Disclaimer: this imagine is NOT MINE. Credit to the original author, Shawna. I got this from Donatella's Head.

Rating: NC-17

This fic has six parts

***

{part 1}

Mike sat on the couch, strumming his guitar in the relative quiet of the beach house. Davy and Peter were each out somewhere, and Micky was engrossed in some project on the other side of the living room. His tinkering produced a little noise from time to time, but nothing that interfered with Mike's work. He barely noticed when Micky got up and went to the kitchen.

"You want something to drink?" Micky asked.

Mike simply shook his head and jotted down another chord progression on the pad of paper next to him.

Micky took a few swallows of his Coke and looked over Mike's shoulder. "What are you working on?"

He took the pencil out of his mouth. "Just a little something for Barbara."

"Barbara?" Micky asked, surprised. "Are you two back together again?"

"Hell, no. I've had enough of her shit," he answered. "She keeps calling and saying she's sorry, it'll be different this time... blah, blah, blah."

"So why are you writing a song for her?"

"Just listen." Mike put the pad in front of him where he could easily see it and began playing.

When he heard Mike sing, "Don't call on me when you're feeling footloose and fancy free; you've done that before and like a fool I came back for more," he understood. Mike had given Barbara more chances than he probably should have over the last several months, and it seemed that he was finally done with her. Micky was glad. Mike deserved better.

"It's great," he said when Mike was finished. "You gonna record it and send it to her or something?"

Mike shook his head. "She's been at the club every night for the last week. I'm sure she'll be there again tonight." His expression hardened slightly. "I thought I'd play it and dedicate it to her."

"Oh, that's cold."

"No, what's cold is the way she's been fucking with my head for the last six months. Leaving, coming back, leaving again—" A knock at the door interrupted him. "Maybe this time she'll get the message." He stood up and leaned the guitar carefully against the coffee table, then answered the door. It was their postman. "Hey, Bobby," Mike greeted him.

"Mike," the man replied solemnly. He handed him the envelopes that comprised the day's mail and glanced inside, catching sight of Micky before he turned and walked away.

Puzzled, Mike closed the door. Bobby usually didn't have time for conversation, but he was always a lot more cheerful. Mike shrugged and sorted through the items. There was the usual assortment of junk mail, a couple of bills... and a letter from the Selective Service addressed to George Michael Dolenz.

His jaw dropped. "Oh, God," he said before he could stop the words. He looked over at Micky, who had resumed working on his project.

"You say something?" he asked, glancing casually at his friend. The look on Mike's face told him that something was very definitely wrong and Micky stopped what he was doing. "What, are we being evicted or something?"

Mike shook his head and stared at the letter.

"Mike, what's the matter with you?" Micky asked as he grabbed his glasses and walked over to him. "You look like you just lost your best friend."

I did, Mike thought to himself and closed his eyes. When he opened them, Micky was wearing his glasses and could obviously see the government logo on the top left corner of the envelope.

Micky's hand shook as he took it. He sat down on the couch and opened it very slowly, as if trying to delay the inevitable. He swallowed hard and read the form letter.

You are hereby directed to present yourself for Armed Forces Physical Examination to the Local Board named above by reporting at...

"What's today?" he asked suddenly.

"What?"

"The date," Micky said shortly. "What's today's date?"

"The, uh... the seventh." Mike sat down next to him. "When do you—?"

"Less than two weeks," he replied. "I have to report for my physical in less than two weeks."

The two looked at each other and didn't say anything. There was nothing to say. Micky would take his physical, pass, and most likely be shipped out within a couple of months. Not for the first time, Mike silently thanked God that he had already done his stint in the military.

"Well," Micky cleared his throat, "it's a good thing this is the last week of the gig." He looked up at the ceiling and blinked several times. "It'll give you guys time to find another drummer."

"Mick..."

"I'm going for a walk." He stood up and walked out the back door.

Mike could hear him quickly descend the rickety wooden stairs that led from the deck to the beach. He went to the door and watched Micky walk a short way and then break into a run. He turned and looked around the room, resisting the urge to pick up the first thing within reach and smash it to pieces. Instead, he sat on the step of the bandstand and rested his head in his hands.

A thousand thoughts and images ran through his mind. He pictured a short-haired Micky in a muddy uniform hunkered down in a foxhole with live ammo screaming over his head. He pictured a faceless, voiceless new drummer trying to fill Micky's place in the band. He pictured his own life without Micky in it. He closed his eyes and ran his hands through his hair in frustration and worry.

It was hard for Mike to remember a time before he knew Micky, or maybe he just didn't want to. Things had been so bad for him in Texas that he preferred not to think about them at all. When he left for L.A., his mother and his friends had told him what a huge mistake he was making; that he'd probably end up dead or in jail within a few years. With those words of encouragement, he had boarded a bus and resolved to prove them wrong. Now, two years later, he wasn't dead or in jail, and was making a relatively successful living with his music. Now, everything Mike had worked for was about to come crashing down, and there was nothing he could do about it.

* * *

Micky ran a long way before stopping. He finally sat on a huge piece of driftwood and uncrumpled the letter that was still in his hand. For some reason, he had convinced himself that this would never happen to him. When he thought about it, however, he realized how surprising it was that Uncle Sam had taken this long to get around to him. Normally, they grabbed boys as soon as they turned 18, but Micky had managed to reach the ripe old age of 22 before he got his invitation to the party in Asia.

As he sat with his thoughts, he found himself fighting to maintain his composure. He thought about his mother and sisters. He'd have to call them today or tomorrow, and go to see them as soon as he could. He thought about his late father and wondered if he'd be seeing him soon. Before he could stop it, one tear, then another, ran down his face. He wiped his eyes, but suddenly the weight of his situation bore down on him.

It was a relatively cool day, so there weren't too many people on the beach. He was glad of that; he didn't need an audience witnessing his breakdown. Audience. Shit, he'd have to perform tonight. There were only two more nights left of this gig, and he didn't want to let the guys down... or deprive Mike of his chance to serenade Barbara. Somehow, he'd have to pull it together for a couple of hours and pretend that nothing was wrong. Well, he had been an actor when he was a kid. Maybe he still had some of that talent left in him.

He gathered himself and walked very slowly back to the house.

* * *

Davy and Peter burst into the house at the same time, laughing at some joke they'd shared outside. The sudden noise startled Mike out of his thoughts and he looked at his watch, surprised to find that the whole afternoon was gone.

"What's for supper, Mike?" Davy asked as he rummaged around in the icebox for something to drink.

"Supper?" Mike asked as he got up from the armchair.

"Yeah, it's your turn to cook." Davy looked at him and frowned. "What, did you forget?"

"Yeah, I forgot," he replied shortly. "Where the hell have you two been all day, anyway?"

"Well, I don't know about Davy," Peter began, "but I was—"

"Nevermind," Mike interrupted him.

"You just asked where we were," Davy said in Peter's defense.

"I said, nevermind." He started toward the kitchen, nearly running over the Englishman on the way.

"Mike, is, ah... is anything wrong?" Peter asked cautiously.

Mike spun around, ready to throw something at the next person who asked him a stupid question. He then saw the confused faces of his band mates and stopped himself.

"Yeah, something's wrong," he said quietly.

"Well, what is it?" Davy asked.

"I've been drafted," Micky answered.

The three of them turned to see him standing in the back doorway. The setting sun cast an eerie halo around him and the surreal image was more than Mike could stand to look at. He walked quickly up the stairs to his bedroom.

"I'm gonna get changed," he made excuse.

As he closed the door, he could hear Davy and Peter start in on Micky. Maybe he shouldn't have left him alone to deal with their barrage of questions, but he didn't want Micky to see how upset he was. It was bad enough that the others had. He stared unseeing at the contents of the closet for a few minutes until he heard Micky coming up the stairs. He put on his poker face and turned to him when he walked in.

"You okay, Mick?"

"Yeah, I guess," he replied as he sat wearily down on his bed.

"Look, if you don't feel up to it, you don't have to perform tonight." Mike sat on his own bed, opposite Micky. "Really. I mean, Davy can play drums and I can sing your—"

"I'll be alright."

"Are you sure?"

Micky nodded, then looked at Mike shook his head.

Mike moved to sit next to Micky, instantly regretting the action. Seeing him like this, all Mike wanted to do was put his arms around him, but he knew that Micky would probably slug him if he did. Instead, he clapped him on the shoulder.

"It'll be alright, Mick," he offered weakly. "We'll figure out something."

Micky looked at him and tried to smile. "Well, you and President Johnson are both good ol' Texas boys. Maybe you could give him a call and put in a good word for me?"

Mike chuckled obligingly at Micky's attempt at humor and then sobered. They looked at each other for a moment before Micky abruptly got up and started assembling his own outfit for the gig. The two changed and headed out without saying another word.

* * *

Micky called his mother a couple of days later to tell her the news. He had decided to wait until after they played their last night at the club before calling her. Of course, she wanted to come down right away to see him, but he dissuaded her, saying that he would drive up to see her and the rest of the family before he had to leave. After he finished talking to her, his mood was much different than it had been up to that point. The shock of getting his notice was quickly giving way to depression and fear.

The guys were acting differently, too. They didn't talk to him any more than they had to, and when they did, they walked on eggshells. Mike would barely look at him. They didn't rehearse anymore, but then, what was the point of rehearsing? They wouldn't be playing any more gigs before he left, and the guys would get in plenty of practice time when they found a replacement for him. Micky almost wished that he could leave right now and be done with it. He didn't think he could handle another ten days of this.

He started to think of what he could possibly say to the draft board to get them to reject him. Any medical excuse he gave could be easily refuted by a doctor. If he claimed to be mentally unstable, they'd probably throw him in an institution somewhere. He could always tell them he was gay; that would be a sure way to get rejected.

It was actually closer to the truth than he ever dared to admit. Since his teenage years, he'd had thoughts of what it would be like to be with a man. It wasn't anything he dwelled on; but rather, fleeting notions that troubled him so that he did almost anything to get them out of his mind whenever they popped up. He couldn't talk to anyone about it, even though he sometimes felt so frustrated that he thought he'd go crazy.

He remembered a time when he had done some pretty heavy drinking to chase the demons away. That night, he almost told Mike just what had prompted him to get so hammered; but even worse, he noticed Mike in a way that he never should have. He even dreamed about him that night and was so ashamed about it that he couldn't look him in the eye the whole next day. He told himself that it had just been the alcohol, but that wasn't the last time it happened. Ever since then, Micky found himself glancing at him while he dressed or watching him while he slept. It was frightening to think that he was attracted to Mike. It was also frightening to think of Mike's reaction if he ever found out – if he ever even suspected what had been going through his head.

* * *

Mike stood on the deck and watched the sun set over the ocean. He listened to the sound of the waves washing up on the beach and cast an unfocused gaze on the millions of orange and yellow reflections playing on the water. Davy and Peter had left a short time earlier to comb the clubs for a possible replacement for their drummer. Mike didn't want to go along, but he didn't especially want to be alone in the house with Micky, either. He was glad that the breeze coming off the ocean wasn't so cold as to force him inside.

