repeats, for himself, it sounds like. But it’s definitely for Pete too.
“Mikey.” He responds, struggling to keep himself together. He feels his entire body get hot as he lowers himself on the insanely expensive hotel mattress and begins to strip off his jeans right away.
There's too many hours between them again. The telephone line connecting them feels like mile long heart strings. Pete is panting already and his hand isn’t even touching himself yet.
Mikey gasps into the phone and Pete tries to picture what he’s doing right now, what position he is in, where he’s standing, when it hits him that this is the first call they’ve had in almost a year and starts to breathe heavily at the thought. He realizes he's on the phone with Mikey Way, hearing Mikey Way jerk off, because Mikey Way called him while jerking off. Mikey wanted to hear his voice while he’s jerking off.
“I wish I was there right now.” Pete whispers, and means it. It’s not just sex talk, it's real. He needs Mikey to know this is real.
“I want…” Mikey starts, but it's muffled by something. Pete waits but Mikey keeps gasping on the phone.
Pete starts touching himself in rhythm to his breathing. “I wish I was touching you.” He says, louder this time, just so Mikey knows he means it. “I wish I was with you, I wish you were in me.”
Mikey moans again. Pete doesn’t think Mikey used to moan this much. Whenever they’d have sex he’d let out these quiet, private breaths that seemed to be reserved only for Pete. His guess was that Mikey was used to jerking off discreetly.
He’s loud, now, over the phone. “I miss your body.” He says, honestly. “I miss you.”
“Yeah, yeah— Mikey—”
“Shit, Pete—“
There’s another muffled noise on the line and then another gasp, this time quiet and familiar to Pete. He speeds up his own movements on his cock, trying to catch up as quickly as he can to Mikey’s orgasm. He hears Mikey whisper something like a come on, or maybe a yeah when he whimpers and releases into his fist.
He takes several moments to calm down, breathing in and out roughly, his hair all over his face and his other hand gripping the phone against his ear. He can hear Mikey breathe too, probably in the exact same manner.
When he comes down from his high, Pete swallows.
“Hi.” He says lamely on the phone.
There's a few more breaths before Mikey replies.
“Hi.”
Pete isn’t actually sure what to say beyond that. They really have not spoken on the phone at all. They barely communicate in the first place, just texting back and forth incriminating horny pictures and videos at every possible chance they get, in a constant competition of who can tease the other harder, who can make the other break first. If calling was what they were betting on, it would be Mikey who broke. If continuing to fall for the bait after one photo was the bet, Pete broke a long before he did.
“What’s— How—?” Pete doesn’t know what he’s supposed to say at all. He’s still breathing irregularly.
“I’m… good. Really good.” Mikey responds, which isn’t really what Pete was going for.
“Good.” He smiles despite himself. “That’s good.”
“You?”
“Me? Yeah, I’m well.”
“How was your… that event you had…?” There’s more muffling on the line, Mikey’s voice getting a little far away. Pete imagines him reaching to his night stand, maybe for his glasses.
“Oh. Good.” Pete doesn’t know what event Mikey’s talking about. He must have been too turned on to remember. The last photo Mikey took was insane, his head thrown back, a photo taken right up in front of a mirror, his hands glossy with lube. Pete will probably die with that image still in his head.
“Yeah? You’re well?”
“Yeah.”
“Pete, listen—“
“Mikey—“ they say at the same time, slightly delayed by the distance between them.
“You go first.” Mikey says after a pause.
Pete breathes through his nose, hard. “You’re so… I just think…” his thoughts are jumbled up and his face is a mess. His hand is still sticky and he starts to feel uncomfortable where he’s laying in bed. He turns on his side, wishing he had a telephone cord to play with right now, to distract him from how real it feels.
It feels like they’re dating again. It feels like too much. It feels like the kind of thing girlfriends whisper to their boyfriends at night while distances away from each other, missing each other, wishing they were near each other.
“When’s your next show?” Pete asks instead of what he was planning on saying, forgetting the made up speech he was crafting while his hand was on his dick.
Mikey doesn’t respond, trying to think, maybe.
“Next week. Something… I don’t know, a hometown show. Frankie was homesick.”
“Okay.” Pete pauses. “Any room for VIP guests?” He risks his luck. They haven’t seen each other since summer. They haven’t called once. The thing that started small built up so quick it’s the only thing they text about now, but Pete wants more. He wants it to be real.
