Archive of Our Own

It's a lazy summer night, the comedown after a concert. They're in some Midwestern city or other, where it gets quieter as it gets darker, even in the commercial area. It’s all very liminal; walking through the entrance and into the lobby was like entering an unfinished painting, where half the people and half the furniture are missing.

The beds are soft, there’s two of them, and in the small room it feels lonely when one of them is empty. Peter lays on his back and wonders about going out into the night. He wonders about smoking some weed. He wonders what Davy is doing. His eyes close, and he’s just starting to drift off, when the door clicks open.

Mike walks in. Peter hears the scuffing as he kicks his shoes off at the threshold. He opens his eyes, dazed, just in time to see Mike gesture for him to follow as he goes into the bathroom. Peter feels a rush of blood to his head and is on his feet in a flash, close at Mike’s heels.

“Where were you?” he asks as the bathroom door closes behind them.

“Took a walk,” Mike says flatly. He leans into the mirror above the sink, running a comb through his hair, which is still frazzled from sweat and bright lights and constant momentum. Peter contemplates offering to do it for him, but this would only agitate him.

He opts to sit on the closed toilet seat instead. “I could have gone with you.”

“No,” Mike says, voice tight, and tilts his head to the side as he peers at himself in the mirror. “No, I wanted to be alone.”

Peter watches in fascination as Mike preens himself like a prize poodle. They tease Davy a lot for being vain, and Micky sometimes, for his self-obsessive tendencies, but Peter doesn't think that’s all too fair. Mike is often the instigator of this teasing, which is just damning proof of his own insecurities. The amount of effort he puts into his hair, his clothes, the way he holds himself. Even the way he smiles, close-lipped and demure.

Peter sees it all. Mike wants to be pretty, but he can’t let anyone know that's what he wants.

“You'll take a shower, won't you?” Peter asks just for the sake of filling the silence. And maybe for the sake of determining what Mike’s motives are.

Mike shrugs, and starts to take off his socks.

He does a wonderful job at playing nonchalant, which has always been infuriating to Peter, who has never been able to keep his emotions under the surface. Mike is acting like he doesn't know what it means for them to be in here, just the two of them, acting like it hasn’t meant something before. Why the hell would he ask Peter to follow him in if they’re just gonna sit in silence? Peter fidgets on the seat, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Mike sets about preparing his toothbrush. The bastard.

He cleans his teeth with the same precision with which he carries out most tasks. He seems laser focused on the movement of the brush, round and round in meticulous mechanisms of minute detail. It's almost hypnotic.

“Quit staring,” he mutters, mouth full of toothpaste. Peter blinks. Mike didn't even glance in his direction.

Peter doesn't look away, though, just moves his gaze up to Mike's eyes, admiring the delicate lashes that protrude from his profile.

“You have nice eyes,” Peter murmurs. He knows it's what Mike wants to hear, and he genuinely wants to say it. It's always good when the two overlap.

Mike doesn't respond. He spits, rinses, splashes water on his face, and then stands there, hands braced either side of the sink. Peter reaches out, fingers skimming over Mike's waistband, asking a question without words. Mike’s torso turns towards Peter, hips resting perpendicular to the sink. But he keeps his head turned away, downcast, eyes hidden by the angle.

“What are we doing?” he asks quietly.

It feels so out of the blue that for a moment Peter wonders why they're going off script, grasping blindly for the next line somewhere in his mind.

The question lingers as he tries to gauge Mike's motivations behind asking. He's becoming more and more unpredictable as the months go by; every time Peter thinks they've gotten into a groove, that they're finally on the same level, seeing eye to eye, Mike sneaks up from behind and shows him it was an optical illusion all along.

The words form without Peter being consciously aware of them. “We're keeping each other company.” And then, deliberately, “We need each other.”