His interaction with Micky had dwindled steadily over the last few days, and Mike felt very badly about it. He hadn't intended for it to happen; it just had. Anytime they had tried to have a conversation, no matter what the topic, it seemed awkward and forced; so it just became easier not to talk. He felt guilty; not only because he wasn't there for his friend when he needed him most, but because he couldn't think of a way to save him from the draft board. Well, there was one way, but Micky would never go for it.

"Mike?"

He tensed up slightly when he heard Micky's voice right behind him.

"Sorry," Micky said. "I didn't mean to startle you."

"It's okay." Mike half-turned to face him and leaned on the deck railing, trying to look casual. God, he hated this. He knew that Micky was waiting for him to say something... anything. His mind went off on several tangents; and then suddenly, inexplicably, he blurted, "Just tell them you're gay."

Micky stared at him, shocked. How could Mike know? He had tried to be careful not to give any indication of what he was – or what he thought he was. No wonder Mike had been avoiding him. He hesitated for a few seconds, unsure of what to say.

"Tell, ah... tell who... what?" he finally heard himself say.

"Nothing," Mike said. "Forget it." He turned his back to Micky, not believing what he had just said to him. His words were only a continuation of what he had been thinking, but they had come out like an accusation. He searched for a way to apologize; to explain what he had really meant, but he couldn't think of anything to say.

Micky wondered briefly just how long Mike had known about him and what had tipped him off, but it didn't really matter. He decided that if Mike knew, he may as well know the truth. He took a deep breath and mustered all of his courage. "Mike, I have thought – once or twice – about what it would be like to... well, to..." He paused when Mike turned quickly around. "But I've never—"

Mike looked at him, astonished. It had never entered his mind that Micky was actually gay; but here he was, all but admitting it. He felt an unexpected but welcome liberation of his own upon hearing his friend's words. "Mick, do you know why I got kicked out of the Air Force?" he asked.

Micky wondered what relevance that had on anything, but replied. "Yeah, because you turned over a general's airplane."

"No. Well, that did happen," he quickly added, "but that's not why I was discharged."

"Why, then?" he asked. When Mike didn't immediately answer, Micky had a revelation. "You're...? No. You're not..."

Mike nodded slowly.

He was stunned. It couldn't be true. "But Mike, you've had girlfriends – half a dozen since I've known you."

"Yeah, and except for Barbara, they've been great. Even so, Mick, they just don't seem to do it for me. I mean, I've tried, and the sex part is fine; but I'm starting to realize that I'll never be completely happy with a woman." Mike looked him in the eye. "You know what I mean?"

"I... I don't know." Micky's head was spinning. How could he not have known this about his best friend; the man he had shared a bedroom with for the last two years? He thought back to the times when he imagined – when he somehow hoped – that Mike had been looking at him in a certain way. If he was attracted to Mike, was it possible that Mike was attracted to him?

"I know this is a lot for you to take in right now," Mike said, resting his hand reassuringly on Micky's shoulder, "but think about this. If we were... together... they wouldn't draft you in a million years."

Micky opened his mouth to speak, but couldn't say anything.

Mike smiled slightly. "Just think about it," he said and went back inside.

* * *

Mike sat on the edge of his bed, wringing his hands and listening for the sound of Micky's footsteps. It had been nearly an hour since he left him on the deck, and the waiting was torturous. He wondered if he was taking advantage of Micky's situation in order to get what he had wanted for so long. No – he really cared about him. But Micky didn't know that; Mike hadn't told him how he felt. He had made it sound like just a business deal – tell them we're lovers and they won't take you. Even if Micky did agree, it would only be to placate the draft board. Once he was safe, things would go back to the way they were; and Mike didn't want things to be the way they were. He cursed himself for being so clumsy. Finally, he heard Micky coming up the stairs. He stood and anxiously looked toward the door.

Micky opened the door quietly and saw that Mike was awake. "Mike, I've thought about what you said, and I need to know something," he said, his voice a little shaky.

Mike nodded, encouraging him to continue.

He walked slowly toward him. "Would you be doing this just to keep me from being drafted, or is there another reason?"

Mike sighed as Micky stood before him. It was now or never. "There's another reason."

"I was hoping you'd say that."

A look of relief washed over Mike's face. This was even better than he had dreamed – Micky felt the same way he did. He smiled and took him in his arms, holding him close for a long time. He took in the scent and the feel of this man that he had wanted but could never have before. They separated slightly and Mike touched his lips to Micky's, tasting him for the first time. Curly hair brushed gently against his face as the kiss became more passionate, and Mike fought his desire to throw him down on the bed and make love to him then and there. But Micky had no experience with a man and Mike didn't want to intimidate him. Instead, he savored the moment; making it last as long as possible.

They slept in the same bed that night; talking, holding, caressing, kissing, but nothing more. And for the first time in days, Mike and Micky both slept well.

{part 2}

Micky woke the next morning to find himself still in bed with Mike. He had hesitated to open his eyes in case last night had just been a dream; but here he was, lying next to him. And not only was he with Mike, he wouldn't have to go to Vietnam. After the last few days of feeling that his whole world was coming to an end, it seemed that everything was going to be alright after all. He smiled and looked at Mike, who was just waking up.

"How'd you sleep, babe?" Mike asked as he stretched.

"Better than I ever thought I would again," he replied.

Mike smiled and leaned in to kiss him when they heard Peter calling them. Knowing that he had a habit of entering rooms without knocking, they exchanged a panicked look before Micky jumped out of Mike's bed and into his own. He pulled the covers over himself and was trying to make his bed look like it had been slept in when Peter opened the door.

"Hey, guys," he said. "It's almost ten o'clock. You gonna stay in bed all day?" He didn't give them a chance to answer before he closed the door and headed back downstairs.

"We'll continue this discussion tonight," Mike said.

"Before or after we put a lock on that door?" Micky asked.

They shared a chuckle before getting up, putting on their robes and taking their turns in the bathroom. Mike showered first, but was still in his robe when Micky came into the bedroom, roughly rubbing a towel over his wet hair. They looked at each other, both wanting to continue the exploration they had begun the night before; but knowing that as long as the others were downstairs, they'd have to wait. They settled for a moment of kissing before getting dressed.

When they came out of the bedroom, they could see Davy sitting in the armchair, circling things in the newspaper. They couldn't see Peter, but judging by the clattering of dishes and the odd smell emanating from the kitchen, they knew that he was making one of his infamous recipes. Micky slid down the banister, drawing confused looks from the two of them, who immediately resumed what they had been doing. He gave Mike a disheartened look before settling down to his bowl of corn flakes. As soon as he was finished, he went out to the garage. Mike waited a few minutes and then followed him.

He opened the door to find Micky standing at the back of the garage, pretending to be working at something on the countertop.

"Mick?"

He didn't respond, but Mike knew that Micky didn't really want to be alone. He closed and locked the door and walked over to him. Micky gave him a forced smile before Mike wrapped his arms around him and kissed him.

"I can't wait till tonight," he said.

He began unbuckling Micky's belt and before Micky knew it, his pants were at his ankles. Mike patted the countertop, indicating that he wanted him to sit there. He smiled nervously and obliged. Mike moved Micky's shirttail aside to reveal his semi rigid cock. He took hold and started stroking as he kissed him again. Micky put his arms around him and returned the kiss, their tongues playing in each other's mouths. The feel of Mike's hand on his cock was terrific, and it didn't take long before he was completely erect. Mike slowed his stroking and looked at Micky through half-closed eyes.

"When's the last time you had a decent blow job?" he asked huskily.

Micky couldn't think of anything else... of anybody else at that moment. "I... I don't remember," he honestly answered.

Mike smiled. "You'll remember this."

He knelt down and slowly licked the underside of Micky's cock, and was pleased when he heard him give a quiet moan. He brought his tongue up to the head and swirled it around, spiraling toward the very tip. Then, his hand still firmly gripping the base, he took the head into his mouth. He flicked his tongue over it and took it slowly in and out of his mouth like he was sucking on a popsicle.

Micky's head fell back and he placed his hands behind him to keep himself from falling over. He closed his eyes and blocked out everything but the incredible sensations he was feeling. He'd had dreams before where Mike was sucking him like this, but he never thought it would actually happen. He forced his eyes open and looked down, wanting to take in every detail of the experience. There was only a dim light coming in from the one window at the other end of the garage and his vision was unfocused; but he could see Mike's mass of hair between his legs. He sighed and closed his eyes again.

Mike bobbed his head up and down, taking more of Micky's cock into his mouth each time. When he felt the head touch the back of his throat, he relaxed his muscles and went down as far as he could go. Wiry hairs tickled his face and Micky started writhing underneath him. He put his hands on Micky's hips to keep him where he was and went on with his work, slowly easing up off of his cock and then taking the whole thing into his mouth again. When he felt Micky get himself under control, Mike undid his own belt and zipper and began stroking himself.

Micky balanced himself with one hand and tangled the fingers of his other hand in Mike's thick black hair. He could feel his balls starting to twitch and tried to keep himself from coming. He didn't want this to end yet, but it was no use. It had been so long since he'd had anything but a self-induced orgasm that there was no way he could stop it.

Mike sucked him fast and hard now, pumping his own cock with the same rhythm. They both moaned and Mike came at the same time he tasted Micky's juice flooding his mouth. He gave Micky a few more licks and gave himself a few more strokes, then sat back on his ankles. He waited until Micky opened his eyes before he spoke.

"How was that?" he asked as he stood up.

"Are you kidding? It was fucking incredible," he replied, drawing a chuckle and a self-assured smile from the other man.

Micky ran his hand through his hair as he tried to fathom what had just happened. It was a little strange to think that he had been given the best blow job of his life by a man; and not by just any man, but by Mike. He watched him tuck in his shirt and straighten his clothes, amazed at how nonchalant he seemed about the whole thing. Micky slid off the countertop onto wobbly legs and started to redress himself, suddenly remembering why he had come out to the garage in the first place.

"What's wrong?" Mike asked, noticing the change in his expression.

"I just hate how they're afraid to talk to me," he answered, nodding toward the house.

"Well, I was that way myself until last night." Mike looked at his reflection in an old hub cap sitting on the shelf and casually finger-combed his hair back into place. "Things will be alright once they know you're not going anywhere."

"I guess. I just hope they don't find another drummer in the meantime."

"I doubt they will," he said as he brushed the dust from his knees, "but if they do, we'll just tell whoever it is that there's been a change of plans and he won't be needed after all."

"What are we going to tell people, anyway?" Micky asked.

"About what?"

"About why I'm going to be rejected."

Mike shrugged. "We'll just say you flunked your physical."

"Yeah, but what reason are we going to give?"

"Micky, will you please relax?" He began walking toward the door. "Man, everybody's going to be so relieved that you don't have to go, they won't give a shit why you were rejected."

"I suppose," Micky said as he followed him. "But what about—?"

Mike turned around. "Micky."

"Sorry." He smiled awkwardly and walked out with him.

