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Mike isn’t looking, exactly.
He doesn’t mean to, anyway, because it’s weird if he looks and Mike is certainly not weird. Tired, sure, and absolutely sick. Not weird, not—
Peter laughs, across the room with his head thrown back, and Mike’s gaze finds him anyway. His blond hair is rumpled, the first two buttons on his shirt undone, and Mike thinks he can make out the faintest alcohol flush on his cheeks even from here.
Maybe he knows Peter too well. His hands twitch at his sides and he shoves them into his pockets before he can do something stupid like run across the room, sling an arm around Peter’s waist, drag him away from whoever is making him laugh like that…
Mike physically shakes his head. He can’t. Aside from the overall wrongness of whatever this is, Peter is married, and Louise is somewhere in the smoky bar too. He looks for her (which is not difficult, given how tall he is) but cannot spot her.
Something twists in his gut. Is it related to why Peter is here, laughing at someone else in that open way Mike has only ever seen for himself and Louise? Maybe he ought to walk over there, steal Peter away regardless of what everyone says.
Even from here, from afar, Mike thinks he can see the rise in Peter’s throat when he swallows a sip of beer. This fixation of his is inconvenient at best, dangerous at worst, and Mike wants to—
“You look distracted,” says a quietly teasing voice next to Mike. He jumps, and the answering laugh is familiar enough for him to recognize the man before his vision does.
“Hi, Stirling,” Mike says once his heart rate has calmed down. Stirling grins back at him, thinning dark hair plastered down with sweat. It is hot in here, come to think of it. Mike doesn’t really notice - the near-constant nausea these days means he’s always sweaty - unless someone else demonstrates. Stirling doesn’t know any of what’s wrong with him (though he’s seen Mike at his worst, at Les Mans) and so he keeps his thoughts to himself.
There’s a flush high on Stirling’s face too. It doesn’t look like the usual blush alcohol gives him, maybe even a little deeper, and Mike feels a smile crawl across his face before he can stop it. “Having a good night?” He asks, the smirk tugging at his mouth still.
Stirling’s answering grin is a little drunk, a little something else. “A very good night,” Stirling confirms. “You don’t seem particularly happy.”
Mike has long wondered if Stirling is a little bit like him. Not the sickness in his body he hasn’t told anyone about yet, but the one in his head and heart that has him staring at Peter from across a crowded bar. He almost tells Stirling everything then (because if Stirling didn’t understand him, who would?) but refrains at the last moment.
“I guess not,” Mike says with a shrug. “Not feeling too well, yeah? So now I’m to drive Peter home because God knows he probably won’t be able to.” It’s close enough to the truth, anyway, because he and Peter usually end up in a car together at the end of the night.
Stirling gives him a look that Mike can’t quite parse. “Is Louise not around?”
“And why are you asking about other men’s wives?” Mike asks, because he’s meant to. Truth be told, he’s worried that he can’t find Louise either, but it’s easier to tease Stirling than to think about why that might be.
Stirling grins at him, but it doesn’t quite meet his eyes. “Never ask a man to change,” Stirling says, but Mike watches as his gaze slides past the women in the room and lands on—
Huh. Maybe Mike’s impression of Stirling was more accurate than he’d thought. Mike pretends he doesn’t notice though, just wraps an arm around Stirling’s shoulders. “I’m gonna go find Peter,” Mike says. “Are you going to come?”
“No.” Stirling’s gaze is still focused across the room, where Fangio stands with Taffy, Phil, Behra, and Brabham. “Have fun, though.”
Mike pats him firmly on the shoulder, then turns and shoves his way through the throng. He’s grateful that he’s tall, because it’s easier to get through a crowd of small and slight racing drivers that way.
“Mike!” Peter shouts as soon as he sees him. It’s stupid, really, the way Mike’s stomach twists in a way that feels an awful lot like longing. He grins at Peter instead because that’s the easiest thing to do, and it’s admittedly the most genuine smile he’s had all day.
Peter slips through the crowd and reappears in front of Mike. He’s disheveled, a third button having come undone on his shirt and his hair messy. Another spike of want stabs through Mike, no matter how hard he tries to stamp it down. “Mike,” Peter says again, breathless and smiling. “Where have you been? I’ve been looking for you.”
More than anything, Mike wants to pull Peter close to him, to think about anything other than the pain rising in his body again. Instead he tucks a stray lock of hair behind Peter’s ear. “Where’s Louise?” He asks.
Peter’s eyes flutter closed for a moment as Mike’s palm brushes his cheek. Mike stares for a moment, briefly entranced by his eyelashes, before he remembers himself and looks away. The same soft want grips him again.
“Louise went home,” Peter informs him. “She said her head hurts. I miss her.”
Mike gently tucks away another strand of hair. He can smell the alcohol on Peter’s breath, but he’s standing upright - not the drunkest Mike has ever seen him. “I’ll drive you home,” Mike offers. He’d do anything for Peter, honestly, but saying that in the middle of a club is too much for even him.
“Okay,” Peter says happily. “Whenever you want to go. I miss Louise.”
Something twists in Mike’s chest again. “You’ve told me that,” he says absently. “Like I said, I’ll leave whenever. I’ve forgotten my wallet anyway.”
Peter looks at him oddly. “You haven’t had anything to drink? Really? I would’ve gone home.”
Panic crawls up Mike’s throat, and he feels himself blush automatically. “I was talking to Stirling,” he says, and is proud of how calm his voice comes out regardless. He wasn’t looking at Peter. Peter won’t find out.