MIke looks at him and there isn't one word Peter could use to describe the emotion on display. It’s a million things, all of which Peter recognises. All at once a tease, a challenge, a question, a plea. A look of Seriously, man? A look of You’re not supposed to say it out loud.

“I got Micky for company,” is what he says. I don't need you, is what's implied.

Peter doesn't miss a beat. “So where is Micky now?”

Their conversations almost always end up like this, like games of chess. One of them makes a move, the other counters it. Or maybe it's a game of tennis, where they keep changing the rules, switching sides or adding another ball into play.

Mike invites Peter into the bathroom with him, then asks him why he's here. It's all part of the game. Eventually, he will run out of arguments and defences. Eventually, he will return to Peter's side. This is just how it goes.

A ghost of a smile plays on Mike’s lips, and Peter knows he’s said the right thing. As much as he doesn’t like to let it get to him, he feels triumphant. When the two of them work in tandem, whether in the studio or in conversation, it just feels right. When they understand each other, and get along, it feels like this was always how it was meant to go. All of Peter’s grievances and hang-ups and bitterness about whatever the hell their problem is, it all goes out the window. It’s as if sometimes they can actually be friends—though some would argue most regular friends don’t have the added tension that hangs in the air when they’re alone, in a hotel bedroom or bathroom, with no audience to perform for.

In the present, Mike is taking his shirt off, and Peter feels like his stupid TV counterpart as he stares, slightly open-mouthed.

“Can you run the water, man?” Mike asks. He's taking the next step in whatever this is to become, and as subtle as the request is, Peter is thrilled.

The tap’s head is cold in that soothing way that makes you want to keep hold of it, and Peter traces his fingers through the grooves on the handle for a moment. He moves deliberately slowly, trying to prolong this moment. The handle turns easily, and the water bursts out like a dam breaking.

Peter gets up to perch on the side of the bath and lets the hot water gush over the soles of his feet. He watches the flow hit the white porcelain with a pleasant thrum, steam rising and catching on the tiled walls. With his foot, he deftly plugs the drain and watches in delight as the clear water rises to his ankles.

He hasn’t heard a sound from Mike for a while, so Peter turns to check he’s still there. Their eyes meet, startling Peter, the feeling of a lighter being flicked open suddenly. He wonders how long Mike’s been watching. He holds the gaze, daring Mike to look away first.

He does. Peter adds a little mark to his side of the mental tally.

More silence as Mike takes off his jeans and comes over to stand by the bathtub. He pauses, deliberating, watching Peter’s toes draw patterns with ripples. Peter doesn’t take his eyes off him the entire time.

Now he feels suspended in this moment, an acrobat on a perpetual tightrope, not in any danger of falling, but not compelled to move forwards either. Mike stands shirtless beside him. The world has ceased to exist beyond this bathroom. The seconds on the clock outside have congregated in the clear water and the steam rising between the two of them.

Peter shuts the faucet. Michael sits.

He leans away from Peter, opting to rest his back against the corner wall, but he stretches out his legs so they are almost touching Peter’s, and faces him openly.

The water is silky and warm to Peter’s skin. The atmosphere is just so, that it is as if he, too, has become fully submerged.

Mike sits with his head against the cold tiles and his eyes half-lidded, hanging lazily open, just barely. Still watching Peter. Peter, still watching back. He wants to touch him again, but doesn’t know how to ask for permission. The air feels so thick, it would be like reaching up from the bottom of a pool to break the surface.

“Hello,” is all he can muster, an open hand offered in polite invitation.

Mike laughs softly through his nose and his eyes slide fully shut. “Evenin’,” he offers in response.

Peter touches his knee with the tips of his fingers, not quite remembering how his hand got that close. And something, somewhere, shifts. Mike gives a minute nod that Peter would miss if he wasn’t watching carefully. Luckily for both of them, he is always watching carefully. Tentatively, palm replaces fingers and fingers find Mike’s thigh. Gently, they press into the tender skin there, just above the joint.

