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Pete first sees him opposite the crowded bar, where everyone haunts trying to catch the attention of any poor soul willing enough to buy them a free drink, sitting slouched on a leather couch all too worn away to hold any remnants of comfort. His eyes lock onto Pete's through thin lenses in white tipped frames. The guy is stylish but not in the mainstream sense that clings onto the other club goers in heightened effort, instead it's an easy kind of fashion just a few years ahead of its time; waiting and biding away in the corner for the right moment to say ‘I did it first, everyone else just followed’.
There's no uncomfortable threat of being intrusive as Pete stares. The other man makes no attempt to break their eye contact, nor to vacate the couch to the sanctity of the mezzanine above them. He just sits, and stares, and Pete can't shake the feeling that perhaps it wasn't him who cast the first glance.
The bartender slides over a daiquiri pale green in colour and Pete sends back a raised eyebrow in confusion - this isn't the beer he ordered. Yet the answer is simple. The bartender nods his head in the direction of a woman sitting just a few seats down the bar, she's tall and slim with pin straight hair to her waist. She walks in heels destined to follow Pete's footsteps, and pushes up her bra to show over the hem of a black dress designed to look good on Pete's bedroom floor.
He doesn't fall for it.
Taking the beer that finally appears in his hand and turning his back to the woman completely, though he suspects she'll hover around his air space for a few attempts more, Pete wanders closer to the stranger on the opposite side of the room. He only goes as far to stand leaning against one of the higher rounded tables, not wanting to test the waters too soon and have the guy leave completely. The intensity of their eye contact had broken just moments before as the stranger found more entertainment in watching the dance floor change hues and shapes with each person who finds themselves enthralled in the pounding music. Pete's gaze remains on the man. He can't stop looking.
“Joe's thinking of heading out soon,” Patrick says, coming from seemingly nowhere to lean against Pete's table. “I'm gonna go too, you coming?”
He thinks for a moment, too long of a moment if that look from his friend could speak, but shakes his head. Pete could've gone home, back to his empty apartment with aircon that squeaks in agony or the kitchen void of any and all decoration leaving it gray like a corpse, or he could've found that woman's piercing eyes and asked if she could show him a thing or two - act like he hadn't learned it all from bygone girls with her exact face. Either way both scenarios end with Pete lying on his bedroom floor with no pants on trying to figure out where it all went wrong all those aching years ago. That shake of his head and the pat on the shoulder Patrick gives him is a definitive decision; tonight will not end how every other night enjoys falling off to.
Patrick leaves, Joe and Andy leave, within twenty minutes the club dwindles just ever so slightly. It's still suffocating just to stand here but Pete can make out people's faces in the strobe lights more easily. He watches a girl, no older than nineteen, with tears streaming down her face as she screams at her unbothered boyfriend. He follows the gaggle of dolled up women in cakes of makeup as they make their way to the washroom to apply a tube's worth of mascara on each eye. He feels pity for the young man trying to escape the clutches of an older woman in favour of dancing along to the rhythm with a guy his own age. Pete watches the stranger opposite the bar.
It's time to act. Before he knows it the club will close, the patrons will slink out through the doors, and Pete will lose all sight of this man he's become so fascinated with.
Pete crosses the river of spilled alcohol on the floor and sets himself down on the end of the couch just a cushion away. One hand still on his open beer, the other rests on the back of the couch in an outward stretch.
“You didn't look like you needed another drink, hope you don't mind.” Pete says as he realises he hadn't brought a drink for him, but leaning into the stranger's space so he knows he's heard.
The guy glances over, shrugs in response to the lack of an offer Pete provides.
“Name's Pete by the way. Pete Wentz.”
He's always given his surname upon every first meeting. It's a long drawn out habit from childhood, from where his parents raised him with proper manners to greet whichever client they had visiting that evening. It evolves into a gimmick at some point in his late teens when girls start giggling and blushing when he introduces himself. Patrick sees it as a safety mechanism; a sure line to follow when Pete goes missing and Patrick has to crawl through every drab Chicago bar to find him again.
“Mikey.” the stranger replies.