* * *

Mike plugged in his six-string and stood on the bandstand next to one of the amps. He was only tuning the instrument, so he didn't turn the volume up very high, but he also didn't want to disturb Micky, who was apparently on the phone with his mother. He tried not to listen to their conversation as he leaned in close to the amp and plucked each string several times while he turned the tuning pegs. He played a few chords to hear the overall sound and shook his head in irritation.

"Damn B," he muttered to himself and reached up to tighten the string a little bit more. When he was finally satisfied with its pitch, he played another chord, breaking the troublesome string in the process. He swore a few more times under his breath, turned off the amp, and carefully set the guitar on its stand. He checked his wallet to make sure he had some money on him and then grabbed the car keys from the kitchen table. As he was walking out, he heard Micky hang up the phone.

"You okay, Mick?" he asked as he stood by the door.

"I just talked to my mom again," he answered quietly.

Mike nodded. "Look, I have to go to the music shop and pick up some strings – I just broke my last B. You wanna come along?"

"Yeah." He stuck his head into Peter's room to tell him where they were going before walking out with Mike. He got into the car without saying anything and then sat silently staring at the passing scenery as Mike drove.

Mike glanced at him a few times, but didn't press him. He knew what was bothering Micky without having to ask.

"She's a wreck, Mike," he suddenly blurted. "She's worried sick about her only son going off to die. God, I wish I could tell her what's going on."

"Why don't you?"

Micky looked at him, taken aback. "You're not serious."

"Yes I am," Mike said matter-of-factly.

"Mike, there's no way I'm telling my mom about—" He stopped himself when Mike looked at him. Micky was still a little uneasy about their new relationship, not to mention his own sexuality; and until he could sort things out, he wasn't going to say anything to anybody. "Does your mom know about you?" he asked, trying to shift the focus of the conversation.

Mike chuckled insincerely. "Sure. She thinks that's why I came to California."

"Oh, yeah," Micky said, "the land of fruits and nuts, right?"

"Exactly." Mike drove on for a moment before speaking again. "She's not going to disown you."

Micky sighed. "Mike, I just can't tell her right now. Someday, maybe, but not now." He looked at him. "Is that okay?"

"Mick, you don't need my permission to do anything," he said, trying to understand Micky's need to have everybody's approval. "Tell who you want when you want." They pulled up to the music shop and he parked the car. "I'm just saying it would probably make things easier if you did, that's all."

"Maybe," Micky said quietly as they went into the shop.

* * *

"You know," Peter said, "it's just like Davy to leave for a date when it's his turn to help with the dishes."

Micky got up from the couch. "I'll help, Pete," he said, leaving Mike alone to watch Bonanza. He took his place at the sink and hoped that Peter would take this opportunity to actually talk to him. Several minutes of silent dish-washing passed before Peter finally broke the silence.

"Micky," he said, "have you thought about going to Canada?"

Micky stopped wiping the dish he was holding and looked at him, surprised. "Canada?"

"Sure." He glanced at Mike and kept his voice low so that he wouldn't hear their conversation. "A lot of guys are going there."

"Yeah, I know, but..." He sighed in frustration. He wanted to tell Peter that there wasn't anything to worry about, but he had to play along. "I wouldn't even know what to do; where to begin."

"I've got a friend who knows a guy who helps people get there," he said. "I can take you to see him if you want."

"I appreciate it, Peter, really. But I don't think I—" He stopped when Peter gave him a confused look. "I'll think about it, okay?"

"Well, don't think too long," he said. "If you're gonna go, the sooner you get started, the better."

Micky nodded and went on wiping the dishes. The thought of going to Canada had crossed his mind a few days ago, but Mike had saved him from having to make that decision. Still, he would have to think of something to tell Peter to keep him off his back and to keep him from getting suspicious. He thought, too, about his family – about the pain and worry they were going through for no reason. He hated it, but he just needed to wait a little longer and everything would be alright.

They continued to do the dishes until they heard the sound of loud music from outside. Peter glanced at his watch, mumbled something to himself and went to the door.

"I'll be right out, guys," he called to a group of people in a van. He grabbed his coat and padded himself, making sure he had his wallet on him. "I'll be at the protest," he said and quickly left.

Micky looked at Mike. "What protest?"

"Who knows?" Mike replied indifferently as he got up and went to the kitchen. "All I know is we've got the house to ourselves." He took the damp towel from Micky's hands and tossed it to the sink.

Micky smiled nervously as Mike moved closer to him. Despite their earlier activity in the garage, he was still a little shy about being with a man. He didn't resist, though, when Mike began kissing him. He closed his eyes and let himself be carried away. Strong arms held him close and strong hands ran over his body.

"Let's go upstairs," Mike whispered.

Micky nodded and let Mike lead him up to their bedroom, but when they got there he felt his nerves starting up again. He automatically reached for the light switch, but Mike stopped him, instead turning on a small lamp that gave off only a dim light. Micky closed the door and took a deep breath. He trusted Mike, but he wasn't sure what was going to happen tonight or if he was ready for it.

Mike sensed his apprehension and tried to ease his mind. "Mick, I'm gonna be honest. I want to make love to you," he said as he placed his hands lightly on Micky's hips, "but we won't go any faster than you're comfortable with. Okay?"

"Mike..." He looked down and cleared his throat, as he always did when he was nervous. "I... I don't know what to do."

"Sure you do, Mick," he said. "Just do what feels natural and don't think so much about it."

Micky hesitated for a few seconds, and then leaned in toward Mike – for the first time initiating a kiss between them. He suddenly found his hands on Mike's ass, pulling him close to him. Their growing erections rubbed against each other, and they both let out a slight moan at the sensation. Surprising himself with his boldness, Micky eased one hand down between their crotches so that he could feel Mike's cock. Mike moved a little, giving him room to work as Micky rubbed the palm of his hand over the front of Mike's pants. They stopped kissing for a moment.

"See?" Mike said. "I told you you'd be alright."

Micky nodded. "What now?"

Mike backed away a little and loosened his tie. He removed it and tossed it to the floor, then untucked and unbuttoned his shirt. He maintained eye contact with Micky, who had slowly begun unbuttoning his own shirt. Mike glanced at Micky's crotch and could see his cock straining against the front of his pants. His pulse quickened as he imagined getting his hands on that cock again.

Micky was becoming more anxious, but tried not to let it show. All at once, he realized that it wasn't fear he was feeling, but anticipation. He watched Mike kick off his boots and unbuckle his belt and became more and more aroused the closer Mike got to being naked. He had seen him naked before, but until now, he could never truly admire him.

When Mike was completely undressed, he turned down the covers on his bed and lay on his side, facing Micky. He felt his cock jump a little at the sight of his soon-to-be lover, who was now naked as well. Mike knew that Micky didn't find himself particularly attractive in either face or body, and he was determined to prove to him how wrong he was. He jerked his head slightly, beckoning Micky to join him.

Micky slowly crossed the room and stood for a few seconds next to Mike's bed before climbing in. He lay there for a moment, then reached for him, but stopped himself before he touched him. It was as if he was a virgin; knowing what he wanted to do, but unsure of exactly how to do it. He looked into Mike's eyes, hoping that he would give him some direction.

Mike smiled slightly, then reached over and started running his hand in slow circles over Micky's ass. He moved a little closer to him until their cocks were touching. He then ran his hand up Micky's back and entwined his fingers in his unruly hair, holding him there as he kissed him roughly. When he knew that Micky wouldn't pull away, he moved his hand back down the length of his body, lightly scratching him as he went.

Almost before Micky realized it, he was on his back and the weight of Mike's upper body was on his chest. Sparse hairs tickled him and stiff nipples rubbed against his own. Soft, warm lips kissed their way down his neck to his chest, sending shivers through him from every place they touched. Micky closed his eyes and settled back comfortably on the thick pillow as he loosely placed one arm around Mike, running his hand over his back and ass. When he felt his nipples being licked and then very lightly nibbled, he moved his free hand down to stroke himself; but before he reached his cock, Mike stopped him.

"Let me take care of that, babe," Mike said, his voice hoarse with passion. He brushed a stray strand of hair away from Micky's face as he placed his other hand on his cock. "You just lie back and relax."

He wrapped his long fingers around Micky's cock began stroking him from the base just to the head and then back down again. He then took the head in the crook between his thumb and forefinger and concentrated his efforts there, lightly rubbing his thumb over the piss hole. Micky moaned loudly as he threw his head back and involuntarily raised his ass off the bed. Mike smiled slightly before lowering his head and again teasing Micky's nipples with his tongue. He continued to work his cock, alternating between stroking him and playing with his balls, bringing him steadily to his orgasm. Before long, he felt Micky's body stiffen under him and warm juice running over his fingers. Mike slowed his stroking and lifted his head, his mouth meeting Micky's in a short but tender kiss.

"Why don't you turn over and lie on your stomach," he whispered.

Micky slowly opened his eyes and looked up at him. He took in the sight of Mike's handsome face with its warm brown eyes and curvy lips. All he wanted at that moment was to lie there and stare at that face, but there was something about the look in Mike's eyes that told him he should do as Mike wanted. He hesitated; not from fear, but from nervousness.

"It'll be alright, Mick," he said softly. "I promise I won't do anything you don't want me to."

Micky nodded slightly and rolled over onto his stomach. He tried to make himself comfortable, wrapping his arms around the pillow and turning his head to face Mike.

"Close your eyes and relax," Mike said as he leaned over and retrieved a small bottle of baby oil from the drawer of his bedside table. "I'm just gonna give you a little backrub."

{part 3}

Mike squeezed a small amount of oil into his hand and rubbed his palms together for a few seconds to warm it. Then, kneeling alongside Micky, he spread the oil over his back and started to massage him. He ran his hands in long, slow strokes from his shoulders to his waist and back again. After only a few passes, he felt Micky's body relax.

"How's that?" he asked, knowing what the answer would be.

Micky sighed. "Terrific."

Mike grinned and moved so that he was straddling Micky's legs. It was an easier position from which to massage him, and it allowed him a better view of Micky's lean body.

Micky felt Mike shift his position and looked over his shoulder to see what he was doing. He could just make out his features in the dim light. His arousal was apparent, both from the expression on his face and from the stiffness of his cock, which Micky could feel against his ass whenever Mike leaned forward to rub his shoulders again. It was strangely stimulating to him, but his lack of experience made him a little uneasy.

"Mike..."

"It's okay, Mick," he answered soothingly as he continued to massage him. "I told you, I won't do anything you don't want me to."

"I know." He paused. "Mike, what's it like to...?" he trailed off, somewhat embarrassed at the question.

"To be made love to by a man?" Mike finished for him.

He nodded in response.

"It's kinda hard to describe," he answered, thinking back to his own past experiences. More often than not, he had been the aggressor; but he had been fucked enough to know how good it felt when the other person knew what the hell they were doing. Yes, Micky was definitely in capable hands with him. "It'll be good," he continued, "if that's what you're worried about."

Micky cleared his throat. He wanted to ask if it would hurt, but he didn't want Mike to think he was a wimp. He just had to trust that if he said it would be good, it would be. As he felt Mike's hands work their way down to his buttocks, he laid his head back down on the pillow and closed his eyes. He relaxed and relished the feeling of those strong hands on his body, sweeping away any trace of anxiety that might have remained with him.