“Go ahead,” Mike whispers, and Peter feels the words reach inside him and pull him forwards.

His hand moves up Mike’s thigh. Naturally. It follows a course of its own through the tangle of dark hair that gathers and thickens near Mike’s groin. Mike sighs, and all of Peter’s hesitation shatters. The world, reduced to just this room. Him and Michael.

He brings his other hand into play and Mike complies wordlessly, lifting his hips just a little to allow his briefs to be slipped off and discarded on the tiled floor. Peter tries not to linger too long on the sight of Mike bare like this, opened and exposed. If he leaves it too long, Mike gets agitated, backs out, or gets nasty, and tries to make this into just another argument.

But time is suspended. Mike keeps his eyes closed, truly relaxes. A miracle.

Peter dips his hand in the shallow bathwater, leaving to the side all doubt and insecurity. He takes Mike in his wet hand and strokes him, testing the waters, so to speak. Mike responds immediately, a sudden buck in his hips and his hands grip the bath's sides.

Peter gets to work, leaning his left hand on Mike's open thigh as his right works Mike's dick at a steady rhythm.

Mike makes a noise unlike anything Peter's heard from him before. A half sigh, half whimper, that seems to catch in his throat before it fully leaves his slightly open mouth. A jolt of electricity shoots up Peter's spine, down his throat and into his stomach. He wants to put his finger in that mouth, how unusual and pretty he always thought it was. But he also doesn't want to push things too far; Mike is still jittery, still easily scared off. So he keeps his hands down, and begins to move his wrist faster, coaxing more and more little noises from Mike. His hips seem to lift into Peter's touch, extending out of himself. Eyes shut tight, he arches upwards as if being pulled by a string attached to his chest.

“Shit,” he gasps.

Peter almost laughs from sheer delight, and he sighs, “Oh, Michael.”

Mike groans suddenly and his slender fingers catch Peter's wrist in a death grip. “That's good,” he breathes, “Keep it– like that–”

“Mike,” Peter says again, like a reverie.

He leans forwards, puts more strength into his grip, and with his free hand starts tracing lazy patterns up and down Mike’s thigh. Mike shudders. Peter watches in awe as his tongue darts out of the corner of his mouth, like he's trying to keep his concentration, and then Peter runs his thumb over the head of Mike's dick and his jaw clamps shut as a beautiful choked sound emanates from somewhere deep in his throat.

Peter still can't believe he's seeing this, can't believe he's capable of making this happen. He cautiously moves his left hand higher, trailing the sensitive area of Mike's lower stomach, tracing his ribs and the hair on his nipples, up over his collarbone, like fine bone china, until at last he reaches his neck, passing his fingers over Mike's trembling Adam's apple, prompting another delicate sigh, thrilling Peter to the bone.

“You're so pretty,” he whispers, edging closer to him, taking up the space between his legs.

Mike twitches, hips jerking like a taut wire. He mutters something garbled, then swallows hard and Peter feels the movement under his hand. Mike's neck is so thin, fragile, like so much of the rest of him. Peter can't stand it any longer. In one swift movement, he moves his hand to Mike's hair and grips it, hard, before diving forward into the dainty dip between Mike's neck and shoulder, mouth open even before he's made contact. His right hand works rapidly, each pull on Mike's dick taking Mike's breath with it. Mike gasps and swears and squirms as Peter tongues at his neck, sucking deep into the warm skin there.

Mike's voice is hoarse and barely audible, but Peter is close enough to hear him choke out a desperate, “Peter,” and every hair on Peter's body stands on end. He hums into the hickey currently forming on Mike's collarbone, and sighs contentedly when Mike's hand comes up to rest on the back of his head. Long, graceful fingers tangle themselves in Peter's hair, digging into his scalp.