Not what Pete was expecting at all. In just the last half an hour alone he had thought up a dozen names this guy could've been called; he looked like an Adam with those glasses, but the brunette colour of his hair was fitting of a Luke or James. At one point he even turned his face just slightly and morphed into a Chris - Pete's blood ran cold at the thought, shaking it away before it could consume him. But looking at the guy now, with the proximity to meet the swirls of greens and browns in his eyes, Pete was so secure in the name Mikey. It suited him too well to be a fake name. Sounded too familiar and easy coming out of his mouth to be a decoy thought up for the purpose of pushing Pete away.
“Just Mikey? Got no tag line to go along with the name?”
“Just Mikey.”
It's clear Pete's found himself enamoured by a silent type. Typical; he usually ends up at this point. The nagging voice in the back of his mind tells him to give up.
“See the DJ up there?” Pete points, Mikey follows the gesture. “His files are completely full with 50 Cent and Rihanna remixes. Got kicked out of a goth gig ‘cus he lied about playing a Cure tribute gig a few months back. They only realised he was lying out his ass after the fifth play of Maneater.”
Mikey's face splits into a grin. It's covered by the rim of a beer glass before Pete can revel in the sight.
“And Perky-Tits over there, she said she slept with Timberland all through 2004 but if anyone asks her now she'll say it's been Ne-Yo since high school.”
“And you know this how?” Mikey asks.
He's skeptical, but clearly enjoying the cards Pete's playing. It's nice to know he's still got it in him. Mikey's voice is low, sweet like sticky treacle, and he speaks out the side of his mouth as if a cigarette had taken up permanent residence between his lips. It's not the first time Pete's been jealous of something so cancerous.
“People tell me things, JustMikey, when it's dark like this and they're higher than a kite. I got my inhibitions all in check, perfectly able to remember it all when they can't.” Pete explains.
“Sounds like you're a manipulative dickbag.”
“Hm… Yeah. Yeah that sounds like me.” Pete jokes. “You've got no issue with it, though, otherwise you'd be far gone by now.”
A shrug of ‘can't argue with that’ is the pretence to Mikey shifting to face Pete slightly. They're both in each other's personal space now, gone is the empty cushion between them and any semblance of Pete's fears. He gets cocky when he's drunk. He gets over ambitions with a peak in confidence when talking to a pretty face. Unfortunately for him Mikey is so much more than just a pretty face, and has been since the second he caught Pete's eye.
Pete is totally done for.
“Her face used to turn blue, it was weird. I knew a guy who was into that though.” Pete rambles out another story of a girl he caught sight of.
“Pete.” Mikey tries to interrupt.
“I can't look at her the same after, y'know.”
“Pete.” Mikey finally gets through. “They're closing the bar.”
Once the bar closes it's only an hour before the club dies down entirely. Pete’s not fond of this place for exactly that kind of customer service; he's usually found holed up in the corner of a club that hasn't ever locked its doors in ten years, or he's too occupied in someone's touch to notice the sun coming up and the missed calls running up his phone bill. If he doesn't show his face back in the land of the living after three days then Patrick finds him just before he becomes rat food in an alleyway. This is the very special part of Chicago Pete likes.
Disappointment runs across his skin, leaving raised hairs in their wake, as he realises Mikey's going to leave now. He won't see those eyes hidden behind thin frame glasses again, he won't hear the swigs of drink Mikey takes after each smirk he accidentally lets through.
Mikey makes a move to stand up. He's taller than Pete expected, towering over as he still sticks to the faux leather. Warmth floods through his cheeks and before Mikey can notice the colour change Pete stands up too. He catches Mikey's elbow gently.
“Where're you going next?”
Hesitation. Apprehension holds on Mikey's face and Pete is so certain he'll just evaporate then and there.
“Here and there.”
“Stay with me for a while.” Pete blurts out.
Pete expects to be told to fuck off, a ‘never talk to me again’ to be thrown his way. The gaul to ask Mikey this is nowhere near his usual stink of asking a girl for her number and then never calling. But something about Mikey is too addictive to give up. It's been an hour no more than that and Pete can't justify letting the guy go.
But Mikey nods in agreement.