Soon, Mike abandoned the backrub altogether and began gently kneading Micky's tight ass. His already stiff cock grew even harder as he imagined getting inside him. He took a deep breath and reminded himself again that he would have to take this nice and slow. It wouldn't be easy; he had wanted Micky for so long that holding back was already proving difficult. He stared at his face, taking in the look of extreme contentment he wore before leaning forward and kissing him. He couldn't help but grind himself lightly against Micky's ass and was pleased to hear him respond with a soft moan.

"Can we give it a try?" he whispered.

Micky nodded. The thought of Mike fucking him, which had been so foreign and intimidating only a short time ago, now excited him. He recalled the fervent expression Mike had worn earlier and wished that he could see his face now. As he tried to picture that handsome face, he became vaguely aware of Mike speaking to him, but couldn't concentrate on what he was saying. He felt cool liquid drizzle onto his ass, and then Mike's well-oiled fingers easing inside him. The sensation triggered a sudden and intense arousal, and he felt his cock beginning to harden as Mike continued to prepare him for what was to come.

Mike stroked himself a few times with his free hand, as much to spread oil over his cock as to relieve a bit of the tension that had arisen within him. He knew that once he was inside that virgin ass it wouldn't take long for him to come, and he wanted this to last as long as possible. When he was satisfied that Micky was ready, he replaced his fingers with his cock. They each moaned and Mike managed to focus his passion-blurred vision long enough to get a look at Micky's face; that unusually attractive face that now displayed both surprise and gratification.

Micky lowered his head and grabbed fistfuls of bedding as Mike gently but steadily fucked him. Since he couldn't see him, he closed his eyes and focused his other senses on the moment. He smelled Mike's cologne mixing with the scent of baby oil. He heard Mike's breathing becoming heavier and being peppered with the occasional moan. But most of all he felt Mike's cock inside him, giving him unexpected and increasing pleasure with each movement. His own cock fully erect now, he reached down to stroke it. The dual stimulation was incredible, and he had to keep reminding himself to breathe.

Mike noticed what Micky was doing and smiled. Certain now that this wouldn't be the last time they had sex, he allowed himself to take a little more liberty with his lover. He held more firmly onto his hips and quickened his pace. He heard Micky moan loudly, but wasn't sure if it was because of what he was doing to him, or what he was doing to himself. It didn't matter; this wasn't going to last much longer anyway. He thrust harder, letting loose everything he had been holding back. Just as Micky let out the now-familiar bawl that accompanied his orgasm, Mike emptied himself into him.

They stayed that way for a short while, neither one having the desire or the energy to break contact. Finally, Mike freed himself and lay down next to Micky. As he reached over and brushed the damp curls away from his face, they gazed at each other, silently sharing the feelings that their male egos would not permit them to express aloud. A cool breeze blew in through the open window and Mike pulled the covers over them, not caring at that particular moment about the stains that the baby oil would surely leave behind.

He knew he should say something, but the only thing he could think of was to ask Micky if he was alright; probably the tritest question in the world in this situation. "So, what were you and Peter talking about?" he finally asked, as much to break the silence as to satisfy his curiosity.

Micky looked at him, surprised. He wasn't sure what he had expected Mike to say to him after their lovemaking, but it certainly didn't involve Peter. "When?" he replied, somewhat confused.

"When you were doing the dishes."

"Oh..." he recalled the conversation. "He thinks I should go to Canada. He knows a guy who knows a guy who can arrange it."

Mike turned onto his side and looked at him. "You're not thinking about it, are you?"

"Not any more," Micky answered with a smile that quickly disappeared. Now that his mind was back on the problem of the draft, he began to think guiltily about his family. While he had spent that day in the secure knowledge that he wouldn't have to go; while he had spent that evening being made love to by Mike, his family had been worrying about him.

"You're thinking about your mom, aren't you?" Mike asked, noticing the change in his expression.

"I have to tell her something to ease her mind." He glanced at Mike, hoping that he wasn't trying his patience by rehashing the subject again. "I don't think that Peter's gonna let this Canada thing rest, either," he continued. "I gotta think of some way to keep him off my back until I meet with the draft board."

Mike sighed. The solution to Micky's problem was obvious to him. "Just tell them the truth."

"I can't," he said quickly. "At least, not yet." He wished that Mike could understand how he felt. But how could he, when Micky didn't understand it himself? He wasn't exactly embarrassed or ashamed about what was happening between him and Mike, but he still didn't want to announce to the world that they were lovers.

"It's better than lying," Mike replied, his tone becoming less sympathetic. "Just setting your mom's feelings aside for a minute, don't you think that Peter and Davy are going to figure it out eventually? Wouldn't it be better for us to tell them straight out what's going on?"

"I don't know." Micky sat up, turning his back to him. He didn't want to think about it any more. There was no reason to make any kind of decision tonight anyway. Things weren't going to change between now and tomorrow. He reached for his bathrobe and got up without looking at Mike. "I'm gonna go take a shower," he said as he headed downstairs.

Mike watched him leave the room and shook his head. There were some things that he would never understand about Micky, one of which being his preoccupation with what other people thought of him. Mike didn't really care what people thought. If they didn't like him the way he was, that was their problem, not his. He had spent his childhood in constant battles with his mother and his teachers; any authority figure who wanted him to be something he wasn't. Micky, on the other hand, had grown up performing; discarding his own identity in favor of what would land him his next role.

Mike tossed the covers aside and got out of bed, refusing to spend any further time in self-analysis. He needed a shower as much as Micky, but he doubted there would be any hot water left by the time Micky finished, so he decided to get dressed. He wiped his hands on the already oily sheets and chuckled. They'd definitely be sleeping in Micky's bed tonight; that was, unless Micky was pissed at him now. He shrugged and collected his clothes from where they had been strewn earlier and had managed to put on his pants and shirt before a knock came at the front door. He rushed out of the room, slamming his toe against the bed post on the way. After a few seconds of mumbled swearing he descended the stairs, buttoning his shirt on the way down.

He looked through the peep hole of the front door and immediately slammed it shut. He closed his eyes and cursed again, wishing he had stayed upstairs. Aside from the disagreement with Micky and his throbbing toe, the evening had been great – he should have known that something would spoil it. He sighed and, against his better judgment, opened the door.

In another time, Mike had found her very attractive. Her long brown hair was done up in an elaborate style and, combined with the high heels, made her look taller than she really was. Her curvy figure was shown off nicely by the short, clinging dress she wore. She smiled and greeted him in an overly-friendly tone.

"Hello, Mike."

He didn't bother trying to hide his annoyance at her presence. "What do you want, Barbara?"

Her smile didn't waver. "I was in the neighborhood." She stood there for a few seconds, lightly bouncing on the balls of her feet. "Aren't you going to ask me in?"

"No."

"Why not?" She craned her neck to look inside. "Got a girl here or something?"

"No, I don't have a girl here," he said curtly, "not that it's any of your business." Tired of her interrogation, he started to close the door.

"Then who were you just having sex with?" she quickly asked.

A parade of emotions passed over his face as he wondered just what she knew and how she knew it. His disheveled appearance told some of the story, but then he remembered the bedroom window. Luckily, it faced the back of the house, so she couldn't have actually seen who he had been with. His eyes narrowed as he watched her gloat in the subtle victory. He wished he could throw it in her face that, not only was he with somebody else, but it was a man. But that would end up hurting Micky far more than it would hurt Barbara, so he kept his mouth shut.

"You really should close your window next time, Mike," she continued when he didn't respond. "I could hear you all the way outside. So, who is she; anybody I know?"

"What have you been doing; hanging around out there, spying on me?" he asked, incensed.

"No," she said, "though it would have been... interesting... to watch." She took a step toward him, stopping when she caught sight of the bathroom door opening.

Curious to see what Mike's new girlfriend looked like, she watched the figure emerge from the steamy room. The loosely-tied robe hid most of the body and the face was obscured by the towel that was being run roughly over the hair, but it was evident that this wasn't a woman. When the towel moved, Barbara saw the brown curls and exaggerated jaw that belonged to a certain drummer. She looked disbelievingly at Mike as she suddenly realized just who his new lover was.

Silently, Mike grabbed her by the arm and pushed her outside. His mind raced as he followed her and closed the door behind them. It didn't bother him if she, or anybody else, knew what was going on; but Micky would be frantic. He faintly hoped that he could reason with Barbara and that she wouldn't cause trouble, but he knew better.

"No wonder it never worked out between us," she spat. "I don't have a cock."

There was no point in denying that he and Micky were together, but he wasn't going to let Barbara think that his primary motivation for being in a relationship was physical. "You really think that's it, don't you? You think it's all about sex."

"What else would it be?"

Mike noticed the slight tremble in her voice, but didn't know if it was from anger or pain. He didn't really care. "Oh, I don't know, maybe the way you manipulate everything – and everyone – to suit your own needs. I've had it with you and your games, Barbara; now get out of my life."

"You think you'll be happier with him than you were with me?" she asked, gesturing toward the house.

"That's just the point. I was never... happy... with... you," he said, emphasizing each word.

"Is that so?" She crossed her arms in front of her and shifted her weight to one side, assuming a no-nonsense posture. "Well, hell hath no fury, Michael. I just wonder what people would think if they knew about you and your boyfriend?"

Mike looked straight into her eyes. "Look, Barbara, this is between you and me; leave Micky out of it."

"Oh, how touching; such concern for your lover," she said with disdain. "Well, enjoy your little fling while you can, because once I start telling people what you're up to, your life is going to be hell."

"You fucking bitch!" He raised his arm and was about to backhand her when he heard a voice from behind him.

"Mike, don't!"

His jaw quivered in anger as he slowly let his arm fall back to his side. He glared at Barbara, clenching and unclenching his fist as he tried to get his temper under control. "Get back in the house, Mick," he said as calmly as he could.

Micky had seen Mike angry before, but he never thought he'd see the day when he would hit a woman; even Barbara. "Mike, whatever she's done, you can't—"

Mike spun around. "I said, get back in the house."

The look in his eyes sent a chill up Micky's spine. He glanced at Barbara, wondering what she had done to send him into such a rage. For her part, she didn't seem the least bit intimidated, but rather had an oddly triumphant expression on her face.

"Actually, I was just leaving," she said sweetly. "After all, three's a crowd." When Mike turned back to face her, she gave him a wink and then turned on her heel and walked away, swinging her hips as if to remind him of what he was giving up.

For the first – and hopefully the last – time in his life, Mike knew how it felt to want to kill someone. He also knew that Micky was looking at him, waiting for him to offer some kind of an explanation both for his own behavior and for Barbara's last remark. After a moment he went inside, passing Micky and heading straight for the icebox. He rummaged around until he found a couple of beers, opened one, and drained half of it with just a couple of swallows. He handed the other one to Micky, who accepted it silently.