Mike makes a few more aborted attempts at speech before he starts to move his hips in earnest, unashamedly fucking Peter's hand with little half gasps. By way of encouragement, Peter sinks his teeth lightly into the delicate skin on Mike's neck. The noise Mike makes then rocks Peter to his core, a sharp intake of breath that hitches into a high moan at the end, feminine and deeply pleasurable.

They work together in rhythm, rhythm and melody, what has connected them all this time, what brings them together but just as often tears them apart. Peter nudges his face into Mike's neck as Mike thrusts into his hand. The only noises he's making now are a long string of hissed and jumbled expletives.

Peter can tell he's close to the edge now, his shoulders becoming tense, his movements erratic and frantic. His breathing is even shallower as he emits a quiet moan and tips his head against Peter's for support.

Peter invites it, burying his face into the sensation, nuzzling against Mike's hair. He presses his lips to his ear, shushing gently as he coaxes him to orgasm with a few quick strokes. Mike exclaims a visceral “Oh!” and his head hits the wall behind him as he comes, then rides out the waves, still throbbing in Peter's hand, hips twitching until they settle back on the cold porcelain edge.

Peter's hand is sticky, and he revels in it, keeping his left hand in Mike’s hair and watching as the rise and fall of his chest gradually slows. Mike's breath is almost back to normal when his eyes peel open like he's waking from a deep sleep. He blinks at Peter a few times, as if trying to discern if this is a dream or not. Peter smiles at him, and Mike looks away almost shyly, blinking fast. His hand falls down from Peter’s hair and comes to rest on his shoulder like he’s holding himself or Peter in place. He breathes out, long and shaky.

“Good?” Peter asks, unable to fight the slightly dopey smile off his face.

“Yeah,” Mike laughs, closing his eyes again. His hand trails down from Peter’s shoulder and this time comes to a stop on his thigh. “Just what I needed,” and he means it.

Peter scooches a little closer, so he's fully enveloped between Mike's legs. Their feet dance around each other in the bath, and Peter wishes it was a larger, deeper body of water, somewhere out and far away. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Michael sway a little where he sits. He wonders what song is playing in his head, or what deliberations and calculations he's going over, how he's making himself feel guilty this time.

Then he speaks. “I think I’ll go to bed now.”

Peter is touched that he felt the need to say that. Usually he would just get up and leave without a word, leaving Peter to pick up the pieces before they reset the next morning and go back to playing begrudging colleagues playing bandmates. But he’s also unsettled; he doesn’t want this part to be over, for fear of what the reset in the morning might bring.

“Aren’t you gonna take that bath?”

Mike doesn’t respond immediately. In the contemplative silence, Peter runs a hand over Mike’s thigh again. The right move. Mike says, “Since you went to the trouble of running it for me.”

The bath is nowhere near full, but that can easily be amended. Peter lowers himself off the tub’s side, sliding his hand over Mike’s knee as he goes. He turns the faucet, this time holding his hand under the stream, washing the sticky sensation away. The water plays a hypnotising rhythm, and it feels good on his skin, the pressure. Peter settles on the floor, feeling like he's sinking slightly, he's so relaxed.

"Haven't had a proper bath for a while.” Mike sounds muffled, his voice reaching Peter’s ears like velvet.

“No time for anything but showers, huh,” Peter murmurs, wishing he wasn’t so drowsy, feeling unguarded.

Mike seems to have gained the upper hand again, as if he hadn’t just unravelled in Peter’s hand moments ago. This isn't unusual, nor is it all that frustrating. Peter is no control freak (that title is Mike’s and Mike’s alone; only Kirshner could give him a run for his money)—but, he gets a thrill from the moments he has Mike at his mercy.

Thinking even vaguely along those lines makes Peter wince, though. Makes him feel brutish and exploitative (is this how Mike likes to feel?). But, there are few occasions where Mike defers to Peter, their seesaw tips in Peter’s favour, and when it does, it feels good, and who can blame him? He truly believes that it benefits both of them when Mike surrenders a little to Peter, and to the strange dynamic they’ve carved out for themselves.