He brushes his bangs to the side, letting the sweat run while waiting for an answer. Mikey either has nothing in his brain or everything all at once. Pete tries to guess which one is happening for him right now.
“Depends.” Mikey responds after a while. “I need the guest's name.”
“Pete Wentz.”
Mikey takes in a sharp breath. Maybe Mikey wasn’t sure Pete was serious, but he is. He was serious from the moment he picked up the phone.
“Yeah. I think I can make room.”
Pete smiles against the phone, rolling on the other side of the bed. He puts all his feelings and honesty into his reply.
“Good. I miss you.”
The second pause is shorter, and Pete can hear Mikey’s smile when he responds.
“I miss you too.”
.
The show is amazing, shockingly. Mikey wasn’t expecting it to turn out so good, fully feeling the nerves crawl on his skin and bite venom into him. His playing is frantic and scattered and a little out of time for a bassist. He can’t focus. His eyes keep panning around the room, also unusual for him, combing the crowd and picking out various kids with long side fringes and dyed red tips on their hair. At some point he makes eye contact with a girl in a Fall Out Boy shirt and he has to spin the other way towards Ray just to pull himself together.
Gerard makes him lean back to back with him, knowing something is up. Mikey thinks Frank knows it too, because he spends longer than he should circling around him on stage, all up in his personal space.
Whatever, it’s whatever. Mikey doesn’t even see him. His eyes keep finding copies, but not the real deal. He needs to know that this is real.
When they come off the stage, just before the encore, a body wraps around him, hands finding his waist, pushing himself against his back. Mikey can’t see who hugs him from behind, but he can feel him. He just knows him.
They’re still surrounded by everyone, but the band either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care, fixing up their various instruments and talking with the tech team. Mikey’s bass is still in front of him, not allowing him to turn around. Pete doesn’t let him turn either, just keeps him in place, facing forward, while leaning his forehead into the back of his neck.
Pete’s hands hold him tight. Mikey leans against him, feeling his heartbeat. They match.
“Stage left.” Pete says against his ear, brushing it with his nose. Mikey’s losing his mind. He can’t even think of a cool and smooth response to give out before the warmth of Pete’s body against him disappears, leaving Mikey still and standing in place like a deer in between headlights.
He turns around, finding Pete’s shoes just exiting out through a side stage door Mikey didn’t even notice is there. He’s being issued on stage before he can even think of an appropriate way to react.
They haven’t actually seen each other in months, Mikey recalls as Frank puts a hand on his back, pushing him towards the stairs going up to the stage. The last time they saw each other was goodbye, Mikey thinks as he tightens his bass strap. It’s supposed to be over, Mikey thinks, as the lights come back up.
It was supposed to be goodbye. He should have never sent that photo, he should have never called, he should jump into the crowd and let it kill him.
His eyes dart towards stage left, what Pete whispered. It’s dark, it’s blurry, but he is there. He’s there, a wide smile pressed into his lips. He looks nothing like those thousands of kids in the audience. He looks and feels like the real deal.
Mikey pictures summer. He pictures the frets on the bass as Pete, pushing into him and holding him tight around the neck. He plucks them like he and Pete plucked reactions out of each other, listening as the bass thump like the sound of laughter in the sun.
Pete is watching his every move. Mikey can feel his face get hot, moving his head in time with the rhythm and away from Pete. He can’t help it, every time he looks, he remembers more.
It was his idea to call first anyway. He didn’t think Pete would pick up, he just wanted to look at his contact, feel the buzz in his ears. It’s Pete’s fault anyway for starting it, for replying to the pictures, for one upping Mikey with each new video of himself in whatever position Mikey thought would never leave his imagination.
This wasn’t meant to happen. The photo was meant to be one last goodbye, not an invitation for more. But Mikey can’t help himself and neither can Pete, both addicts to whatever thing will bring them that high, and he guesses it somehow ended up being each other.
And fuck, Mikey can’t stop thinking about Pete, how he looks, his touch and his body. He lets the notes ring through Helena, desperately trying to focus but every time he looks up he sees Pete’s face in the kids in the crowd and remembers Pete is actually there. He can see him.
They lock eyes and Mikey needs to get off stage now or he might pass out. He wishes the venue ceiling would collapse and everyone would die so he wouldn’t have to be here.
The song ends and Gerard thanks the crowd, blows a kiss and the rest of the band follows him off stage. He pets Mikey’s back as they get off. Mikey knows Gerard noticed and will clearly want to talk to him later. He just doesn’t know how late it’s going to be, depending on how this goes.