Though beer wasn't his first choice when it came to alcohol, Micky opened his bottle and took an obligatory sip. He wanted to know what was going on, and hoped that if he waited long enough, Mike would tell him without him having to ask. He nervously started picking at the bottle label, still shaken that Mike could have gotten so angry as to hit Barbara. He wondered if he had done the right thing by interfering. After all, whatever had happened was between them; he didn't really have any business getting in the middle of it. He ventured a glance at Mike, who was now sitting on the sofa finishing off the rest of his beer.

Mike sighed. "You don't have to look at me like that," he said. "I'm not mad at you."

Micky set his bottle down on the coffee table. "You wanna talk about it?" he asked.

"Not really," he honestly replied.

Though he was somewhat disappointed that Mike wouldn't confide in him, Micky figured it would probably be better to just leave him alone; at least, for now. "I'm gonna go get dressed," he said as he headed for the stairs.

"She knows," Mike said quietly.

Micky stopped and turned around. "Knows what?" he asked slowly, hoping that the answer wasn't what he thought it would be. When Mike responded only with a regretful look, Micky's worst fear was confirmed. He felt the blood drain from his face as he sat limply down on the sofa. His heart pounded in his chest and his palms began to moisten. "How?" he managed to ask.

"She... heard us from outside," Mike answered. "She assumed I was with a girl, but then she saw you coming out of the bathroom." He paused for a moment as Micky ran his hands over his face and then through his hair. "That's not all," he continued. "She's not going to keep quiet about it."

Micky's worry quickly turned to resentment. "That's just terrific," he said sharply. "She wants to drag you through the mud, and I get to come along for the ride?"

The sudden change in his demeanor took Mike by surprise, and his desire to comfort Micky was overtaken by his latent anger. "Why do you think I wanted to smack her?" he replied, sorry that Micky had stopped him earlier. "Look, I didn't want you involved in this, but there's nothing I can do about it now."

Micky grabbed the beer and took a few swigs. He knew it would be a futile suggestion, but he made it anyway. "Can't you talk to her?"

"What; beg her to reconsider?" As much as he cared about how this would affect Micky's immediate future, Mike wasn't about to throw himself on what passed for Barbara's mercies. "Fuck that."

Micky's frustration dissolved back into anxiety. "You have to do something, Mike," he almost pleaded.

His own anger began to wane as he saw how this was already affecting Micky. "I wish I could, babe," he said, "but we don't have a lot of choices here. People are gonna find out, either from her or from us." He moved closer to Micky and put his arm around his shoulder. "Now, we can cross our fingers and hope that nobody will believe her, or we can beat her to the punch and tell people ourselves."

Micky hung his head and began playing with the bottle label again. "Or we can just deny the whole thing," he said quietly.

"Sure, that might work," Mike nodded, "until you come out of that draft office next week with a reject slip in your hand."

Micky looked sadly into his eyes, part of him wishing that Mike could somehow make everything alright; and part of him wishing that he'd never gotten involved with him in the first place.

{part 4}

Micky opened his eyes and looked out the window. The night was clear and the soft blue light from the full moon streamed in. The breeze was just as cool as it had been earlier, but he was comfortable under the covers with Mike. He had been lying there for what seemed like hours; his body tired, but his mind too active to allow him to sleep. He sighed and eased himself out of bed, doing his best not to wake Mike in the process. He pulled on a pair of pants and a shirt and descended into the kitchen, his bare feet cold from the metal of the spiral staircase. Glancing back toward Davy's and Peter's bedroom every few steps, he crept through the dark living room toward the deck.

He went outside and sat on the wooden bench that surrounded the tree, leaning back against the trunk and propping his feet up on the railing. He laced his fingers in his lap and closed his eyes, taking in the sounds and smells of the night. Waves rolled gently up onto the beach with an endless and soothing rhythm, and the scent of a distant bonfire wafted on the crisp breeze that blew his curls into his face. He brushed the hair away and wondered solemnly how the night could be so peaceful when everything else in his world was in such chaos.

Mike was right about one thing; in a very short time people were going to know about them, whether they wanted them to or not. He was also right in his assessment that they didn't have many options for dealing with the situation. Anybody that Barbara would talk to already knew of her relationship with Mike, and of the bad breakup – or rather, breakups – they'd had. They might simply think that she was a jilted lover and was doing anything she could to get even with him. But the seed would be planted; people would always wonder, at least subconsciously, if there was any truth to her accusations. The suggestion alone would be enough to cause them trouble, and denying it would probably only make it worse.

Then there was the course that Mike wanted to take; telling everyone the truth and thereby taking away Barbara's control over the situation. This was the action that Micky disliked the most. After all, what was between him and Mike was between him and Mike; it wasn't anybody else's business. But more than that, there was the stigma and downright illegality of being a homosexual. True, it wasn't a commonly prosecuted crime, but the possibility was there; and in any case, Micky wasn't especially fond of having that label dogging him for the rest of his life.

There was one other way to deal with the problem; a way that a few days ago had scared Micky to death, but was now beginning to look almost appealing. If the draft board wanted him, they could have him. It was an oddly logical option. Given the choice of staying and being seen as a fag or going and being seen as a normal red-blooded American male, the latter was infinitely preferable. Of course, he could very well be killed if he went to Vietnam, but that would certainly quell anybody's suspicions about his manliness, wouldn't it?

How would he be able to tell Mike that he was considering this option? Would he understand? No. He'd throw a fit and say, 'Why don't you just go to Canada, Mick? It's better than getting yourself killed.' But to Micky, going into exile was almost worse than going to Vietnam. He couldn't stand the thought of being alone, and the fact that he'd never be able to come home again would drive him crazy in no time. At least there was a chance that he'd come home from the war.

Sure, Mike would be angry when he told him, but there wasn't much he could do about that. Micky shuddered slightly, recalling the way Mike had looked earlier that evening. He wasn't afraid of him, but he certainly wasn't looking forward to being on the receiving end of one of his tirades, either.

He smelled a trace of cologne on the swirling breeze and opened his eyes to find Mike standing a few feet from him. His hair was messy, his eyes were sleepy, and he was dressed in only a pair of jeans and an old t-shirt. This image was in such contrast to the image Micky had just had in his mind that it was hard to think that they were of the same man.

"Sorry," Mike said. "Didn't mean to bug you."

"You aren't," he said as he looked back toward the ocean. "I just couldn't sleep."

Mike stood there for a moment, not wanting to intrude on Micky's solitude. "You wanna be alone?" he finally asked.

He shook his head and slid over a little on the bench. When Mike sat down and looked at him, regret and concern reflected in his eyes, Micky felt a twinge in his gut. Once he told him what he was planning to do, he was sure that Mike would never look at him that way again. The breeze blew his hair into his face once more and before he could brush it back, Mike did it for him. Mike's hand was still on his cheek when Micky leaned in and kissed him. He wasn't sure whether it was a physical or emotional reaction; all he knew was that he needed and wanted him at that moment.

Mike was pleasantly surprised by the action. He hadn't expected Micky to be so bold as to kiss him in plain sight like this. Well, it wasn't exactly in plain sight – the beach was deserted and they probably couldn't have been seen from the house because of the tree – but he knew it was a big step for Micky anyway. They parted, and Mike looked at him, wanting to haul him upstairs and have sex with him, but Micky would never go for that as long as Davy and Peter were home.

"Why don't we go for a walk?" he suggested.

Micky chuckled slightly, knowing full well what Mike had in mind. Last night, he probably would have declined the invitation, but this was likely the last time he and Mike would be together before Micky told him of his decision, and he wanted to make the most of it. They stood up and Micky shivered as another breeze blew in from the ocean.

Mike grabbed the throw blanket from the hammock. "It is a little chilly, isn't it?" he said, a smile playing on his lips.

Micky nodded. "Where do you want to go?"

"Nobody on the beach this time of night," he replied, already heading toward the stairs.

Micky glanced back into the house one last time before following Mike down to the beach. When he got there, Mike was waiting for him. He looked incredible, bathed in moonlight and his hair being blown wild by the wind. When Micky reached him, Mike put his arms around him and kissed him passionately. Micky closed his eyes and returned the kiss, tasting a hint of the mint toothpaste Mike had used before going to bed.

Mike felt his cock starting to awaken as he placed his hands on Micky's ass and pulled him close. God, he was lucky to have this man as his. Maybe one day he'd be able to actually tell him that. For now, he'd just have to show him. He looked at him through half-closed eyes.

"We don't really have to go anywhere," he said, nodding to the side.

Micky looked toward the area that Mike was indicating. Bordered on one side by the stairs, on another side by the hill upon which the house rested, and above by the deck, it provided relative seclusion when people wanted to engage in certain activities. It had been used on several occasions by party guests of theirs, as well as by each of them at one time or another. Micky nodded and went with him into the space.

Mike peered into the darkness, his eyes trying to adjust to the slivers of moonlight that filtered into the area. Finally, he saw what he was looking for. Atop an old wooden barrel stood a few large candles and a box of wooden matches which someone – he didn't know who – had had the foresight to place there. He lit the candles and spread the throw blanket on the sand next to the barrel; then peeled off his t-shirt and jeans, revealing his semi-rigid cock.

Once again, Micky was taken by Mike's appearance and felt his own cock coming to life. He quickly removed his clothing, pleased by the look of admiration that Mike gave him as he did. They knelt on the blanket facing each other, and Micky placed his hands lightly on Mike's shoulders. They kissed, and he felt Mike's hands on his hips and then running lazily over his ass. Micky brought his own hands up and caressed Mike's cheeks before tangling his fingers in his thick hair.

Mike worked his way from Micky's mouth to his neck and finally to his chest, showering him with warm, tender kisses. He was horny, but didn't feel the physical need to fuck him; he could take the time to make love to him instead. He continued to kiss him, eliciting sighs of pleasure every time he moved to a new place. After a moment of concentration on the area around his nipples, he came back up and kissed Micky softly on the mouth.

Micky closed his eyes and tried not to think of how it would never be like this again; of how he and Mike would never be able to share intimacy exactly like this after tonight. Instead, he basked in the moment and savored the taste and the scent of this man who had, for better or worse, changed his life. He opened up all of his senses, needing to create an indelible impression of this night in his mind.

Mike looked at him, wondering why he had suddenly become so sullen. "What's wrong?" he whispered.

He looked down, wishing that he had a better poker face. "Nothing," he answered lamely as he lay on the blanket and pulled Mike down to kiss him again.

Mike gladly obliged, kissing him more urgently this time; wanting to drive away whatever negative thoughts were in his head. When he lay down next to him, his cock touched Micky's leg, and he couldn't help but moan slightly at the contact. He teased Micky's nipples with his fingertips, sending shivers through him before descending past his belly to his swollen member.

Micky raised his ass, pushing his throbbing cock into his waiting hand. He groaned when Mike wrapped his fingers around it and began stroking ever so slowly; almost painfully slowly. More confident in himself now, and wanting to give him as much pleasure as he was able, Micky reached for Mike's cock and began stroking him with the same rhythm.

Mike lifted his head and they looked at each other, not speaking and not needing to. He would have liked to get inside that beautiful ass again, but there was no baby oil handy and he knew that Micky wasn't ready to go it alone yet. There was no need to rush things anyway; they had all the time in the world. The feeling of Micky's hand on his cock was exquisite, and he was happy that Micky was taking an active part in their lovemaking. There were so many things he could teach him, so many things they could share together; and for the first time in a long time, Mike looked forward to the future.