“Okay,” Peter says, and Mike is silently thankful for the few drinks Peter has clearly had. “Let’s go home.”
Mike grabs him by the wrist and pulls Peter back through the crowd (ignoring the electricity under his skin from that one little touch) until they’re outside. The cool night air is a welcome relief to Mike. It tends to help when he gets sick, and even if today hasn’t been bad the nausea is forever present.
Peter pulls a cigarette box from his pocket, pulling out one and offering the box to Mike. “No thanks,” Mike says, because smoking does make it worse when he has bad days. He certainly doesn’t want to risk another bad day.
Peter shrugs, tucks the box into his pocket, and fumbles for a lighter. Mike fishes out his own. Seeming to understand immediately, Peter slides the cigarette between his lips, and Mike lights it for him.
The way Peter looks at him, illuminated by the flickering light of the flame, ought to be illegal. Maybe it is, if somehow the same sickness that has crawled through Mike’s brain since he met Peter is reflected back at him.
He hears the quiet exhale, then sees a cloud of smoke rise into the air. Peter steps closer, and it takes everything Mike has to not reach out, pull Peter against his side and never let him go.
Instead, he watches the smoke rise up and up. The sweat begins to dry on his face, the trace of a fever beginning to dissipate. Maybe it’s all just the benefits of being so close to Peter.
Eventually, Peter drops the cigarette butt on the ground and stamps it out. “Let’s go home,” he declares, and Mike could never argue with him. They walk to his rented car, and Peter climbs into the passenger seat as Mike slides behind the wheel.
They drive home in comfortable silence, the sort Mike doesn’t really like with anyone but Peter. The anonymous city rolls by outside the window, miles of highway rushing on until Mike pulls into the hotel parking lot.
He pulls into a spot and rubs at his temple idly.
“Mike?” Peter asks, and he sounds suddenly and uncharacteristically nervous. Mike hates hearing him that way. Peter ought to be confident, joyful, gregarious and happy. Mike is the one of them more prone to melancholia anyway.
“Mike,” Peter says again, “I think…oh, God, I can’t explain it, but I’ve come to terms with the most frightening thing.”
“What?” Mike turns to face him, and Peter is pale. His face is turned away from Mike, and he doesn’t stop to think before reaching out and gently turning that lovely face toward himself. “Peter, what’s wrong? You know you can tell me anything, mate, honest.”
Peter shakes his head. “Not this,” he says, and Mike realizes that his face is wet with tears. Was the silence of the drive only comfortable for him? Guilt tears at Mike insistently.
He wipes as gently as he can at the tears. “Come on,” Mike says. “You’re all right. Would you want to talk about it inside instead?”
“You’ll hate me,” Peter insists, and Mike thinks that the amount Peter’s had to drink must be playing a role.
Done wiping at the tears, Mike instead reaches for Peter’s hand. “Never,” he swears. “Peter, mon ami mate, you know I could never hate you. Not for the entire bloody world.”
Peter makes a sound between a laugh and sob. Mike opens his mouth to ask what’s wrong, but then Peter lunges across the seats and presses a kiss to his mouth.
Oh.
The kiss is brief, barely a brush before Peter jerks away, hiding himself in his seat. Mike hates to see him like this. He touches his own mouth, where Peter’s lips had just been. He could die now, having finally felt the gentle touch of Peter’s kiss, and would not regret a thing.
“I’m sorry,” Peter says, wild-eyed. “I shouldn’t have done that. I shouldn’t—“
“Do it again,” Mike interrupts. The knot of wanting, needing that’s been in him his entire life is swelling, growing, and the only thing that will save him is Peter.
Though Peter does not kiss him again, he unfolds himself from where he’s pressed against the far window. “Mike?” He asks, hesitant. “Mike, you can’t mean…”
“I do mean,” Mike says. “Please, Peter, please. Just once, please, I can’t— I can’t—“
Peter leans across again, and this time Mike meets him halfway. Their mouths meet, tentative at first but the both of them have always been quick learners.
“Oh,” Peter gasps against his mouth, and Mike tugs him closer. They move together easily, lips meeting over and over in a dizzying blur until Mike opens his mouth at the right time and Peter’s tongue is in his mouth.
Mike can’t help but moan against Peter’s lips. It just feels right to be here, pressed against him, open and vulnerable. He’s never kissed another man before. Sure, he’s thought about it, and it really isn’t all that different from kissing girls anyway. Peter’s lips are plump and plush, and the faint scratch of his facial hair only adds more sensation to the kiss.
As they kiss, Peter reaches over, but the pressure of his hand in Mike’s (embarrassingly tented) lap is enough to snap him back to reality. Mike pulls away as if he’s been burned.
“What about Louise?” He gasps, fighting for breath, feeling the telltale tingle in his mouth that tells him his lips are pink and swollen.
Peter blinks at him, pupils dilated and chest heaving. “She knows,” he says. “She knows that I’m in love with her, and with…”
Mike shakes his head. It hurts. “You can’t do this to her, Peter. God, I can’t!”
“She knows,” Peter insists, “and she doesn’t care. I love her, and I will always love her, and she knows that I cannot hide part of myself forever.”
Mike’s heart beats so hard he thinks Peter can hear it. “I don’t want anyone to get hurt,” he says, his own voice smaller than he’s ever heard it. He likes Louise, and no matter what he feels for Peter he would never do anything to hurt her.
“No one will,” Peter says gently. “She told me to tell you how I feel, honest. I wouldn’t lie to you.”
Some of the terror seeps away. “Honest?”
“Always,” Peter says, and kisses him again.