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His exhaustion is the distant, faded kind that sets in when you’ve been tired so long its become the norm, nothing but background noise. He shouldn’t have bothered taking the back left-hand seat, which was designated months ago as the do-not-disturb spot, meant for deep sleep or jerking off, or, if you’re Gerard, artistic contemplation. Ray is doing none of those things. His contemplative moods aren’t creatively productive like Gerard’s – he isn’t even thinking about music. He’s watching the thick woods at the side of the freeway go by, interrupted by streetlights that pass more frequently now that Frank is driving instead of Otter because Frank always speeds at night. It’s not as if he cares very much about these trees that are just like all the other nighttime roadside trees he’s seen on this tour, but looking out the window keeps Ray from looking at, well, Mikey.
Mikey’s being weird.
The Ways are always strange, of course, but consistently so. Even strange people have patterns, and the Way brothers usually stick to theirs – codependency, mood swings, a frankly scary tolerance for booze and drugs, physical affection that makes strangers often think they’re boyfriends at first meeting. But Mikey is acting differently this tour than last. He's sitting in the back bench seat with Ray, for example. Gee is sleeping sprawled across the middle seat, and last tour Mikey would have been there too, offering Gerard his lap for a pillow and petting his brother’s filthy hair. Mikey has been sitting next to Ray a lot lately. But the weirdest part by far is the thing with his glasses.
At least once a day Mikey will appear next to Ray in that abrupt, silent way he has that should be startling but isn't, and he'll borrow the hem of Ray’s tshirt to wipe the smudges off his glasses. Sometimes it’s the back of his shirt, and Ray won’t even see Mikey do it, just feel the tugging and draft of air against his lower back for a minute. More and more often, though, it’s the front – Mikey stands close, pulls Ray’s shirt a few inches up off his belly and uses the slack in the fabric to clean his glasses. When Mikey’s right there in front of him, it’s impossible not to notice how pretty the curve of his neck is, how the sticky smell of his hairspray is actually kind of pleasant, a nice distraction from the constant dirty clothes and BO and spilled beer smell that clings to all of them.
He’s only just beginning to figure out why Mikey doesn’t clean his glasses on his own tshirt, or anyone else’s but Ray’s. Objectively there's nothing special about Ray's tshirts compared to anyone else's, and sometimes Ray's shirts are actually Otter's or Gerard's anyway. If Mikey is making excuses to be close to him, Ray has exactly zero objections to that, he just doesn't know how what he should do about it. (He knows what he wants to do about it, but it never seems to be the right time, and he can never think of what to say.)
The click of Mikey undoing his seatbelt pulls Ray out of his trance. Mikey shuffles across the seat until he’s pressed right up against Ray’s side, and pulls off his glasses. Neither of them speak. Ray watches Mikey’s hand as he pulls up Ray’s shirt. Mikey's watch claims it's only 3:00am, but it feels like it should be later. The backs of Mikey’s perpetually-cold fingers brush against Ray’s belly and he pulls in a sharp breath, inhaling that hairspray-smell he’s come to like.
Mikey looks up, arching an eyebrow, like, you okay?
The passing streetlights cast a flickering glow over Mikey’s face, so close to Ray’s own that he can almost taste the post-show vodka on Mikey’s breath. The shadows play across Mikey’s features, making him look surreal, like something Ray is only remembering instead of seeing in real-time. His eyes are rimmed with the smeared remnants of his eyeliner, his cheekbones deadly-sharp, his lips chewed red from pre-show anxiety. His fingers are warming up the longer they’re against Ray’s skin.
Ray thinks fuck it, and he kisses Mikey, quick and soft.
There’s an extended frozen moment afterward where Mikey just stares at him, his face so naked without his glasses on but no less shrewd and knowing for it. He’s always looked at Ray like he can see right through him.
Then Mikey kisses Ray, and it’s not quick at all. It’s a middle-of-the-night kind of kiss, easy and slow with none of the urgency that it might have held in the daytime. Ray loses himself in the smooth slide of Mikey’s tongue fucking into his mouth, the alcohol and stale-smoke taste of him. Mikey’s fingers trace up Ray’s belly under his shirt, not cold at all anymore but making Ray shiver all the same. Mikey gets his other hand in Ray’s hair and tugs at it gently, sighing happily against Ray’s lips – Ray thinks maybe Mikey has been wanting to do that for a while now.
The glasses fall forgotten into Ray’s lap. Ray picks them up and carefully folds down the arms. He finds the nearest empty cupholder by feel so he won’t have to pull away from Mikey, and sets the glasses in it for safekeeping. Then he wraps his arms around Mikey and pulls him in closer.
~~