Almost as if joining them in their activity, a breeze blew briskly into the space. Neither of them seemed to notice it, however, as they began jerking harder and faster at each other's cocks. They kissed one last time and raced furiously to their climaxes, each crying into the other's mouth as he came.

Mike stayed close to Micky after their orgasms subsided, kissing him on the neck and lightly caressing his chest. Once again, he wanted to say the words that he'd never been able to say to anyone, but somehow it didn't seem like the right time.

"It'll be alright, Mick," he said instead, vaguely addressing the problem that he knew had caused Micky's inability to sleep that night. "We'll get through it."

Micky responded only with a guilty nod. Maybe he and Mike could go to Canada together?

* * *

Mike poured himself a cup of coffee as he waited for his toast. Davy was quiet and pretending to read the newspaper, but Mike knew that he was looking at him. He turned to face him, and he quickly buried his nose in the paper again.

"What's going on?" Mike asked as he gingerly pulled the bread from the toaster and tossed it onto a plate.

Davy cleared his throat. "I, ah, ran into Barbara last night," he answered uneasily.

Mike stopped buttering his toast for a second. "Lucky you," he said, trying to sound nonchalant.

"She was at the Vincent Van Gogh Gogh," he continued.

He pulled up a chair and sat at the table. "Stalking new prey?" he asked, playing dumb.

"Not exactly." Davy wasn't looking at him. "She was, ah, saying some stuff that, well..."

"What, Davy?" Mike asked impatiently.

"It's embarrassing to repeat, man." He shifted in his chair. "She was talking to anybody who would listen, saying – now, don't kill the messenger – saying that you're... queer." He looked at Mike, prepared to duck should something be thrown across the table.

Mike sighed. "That didn't take long."

"What?" Davy asked, confused.

"Oh, she came over here last night while you guys were out," he explained. "You know, one more try...? Anyway, she got pissed when I told her to go away, and she said she was gonna do something to make my life hell."

Davy nodded. "Yeah, well, it's not just your life she's making hell."

"What do you mean?" Mike asked, again feigning ignorance.

"Part Two," he said, looking sheepishly at him. "She said that you don't want her back because..."

Mike closed his eyes for a second. "Let me guess. It had something to do with Micky."

"How did you know?"

"I know how that bitch's mind works," he said, hoping it was a convincing lie. "Mick was here when she came over."

"But why bring him into it?" Davy asked.

Mike got up and tossed his untouched breakfast into the sink, becoming genuinely angry again over the situation. "Because it's not enough for her to fuck with me; she's gotta fuck with my friends, too." He took a deep breath and turned back to Davy. "So, did anybody believe her?" he fished.

"Are you kidding? Who's gonna believe a thing like that about you guys?"

"I don't know," Mike tried to dismiss it.

"Well, I wouldn't worry about it," Davy said. "After she left, everybody was just rolling their eyes and wondering what the hell you ever saw in her to begin with."

Mike shook his head. "I wonder that myself. Look, do me a favor and don't mention this to Mick," he said. "I'll tell him about it later."

"No problem," Davy said.

"Where is he, anyway?" he asked.

Davy shrugged. "He and Peter went somewhere a while ago."

* * *

Micky drummed his fingers on the car door, lost in thought. He had heard that getting into Canada wasn't as easy as it sounded, but having it confirmed by Peter's friend of a friend made it harder to accept somehow. If he had gone to see the guy a month ago... if he was still a student... if he had friends or family there who could have vouched for him... if he married a Canadian girl...

He shook his head slightly to clear it. No, going to Canada was not an option now. Still, if he hadn't explored the possibility, he would have regretted it for the rest of his life – however long that was going to be now.

"I'm sorry he couldn't help you, Micky," Peter said, breaking the silence they'd shared since they left the man's dank makeshift office.

"It's okay, Pete," he replied halfheartedly. "I don't think I would've been able to handle being cut off from everyone, anyway."

"I know, man, but at least you'd be..." He trailed off, quickly looking for an alternative to what he was about to say. "...safe," he finished.

Micky sighed and looked out his window. If he was going to tell Peter what was happening with him and Mike, now would be the time. Hell, if anybody would understand, it would be Peter. He had friends in all kinds of places who were living all kinds of lives. Surely, he wouldn't judge him. Micky glanced back at him and opened his mouth to speak, but his courage left him. He didn't get another chance to say anything before they pulled into the driveway. He got out of the car and headed straight into the house and upstairs, acknowledging neither Mike nor Davy.

Mike followed him, walking into the bedroom to find him digging around in the closet and mumbling to himself. He closed the door loudly enough to let him know that he was there, causing him to emerge from the closet empty-handed and looking somewhat guilty. Mike didn't possess the greatest sense of intuition in the world, but he knew that something wasn't quite right.

"What are you looking for?" he asked casually.

Micky didn't respond, but instead went to his dresser and started rummaging in one of the drawers.

"I, ah, talked to Davy this morning," Mike said as he crossed the room and sat on his bed. "He said that Barbara was at the Vincent last night."

Micky paused. "Before or after she was here?" he asked without looking at him.

"After. He said nobody believed her, though," he said, answering his unspoken question.

"Maybe not," Micky said as he turned around, "but you know they're talking about it. 'Did you hear what Barbara said about Mike and Micky?' I can just hear it."

"So what if they are?"

"How many times do we have to go over this?" he said, frustrated. "I don't want everybody to know what's going on."

"You act like you're ashamed," Mike said, standing up. "Are you?"

Micky turned away from him again. It was going to be hard enough telling Mike that he was leaving; he didn't want to get into his feelings about their relationship. "Not exactly," he finally said.

Mike grabbed his arm and turned him back to face him. "Then what, exactly?"

"I don't know," he said, wriggling out of Mike's grip. "It's nobody else's business. Can't we just leave it at that?"

"No, we can't. This whole coy routine is really starting to get on my nerves, Mick." He placed his hands on his hips. "What is it that you're so scared of, anyway?"

"I'm not scared."

"Bullshit. You won't even admit it to the guys," he said, gesturing toward the door.

"And what if we did admit it? What then?" he demanded. "Even if they were okay with it, how many gigs do you think we'd get if everybody knew there are two fags in the group? Do you think we'd ever get a record deal?"

Mike rolled his eyes. "Gimme a break. Liberace's not hurting, is he? You're gonna have to come up with a better reason than that."

"Alright, what about our families?"

He snorted. "I don't give a rat's ass what my family thinks of me."

"Well, I do," Micky said. "My mother's married to a clergyman, Mike. Do you think I'd ever be able to go home again?"

"Come on. How long did your mother live in Hollywood with your father? She's probably seen it all. Face it, Mick, you're the only one who's got a problem with this; although you sure didn't last night." He stopped when Micky looked at him. The remark may have been uncalled for, but it was the truth.

"I don't want to talk about it any more," Micky said, walking back to the closet.

"It won't go away if you ignore it."

"Then I'll go away," he replied as he grabbed an old suitcase. "I need to go see my family anyway."

"Why?"

"To say goodbye."

Something stirred in the pit of Mike's stomach; the same something he had felt when he saw Micky's draft notice. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"I've been drafted, remember?" he answered shortly as he placed the case on his bed and opened it.

"You've been drafted, but you're not going anywhere. You know as well as I do that they won't want you in the service after you've told them—" He stopped, suddenly realizing just what Micky was planning.

Micky began pulling items from his dresser and tossing them into the suitcase. "Can we talk about this when I get back?"

"No, we'll talk about it now," Mike said, again grabbing Micky's arm. "If you're going to sentence yourself to death, I want to know why."

"I don't owe you any explanations," he said as he jerked his arm away.

"Like hell you don't." Mike reached over and closed the suitcase.

"Lay off," Micky said, opening the case again. "It's my life."

"And you're willing to risk it just to preserve your reputation? That's the stupidest fucking thing I've ever heard of!"

Micky looked quickly toward the door and then back to Mike. "Will you quiet down? They're gonna hear you downstairs."

"Good," he said, walking to the door. "Hey guys," he called as he opened it, "guess what? Mick and I are—"

"You fucking bastard!" Micky bounded over and shut the door. Mike looked surprised; but not as surprised as he did when, in a burst of anger-fueled energy, Micky grabbed him by the shirt and slammed him against the wall.

The next thing Mike knew, Micky had hit him square in the jaw. He was never one to back away from a fight, even if it was with Micky; besides, he had some frustrations of his own to vent. "How can you leave after last night?" he asked, backhanding him. "What the hell am I supposed to do once you're gone?" He punched him in the stomach. "You didn't think about that, did you?"

Before Micky could answer and before they could throw any more punches at each other, Davy and Peter burst into the room and tried to restrain them.

"Mike, are you crazy?" Davy yelled as he did his best to hold him back. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Trying to knock some sense into this stupid fucker!" he shouted, sidestepping Davy and going after Micky.

Micky's back was now literally against the wall, and he could see that Mike was about to hit him again. A rush of adrenaline seized him and, despite Peter's hold on him, he moved out of the way just as Mike's fist came toward his head.

Mike didn't think it was possible for anyone to move that fast, but he didn't have time to reflect on it. All he knew was that he had hit something solid. He couldn't remember how many bones were in the human hand, but it felt as if he'd broken every one of them. He could feel himself going pale as waves of pain began to radiate from his hand.

"Jesus, Mike!" Peter shouted as he and Davy went to his side and tried to get a look at the misshapen appendage.

Mike pulled his hand away before either of them could touch it and looked straight at Micky. "Go and see your family, Mick – and then go straight to hell."

He stormed out of the room, cradling his hand as he went downstairs. He didn't know exactly where he was going; he just needed to get away from Micky. He stopped when he reached the kitchen, only then getting a good look at his hand. The fingers weren't all pointed in the same direction anymore, and it was already bruised and swollen. The sight alone was enough to make him queasy, but when he thought of the implications of having broken his right hand, his stomach started doing flip flops.

"Peter, get some ice," Davy said as they came quickly down the stairs. "We've gotta get him to the hospital."

Peter quickly wrapped a tray's worth of ice cubes in a clean dish towel. "Okay, let's go," he said as he handed it to Mike.

Mike held the ice carefully against his hand as the two of them led him from the house. When he got to the door he stopped and glanced up at Micky, who was standing on the balcony looking miserable. The image mixed with the stew of emotions that Mike was already feeling, making the whole experience worse than it already was. Even if Micky was feeling badly, it wasn't enough to make Mike forget his anger; and he walked out of the house not really caring if he ever saw him again.

{part 5}

Mike walked into the house, trailed from a safe distance by Davy and Peter. He was tired and angry; and if he never had to visit a hospital emergency room again, it would be too soon. Although he had what he considered a serious injury, he'd had to wait for hours while rich bitches with hang nails were taken ahead of him. By the time he got in to see a doctor, his hand was swollen to twice its normal size and was so sensitive that he could barely stand to touch it himself, let alone have somebody else fuck with it. And as if the waiting wasn't bad enough, he'd had to fend off questions from the guys about what had happened between him and Micky in the first place.

