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Mike hangs his head low as fat tears fall from his eyes, stinging his skin as they descend. As each sniffle escapes him, he can’t help but be reminded of how his Pa always told him men aren't supposed to cry. Flashbacks of his Pa lashing him with the belt resurface, memories of the man screaming at him to take what he deserved like a man and to not act like no pansy.
Mike doesn’t understand after all that he went through, how can he still miss home. He misses drinking ice cold lemonade straight from the jug on hot August afternoons. He misses the way his Mama would clap for him when he showed her a new song he learned on guitar. He misses the sound of his sister's shoes on the hard dirt as they jumped rope, kicking up dust as they played.
He wonders what his Mama is up to now, hopefully not half drunk to death. He wonders how his family is getting along without him. He can’t help but feel guilty imagining them just barely scraping enough money for food, with no sort of man to protect them, just a woman with old bones and four young daughters. But selfishy he hopes the opposite isn't true either, he doesn't know what he would do if he learned they never needed him. What if him leaving was the best thing he ever did for his Mama?
He trembles as he thinks, soft sobs escaping him, concern wracks over him for a split second when he remembers that Davy and Peter are right downstairs. They wouldn't judge him, the lord knows Peter cries more in a month than Mike has in his entire life. But they all know Mike as the strong one. The responsible one. He can’t let them know that he’s a right fraud, that he doesn't know what the hell he is doing anymore than the rest of them do.
Luckily for him Micky is out for the night, he mumbled something about a party and skipped. Mike isn't too worried, no matter how childish he acts sometimes Micky’s got himself under control.
Lately it feels that all of Mike’s thoughts somehow drift to Micky, the light dusting of freckles across his flat nose, the way his hair turns gold in the California sun, and his bright eyes that never seem to lose their wild energy even when he’s doing something mundane like reading or watching TV.
As much as Mike misses Texas he knows he couldn't have stayed, even if his dad wasn't in the picture. The things he feels for Micky aren't natural, his feelings from men aren't natural, and if he was caught doing anything queer in Texas only the lord knows what would have become of him. Out here in California the consequences seem less severe, and even if he dared to sneak a look at Micky shirtless on the beach, things sped too fast on the West Coast for someone else to even take notice.
He would never act on anything, at risk of making Micky uncomfortable and risking their friendship but also because he himself is still uncomfortable in who he is. Everytime he catches himself thinking of Micky, he pushes the thought out of his head as quickly as possible, because no matter if Micky would hate him or not, it isn't right. Just like it isn't right for men to cry, and even as a grown man, it isn't right to disobey his Pa.
Mike finds himself spiraling again, back to thinking about Texas and his father. His crying that came to a pause resurfaces just as soon as the door clicks open.
Mike nearly jumps out of his skin, rubbing at his eyes to make himself look unsuspicious, but only managing to make them even more puffy.
“Mike?” Micky’s voice comes out as a whisper, Mike had never cried in front of the other guys before and Micky looked halfway in shock.
Mike quickly turns away from Micky, covering himself in his blankets, but quickly realizing that wasn't his best move as Micky comes over to him to sit on the edge of his bed. Mike shakily inhales, expecting the stink of booze, a smell that has come to remind him of his father, but only the earthy smell of grass hits him, not at all strong enough to signal that Micky is any sort of intoxicated.
He flinches as Micky places his hand on Mike’s shoulder, wanting to be touched but also reeling at the warmth. A warmth that hasn't always been so kind. Micky pulls his hand back almost instantly, “Gee, I’m sorry Mike,” Mike can’t stand that Micky thinks that any of this is his fault, “I can leave, it just always makes me feel better to talk when I'm upset, but I can go if you want?” Micky says it like a question, insecurity flowing through his words. Mike can feel Micky’s weight leave the bed as he heads for the door.
“Stay! Please.” Mike’s voice breaks and he cringes, hating how weak he sounds, “I'm sorry, please stay Micky.”
“You have nothing to apologize for babe,” Micky turns back to Mike’s direction but doesn't sit down, “Do you mind if I sit with you or would you rather I sit on my bed instead”
Mike hates how childish he feels, Micky doesn mean to be condescending but he can't help but feel pathetic. He is a man, why can’t he act like one? He is supposed to be the one who has everything together and now Micky feels the need to tiptoe around him. “Sit with me?” His voice feels weak and catches in his throat.
Mike sits up and finds himself knee to knee with Micky. “We don’t have to talk if you don't want to. We can just sit together here, or I could distract you with my impressions of the inimitable James Cagney, or I could just hold you. Whatever you want to do, I don’t mind. We both know I’ve cried on your shoulder far too many times for me to show you any less kindness.”
“Thanks..” Mike trails off, eyes turned away from Micky’s. He’s never this close to any of the guys, always staying away from physical touch because he knows how it looks when he reels away from touch. He doesn't want them to feel unloved by him. If he looks into Micky’s eyes, he's gonna do something he’s gonna regret and he knows it.
However, Micky has other plans, gingerly placing an arm around Mike's shoulders, slow enough where Mike can ease into his touch but firm, grounding him. Mike feels like he could cry as Micky removes his wool hat and stokes his hair. To be touched softly with such love is all Mike ever wanted and now he was finally allowing himself that pleasure.