“Nah, even when there is time, I don’t take baths. I don’t like to sit for so long, y’know.”

It takes Peter a second to reconnect to what they’d just been talking about, and when he does, he frowns. “Why not? It’s so relaxing.”

Mike shrugs, looking down at where his fingers dip in and out of the water. “It just feels like a waste of time, don’t ya think? You sit there and you stew and it’s, like, the perfect opportunity for you to start thinking about everything you wanna do and wanna change. And then you’re just frustrated, wishing you were doing something else.” He falls silent, then looks up at Peter, an odd look in his eye. “You don’t get that?”

Peter shakes his head slowly. “When I take a bath it’s like meditation, ya dig? I close my eyes and just… enjoy the sensations.”

An expression not unlike a sneer crosses Mike’s face. “Bet you light candles and put on a sitar record or something, too.”

“Sometimes,” Peter responds, fully serious and not keen to indulge Mike’s teasing. He regards Mike sadly for a few seconds. “You really should just let it be a nice experience. It’s not like you have to be up and at ‘em all day. Once the tour is over, you have time to indulge. Do something nice for yourself.”

“Thanks for the life advice,” Mike jabs, deadpan.

Peter sighs. “Feel free to ignore it.”

“I’ll consider that.”

Mike slips into the water, and Peter looks away. He takes a few deep breaths, adamant to not let Mike get to him, but also fighting the urge to stare again. There is something unselfconscious and fluid in the way Mike moves, that is emphasised in his bareness, when he has no clothes to either cover or accentuate his lithe form. Peter gets caught up in the bends of his joints and how his bones sit close to the surface of his skin—but Mike still gets riled up when Peter's gaze lingers too long.

“Are you getting in?”

Peter startles. Mike isn't looking at him; his head lays against the back of the tub as he sinks lower into the water, raising his knees to fit. It's almost as if he never said anything, but Peter knows he didn't imagine it.

“You're asking ‘cause you want me to, or you don't want me to?”

“What kind of question is that?”

“What kind of question is that?”

They stare at each other, and Peter isn't sure if he feels like laughing or screaming now.

“I asked you first,” Mike says, not cracking.

Peter finds himself at a loss for words. Luckily Mike isn’t looking for an improv partner; if he wants to riff, he has Micky. The only thing Peter can do in response to that is strip and get in. So he does.

He feels Mike’s eyes on him as he sinks into the water. It’s just on the uncomfortable side of hot, but it blankets Peter’s goosebumped skin, and involuntarily he smiles. He manages to suppress a shake of his head in disbelief at Mike’s logic. It’s a wonderful, rich sensation to sit and soak, surrounded by warmth. Peter understands how a neurotic mind might struggle to relax in the stillness—hell, Peter’s mile-a-minute mind is not easy to turn off either. And it’s not like he isn’t plagued with anxious regrets and memories that make his whole body cringe… Maybe what Mike needs is a good lesson in meditation.

The thought of Mike letting Peter teach him how to meditate is so ludicrous he laughs out loud. Mike nudges him with his toe.

“What’s funny?” he frowns.

“Nothing,” Peter stretches his legs out, feeling sleepy, no longer at a disadvantage.

His legs encircle Mike, who sits a bit like a gargoyle, with his knees pulled up to his chest, his stiffness and the hunch of his shoulders.

“Better not be laughing at me.” Mike raises a single mockingly threatening eyebrow and Peter grins.

“Nothing funny about you, Michael.”

“Gosh, why on earth did they hire me, then?” Mike slaps a hand to his forehead and keeps it there, resting his elbow on his knee.

“Your dashing good looks,” Peter says, and wiggles his eyebrows.

“You’d say that, wouldn’t you.”