The club overhead lights blare on, gone are the neon pinks and greens of the strobes, music still plays but it mellows out into a few of Rihanna's ballads. The DJ still doesn't know how to read a room. Pete catches glances of girls on the floor, the straps of their heels snapped, pulling to tighten the zips of their skirts. Pete watches the bartender stack unused glasses up high and toss broken cocktail umbrellas in the trash. He feels overwhelmed following Mikey walk over to the exit, watching his ass clad in black jeans.
Andy would call Pete a perv if he were here. Andy isn't here right now.
— — —
Mikey takes him to a car parked a few streets away.
This is where Pete starts questioning the night's choices; Mikey was only looking his way because Pete's obviously a great target, because Mikey is very obviously a serial killer who lures drunk idiots to his car. And eat them. Probably. Pete's not too sure of that last one.
Before Mikey fishes out keys from his jacket pocket Pete shoots out to hold his arm back. They both pause in place.
“You can't drive.” Pete says. “You've been drinking. I may encourage dissonance on the dance floor but I draw the chalk at getting me killed with a DUI.”
“I wasn't drinking tonight.” Mikey responds nonchalantly.
“I literally watched you. You had a beer the whole time we were talking.”
“It was non-alcoholic.”
Pete needs to make up his mind; decide if Mikey is lying and about to kill him, or if Mikey is a normal person who doesn't drink. He takes a split second to think it over, he wishes Patrick was here to be a voice of reason. But if Patrick was nattering away in his ear then there would've been no way Pete would be so close to getting Mikey into his bed.
“You go to clubs to drink non-alcoholics?” Pete asks.
“You apparently go to clubs to gather gossip for TMZ.”
Okay, fair, neither of them haunt Chicago's bars for any sane reason. Though in Pete's defence he originally came out tonight in honour of Joe's job promotion, like a good friend would. But once the clock ticks past midnight Pete is free to do whatever he wants without the pretence of a friend's success. It's not his fault he can't hold a job without his parent's nepotism.
Mikey puts his car keys back into his pocket. The 1988 black Nissan Maxima is forgotten as he starts to walk away, back in the direction they came, much to Pete's utter confusion.
“I'm not gonna drive if you don't believe I'm sober.” Mikey says, already ahead of Pete as he walks.
“Dude… has anyone told you about these mixed signals you're sending out?”
“A few guys, yeah.”
Pete does mental backflips at confirmation at Mikey liked men. Well, he didn't want to assume in the first place, but Mikey had the sort of get up that totally suggested he liked ass over tits. Call it an instinctive observation on Pete's part. He's got a knack for finding out what kind of sex people want; goth girls want knives and kinks Pete's never heard of before, girls with blonde hair tied high in intricate braids want comfort with a bit of bark, boys want Pete to shut up through it. He can't exactly pinpoint what Mikey would be into, but he knew a girl wouldn't be involved. Something about how difficult a dress is to pull over her head without smudging her makeup, and how Mikey wouldn't care enough to take the effort.
Ultimately Mikey's a quiet guy. Pete can't figure much out about the walking enigma, besides liking black and constantly brushing his hair out of his face. The walk is quiet, and Pete hates the sound of it when the sky is still dark without the stars.
“This really isn't what I was hoping for when I ask for us to stay a bit longer.” Pete says.
They pass the club now dead. They pass other bars still on their last legs and Pete is in half a mind to suggest the two go into one of the open doors. The buzz of being drunk is already starting to wear off, the feeling of it growing uncomfortable with dehydration.
“What was in mind then?” Mikey asks, that smile on his face again knowing he's messing with Pete.
“Something like…We'd go back to my place, I'd put on a jazz album that you'd hear and go ‘no way I love Sinatra!’ Just so I could explain that no, it's not Sinatra but a buddy of his who should be way more appreciated but was swept under the rug by the throws of fame. And then you'd kiss me or something, let me suck your dick and make you a cup of coffee in the morning.”
“Sounds romantic, Wentz.”
“Of course if that's not your speed! We could always chill in my hot tub, drink a couple shutes and get our rocks off in front of my plasma screen TV while Final Destination 2 plays - I'm a big fan of Kimberly.”
