Work Text:
“So how many piercings do you have, exactly?” Thomas asks, leaning closer to study the silver glintings across Mike’s face.
The bed creaks as Mike crosses his legs on the mattress. This penthouse, if not briefly, makes it feel like they aren't trapped in the middle of an apocalypse, like they're just two people on an ordinary day, sharing an ordinary moment. Mike has become an important addition to Thomas’ getaways whenever he needs to breathe, though that's only part of the truth. He doesn't need a reason to come see Mike. He just wants to.
“Uhhhh,” Mike looks up at the ceiling and starts counting on his fingers. “Five on my left ear, eight on my right. That’s thirteen already.”
“That’s a lot,” Thomas hums, absently touching his own ear. “Doesn’t it hurt?”
Mike shrugs. “I mean, at first, yeah. Some hurt more than others.” He tilts his head and points to the long metal bar running across his ear. “This one, for example.” He taps it lightly. “It’s called an industrial piercing. This thing took a whole year to heal, dude. And it still flares up sometimes.”
Thomas winces. “Isn’t that annoying to deal with? I can’t imagine being in pain for an entire year.”
“Eh, it’s not that bad. Nothing I can’t handle,” Mike replies, going back to counting. “So that’s thirteen on my ears. Then there are my dimple piercings, my labret, my angel fangs, eyebrow, uh, bridge, nostril…” He gives a small, satisfied nod. “Yeah. That’s all. So that makes it, what, nineteen total?”
It's the first time Thomas has met someone so devoted to piercings. He nods, a little impressed. “Wow. You really do have a lot.”
Mike grins, satisfaction clear across his face. “I should make it twenty. Nice round number and all.”
“I agree,” Thomas says, leaning back against the wall. “But it’s too bad you can’t do it here.”
“Huh? Who says I can’t?”
Thomas straightens instantly, barely ten seconds after relaxing. He narrows his eyes. “What do you mean?”
Mike answers with a sly smile before hopping off the bed and heading for his bag at the other end of the room. He digs through it, rustling around for several seconds before pulling his hand out with a triumphant, “Aha!”
A small, rectangular, clear plastic box rests in his hand.
“What’s that?” Thomas asks, gaze fixed on the unfamiliar object.
Mike walks quickly back to the bed, jumps onto it with a couple of small bounces, then settles into his previous spot, looking far too pleased with himself.
“It’s my piercing kit,” he says, as if carrying one around is the most ordinary thing in the world.
Thomas tilts his head, utterly confused. “Mike, why do you have your piercing kit with you?”
“For moments like this, dude. Why else?” Mike snickers. He flips the box open, revealing a rather intimidating setup with a needle fixed at the end, several spare needles, and what Thomas assumes are pieces of jewelry. There are silver pieces in different sizes and shapes, stars, hearts, tiny diamonds, simple hoops, and plain studs. “I can’t go anywhere without this baby,” Mike says, pressing a kiss to the one fitted with the needle.
“You’re addicted,” Thomas laughs under his breath. “Didn’t they teach you in college how important sanitation is? I don’t think piercing yourself during an apocalypse is a smart idea.”
Mike rolls his eyes and sets the box down on the bed. “First of all, I dropped out of college. And second,” he lifts what Thomas has mentally labeled the needle gun and points it straight at him, “dude, I think we’ve got bigger things to worry about than a piercing. Don’t be such a party pooper.”
“I wasn’t trying to,” Thomas says, puckering his lips. “It’s the truth.”
Just then, as if a bright and reckless idea sparks inside his head, Mike perks up. He leans closer without warning, stepping straight into Thomas’ personal space, bringing the faint scent of the sea with him. Thomas’ eyes widen slightly.
“Thomas,” Mike says, his smile stretching wider. “I have an idea.”
Red alarms start going off in Thomas’ mind. “What is it?” he asks anyway, curiosity winning over caution.
“Let’s pierce your ears.”
Thomas blinks. “W-What?” He isn't even sure he heard correctly.
“Come on, dude, let’s do it,” Mike lifts the needle gun and presents it proudly. “It’ll be over before you even realize. This thing’s a beast.”
