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The warm, yellow light from the lampshade sticks to Peter’s skin like honey. Despite the window being open the air in the room is hot and heavy, the night air still soaked with the day’s heat. He is standing by the foot of the bed undressed from the waist up, clutching his shirt in his hand.
Michael is lying on the bed. He's splayed on his stomach shirtless as well, both of his arms are twisted at almost ninety-degree angles. Peter is struck with how fragile they look; just two toothpicks covered in flesh. It is easy to forget that Mike is a rather delicate thing, when he is trying his utmost to not appear so. He stomps around on his long legs pretending to be made of concrete and lead, looking at the world around him like he’s never crossed paths with the words vulnerability and weakness. Looking at him now Peter realizes that he’s managed to fool him with this facade. But he could be broken too, like the rest of them.
Peter is waiting. He isn't sure for what. Certainly not for permission; Michael would not give him one and Peter wouldn’t want one either. But still there is something holding him back. Perhaps it is the opportunity to uninterruptedly gaze at him, now that he is too wiped out to keep his guard up. His naked back, smooth like a slab of marble, is bathed in the hazy light. Peter wants to run his hand down his spine, dip it under the duvet that covers him from waist down and continue lower.
He finally walks to the other side of the bed, letting his shirt drop to the floor. He can see Mike’s face now — or what is visible of it anyway, half of it being buried in the pillow. His usually meticulously combed hair is a mess, the dark unruly strands standing stark against the whiteness of the sheets. Peter can't help but smile at the sight of him. He knows Mike would bristle at Peter thinking of him as cute and the thought makes him smile even more.
He sits on the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. He’s about to reach for his belt, when Mike’s sleepy voice reaches him through the silence.
“Pete?”
Peter stills. Licks his lips and speaks matching Michael’s soft tone.
“Yes, Michael?”
“Turn off the light, will ya?”
Peter remains exactly as he is, his hands hanging in mid-air, inches away from his waist. Then because he can’t help himself:
“But I’m not gonna be able to see you then.”
There is a beat of silence.
“Turn off the light, Peter,” his tone is still as soft as before, muffled by the pillow, but there is a familiar harshness to it. It coats Mike’s words every time Peter doesn’t do exactly what he wants. When he’s being difficult, as he often complains, like Peter is a stubborn child he has to put up with.
Peter doesn’t feel like fighting back, it’s hot and it’s late and he’s tired. Plus, Michael not trying to kick Peter out the moment he stepped inside his room is a rare show of kindness on his side — he’s aware of that. He decides that he can be generous too and turns the lamp off.
He takes off his pants but leaves his briefs on. Thanks to the open window the room is not completely dark so it’s easy for him to find the duvet. He covers himself up to his waist and lies down on his back, leaving a careful space between them.
Lying down, he becomes aware of the sounds coming from outside: the choir of crickets, a faraway car driving by. After the roar of their show tonight, the screams of the fans and the amplified sounds of their instruments, it is soothing on his ears. Peter closes his eyes and lets it gently guide him to the edges of sleep.
A different sound pulls him back to himself: a quiet rustling against the sheets. Suddenly he feels one of Mike’s spindly arms wrapping itself around his middle.
It takes Peter by surprise. Mike is never the one to initiate physical contact — it is always Peter. Michael either shoves him away or pretends to be bothered by it even though they both know he’s not. Peter calls him out on it sometimes if he feels like being particularly difficult.
Maybe it’s the darkness that’s covering them, making it easier for Mike to pretend he’s not doing what he’s actually doing. Peter is too sleepy to speculate what is going on in the endless labyrinths of Michael Nesmith’s mind.
Instead, he takes advantage of the situation and scoots himself a bit closer to Michael, feeling the heat of his body. Then, experimentally, he covers Michael’s hand with his own. Gently runs his thumb across the hairs on his forearm. He waits and waits, but Mike doesn’t say anything. He breathes out.
He turns his face to look at Michael, even though he can’t properly see him right now. His disheveled hair is distinguishable even in the dark, though and he can see the hazy silhouette of his face against the pillow.
This should be enough, with Michael this should be more than enough, Peter knows that. Yet he cannot help wanting more, the hand not touching Mike itching with the desire to reach over and cup his cheek. He’d like to kiss him, tell him that it’s okay, it’s okay to want this and to have it. That they could have it if Mike would only let go. If he would trust Peter.
But he doesn't. It dawns on Peter that this just might be the core of their eternal struggle: Peter always wants more while Michael is never willing to give it to him. A moth tirelessly flinging its body against a lightbulb that barely flickers. Both of them always dissatisfied and unable to do anything about it, stuck in the irrational roles they’ve created for themselves.
Peter sighs. He squeezes Mike’s arm, lets himself enjoy the sensation of getting to touch him, at least like this.
For tonight it will be enough.