He'd been very tempted to tell them exactly what had happened – all of it – but for some reason, he kept his mouth shut. Maybe he still felt protective of Micky and felt some sense of loyalty to him and his wishes? Maybe he just couldn't think about anything except whether he'd ever be able to play again. Hell, he could barely sign his name to the form the nurse had given him; he couldn't imagine holding a pick right now.

When he finally did get in to see a doctor, the first thing the guy did was make some smart ass remark about how he should avoid picking fights with walls. He then began his examination, and Mike could have sworn that the asshole took pleasure in the amount of pain he was inflicting on him. When he grabbed hold of each of his fingers and moved them around, it was excruciating; and when he forced Mike to spread his hand flat for the x-ray, he thought he would faint. The bastard wouldn't even give him anything for the pain until after he'd set his hand, which seemed to take forever. Finally, he sent him on his way with a prescription and orders to report back in a week for a follow-up exam.

The doctor had told Mike that, if he followed his instructions, he should recover most of the dexterity in his fingers. All in all, it was an optimistic prognosis given the nature of the injury, but Mike couldn't help but be worried and depressed about the whole situation. The only good things in his life were Micky and his music. He'd already lost one; if he lost the other, he may as well just swallow the whole bottle of pain pills and be done with it.

Before they even got home, Mike had already ignored the doctor's first instruction and taken a dose of meds on an empty stomach. He would probably feel miserable as a result; but he already felt miserable, so what was the difference? At least his hand wouldn't be bothering him.

They walked into the house to find Micky gone. Mike wasn't too surprised; in fact, he was glad that he didn't have to deal with seeing him on top of everything else at the moment. There was a note on the kitchen table addressed to all of them, but Mike didn't wait around to hear what it read. Instead, he dragged himself upstairs and hoped to get a nap before the medication-induced nausea kicked in.

His bedroom was cold and empty. Mike supposed that he would have to get used to the feeling. Once Micky went to Vietnam, it would be like this all of the time... just like his life would be. He tried not to think about it as he lay down, took one of the pillows and placed it next to him, and then gently rested his hand on top of it. The doctor had told him to keep his hand elevated, and he hoped that by doing so, it would stop its throbbing and that he would be able to get some sleep. He glanced over at his bed, the bed where he and Micky had made love the night before, and noticed the folded note that was leaning against the lamp on the table. He looked up at the ceiling and swore under his breath. If he read the note, he would start to forgive Micky, and he wasn't quite ready to do that yet. Instead, he closed his eyes and waited for the pills to start working.

* * *

Davy looked up toward Mike's bedroom and handed Micky's note to Peter. "What do you think this is all about?" he asked.

"Nothing," Peter replied as he finished reading the note. "Micky went to see his family, that's all."

"Not that," he said. "I mean, what's going on with him and Mike?"

He shrugged. "You know as much as I do," he said as he set the note on the table. "I'm sure it's nothing. Micky hasn't been himself since he got his draft notice, and you know how Mike can be sometimes. They probably just got on each other's nerves."

"No, there's more to it than that," Davy said. "Maybe it has something to do with Barbara?"

Peter thought for a moment. "That doesn't make any sense. I'm sure Mike's angry with her over what she's saying about him, but why would he take it out on Micky?"

Davy hesitated. "Did you ever consider the possibility that she's telling the truth?"

He gave him a skeptical look. "If it was true, Micky wouldn't have anything to worry about, as far as the draft goes."

"Unless he doesn't want to admit it," he speculated.

"Come on."

"No, think about it," Davy continued his argument. "Mike started to say something this morning, but Micky stopped him. Something about the two of them..."

Peter shook his head. "You know, it's this kind of shit that would keep them from telling us what's going on... if," he emphasized the word, "that's what's going on to begin with."

"So you think it's possible?"

"What I think is that we shouldn't be talking about them behind their backs like this," he said, annoyed. "Whatever is going on, it's between them. It's none of our business."

"It certainly is," Davy contended. "This affects us, too. We were in a bad enough position with Micky leaving, but now Mike won't be able to play for... what, a couple of months?"

"Something like that. It depends on how well he—"

"It doesn't matter," he interrupted. "There's a bigger issue here than the fact that they won't confide in us. If we can't work, we can't pay our bills."

"You and I can still work," Peter pointed out. "We can sit in on some gigs, and if worse comes to worse, we can get day jobs."

"Or we can split the group."

He looked at Davy, disbelieving. What was he thinking? It was bad enough that he didn't have any qualms about leaving Mike to fend for himself, but he also had the arrogance to think that other groups would be lining up to recruit him. Peter hesitated for a second, thinking that maybe he shouldn't say what was on his mind; but the truth was, he and the other guys were getting tired of carrying Davy. If he was going to be a dick about this whole thing, then he should know where he really stood.

"Well, if you can find another group that's willing to split the money equally with someone who possesses no musical talent whatsoever, then good luck."

Davy was dumbfounded. Who the hell did he think he was, talking to him like that? Who did they think half the audience was there to see anyway? And who did they think was going to take over Micky's vocal duties when he was gone? If these assholes really felt that way, then they could go fuck themselves. He grabbed his coat and walked out without saying another word.

* * *

Micky looked out the window of the bus as it sped along the northbound highway. It had been several hours since he left, and he was sure that Mike was back from the hospital by now. He almost called the house the last time the driver stopped to allow the passengers a chance to use the comfort room, but had decided not to. Though he desperately wanted to know how Mike was doing and what the doctor had said, it was not a call that he could make from a public phone with a three-minute time limit. That is, if Mike would talk to him at all.

During the bus ride, between fighting bouts of sleepiness and trying to avoid conversation with the middle-aged woman sitting next to him, he'd been able to reflect on the events of the last several days. He recalled Mike's words to him, 'How can you leave after last night? What am I supposed to do once you're gone?' It was a classic case of hindsight being twenty-twenty, and Micky now realized that Mike wasn't as angry about him leaving as he was scared of what his life would be like without him.

He rubbed his eyes and pulled his hands down slowly over his face, finally letting them drop into his lap. It was all so clear now; how could he not have seen it before? He had been so busy worrying about how other people would feel about their relationship that he didn't think about how Mike felt... or how he himself felt. But was this an actual relationship, or was it just a curiosity that Micky had needed to satisfy?

He couldn't deny that their sexual encounters had been extremely pleasurable; and if it had happened with a close female friend, there wouldn't be any problem. In fact, Micky would probably be happy about it and consider himself fortunate. After all, the deepest, longest-lasting relationships were between people who were friends first and lovers second; at least, that's what he had always heard. He and Mike certainly fit that description. Why should it make a difference that he was a man?

Micky started to recognize some of the landmarks outside his window and knew that he was getting close to his mother's home. He thought again about what Mike had said, that his mother wouldn't be too shocked that this type of thing happened sometimes; but whether she would be okay with it happening to her own son was another matter. He hoped that he would be able to hide the fact that something other than the draft was bothering him. If she started to ask him what else was on his mind, he didn't think he would be able to keep it from her.

* * *

Mike opened his eyes, forgetting for a moment what had happened that day. As soon as he stirred, however, everything came back to him with a vengeance; especially the pain in his hand. He stared at the clock on the bedside table, did some quick mental calculations, and discovered that he was overdue for a pill. This time, though, he would be sure to take it with food, since he was even now feeling nauseous from his earlier dose.

He also saw again the note that Micky had left him. He still wasn't sure if he wanted to read it, but he didn't particularly want Peter or Davy to find it, either. He grabbed it and held it in his good hand as he swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat up, promptly giving himself a head rush. God, he was a sorry specimen, he thought. He closed his eyes and waited for the feeling to subside; then got up and walked to the dresser, stuffing the note in his pocket as he did.

He looked at himself in the mirror and wiped the sleep from his eyes. As he finger-combed his hair, he suddenly realized what a challenge personal hygiene was going to be in the weeks to come, especially shaving. Well, he'd been thinking of growing a beard anyway. Besides, he didn't really need to look good for anybody now.

Mike went downstairs to find Peter sitting on the sofa, talking to himself and playing some tune he didn't recognize. He shuffled into the kitchen and grabbed a couple of half-stale cookies; the only food that was in close proximity and didn't require any preparation. He then popped a pill and washed it all down with half a glass of milk. He hoped it was enough to keep him from getting an upset stomach, since he wasn't at all hungry and couldn't bring himself to eat any more than that. Not wanting to go back to his empty room, he went into the living room and sat in the arm chair next to the sofa.

Peter stopped playing. "How are you doing?"

Mike leaned his head against the back of the chair. "It hurts like hell."

He rolled his eyes. "Ask a dumb question..." He set the guitar down and shifted so that he was facing him. "I know you're probably not in the mood for this, but you should know about the conversation I had with Davy earlier."

"You're right; I'm not in the mood." He raised his head and looked at him. "But tell me anyway," he sighed.

"We read Micky's note – you know that he went to visit his family, right?" He waited for Mike's nod and went on. "Well, Davy started getting all bent out of shape because he didn't know what you guys had argued about."

Mike tried to keep his expression neutral, telling himself not to react until Peter was finished.

"Anyway, I told him that whatever's going on, it's none of our business," he continued. "Then we started talking about what we'll do for money with Micky leaving and you not being able to play." He chuckled insincerely. "You won't believe what the little fucker said."

That piqued his interest. "What?" he asked, sitting up a little.

"He said that he and I should split the group."

Mike could feel his composure starting to leave him. He stood up and paced around the room. "What did you say?"

"Oh, it was beautiful," Peter replied proudly. "I basically said that there weren't too many groups out there who'd be willing to give an equal cut to someone with no musical talent."

Mike couldn't help but smile slightly, wishing he'd been a fly on the wall during that exchange. The subject of whether to keep Davy around had come up from time to time; and he was not only glad that Peter had put the troll in his place, but that he had displayed such loyalty to him and to the group.

"Where is he now?" he asked.

"Probably looking for a band that's in desperate need of a maraca player."

Mike shook his head. "He does have a point, though," he said. "Money's going to be a problem."

"Money's always a problem," Peter said, "but I called my friend, Steve, and he said that I could sit in with the Springfield for a while."

"Why would he be willing to do that?" Mike asked, his cynical side coming forward.

"He's a good friend," he answered simply. "They have kind of a rotating lineup anyway, so it's not like I'd be displacing anybody."

"It's just temporary, though, right?" he asked, trying not to sound as worried as he was. "Once I'm back in the game..."

"Don't worry, man. I'm not leaving the group," Peter assured him.

Mike nodded, somewhat relieved. There really was no group to leave at this point; just four guys who used to play together. He absently stuck his hand in his pocket, again finding Micky's note. He looked at Peter, feeling a little guilty for not telling him what was going on; especially given the fact that he had defended them to Davy and that he was staying with the group when he could easily leave for greener pastures.

"Peter," he began, "I can't tell you right now what Mick and I argued about. It's not that I don't trust you or anything, but..." He sighed and closed his eyes in frustration.