Mikey didn't need to know that Pete doesn't exactly have a hot tub nor a TV that's mounted to a wall.
He makes more of a fool of himself, describing more ways he could make Mikey swoon if given the chance. At one point he suggests that he really does believe Mikey is sober and can drive them back to his apartment, but the latter just raises his eyebrow unconvinced and turns to follow a split in the sidewalk.
“You really wanna have sex with me that bad?” Mikey asks, and it sounds sincere.
Does… Does Mikey not believe Pete was being completely serious here? A guy with those cheek bones, and not to mention the sharp jawline, surely got asked to bone every other hour. Pete can't be the first guy to openly flirt with him like this, right? Shit, what if he is? Pete's coming across as a total asshole and he wasn't even aware - in comparison to all the other times where Pete was fully conscious of how much of a tool he was.
“You're hot, man, why wouldn't I wanna tap that?”
Not the best comeback Pete's ever gone for. He'll work shop it in the morning, hopefully, if Mikey's still around.
His newfound crush finally comes to a stop down some back alley - the serial killer thing is coming back into play - and stop underneath a fire escape ladder. He tugs on it, it doesn't move. Another harsh tug and it comes clattering down to wake up the whole neighbourhood. He climbs up and of course Pete follows. It must be nearing four in the morning now, the wind is gentle but even in the summer it brings with it a bite of cold - Mikey's hair is blown back by it, showing off more of his face for Pete to memorise each and every mole and freckle of. He'll have those eyes staring into him for much longer than Mikey stays around for, that's one thing he's sure of. A subtle ebb of self consciousness creeps up Pete's spine whispering doubts into his ear; does Mikey find Pete as beautiful as he finds him? Do their eyes line up, or is it just a fallacy clouding Pete's perspective.
He's not even thinking about Mikey's ass anymore, despite the perfect view to admire it, as the confidence from the bar drains from his psyche.
— — —
It's an abandoned hotel room, Pete realises once he's safely back on a solid floor rather than rusting ladder prongs.
The walls decay with the gentle pressure of being looked at, crumbling to dust to be stepped on not even a moment later, with cracks growing up the sides of the window the two had crawled through. Looking back at it now Pete wasn't sure he should've trusted the structural integrity.
Mikey already makes work of pulling out a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, plucking one and balancing it in his mouth as he tries to locate his lighter. Pete thinks it's the only personal item the guy carries.
“Nice place you've got here, JustMikey.” Pete jokes.
The old bed looks rot infested. It'll snap under even the smallest of weights let alone two grown men but Mikey tests it anyway, leaning his knee on the decrepit satin to see what would happen. Nothing at all. He lies down without a care in the world. Pete's less keen - he skirts around the bed, eyes the legs to see if rat marks are more prevalent than the wood staining, he tries not to picture bugs making a home in his hair. Mikey is braver than him.
There's a stream of pale light coming through the torn curtains, it lines up perfectly to illuminate Mikey's face; his eyes closed, lips parted slightly, it looks like he's asleep. Pete knows he isn't, not because it's impossible for anyone to pass out that fast, but because of the humming coming from the taller man. It's just a simple tune, not a song Pete could place on the top 50 charts.
“Sit the fuck down, Wentz.”
Pete obliges, deciding if the bed collapses like a sinking ship then at least Mikey will be taken down with it.
“This place looks like it's straight out of a zombie movie. There's no way you hang out here without getting a tetanus shot.” Pete complains.
“Clearly never been to New Jersey if this is freaking you.”
“That's the accent, huh? Here I was thinking you're some babe from the sunny West coast. Surfboards and shit.”
The illumination of Mikey's face is captivating, fascinating to the point of obsession. Pete can imagine getting lost in his own focus trying to paint a portrait, trying to never forget the face of a man he only knows the name of. He wants to ask everything, wants to ask nothing at all. Pete hates the silence but Mikey makes it a comfortable pool to wade in.