It’s hot backstage, or maybe Mikey just feels a rise in temperature whenever he is near Pete. He hands his bass to a crew member and talks with his band. Talk is a bit of an overstatement, he’s practically incoherent.
”You could just go.” Ray whispers, giving Mikey a hug like he normally does after a good set. “I saw him stage left, he probably is still around there.”
Mikey hugs back tight before leaning away, absconding towards the other side of the backstage area, opposite the direction of the green room the band’s shit is in. He doesn’t turn back to see if Gerard notices but he totally hears Frank and Bob not so subtly whisper to each other about where Mikey could possibly be headed.
He rummages the area with his eyes before he spots Pete sitting on an unplugged amp and some microphone stands. He’s twiddling his thumbs like he does when he’s impatient. Mikey runs to him like the sunlight.
Pete hops off the amp so they meet in the middle. They’re in such a rush to meet face to face that when they actually get there, he isn’t sure what to do. He doesn’t know what to say. This is a reunion, but they aren’t together. This is a reunion, but they aren’t dating. This is a reunion and there’s something in the air Mikey can feel looming over them but he still doesn’t feel ready to say. He just looks at Pete for a moment, noticing the dye fading out from his hair, the hoodie he has on, his bright red shoes. He looks like a memory.
“Hi, Mikeyway.” Pete’s smile is nervous. God. Mikey missed that smile.
“Hi.” Mikey mumbles. “Pete. Hi.”
Pete leans in and hugs him. For real this time, warm and close, pressing himself against his body. Mikey hugs back, because he wants to and also because this is a reunion and he missed Pete. He runs his hand on Pete’s back, pushing his head against his hair. Pete shudders, or tries to suppress a shudder, but Mikey feels it against him. He lets his hand hold onto Pete’s hips and Pete slides his own around Mikey’s neck, pulling him close.
They hold it as long as they can before it’s clear that the techs are getting sick of whatever is happening between them and need to clear the stage. When Mikey pulls back, Pete chases after him, not letting go. It causes Mikey to awkwardly step backwards while holding onto Pete’s hips and accidently hit a wall, letting Pete indirectly pin him against it. Pete lowers his hands from Mikey’s neck and pulls back to analyse him, looking deeply into his eyes.
“Mikeyway.” He’s still smiling. “Amazing show. Thanks for the invite.”
Mikey doesn’t correct him on the fact that Pete is the one who invited himself to come see it. He just smiles back.
“You’re welcome.” He says, grinning crookedly, not holding back his glee. He must look so stupid, all sweaty and nervous.
“I was thinking about you on the plane here.” Pete leans his head against Mikey’s neck, muffling the words. He nuzzles into him like a dog pushes up into a pet.
Mikey holds him tighter. ”Yeah?”
“Mhm.”
“What about me were you thinking about?” Mikey pushes.
Pete doesn’t respond. They stay in this position for a full minute, waiting for a reply that doesn’t come. Mikey pinches Pete’s hip with his hands to which Pete responds with a sharp inhale through his mouth. Okay. Mikey assumed this wasn’t going to happen, because he isn’t an optimist and didn’t previously believe in romantic reunions. His mind changed when Pete picked up the phone.
Pete pushes his hips up into Mikey. They’re literally in public. Mikey can absolutely see a mic tech on stage picking up a stand to move into their direction. Pete doesn’t move, does not seem alarmed by what’s happening at all, and for some reason, it’s turning Mikey the fuck on.
Mikey can’t take it, he grabs onto Pete’s hands from where he was cornering him against the wall and drags him outside of the stage left area and into the backstage grounds. Pete’s head must be catching up very slowly because they stumble when they get to a door covered in stickers and graffiti, Mikey having to push it open with his elbow to get into the bathroom without letting go of Pete.
Once inside, he opens what looks to be the biggest stall and pushes Pete inside, closing the door behind him and shoving Pete against it, hard. Pete grunts against it but doesn’t protest, letting Mikey do whatever. Fuck romantic, gentle reunions, Mikey needs to feel something real.
When Mikey leans in to kiss Pete their lips find each other like puzzle pieces. They fit into each other, moving slowly and taking their time to remember what the other tasted like. Mikey can taste the last drink Pete had on his lips, something non alcoholic and sweet. He’s sure Pete can taste the nervous cigarettes Mikey chain smoked before the show, breathing them all in one by one. Mikey pushes his tongue inside Pete’s mouth and licks his teeth, tasting his insides. Pete fists his hands into Mikey’s back and drags him closer, feeling him close, pushing their hips together and trying to move into him again.