Mike’s vain streak once again comes through in the small, satisfied smile that appears at Peter’s words. But still, he cannot handle a compliment from Peter without teasing him about it. It’s just another stupid rule in their game: Mike can get jerked off and called pretty, all while maintaining his dignity, but Peter gets teased for being a queer.

It is impossible to not get petty in these situations. They’re naked in a bath, inches away from each other, and all Peter can think is how satisfying it would be to walk out now and leave Mike to soak alone with his thoughts. But the way Mike is looking at him gives him pause. His head is angled down slightly so he has to look up through the hair that falls over his forehead. He really does have beautiful eyes.

“Aren’t you uncomfortable sitting at the faucet?” he asks unprompted.

Peter looks behind him like he hadn’t realised where he is. He’s been sitting forward this whole time, so it hasn’t bothered him. “I guess I could sit like this–” He disengages his legs from Mike’s personal space and rotates a little so his back leans against the side of the bath, and looks back at Mike.

Mike is watching him unguarded now, almost inviting. His eyes flicker downwards, then quickly back up to hold Peter’s gaze.

“Unless you mean—” not sure what words to use, Peter just gestures over at Mike.

Mike shrugs, laying on the nonchalance so thick it can’t be anything but an act.

“I’m just saying, it’s probably more comfortable for you if you sit here.” As casually as someone giving up their seat on a bus. He opens his legs to emphasise the space, and Peter has to gather himself a little before he speaks.

“I guess it would be,” he laughs, though it isn’t funny. He sucks the laugh back in as soon as it leaves him, filling his lungs, imagining the oxygen going to his brain, clearing his mind and relieving him of his nervousness.

The water laps languidly at his torso as he scooches over, until he’s framed by Mike’s knees. Mike’s hand comes up to his back like a guide, and soon he’s sitting comfortably, back to Mike, unsure of what the next move is.

Mike makes it for him. His hand comes to Peter’s chest and gently brings him in to lean against him, and Peter feels a weight lift off his lungs. He shifts a little until he’s comfortable, head resting on Mike’s shoulder, the skin on his back tingling everywhere they’re making contact.

Neither of them speak. Peter fills the silence making ripples.

Mike’s fingers gently skim through Peter’s chest hair, matching the movement of Peter’s hand in the water. Peter hears him swallow. It’s almost a sensory overload, the steady rhythm of Mike’s gets Peter’s heart rate up, and he silently wills Mike to move lower. The urgency of before, how Mike had looked at Peter, comes back vividly.

Peter twists his neck, his nose brushing against Mike’s chin. He hopes it comes across as the encouragement it’s meant to be. The moment lasts for a while, just that repeated motion of Mike’s hand, up and down, reaching Peter’s navel then coming back up to his sternum. As hypnotic as many of Mike’s movements are. Peter closes his eyes.

Then it goes on. And Peter wonders why the record’s jammed, playing the same note over and over. He opens his eyes, angles his neck—a little awkwardly—to see Mike staring blankly into somewhere beyond the bathroom walls. Peter catches him zoning out like this often. It’s as if only half of him is ever present, and occasionally he vanishes completely, to join his other half, wherever it may be. It kills Peter not to know what he’s thinking. Partly his natural curiosity. Mostly because it’s Michael.

But he’s never gone so quiet like this when they’re close like this. Peter’s learned to characterise Mike by his alertness, a man whose guard is permanently up—especially when they’re together. He nudges Mike’s cheek with his nose experimentally, and Mike blinks. He seems to come back into himself, but when he meets Peter’s eyes, he’s still not all there.

Peter leans up further, feeling an impatient thrum under his skin. It’s slightly dizzying, how badly he wants Mike to make a move, but how unsteady he feels even as they sit intertwined with each other.

He teeters on the edge. Then he kisses Mike.