Pete's not felt this way about a guy in more than years, longer than it takes with a girl. Girls are easier - they speak in code, they walk in the direction of whatever they want, they give hints telling Pete what jewellery to buy for their birthday, they put Pete in his place. Guys on the other hand are difficult just from the get go, being on a level with Pete that he should fully understand and yet can't. There's the added pressure, too, of only being serious with the women he gets into bed with. Pete can bring his latest girlfriend to a cousin's wedding on a whim with no explanation other than ‘she's my girlfriend’ but with a man there are stares and judgmental relatives who put the blame on his parents, the way he holds himself, or the pills he swallows.
He wants to take Mikey to weddings. To corporate parties, to housewarming get togethers with friends. He wants to snake his arm around Mikey's waist as he says ‘come meet my boyfriend’ to the guys. Mom would like Mikey, she would sit him down at the dinner table and give him plates of everything Pete liked as a kid. Does Mikey have a family like that? Friends he would be proud to introduce Pete to?
“I kinda wish I did get in your car earlier. Whoever you were gonna take me would be better than here.” Pete bemoans.
It's easier to complain again rather than stay on that thought train. It's not realistic to picture Mikey that way, he needs to shut it all down.
“I wasn't gonna take you anywhere.” Mikey admits. “Assumed we'd sit in there for a while until you got bored and left.”
“Bored? JustMikey I don't think I could ever get bored around you. I mean, you really don't say much but man can I fill a void.”
“You could entertain the dead.”
“Exactly! I'm gonna headline cemeteries and open for mortuary festivals. And you, Mikey, aren't dead yet so don't go about buying tickets to my gig.” Pete explains in dramatics.
The bed creaks, much akin to a coffin would he supposes, and the weight of Mikey is lifted; gone for a split second moment before finding its way closer to Pete, close enough for his hand to reach over to run his hands through Mikey's hair. It's not soft, rather greasy and slicked back, but Pete really doesn't care. This is the kind of touch he hasn't thought of doing with anyone. Something so docile and gentle, domestic and sweet in the same way his parents would dance around the Christmas tree in his early childhood. There is comfort. Comfort Pete almost forgot could be in the same room as him.
Pete thinks he's done something wrong when a sudden movement forces his hand away from Mikey's hair. He mourns the loss. Unexpectedly the touch is replaced by the feeling of Mikey's lips on his. A short, chaste kiss. It short wires Pete's brain in an instant. The prison system would be enamoured with Mikey and his skill of enacting the death penalty without the use of lethal injection.
He kisses Mikey this time without missing a beat.
“You're one strange motherfucker.” Pete mutters as he breaks for air.
Mikey kisses him again.
“I mean, you don't drink while in a club. You have a car that apparently you've got no intention of driving. Worst of all you kiss a guy in a squat house, which was your finding in the first place.”
Mikey sits back, up right on the bed and staring down at Pete. He watches, blinks slowly like a cat.
“Weirdest of all, I can't believe you just kissed me.” Pete's brain catches up.
“You're the one asking to get me off every five minutes.” Mikey replies.
“You're the one giving me mixed signals! A simple ‘no, Pete, I don't feel like having mind melting sex tonight’ would suffice.”
The room feels cold now, the windchill coming through the window to replace the glowing moonlight that he liked so much. Pete's still drunk enough for his words to come out harsher than intended, to slice right ⁿbelow the ribs where it stings the most, and he wouldn't even realise until it was too late. Pete calls it the ambulance effect - you only know you're bleeding out when the EMTs start strapping you onto a stretcher. He only knows he's fucked up when Mikey pulls his knees up to his chest to turn invisible.
“Pete. I do like you.” Mikey says.
“Fuck, Mikey, I like you so much. I know it's irrational, it's not the same, everyone's giving me a slap on the wrist for always shouting love confessions from the rooftops. But tonight's been great, and I wanna show you how much I like you.”
“You're sex obsessed.” Mikey says. “And I don't fuck on the first date.”
Pete pushes himself up now, crowding into Mikey's space so close that they share oxygen atoms. His hands rest on the top of Mikey's knees - God does he revel in the touch, the feeling of someone else's warmth so close.
“What're you so afraid of?” Pete asks.