Mike leans into Micky, sides slotting into each other like puzzle pieces, “Im sorry, you really didn't hafta do this Mick,” Mike wipes at his eyes, “There’s no need to take care of a wreck like me, I'm damaged goods.”
“You have nothing to apologize for.” Micky's voice is stern. It’s not a rarity to see Micky’s passion in action, but Mike has never seen it burning this white hot, like he is determined on proving something. “You deserve good things Mike, sometimes I feel like you don’t believe that. And I plan on giving you that reminder plenty now, because you are worthy of love Mike, no matter what is telling you that you aren't.”
Mike throws his arms around Micky’s torso, pulling them even closer together. Mike’s tears have dried and Micky continues to hold him but after a while, Mike can tell he is getting restless. “You don’t hafta stay with me Mick, you can go if ya wanna.”
“No! I wanna stay here.” Mike looks up to see Micky smiling at him, “That’s if you want me to.” Mike nods his head yes sharply drawing a laugh from Micky, “I just get antsy sitting for so long, you know me babe. Lemme put some tunes on.”
Mike lets out a playful groan as he has to get up to let Micky out from under him. “Oh shush, you big baby. I'll be right back.”
Mike watches as Micky goes over to the small self of records in their room. They have two record players in the pad, one in their room and one in the main room. The one upstairs was one Mike bought with his own money, and all the records in the wooden shelf were his own.
Micky turns back from the collection, face all scrunched up like he ate a lemon. “What's your problem, sourpuss?”
Micky sticks his tongue out at Mike who is still perched on the bed, “These records are all so square, what are you doing Mike? You're in the grooviest band of all time but your own taste is so wretched!”
“Hey now! I don’t judge your music, now you don’t judge mine. Peter told me to listen to one of his Spoonful records the other day and I haven't returned it to him yet. That might be more your speed.”
Micky shakes his hair out, curls bouncing, “Thank Christ for Peter.” With a triumphant fist pump he finds the album and places down the needle, flopping back onto Mike’s bed.
“Careful Mick, your gonna shake the bed so hard the record’ll skip.”
A smirk appears on Micky’s face, “I know another way we can shake the bed.” And with a wink from Micky, Mike can feel his face go beet red. What was Micky trying to pull?
Micky clambers on top of Mike’s lap, a head above Mike. “Your face is so red Mikey, lemme open a window.” Micky rubs the pads of his thumbs against the skin of Mike’s cheeks. Mike can't fathom how bright his face is burning, this is the closest he has ever been to Micky, to another boy, to anyone that wasn’t his Ma.
Micky hops off, kneeing Mike square in the stomach in the process. The blow earning a grunt from Mike, harsh over the soft sounds of the record. But he isn't able to complain as the cool night air hits him, washing away the bad parts of the night leaving only the sweet sunshine that is Micky.
Micky stretches, shirt riding up as he does so, “I’m gonna get my jammies on Mike, you should change too. I don’t want you all in your day clothes in the bed, would harsh my vibe.”
Mike barely has time to process, “The bed? Like a singular bed? That we are gonna sleep in, together?”
“Sure Mike, I would wanna if you're comfortable with it. But I know that might be hard for you, so it's your choice. But I will let you know that if you wanna cop a feel, I'm gonna have to ask you to shower first.” Micky’s lips turn up into a grin making Mike’s chest flutter. The shameless flirting makes Mike feel like he’s about to short circuit like one of those tinker toys Micky is always playing around with. Micky has no idea what he's doing to him.
Mike grins toothily, “That’s alright with me, as long as you don’t kick me in your sleep. I think I am gonna take a quick shower if you don't mind.” He opens the door with a squeak of the hinges, “Thanks for everything Mick. I mean it.”
Micky looks up at him with soft eyes, “You deserve good things Mike.”
When Mike returns, washed and dressed, Micky is already fast asleep. His form on top of the covers with a book held in limp fingers. Like he was waiting for Mike to get back before laying down, but then promptly passing out from the efforts. When Micky was awake he was very much awake but unluckily for Mike, the same was true when he was sleeping. Not wanting to make Micky up but not knowing what else to do, Mike taps him on the shoulder. And when that doesn't work, he proceeds to whisper shout “Micky” into the boy's ears, until he makes himself hoarse. He gives up, eventually deciding to just move Micky the foot and a half over to get him under the covers.
He pulls the window shut again, switches off the bedside table lamp and the record player, and slips underneath the covers but stays sitting. His eyes affix to the way the night shadows dance on Micky’s face, the way his eyelashes brush gently against his cheeks. He stays like that for a while, sitting and watching Micky, until an arm tugs at his pajama sleeve.
“Mm, Mikey lay with me.” Micky sleepily whispers, eyes still shut, “Please.” Mike feels his heart melt and he slides down into Micky’s side. Micky pulls him close and whispers unintelligible mumblings into his ear, shifting so his arms are wrapped around Mike.
The only noise in the room becomes the shallow breaths of Mike’s sleeping form as Micky presses a half awake kiss into the bridge of Mike’s nose.