It’s soft, lasts 4 or 5 seconds, nothing more. Peter hums, wishing he could breathe life into Michael somehow, and nips softly at Mike’s bottom lip. Mike breathes out through his nose, one short exhale, and his eyes flutter open slowly when Peter pulls away. He licks his lips in a quick, excruciating motion. It makes Peter want to kiss him harder. He holds their silent eye contact and hopes Mike can see what he wants—not that Peter could hide it even if he tried. Subtlety has never been his forte, much to Mike’s annoyance.

Outside, the hotel is so silent, Peter has almost forgotten it exists. This bathroom exists in a void that grows larger the longer they stay in here, but Peter feels its shrinking even as they stare at each other. The question hangs between them. Peter’s skin feels tight, but he tries to ignore the sense of urgency in his gut and between his legs. Mike’s fingers have gone cold against his chest. His gaze falls to Peter’s lips, and linger there. Infuriated, Peter leans in again.

But Mike’s voice, so thin and quiet it seems disembodied, suddenly says, “I can’t.”

So quietly, Peter could pretend he didn’t hear it. He could push through anyway, see if he could make Mike change his mind, see if it’s just empty words. But when he looks up at Mike, his eyes are shut like he’s in pain, or embarrassed. It reminds Peter of a little kid who thinks that the world disappears when he can no longer see it.

He's not one to cross boundaries, always conscious of the invisible lines around people. The awareness has been instilled in him since he was a kid, practically, and Mike is someone he’s most careful with.

Peter leans away a little, forced to sit up straight, feeling wedged and contorted in the tight gap where he’s sat between Mike’s leg. He wonders if this will ever feel normal, this game the two of them play. If when they’re middle-aged and bitter they’ll still be dancing around each other like this, never learning their lesson. Maybe by then they’ll enjoy it. Hopefully it won’t make Peter so sad anymore.

Mike leaning back against the wall has now created a space between them, and Peter no longer feels like he should fill it. He sits back, his fingers slide around on the bath floor as he reorients himself til he’s facing Mike. The room feels unusually cold now, though the water is still hot.

Mike is avoiding his eyes again, and it pokes at something tender in Peter.

He rests his forehead on Mike's knee. It's something of an I'm sorry, something of an I forgive you. Not too close to make Mike uncomfortable, but affectionate enough that it will prevent the inevitable rift being driven between them. But then Mike is pushing at his shoulder, forcing him to sit up again.

“Don't get like that, man,” he says, as Peter obliges, sounding oddly pleading.

Peter’s face tightens with confusion again. His hand on Mike’s thigh seems inappropriate all of a sudden. Everything about their proximity is wrong now, which Peter hates, he hates feeling wrong. This is supposed to feel good. He takes his hand away and stares at Mike, awaiting elaboration.

Mike shifts where he sits, shaking his head slightly as he searches for the right words. “I don't know what you expect from me.”

Peter feels like he missed a step or two going down the stairs. “What does that mean?”

“Well, you know how this goes,” Mike says with a desperate sounding half laugh.

“Clearly I don't.”

“Aren't you the one always saying this isn't supposed to be a favour–for–favour type deal?” He's looking directly at Peter now, almost confrontational, as if Peter has wronged him. “Free love and free consent and– and all that.”

A prickling sensation at the small of Peter's back reminds him of how it feels when he comes into contact with a texture he hates. His jaw works tightly for a moment, then he says, “I’m not pushing anything on you.”

“Stop trying to guilt trip me then, man.”

“I wasn’t—!” Peter goes to shout, but quickly collects himself.

He brings his hands, slightly wrinkled with moisture, up to his eyes, rubs the textured skin into where he aches there. He feels tattered now, somehow. The exhaustion of the day seems to have caught up with him. He doesn't want to have to deal with Mike anymore. He wants to go to bed.

Mike's not done yet. “I don't owe you anything. That's all I'm saying.”

His arms are crossed over his chest now, and it's hard not to interpret it as smugness, though most likely he's covering himself because he's embarrassed now. Peter can't tell what pisses him off more: the fact that Mike is clearly winding him up to make him feel bad, or the fact that Mike is still too ashamed to be in his natural state with Peter.