Mikey opens his mouth, kissing wet and rough and frantic. It’s like they’re making up for lost time. His head feels so fucking good whe he’s kissing Pete he almost forgot why summer felt eternal. Pete just calms him down. Pete just gets it, especially when his tongue is down his throat. Mikey’s head never feels clearer than when he gets to feel Pete up, than when he gets to drag every sound he can out of Pete, all his pleas and whimpers.
“Mikey.” Pete moans. Mikey ruts his hips into his to feel the friction between them. Their jeans rub against each other with every gasp they make.
“Fuck.” Mikey sighs.
”Mikey, Mikey.” Pete keeps repeating. Mikey leans down to kiss his neck, just like that night in New York City. He bites hard, making Pete remember it too. Pete squirms above him, scratching at his back. Mikey pushes his hips into Pete so hard he thinks the door could come off its hinges.
Pete latches onto his freshly cut hair and pushes his head back up to his mouth, kissing him senseless. They’re barely breathing at this point, all the excitement and feelings put into the kiss. Mikey tries to put in every emotion he’s experiencing in the way he licks Pete’s lips. He doesn’t dare open his eyes just in case Pete might disappear from under him.
When Mikey’s thigh finds itself in between Pete’s legs, he pushes it up slowly and carefully. Pete’s head hits the back of the door while they’re kissing, moaning from pleasure. Mikey forgot this. He forgot how good it feels to get Pete off, how it makes his own insides turn when he gets to watch Pete become desperate from pleasure. Pete grinds down against his thigh and Mikey lets him open his eyes to watch him do it, watch him get off. It’s better than the pictures. It makes him think of a video Pete sent two months ago, taken as he woke up, of him humping a pillow. Mikey jerked off to that for days on end, wishing he could’ve seen Pete’s face. He’s looking at it now and it’s infinitely better than he imagined.
Pete stops abruptly. “Mikey, Mikey, come here.” He mumbles, hands grabbing at Mikey’s shoulders and pushing him so that he is the one against a wall inside the bathroom stall. Pete’s hands find his face, cupping his cheeks and kissing him sweetly. Mikey can feel all the emotions behind it.
Pete kisses him down his jaw, then down his neck, pressing love bites into his skin and reaching Mikey’s visible collarbone. He feels Mikey up and down with his hands, touching and memorising, before he lowers down to his knees as Mikey watches.
Pete looks up pleading as his hands hold the front of Mikey’s thighs. His eyelashes bat, asking for permission. Mikey is nodding before he processes what’s about to happen. Pete’s hands work on undoing his belt the same way they’ve always done, familiar and ready.
Mikey really thinks they need to talk. But talking really isn’t his strong suit nor is it an activity he likes. But it’s not exactly like him and Pete have done any form of communication other than the various compromising pictures sent between each other. He needs to say something. He really should say something. He watches as Pete lowers his jeans, pulls on his boxers. He’s definitely preparing to say something but Pete catches the tip of his cock in his mouth before he can get a word in.
“Pete.” Mikey moans from above him. That’s talking, right? Pete closes his eyes in this really beautiful way and lets himself get lost in the action, his hands grazing Mikey’s skin. Mikey hasn’t gotten a blowjob in months, his last one being from Pete, in a merch tent, during the last few days of the tour. Pete had said, let me do this, please, let me and lowered to his knees. Mikey wasn’t expecting it, was not really prepared for it either, because the entire scene felt way too romantic for a summer hook up. Seeing Pete right now, down on his knees again and his mouth on Mikey’s cock, it’s more romantic than summer ever was.
Pete’s messy under him, slow, his mouth sucking Mikey’s cock gently. Mikey is desperate, he can’t focus on how good it feels. He takes Pete’s hair in his hands and holds him, pushing his head up, asking for a request of his own. Pete doesn’t nod, just lowers his mouth so he’s taking all of Mikey’s cock, how he knows Mikey likes it. Mikey twists his fingers in Pete’s hair and holds him, moves him so Pete can find a comfortable rhythm, moving his head and swallowing around him. Mikey watches him tear up, his eyeliner smudging, letting it run down his cheeks.
Pete moans around him and the vibrations send Mikey arching forward, thrusting into Pete’s mouth. He looks down again, verifying that it’s okay, that Pete is fine, but Pete looks so blissed out he doesn’t even notice. Mikey pushes into him again and this time Pete makes a puppy-like whine in response.