That doesn't reassure Thomas in the slightest. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” he attempts to reason his way out, but Mike’s stubborn stare keeps him rooted in place. “What about disinfectant? Or gauze in case my ears start bleeding? Gloves for sanitation? Or—”
“Dude, Thomas— just relax.” Mike taps between Thomas’ brows, right over the crease forming there. “You’re gonna get wrinkles in your twenties if you don’t stop frowning.”
To his own surprise, Thomas smooths his expression instantly. The thought of premature wrinkles unsettles him more than he cares to admit.
“Besides, isn’t it about time you stopped being such a good boy?” Mike draws out each word, almost teasing. Thomas finds himself caught in his gaze. “Who knows when we’re gonna die. We might not even be here tomorrow.”
“Don’t say that,” Thomas almost snaps, then stops himself.
“You know it’s the truth,” Mike replies with a shrug. “That’s why we’ve gotta make the most of it.”
“And we do that by piercing my ears?”
“Yep.” Mike emphasizes the final sound. “I think they’d look dope on you, dude.”
Thomas usually knows how to say no. He's very good at it when he wants to be. The logical choice here would be to refuse and shut the idea down completely. He doesn't want to deal with throbbing ears on top of everything else happening around them. It's an incredibly reckless suggestion, coming from an even more reckless man named Mike Roghost.
But when he opens his mouth, what comes out instead is, “Only if it matches yours.”
Mike is very much his weakness. A special case. Thomas knows that now.
The response clearly catches Mike off guard. He falls silent for a brief second before lighting up, grinning wide. “Look at this guy and his cute words,” he teases, already digging through the small box again.
Mike sticks his tongue out to the side, head lowered as he carefully inspects each piece of jewelry. Thomas suddenly feels the urge to run his fingers through Mike’s bleached white hair, which looks too soft for someone constantly fighting and fleeing from zombies. He manages to hold himself back.
After a bit more rummaging, Mike finally finds what he wants.
“Gotcha. It's not as big as the stud I’m wearing right now, but it’ll do,” Mike says, holding up the silver piece. It catches the light and gleams as he turns it between his fingers. “Close enough to match, yeah?”
Thomas finds himself staring at the sharp, pointed end of the stud. He swallows. “Is that going to go through my ear?” He bites down on his lip, almost deliberately, as if trying to distract himself with a different kind of sting.
Mike answers him with the same familiar smirk. He smiles so easily, Thomas thinks. He looks unfairly beautiful when he does, even if it is at Thomas’ expense.
“You think too much,” Mike says, sliding the stud into the gun and checking that it's secure. He inspects it carefully before giving a satisfied hum. “It’ll be over before you even realize.”
Thomas tastes iron. His lip must be bleeding from how hard he has been biting it, from the unnecessary tension he keeps building in himself. Memories of lectures about septic shock and infections from minor wounds surface unhelpfully in his mind. He isn't particularly afraid of dying, but he would rather not go out because of a poorly timed piercing.
He should say no. He really should.
“Do you want it on your left or ri— Jesus, dude.”
“Huh?” Thomas blinks blankly.
It takes him a second to register the warmth of a hand, a finger slipping gently between his lips. He parts them instinctively, releasing his bottom lip from his teeth, a dull throb lingering there.
“You’re gonna ruin your lips.” Mike swipes his thumb across Thomas’ lower lip without seeming to realize what he's doing. Thomas hopes he doesn't notice how quickly his pulse jumps. “It’s all bloody.” Mike’s brows knit together. Thomas already misses the touch when it pulls away. “Look, if this is stressing you out that much, we don’t have to do it. It’s just a stupid pierci—”
“No. I want to.” Thomas blurts out. He clasps his hands together in his lap. “I want to. I just… worry more than I should sometimes.”
“No shit.” The amusement slips back into Mike’s tone. “I don’t think I’ve ever met a worrywart like you, dude.”
Thomas can't help the small spark of pride that rises in him. He's the only worrywart in Mike’s life. The one and only.
“Mr. Flux is going to be traumatized,” Thomas laughs at the image forming in his mind. A horrified Mr. Flux pointing shakily at his ear and demanding to know who did it is far too entertaining. It fully convinces him to go through with it.
“You sure love your Mr. Flux, huh?” Mike’s tone this time is difficult to read. He gestures for Thomas to scoot closer, and Thomas slides across the bed, narrowing the already small distance between them. “Mr. Flux this, Mr. Flux that. You can’t stop talking about him.” His breath brushes against Thomas’ skin, warm and distracting. “Left or right?” he asks again.