He can tell by the way Mikey's eyes dilate larger than moons that he's struck a nerve deep in the core of the stranger's chest. He's still a stranger, an unknown, locked away from Pete's corroding personality.
“Finding someone like you.” Mikey replies.
He grabs Mikey's face, pulling him in for a deeper kiss this time. It's harsh, someone bites and someone's lip bleeds. Pete couldn't care less about who did what. He's obsessed with Mikey, detail oriented over the smallest of movements, he wants to cast the guy in resin and wear him around his neck. Wants to immortalise Mikey in songs, Polaroids pictures, tattoos on wrists.
If Pete is the cancer then Mikey is the addiction. Vices wrapped up together in rotting satin sheets. A pipe bomb ticking down ready to explode.
And Mikey drinks non-alcoholic beers.
— — —
When Pete wakes the next morning it's not even classed as morning anymore - it's past midday and he doesn't know where his shirt is.
He feels as if the world has turned to sand and water is an oddity from so many decades gone. The sky is gray outside, a far cry from the summer heat he'd grown used to. His skin itches from the sheets.
Mikey isn't here.
It's suffocating to look around the slaughterhouse of a hotel room and see no evidence of Mikey anywhere; his clothes aren't on the floor, no shoe marks in the dust, even the stub of a finished cigarette has been picked up from the windowsill and eradicated from memory. Pete runs his finger through dust and just stares at it. How can dust still exist when Mikey can't? He searches every nook of the room, overturning furniture in a panic as if his stranger is going to appear under a rug or bottom shelf. There's no ensuite bathroom, no chance of Mikey just taking a piss and Pete falsely going through early onset heart disease.
“You didn't even know the guy for a full day.” Patrick says.
Pete's sitting at his kitchen table. A mug of coffee is cold where it rests clutched between his hands, the skin around his nails bitten and torn raw. Patrick's always the one he turns to, always the one to pick him up and stand him back on his feet. The effort goes unnoticed this time.
“Dicks like that just want a quick lay, then they're gone. You of all people know how club sluts work.”
Pete feels like a walking corpse. From the cold sweat sheening his forehead to the trembling in all of his extremities, it's as if the hotel room itself bit and infected him. Now here's a man doomed to an eternity of flesh falling off his bones and an insatiable taste for something he can't have.
It strikes Pete now that he never even found out anything about Mikey. Not even a last name. He probably did that on purpose, Patrick supplies, so Pete couldn't have the chance to find him in the yellow pages of phone books.
Pete spends a week at Patrick's. A week lying under covers and wallowing. A week of red eyes and an over reliance on pills just for the strength to make toast. Who knows who carries the most pity out of the two - Patrick for having to deal with this shit, or Pete for his four hundredth high school heartbreak.
“I didn't even have sex with him.” Pete admits as he watches Jeopardy reruns.
“Really?” Patrick says. “This is what you've been angsting over? Must've been some pretty fucker if you're this hung up without even getting him in bed.”
“He didn't want to.”
Pete would've done anything for Mikey. Would've moved planets faster around the sun for him, would've pushed up daisies from the ground where he walks. There's an affinity for worship that floods through Pete's blood but this was different. This was something so much more to him than anyone else had ever been. He knew Mikey for a matter of hours and he was willing to hand over centuries.
He's sitting here writing obituaries for his own funeral.
A second week passes and Pete spends it healing the same way he always treats wounds. He haunts bars, he hunts clubs, he sleeps with anyone with a heartbeat. There's girls with glasses, short brunette hair, ass hugging black jeans. He finds more men than previous outings end with. They're all taller than him, all with a crippling cigarette addiction, but none of them speak out the side of their mouths. None of them have the same shade of hazel eyes that Mikey did. It's far too long of a second week.
He comes close with one girl. She hums the same song Mikey did. When he sleeps, she steals his wallet and disappears.
It's another of those listless nights where Pete recites every word he said to Mikey. Replays their steps, their movements, the kiss he doesn't want to think about. There's a ping that shouts from his laptop and he has to summon all the strength to walk four steps to pick it up. It's a MySpace message. It's a life sentence for a criminal standing in court.
Pete reads it a million times over.
‘Hey. It's Mikey.’