Mikey holds onto Pete’s hair while slowly fucking his mouth. “I think about this all the time, fuck.” He gasps. “Pete. I need you, you’re so fucking good for me.” Pete sighs, letting Mikey use him however he wants. His eyes are smudged black.
Pete gags around his mouth when Mikey pushes a little too hard. Mikey instantly lets go of his hair and lets him pull off, watching him breathe deep breaths. In the summer, Pete would always be so enthusiastic to get Mikey off that he would gag the second he tried to deep throat his cock. Mikey didn’t really receive that many blowjobs, mainly just because he liked giving them more and in the early days of tour Pete was too shy and too freaked out to do anything below the belt. He grew out of it quickly, though, after a very romantic night they spent together under the sunset followed by a very romantic Fourth of July. Mikey really should’ve seen when they crossed the barrier between hookup to dating earlier.
They aren’t dating, they really aren’t and they really weren’t, Mikey recalls as he sees Pete catch his breath. He forgets what he was even thinking about when Pete opens his eyes to look up to Mikey, all smudged and gentle, all loving. God, fuck, Mikey really didn’t even consider Pete. His head is still in the pink and orange hues above him.
“I’m sorry.” Mikey says above him. “I’m sorry, Pete.”
He means it about the fucking of Pete’s mouth, but it really sounds more like a confession.
“’m sorry.” He says again, going to wipe the drool away from Pete’s mouth. Pete leans into the touch but doesn’t say anything. Mikey leans down and cleans Pete’s mouth properly with his shirt sleeve, holding onto his face.
“It’s okay.” Pete’s throat sounds all kinds of fucked up. It makes Mikey hurt more.
“It’s really not.” He pulls his hand back. “This is…”
“Hey, Mikey.” Pete gets up on one knee, trying to hold himself up but falling back down, his feet clearly too weak. Mikey tries to help him come up but feels Pete’s weight pull him back down. Pete stays on one knee in front of Mikey, his hands touching his sides again, Mikey’s dick still in front of him.
“Mikey, it’s fine. I liked it.” Pete says, not realising what Mikey actually meant.
“Pete, I meant… It’s not fine. I’m fucked up. This isn’t…” He trails off.
“I’m fucked up too.”
Mikey knows that. Why is it so hard being honest right now? Five minutes ago he was so turned on he was gonna explode in his pants and now he feels more naked than he ever has in his life.
“Help me up.” Pete says when Mikey squirms instead of giving a response. He grabs onto Pete’s hands and helps him, pulling him towards him and letting Pete lean against him once he’s on his feet. Mikey instinctually wraps his hands around his back, a habit of the past that he won’t let go of. Pete burrows his head into Mikey’s neck and holds onto his hips, Mikey’s still naked dick pushed between them.
“Um.” Pete whispers, genuinely whispers, nervous. Mikey just had his dick down his throat and now Pete is whispering in his neck like a lover. He closes his eyes, letting Pete talk.
“I have a hotel. It’s uh, like a short walk away from here. We could, I don’t know.” Pete muses. “We could catch up, and stuff. Maybe go out for breakfast in the morning?”
It’s a line. A really obvious one, too. During New York City Mikey remembers Pete asked him if he wanted to grab breakfast in the morning, the same morning that would be their final morning spent together. Mikey had said no, afraid. He wasn’t ready.
“Sure, yeah.” He responds, his hands going to pull his boxers up, shivering. “Sounds nice.”
.
Pete is sweating as they walk down the road. It’s fucking dark as shit and his phone is dead and his anxiety has never been higher and Mikeyway is walking right next to him, eyes glued to the pavement, and hard in his jeans.
Pete had to stand very awkwardly backstage while hard-in-his-jeans Mikey had to tell his band he was leaving with Pete for the night. Pete is incredibly thankful and lucky that the band didn’t question it, just told Mikey to be safe. He really isn't sure how to interpret that, what they meant, if they know of Pete and Mikey’s situation beyond summer.
Maybe Mikey told someone about the photos. Pete really hopes he didn’t, though. He couldn’t even tell Patrick. He wanted this to be secret between them, even if it was breaking the boundary of friendship beyond the already broken boundary of hooking up in the summer.
His jaw is sore and his knees hurt. Mikey still hasn’t looked up from where he’s walking, mindlessly following Pete. Pete could straight up be leading him to a slaughter house and he wouldn’t even question it. He’s obviously not doing that, though.