“Left,” Thomas answers quickly, already turning so his left ear faces Mike. He doesn't mention that Mike’s own piercing is on the right, and that he wants them to match in opposite places. “And Mr. Flux is my best friend. Isn’t it normal for me to talk about him?”
Mike raises a questionable brow. "Do you ever see me talking about my friends like you do?" Thomas shakes his head. "Exactly. See, dude, you're the problem here."
"But I talk about you a lot to Mr. Flux too," Thomas clarifies absentmindedly. "Should I not do that, then?"
He braces himself for a response like, Of course you shouldn’t. That’s weird, or anything that would make him quietly stop mentioning Mike to Fluixon, to Augustus, to Magic, to Stella, to Saparata, to anyone ever again.
Instead, Mike looks almost flustered. It reminds Thomas of the first time they held hands, though that had been in the middle of a sudden horde attack, not because of anything Thomas secretly wishes it had meant.
“Oh.” The corner of Mike’s mouth twitches. “Oh, you do, huh?” he says in a teasing, sing song voice. His fingers tremble slightly as they close around Thomas’ earlobe. Thomas tries not to flinch at the contact. “Course you do. Yep.” He rubs the skin gently, examining it with careful focus. Thomas isn't sure this much attention is necessary, but he doesn't interrupt. “I mean, yeah, ignore me, dude. Of course you should talk about your friends. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
“That was a quick one eighty,” Thomas nudges Mike lightly with his elbow. “So you don’t mind if I bring Mr. Flux up?”
“I couldn’t care less, dude. You do you.” With his other hand, Mike picks up the gun. “Just make sure you talk about me too.”
If only you knew, Thomas thinks. Fluixon and Mike are alike in one particular way. They both complain about each other. Thomas has lost count of how many times Fluixon warned him about Mike, told him to stop hanging out with him, to stop even mentioning him. Thomas never listens. Why would he, when Mr. Flux spends his time with the secretive, mysterious scientist who barely speaks to anyone? And if Fluixon ever pushes too hard, Thomas can always pull out the I saw you and Mr. Saps kiss card and walk away unscathed.
The cold press of metal against his ear drags him back to the present. He squeezes his eyes shut instinctively.
“Hey, I haven’t even done anything yet,” Mike murmurs, voice dipping lower. A shiver runs down the back of Thomas’ neck. “Relax.”
“Easy for someone with nineteen piercings to say,” Thomas mutters, lacking any real bite.
Mike's laugh is lighthearted, comforting. "I promise I’ll let you punch me if it hurts too much.”
Thomas’ body stiffens. The pressure on his earlobe increases as Mike secures the gun in place. The sharp tip brushes against his skin, doing nothing to calm his racing thoughts. What if it doesn't go through cleanly? What if it tears? What if he ends up with an infection and no proper treatment? What if he loses his ear—
“Aaaand, it’s done.”
Thomas’ eyes fly open. “Huh?” he blurts.
“It’s done,” Mike repeats. Thomas heard him the first time, but he appreciates the confirmation. “See? Easy. I told you.”
Slowly, still a little dazed, Thomas lifts a hand to his ear. It throbs at the touch, and there's a cool gem resting there that hadn't existed moments ago.
“Wow…” Thomas murmurs, meeting Mike’s glistening eyes. “I have a piercing.”
Mike grins softly. “Yeah, you do.” It's almost hypnotizing how the metal on his face shifts with every movement. “And it looks damn good on you.”
“It does?” Thomas twists his fingers together in his lap, suddenly bashful.
“Trust me.” Mike brushes a strand of hair back from Thomas’ ear. “It brings out your eye color. Or your hair. It, uh, it complements your skin tone. And— whatever, dude. You know what I mean.”
Mike is awful at compliments. Anyone else might question whether his words mean anything at all. But to Thomas, even the most awkward attempt sends a warm flutter through his chest. He wants to hear more of Mike stumbling over his sentences, to catch that fleeting panic in his eyes, so unlike the effortless confidence he usually wears.
“I don’t, actually,” Thomas says, feigning innocence. He shifts until he is facing Mike directly. “How exactly does it look good on me?”
Mike’s hand lingers awkwardly in the air. He falls quiet, clearly not expecting the sudden boldness.
