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It's funny. Kind of, at least.
Or. Well. No. Maybe it isn't.
Maybe it's actually sad?
But Mike doesn't want to be sad. And neither does he want to be angry, because he's sure he'd never recover if he ever gave in to that one and it would ruin not just his life but that of almost everyone he cares about, too.
So what does he do with this rolling heat that sludges and bubbles and boils in his veins like magma?
He laughs about it.
He spots that dreaded word on the forums and laughs.
He signs a drawing of him and Chester in what barely still passes as a friendly embrace and laughs.
He hears some fans at a Summit chuckle and whisper that word and laughs.
It's fine.
It's funny.
It's not like it ruined anything, this funny little word and the meaning attached to it.
It's not like it spoiled something.
It's not like it felt invasive or anything, like dozens, no, hundreds of eyes were on him even when he's all alone with one of his best friends.
It's not like he could feel them breathe down his neck that one time, that one stupid little time they sat underneath the stars in the gardens behind Laurel House, a few days before Chester went to rehab for the second time, drunk and at a loss for words on how thankful they were to know each other, hands reaching out on their own accord, lips meeting, breaths hitching, hearts beating...
It's not like Chester having been the first to pull away with a bitter "ok, this feels wrong" or how he got up after that and went back inside and left Mike behind, hurt or anything.
And it's not like the snap of a twig and rustling in a nearby bush and clouds passing in front of the full moon, casting shadows on the ground all around him made Mike feel watched, seen, surrounded, or made him panic because it felt like all these eyes on him were basking in his vulnerability, the tears in his eyes, his shaking, his inability to breathe properly, his pain.
No, it's not like that at all.
It's fine.
He's fine.
It's funny!
They're on Loveline and a girl calls and asks if they know about That Word.
And Chester tries to make it into something harmless, so they can move on.
And Mike tries to be a good sport, too, and not ruin this funny little thing for the fans but ends up comparing it to hate messages anyway.
And him and Chester don't touch each other for the rest of the night and don't even hug when saying goodbye.
It's fine.
Maybe they should be thankful.
They're married and each of them has his own little colorful bouquet of issues that would make things messy, should they ever give into... whatever it is. That thing between them. That thing that feels like a whole ocean in each of their hearts that's only held back by a thin brick wall they keep maintaining and patching up and improving because they're scared shitless of drowning in it.
Also the band. The press. Society. Eyes upon eyes upon eyes, all set on them, 24/7, either waiting for them to fail to enjoy the gossip or begging them to be the poster children for healthy queer relationships in mainstream music business, no arguments allowed, no negative impact on the band's output, not a single day where they aren't at their best, always smiling, always thankful for the support, always resilient to the pushback, always nice, perfect, people to look up to.
It's good they can't ever let it get to that point.
It's good these funny little fans and their funny little jokes and their funny little imagination keep them from even just briefly entertaining the sheer idea of exploring that ocean between them, yeah, it's for the best, a good thing, absolutely.
It's fine.
They're fine.
Mike's fine.
He's not angry. He's not in pain. He doesn't feel dirty as if he was laying down in a musty, stained bed dozens of other ppl have already fucked in when he sheepishly steals a glance at his best friend's ass or feels a shiver run down his neck when said friend jokingly flexes his biceps, proud of the results of his diligent workout.
He can't be angry.
Because if he was he'd hate his fans and he worked so hard to get them, and they mean so much to him and it would be unfair of him to hate that he means something to them, too. It's not all of them, after all, who are Like That. Just some. Easy to avoid, too, most of the time. Yeah, no, Mike's a good guy. He's cool with them. It's cool. He's fine.
It's fine.
It just. Nags at the back of his mind sometimes, that's all.
Or burns in his veins. The sheer potential of the hate he'd be capable of if he allowed himself to acknowledge it.
But he doesn't.
He just laughs about someone on twitter asking his wife about That Word.
And jokes when Chester ever so briefly fails to pretend he didn't know about it.
And neither the weak smile on his friend's lips nor the bile rising up in Mike's throat are that bitter at all even.
It's funny, actually.
Kind of, at least.
It's fine.
- END -