The last time they were in a hotel room together was New York. Fuck. Pete’s heart beats faster from just the thought.
“Are you okay?” Mikey suddenly asks. His eyes haven’t left the ground.
“Kinda.”
“What do you mean? Did I…” Mikey frowns.
“I just mean my knees hurt.” Pete clarifies.
“Oh.”
This is going so well. Pete thinks a car might crash into them on the sidewalk from just how infuriating they are when talking to each other.
“I mean are you okay, like, right now. How was your flight?”
Are they seriously about to have chit chat after the most earth shattering reunion bathroom blowjob Pete just gave? Sure. Pete will play, see how long Mikey can take it. Communication has to begin somehow, he guesses. He knows how to handle this.
“Fine, boring.” He kicks a stone on the sidewalk. “I spent most of it in the bathroom.”
Mikey finally looks up. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. Had a lot to think about.”
He’s quiet again, trying to think or something. He’s cute when he does that.
“Cool.” He replies.
“Hey, we’re almost there.”
“Cool.”
Pete winces a little from whiplash. He remembers this being easy, how conversations between them would feel eternal. Before photos and before texts they’d not even have to message each other to know one needed the other. Pete sent Mikey a text once, in July, saying he can’t think and he wants to disappear. Mikey showed up on the bus with a box of cereal and shitty, melted popsicles and spent the entire day with him, talking about comics and art and movies and music. They could talk without sex needing to be on the table, back when they had something, when they were together.
Pete doesn’t know where to even start from. He doesn’t know where they’re going or what their destination really is. They get to the front of the hotel and he suddenly freezes and doesn’t know what to say or where to go.
“Fuck.” He says, out loud. “Fuck, Mikey.”
“What’s wrong? Pete, what is it?”
“What the fuck are we doing?” Is the best way of phrasing what Pete means.
Mikey blinks slowly. “Um.” He looks at the hotel entrance. “Catching up?”
“In general. What the fuck is happening between us?” There’s a few women getting out of a car next to them, dragging their luggage while Pete looks at Mikey like he's miles away again instead of standing in front of him. They buzz in between them but the connection isn’t lost. Mikey is staring like he’s trying to form a single thought.
“I don’t… I really don’t know.” He says, honest. Pete puts his hands to his face and rubs at his eyes. His fucking eyeliner is everywhere, all over his face, a result of Mikey’s doing.
“I don’t know, Pete.” He says again. Pete can’t see his face, but sees his feet come up close to him. Mikey pulls his hands away from his face gently and lowers them. When Pete opens his eyes he sees his face, small and vulnerable and looking all over him with worry and confusion and fear. He’s scared too.
“Can we go to your room, maybe?” Mikey looks back to the entrance.
Pete nods. “Okay. Yeah. My keys— let me just.” He struggles to pull them out of his jacket pocket. Mikey holds his hand and pushes inside the pocket with him, feeling for them and taking them out. He grabs Pete’s hand after that, holding it close.
They walk into the hotel holding hands. They take the elevator holding hands. They walk through a hallway filled with rooms holding hands. It’s scary, it’s terrifying and it feels real, like a real relationship. It feels like the kind of things boyfriends do for their girlfriends when they’re anxious.
Mikey lets Pete guide him to the room but opens the door himself, pressing the keys to it and pushing the door open. He turns the light on and lets Pete walk in before closing the door behind him and suddenly it's Mikey and Pete, alone, in a hotel room. It all feels very real.
Mikey lets the keys rest somewhere while Pete is organizing his thoughts into categories of what-just-happened and what-might-happen-next. Mikey clearly has other plans, because he sits down on the edge of the bed awkwardly with his knees pressed inwards and face twisted into an expression Pete doesn't know. Pete knows all of Mikey’s expressions but he doesn't know this one.
Pete sits down next to him, waiting for something to happen. Mikey puts a hand over his and stares back to the floor.
“I got too excited.” Mikey says quietly. “I was so ready to see you. To be near you again. I, uh, am not used to this. To just say what I want.”
“I’m not either. I don’t really know what I want.”
“I don’t either.” His hand squeezes over Pete’s. “I’m fucking scared, Pete. I don’t know what’s happening between us.”
Pete remains quiet. He listens to Mikey breathe unevenly and terrified next to him. He sounds like summer.