“I need reassurance,” Thomas pouts, fluttering his lashes. “What if I hate it tomorrow and decide to take it out?”
“I already told you it looks good, dude.” Mike folds his arms loosely across his chest, rocking slightly on the bed. “What else do you want from me?”
“Much more,” Thomas replies without hesitation. “Mr. Flux always calls me greedy when I ask him how much he cares about me, and I usually don’t stop until I get a proper answer.” He watches closely, wanting to see Mike grow more flustered, more fidgety, more unsure. “So, Mike, what was it you were saying about my eyes?”
Now it's Mike’s turn to bite his lip until it turns pink. His fingers tap an uneven rhythm against his biceps, drumming over the fabric of his jersey while his shoulders stiffen. Their roles flip entirely, and the confident man from moments ago folds into himself.
Is he unaware that this only makes Thomas want to tease him more?
“You look pretty, 'kay?” Mike finally mutters, frustration and nerves tangling in his voice.
Thomas leans in until their faces are level, close enough that Mike’s eyes widen in response.
“What else?” Thomas whispers, refusing to look away.
Mike does not retreat. Whether he's frozen or simply choosing not to move, Thomas can't tell. “It—” he stumbles over the word, openly flustered. Cute, Thomas thinks to himself. “It matches the green in your eyes.”
Thomas hums softly in approval. “Really?” The more Mike allows him this closeness, the harder it becomes to stop. Even when their noses brush, warmth against warmth, Mike stays still. “Thank you, Mike. You just have really good taste.”
Mike’s breath is warm against Thomas’ lips, tingling with every slow exhale. It feels like it scorches, like it leaves a permanent mark behind each time. “Just what are you doing?” he asks, his voice unsteady.
The question pulls Thomas back to himself for a moment. He becomes aware of the room again, of how close they are, how impossible it would be to step away without breaking the fragile connection between them. The bed Mike sleeps on each night turns into the foundation of a small secret, a serene escape meant only for them.
“I don’t know either,” Thomas admits. His gaze drops to Mike’s flushed lips, and he instantly regrets it. Now he wants to kiss him. “But it feels right. For some reason.” He presses their foreheads together, closing the distance even more. Then he reaches for Mike’s hand and laces their fingers together, awkward but determined. “Do you hate it?”
When their eyes lock, a bright spark flares between them. Thomas can barely see anything else but the gray of Mike’s gaze filling his vision.
“I don’t,” Mike says faintly. Thomas feels his hand tighten around his. “I should, but I don’t. I think you broke me, dude. I was only supposed to give you a stupid piercing.”
“It’s not stupid,” Thomas protests, swinging their joined hands gently from side to side. “Don’t insult my piercing.”
“Huh. Look at this dude,” Mike huffs. “One piercing and he’s already acting up.”
It feels disappointing when they finally pull apart, when it's Mike who steps back first. Thomas aches to close the space again, to melt into him completely this time, but the timing never quite lines up with them. It's as if they keep missing each other by a single beat. Still, their hands remain intertwined, and that's enough for Thomas to swallow the darker feelings for now.
Especially when Mike flashes that crooked grin, his angel fangs making him look like a once feral cat that has chosen to stay. Thomas already knows he will spend the next week listing every unexpectedly adorable trait of Mike’s to Mr. Flux.
“When can I get my next one?” Thomas asks, leaning sideways against the wall. It feels cold and rigid against his back, and he already misses the warmness of Mike’s body.
Mike lets out a laugh. “Already? Dude, I thought you were scared you’d die from it or something.”
“I was,” Thomas admits. “But I’m a changed guy. I think it makes me look very cool.” A pause. “And pretty,” he adds with a playful wink.
Even if he tries, Mike can't hide the blush creeping up to the tips of his ears. “Shuddup, dude,” he mutters, fiddling with Thomas’ fingers. One tap to each fingertip, then starting over again, turning it into a small game to distract himself. “…But you know where to find me whenever you want your second. We’ll pick what you want together.”
Thomas beams, turning into a blazing little sun made entirely of happiness. Now he has the perfect excuse to visit Mike more often. He would not even mind if his face ended up covered in dozens of piercings, if it meant he could run over and see Mike for a little longer each time.
“Is that a promise?”
Mike’s dimples deepen, swallowing half his piercings when he smiles.
“I swear on my life.”