“I don't think like that,” Peter sighs. “Your complexes are your complexes, Michael, don’t make them my problem. Of course I’m not going to force you. I wish we could talk about this without it becoming some kind of… Some kinda…”

Fatigue and frayed nerves prevent the right words from coming to him. Not all the books or poems or songs that he’s consumed in his lifetime could change the fact that he struggles to express himself in moments of distress. And he can’t default to the air-head comedy he plays up for interviews, nor can he smile sweetly and charm his way out of it like he does with fans and strangers vying for his attention. In some twisted way, pulling out any of his defence mechanisms would mean Mike wins. Mike knows this well.

Mike rubs the back of his neck, eyes trailing over towards the door. Looking for an exit. The tender sympathy that Peter felt towards him before has been replaced with a dull sense of betrayal.

“It’s getting late, anyway, man, I think we should—” Mike shrugs one shoulder, looking back at Peter at last. “We got another full day tomorrow.”

Peter doesn’t argue with that. They sit, entirely still, for a stretched out moment, and Peter refuses to face Mike. The bathroom tile, and how the blue strips at foot level visually tie the floor to the wall, is suddenly deeply fascinating. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Mike's hand reach up towards him. The urge to pull away and the urge to lean into the touch cancel each other out, so Peter just stays perfectly still as Mike's fingers gently brush his hair off his forehead.

Sometimes Mike is easy to understand, in the way their radio signals seem to align. But sometimes, Mike is the most enigmatic of them all. The contrast between the Mike he knows and the Mike he doesn’t, and how unpredictably he switches between the two, is what infuriates Peter the most.

Peter is not emotionally unintelligent. Far from it. He believes himself to be a very empathetic person; people find it easy to tell him things, and when he knows a person's pain, it’s easy to form a kinship with them. But he’s always struggled to read other people. While Davy is a master at understanding people, he sometimes has to point out things that Peter has missed—reading the room, receiving a conversational cue, understanding another person's intentions. Even Micky is better at it than Peter, despite his reputation as a bit of a ditz. Peter is the ditz. And Mike eludes him. He wonders that Micky can handle him better, though he doesn’t have the added dimension of…

Mike has withdrawn his hand. He’s standing up, the water cascading off him in dramatic little droplets. Peter glances up at him, watching the calculating expression on Mike’s face as he evaluates the big, damp step he has to take to exit the bath. They didn’t put a bathmat out, because who would have thought of that, so the floor is about to get treacherously wet.

Peter decides to take the luxury that Mike refused. He stretches out and sinks further into the water, lamenting the lack of bubbles. It's amusing, in a detached way, how easily his desires for simple, childish pleasures float to the surface of his mind. Even when he's frustrated like this, and angry at his friend, for reasons his child-self couldn't have even imagined.

The time it takes for Mike to towel off, pull his boxers and t-shirt back on, and run a comb through his hair 10 or 20 times is just enough time for Peter to calm down. He had hoped to end the day well; Mike hasn’t quite killed the chances of that yet. A half hour of solitude and meditation is all he needs. Mike will be asleep by the time he’s done, so no awkward silence as Peter waits impatiently for sleep to come. Then Mike will wake up first, so there will be no collision in their morning routine, and they’ll go back to work like nothing happened. That suits Peter just fine.

Mike stands at the door, open now, halfway out with his hand on the handle. His hair is still bone dry, smoothed out from his obsessive combing, but visibly unwashed. A little nagging perfectionist voice in Peter's mind, the completionist in him that flips out when things don't go to plan, suddenly panics

“You didn’t even take the bath,” he says, knowing it's in vain, but not knowing how to stop himself from saying it.

Mike pauses, audibly sighs. His hand twists the doorknob once, twice. “I’ll shower in the morning.” And he steps out.

The door shuts disappointingly silent behind him.