“Can I kiss you again?” Pete asks instead of answering. He’s better with words than Mikey is, but he can’t talk yet. He can’t quite calm down.
Mikey nods and turns to face Pete. He leans in first, gentle and sweet. They find each other and it’s like nothing even happened between them again. Pete’s mind immediately calms down when he opens his mouth and Mikey’s tongue slides in. He puts his arms on his shoulders to try and get Mikey to stay closer, be closer to him, but Mikey pulls away. His hands find his hips, though, pushing under his hoodie with his fingers, cold against Pete’s skin.
“I missed you.” Mikey says. He goes back in to kiss Pete. “I missed you so fucking much.” He mumbles against his lips. Pete wraps his hands around his neck and pushes him close, giving him wet, slow kisses that taste like forever. He doesn't ever want to move. He wants to stay in this moment as long as he can, but he knows things aren’t right just yet. Maybe they’re on the path there, though, if they could both push each other in the right spot.
“Mikey.” Pete whispers in Mikey’s mouth. “I missed you too. Mikey, hey.” He repeats, leaning away. Mikey chases after his bottom lip, pinching it with his teeth and Pete shudders a moan.
“We really need to talk, Mway.” He smiles, his hands finding Mikey’s face, holding his cheek. Mikey leans into it gently, pressing a kiss to Pete’s palm.
“I know.” Pete can tell Mikey probably doesn’t want to keep talking, but they really fucking need to. Pete needs to know if this is truly real. “Sorry.” He rubs Pete’s side sweetly.
Pete waits a second, letting Mikey catch his breath. His lips are beautifully pink and Pete wants to lean back in for a third time but he doesn’t because that would not solve the problem at all.
“Why’d you freak out?” Pete asks, referring to the blowjob. It wasn’t like Pete’s never gagged before. He has many times. He’s never seen Mikey shatter so quickly from consensually hurting Pete during frantic sex.
Mikey plays with the hem of Pete’s jeans. “I don’t want to hook up.” He says slowly. “That’s why I freaked out. I don’t want this to be the last time we see each other. I don’t want to have to send you nude photos as the only way to get an excuse to talk to you.” He says the rest all in one breath.
“I don’t know what’s happening between us.” He continues. “I was so happy to see you, so happy you picked up. I tried calling you so many fucking times.” Pete rubs his thumbs across Mikey’s face. “It’s impossible for me to be away from you, I can’t think if I don’t send you a photo. It’s like messages kept me together.”
“Me too.” Pete hurries to reply before Mikey gets the chance to look away. “Me too, fuck, I missed you so much.”
“I’m sorry I freaked out. It just felt too real.” Mikey leans into Pete, putting his nose on his shoulder, shielding his face.
“I want it to be real.” Pete pulls Mikey in close, his arms closing in on him with a hug. “I need it to be real, Mikey. I don’t wanna just be a hookup. I want you to text me pictures of you and your brother at art shows in Switzerland. I want photos of you before and after a show. I wanna see what you’re eating for lunch. I want it to be more.”
Pete’s always been better with words between them. Mikey moves his hands up and down Pete’s sides, feeling every bit of him under his shirt. He wraps his arms around his back and now it's just them hugging in a hotel room again, like last year, like summer. It definitely feels real.
They hug like that for a long time. Pete thinks it’s a long time, anyway. When he pulls away Mikey licks his finger and brings it up to Pete’s face, wiping his cheeks, cleaning him up of the residue leftover from the bathroom, erasing it slowly. He kisses the spot he touched, again and again and again.
“You’re so pretty.” Pete whispers. He needs to say something. “I was looking forward to your messages every time I sent one because I would get to see you.”
Mikey smiles. “Me too. I saved some to my phone.” He kisses again, on Pete’s jaw. “I’d open them when I got lonely and missed the sound of your voice.”
Pete likes this honest, vulnerable Mikey. He got to see this side of him on the last few days of tour, the one who says what is actually on his mind instead of keeping it hidden. It took time and effort but they got there. He’s happy to see him again.
“I thought of you every day.” Pete bites back. Mikey kisses his neck, nibbling at a sensitive spot he remembers. “I, ah, wanted you to call me whenever I’d be alone in my bunk.”
Mikey pushes his hands under Pete’s shirt and drags them all the way up his chest, feeling, touching. Pete pushes back into them, scratching at Mikey’s back when Mikey keeps sucking a bruise into Pete’s neck.
“I would’ve. I tried.” Mikey pulls back up to kiss Pete’s lips again.
“I jerked off to every photo you sent me.” Pete says against Mikey’s lips, nipping at them, kissing the corner of his mouth. “I’d be in bed for hours because of you.”
“You would fucking ruin every flight I had.” Mikey finally takes his hands out from under Pete’s shirt and pushes it over his head, helping him out of it hurriedly. Pete can tell he’s getting desperate and fuck, finally, finally Mikey is back. This feels like more than a hookup.
Pete lets Mikey manoeuvre him on the bed, watching him crawl on top. They kiss again and everything inside of him feels warm. Mikey licks into his mouth, tasting every bit of him as if he’s looking for parts of Pete he didn’t know Pete had. Pete tugs at Mikey’s shirt and drags it above his head, careful and slow despite how impatient he actually is and feels. The last few months of foreplay have been awful, torturous and terrifying. Now Pete has the real deal in front of him, kissing him tenderly and making up for lost time they could have spent actually talking with each other.
They could have just talked. Pete smiles against Mikey’s mouth, laughing a little. Mikey pulls away with a grin on his face too
“What is it?” He asks, teasing at Pete’s belt buckle, ready to rip it off.
”I missed you so much.” He says, giggling. “You ruined me, you’re evil. We could’ve just talked like normal people.”
Mikey undoes Pete’s belt and pushes it aside. “We're not normal people. We take our steps at a different pace than everyone else. All in the wrong order.” He undoes Pete’s jeans, pushing them down with a bit of a struggle. Pete laughs again and helps him out.
“At least we take them together.” He smiles again, wide and blissful. Mikey frees him of his jeans and goes back in for a kiss.
“Come on, show me how much you missed me, Pete.”
.
In the morning, Mikey wakes up in a familiar position. Pete’s arms are wrapped around him, his face buried against the back of Mikey’s neck. Their legs are intertwined and Mikey has his own hand on top of Pete’s, holding his fingers. Pete must have woken up in the night. This is the kind of position Pete takes when he wakes up far away from Mikey and misses his warmth too much. He smiles and holds onto Pete’s hand gently.
He closes his eyes a while longer, not really falling back asleep. It’s minutes later that he hears a ruffle and a pair of lips kiss the back of his neck. He smiles to himself quietly.
“Good morning.”
Pete rustles from behind him again, pressing closer.
“Morning.” His voice is rough. His stubble rubs against Mikey’s neck, tickling him.
Mikey flips around onto his back to make more room for Pete to cuddle closer. Pete pushes himself close into his neck, holding him tight, an arm on his chest.
“My band is probably worried sick.” Mikey hums into Pete’s hair. It smells like leftover hairspray.
“Do you think Gerard will kill me if I walk you home?”
Mikey pretends to consider. “He might. You’re gonna have to explain you’re the person I’ve been so invested in messaging every day.” He reaches to hold Pete’s hand over his chest.
”Sorry for taking away his precious Mikeyway. It was definitely intentional. He’s probably really mad that I distracted you on all those flights.”
“It wasn’t so bad. I just spent lots of time in the bathroom.”
“Brushing your teeth, I hope.” Pete squeezes Mikey’s hand.
“Sure. Among other things.”
Pete’s eyes stay closed. His skin is warm next to Mikey, comforting against the cold morning air. It’s too early to get up and Mikey is thankful Pete booked a really nice hotel room while staying here.
“How long can you be in Jersey?” Mikey asks.
“Two nights.” Pete sighs. “I’ve got a music video. It’s a whole thing. I really don’t wanna leave you.”
“Booked two nights just for me?”
Mikey can hear Pete smiling. “Yeah. Figured I might get lucky. I told you I wanted this to be real.”
Mikey moves lower on the bed so he can be face to face with Pete, rolling on his side and looking into his eyes. He sees Pete sleepily open his eyes to look at him in return, his smile glued to his face, wide and cute. Mikey wants to kiss him, so he does, because he finally can.
“I want it to be real too.” He leans in, kissing him lazy and slow. It feels like a promise. “I wanna send you photos of my day and get to see you every day in response.”
“Okay. Let’s try, Mikeyway. Let’s really try.”
Mikey kisses him until his lips are sore. They kiss and giggle like it’s summer, except it’s more than that. It’s a sign of something more, of something new and something real. Pete pulls back and kisses Mikey on the nose. When he pulls away again, he smiles like the sun.
“Wanna go get breakfast?”
And Mikey says yes, because he knows things might be okay.