He was a little disappointed, but nodded his understanding. "It's cool, Mike. Like I told Davy, it's between you guys. And now that you're up," he said, changing the subject, "I'm gonna head over to Steve's and rehearse with them for a while." He grabbed his guitar and headed for the door. "I'll see you later."

Mike waved a goodbye to him and then walked over to the bandstand and eyed his beloved twelve-string which leaned, immaculately polished, on its stand. He ran his fingers over the strings and hoped that he'd be able to play it again soon. Chord progressions started running through his head, even though writing a new song was the furthest thing from his mind. He wasn't really in the mood to be creative, but he didn't want to forget the melody and went in search of something on which to write it down. As usual, there wasn't any paper around when he needed it, so he pulled Micky's note from his pocket.

He glanced over it quickly without reading it until he found an empty place at the bottom of the back side. He then grabbed a pencil and scribbled, as best as he could with his left hand, the chords that were in his head. As he did, he unintentionally read the closing words of the note, 'I'm sorry again, Mike'.

He sat in the arm chair and stared at the paper, trying to convince himself that he was only looking over the chords he had just written. His eyes, however, kept drifting back to Micky's words. Finally, he turned the paper over and read the note.

'Mike, I wanted to be here when you got back, but I had a bus to catch. You probably need a break from me anyway. I know that you think I'm a coward or something because I can't tell everyone what's been going on. Maybe you're right. I just don't have the kind of independent spirit you have, and yes, I do worry about what people think of me. That may be a weakness of character, but that's the way I am. I don't want to get sappy here, but I need you to know that, whatever happens, I'll always remember the last few days and what we shared. I never meant for things to turn out the way they did, and I never meant for you to be hurt – in any way. I'm sure your hand will be fine. Just do what the doctor tells you. As for everything else, all I can say is that I'm sorry. I'll call when I get to my mom's to see how you're doing. I hope you'll want to talk to me, but if you don't, I understand. Anyway, I'll be back in four or five days. In the meantime, take care of yourself. I'm sorry again, Mike. Micky.'

He crumpled up the paper. It was too much to deal with right now; the group splintering, his useless hand, and now this. Just what the hell was Micky trying to say, anyway? This had all the earmarks of a love note, but he hadn't actually used the word. But why should he? After all, if Mike had used the word last night, maybe Micky would still be here.

As if on cue, the phone rang. It had to be Micky; but even if it wasn't, Mike didn't want to talk to anybody. He sat in the chair and waited for it to stop, but whoever was on the other end was patient. Finally, he got up and walked over to the phone, picked it up to silence it, and immediately hung it up again. After a few seconds, he picked up the receiver and set it on the table; then locked the front door and went upstairs.

* * *

Micky's heart sank at the sound of the phone hanging up. He slowly put the receiver back on the hook and slid down to the floor, drawing his knees up to his chest and resting his forehead on his arms. He closed his eyes tightly and took a deep breath, trying to hold back all of the emotions he was feeling. His happiness at being home was matched by his depression over the draft and the fight with Mike. Having him – who else would it have been? – hang up on him only made it worse.

A gentle knock came at the bedroom door, followed by the voice of his seven-year-old sister. "Micky?"

He cleared his throat and rubbed his hands over his face. "Come on in, Gina," he answered.

The little girl came bounding into the room, all freckles and pigtails. Micky couldn't help but smile as she jumped on him and wrapped him up in the biggest hug she could manage. He pretended that she had knocked the wind out of him and then started tickling her.

"Mom says supper's almost ready," she said between laughs.

"Okay, tell Mom I'll be down as soon as I finish unpacking," he replied, standing up.

"Mom says you can finish that later."

He rolled his eyes. Was there ever an age when girls weren't bossy? "Well then, tell Mom I'll be down in a minute."

"Mom says be sure to wash up first."

He gave her an exaggerated sideways glance. "Anything else?"

Gina thought for a few seconds and then shook her head vigorously, causing her pigtails to fly into her face.

Micky laughed and scooped her up under his arm. "Let's go wash up, then," he said as he carried her down the hall and into the bathroom. "You hold still while I fill the tub."

When he turned on the water, she started kicking and screaming – that eardrum-piercing at-play scream that little girls do so well. The two continued their horseplay until their nine-year-old sister, Debbie, appeared in the doorway.

"Mom wants to know what's going on up here," she said, her hands on her hips.

They looked at each other and then back to her. "Nothing," they answered in unison.

* * *

Mike lay in Micky's bed, listening to himself breathe. He had been trying to go to sleep, but every time he started to doze off, he heard Micky's voice saying the words that he had written in his note. When he opened his eyes to silence that voice, they would wander over to his own empty bed.

His hand started throbbing again and the sound reached his ears, resonating louder and louder until he thought that he couldn't stand it anymore. Then, suddenly, everything was quiet. He heard the doorknob turning and he pretended to be asleep. The door opened and then closed, but the person hadn't gone away; Mike could feel that they were still in the room with him. He opened his eyes and was shocked to see who was standing at the foot of the bed.

Mike stared at him, trying to bring his features into focus. He wanted to say something – anything, but he couldn't speak. Fearing that he would disappear if he looked away, Mike kept his eyes on him as he came around the side of the bed and sat next to him. Before he could wonder how this could possibly be happening, he was being kissed; a long, tender, loving kiss that swept him up in a wave of emotion.

All of his senses came alive at that moment. He smelled and tasted what he had come to know simply as Micky; and his depression and anger gave way to his arousal, an arousal more intense than any he had felt before. Micky apparently shared this feeling, parting from him just long enough to take hold of his shirt and rip it from him. The garment had already been ruined when the doctor cut it to put on his cast, so Mike didn't care. Actually, he wouldn't have cared anyway. All that mattered was that Micky was here.

He felt a bit awkward, his hand in the cast and his mind still foggy from sleep and pain pills. Micky didn't mind picking up the slack, though, as he caressed his bare chest. Mike felt him teasing his nipples with his fingertips, and then licking and kissing them. He closed his eyes and sighed, content to let Micky do whatever he wanted to; and daring to hope that he would take on his cock at some point.

When Micky began unfastening Mike's belt, he knew that he would get his wish. He lifted his ass off the bed as Micky pulled off his jeans and shorts. His cock sprang free and begged for attention, which it was immediately given. Mike thought he was in heaven when Micky took a firm hold of the shaft and began stroking it with a rhythm that was neither too fast nor too slow. It was just the way Mike would have done it himself, and he was impressed that Micky seemed to know exactly what to do without being told. He looked down just in time to see him lower his head; and howled when his warm, wet mouth enveloped the swollen organ.

Somewhere in the back of Mike's mind, he pondered how Micky could be so good at giving head. It was as if he had already mastered the art; giving such superb attention to his cock and balls that one would have sworn he had years of experience at it. The thought soon left him, though, and Mike threw his head back against the pillow, closing his eyes tightly and thrusting his hips upward. But where he expected to find Micky's waiting mouth, there was nothing but air.

He forced his eyes open and found himself alone in the dark. He sat up quickly and switched on the bedside lamp, blinking against the light as he looked around the room in vain. His hard on was real, but everything else had been a dream. Dejected, he got up pulled one of the sheets from his bed and wrapped it around him. He lay back down, enveloping himself in the smell of baby oil and Micky's cologne, and then took one of the pillows and held it tightly to him as he reached down to give his aching cock the relief it needed. He stroked himself clumsily with his left hand for what seemed like an eternity until he finally came. The release was not accompanied by the usual ecstasy; but rather by the inadequacy of being reduced to jerking off while draped in sex-stained sheets.

He never felt less like a man.

{part 6}

Micky walked into the house, weary from his trip and not looking forward to his first encounter with Mike. He had called from his mother's house several times while he was gone in the hopes of talking to him, but had only spoken with Peter. He wasn't really surprised, but it didn't make it hurt any less to know that Mike was avoiding him. Setting his suitcase down, he looked around the house. Peter was in the kitchen making himself something to eat, but Mike and Davy were nowhere in sight.

Peter looked back from where he stood at the counter and saw Micky in the doorway. "Hey, man!" he called to him. He set his sandwich fixings down and brushed the crumbs from his hands as he walked over to him.

"Hi, Pete," he replied.

"You hungry? I was just getting myself something..." He started walking back to the kitchen.

"Yeah, thanks," Micky said as he followed him. He pulled out a chair and glanced up at his and Mike's closed bedroom door. "Where is everybody?"

Peter set a couple of sodas and a bag of chips on the table. "Mike's upstairs, sleeping again; and Davy's..." He pretended to be interested in his whereabouts. "I don't know where Davy is."

"Is he still thinking of moving out?" he asked, recalling what Peter had told him during one other their telephone conversations.

He nodded. "Half of his stuff is gone already, and he's been spending his nights who-knows-where. It's fine with me, though," he said as he set a plated sandwich in front of Micky. "I don't have to listen to his snoring anymore."

Micky took a drink of soda. "How's Mike?" he asked, trying to keep his tone normal.

"When he's not sleeping, he's like a bear that just woke up from hibernation," he replied, sitting down to his own sandwich. "He doesn't eat; at least, not that I've seen. Hell, about the only time he comes downstairs is to use the john."

"Well, his hand is probably giving him a lot of pain," Micky made excuse.

"That's not all that's bothering him," Peter replied. "He's really depressed. I don't know if he's worried that he won't be able to play again or what; but something's really got him down."

Micky tried to keep eating so that Peter wouldn't suspect anything, but his appetite was gone. "The doctor said that he'd be okay, though; didn't he?"

"Yeah, but I don't know that I'd put too much trust in a doctor who did to me what that guy did to Mike." He picked up his dishes and walked them to the sink. "Besides, he's been taking a lot of pain pills. That can really throw you into some serious mood swings."

He looked up. "How many has he been taking?" he asked, worried.

"Not enough to kill himself or anything," Peter assured him. "I don't know. It's just so weird seeing him like this, you know?"

Micky nodded. "So, how's your new gig going?" he tried to change the subject.

"Pretty good. We're playing at the Club Cassandra." He checked his watch and then walked to the bandstand. "I told Mike about it; you know, hoping he'd want to come out and see us."

"No luck?"

"No," he shook his head and picked up his guitar. "Look, I gotta get over there to help set up and rehearse one more time. If you wanna come, we start around eight."

He knew he wouldn't go, but acted as if he was considering it. "I have to get up early tomorrow," he said, referring to his date with the draft board.

Peter's expression changed. "Yeah. Well, if you change your mind..." he said as he opened the front door.

"Thanks, Pete."

Micky watched him leave and then checked the time, contemplating whether or not he should try to rouse Mike. It seemed that he hadn't told Peter anything about their fight, which Micky found somewhat curious. The whole reason it had gotten physical to begin with was because Mike almost told the guys what had been going on. The incident replayed itself in his head for the millionth time, reinforcing the guilt that he felt over it. Finally, he decided to go upstairs and get the inevitable over with.

He knocked on the bedroom door and listened for a reply. When he didn't get one, he knocked again and then slowly opened the door and peeked inside. The room was dark and stuffy, and dirty laundry was strewn about the floor. He sighed and stepped into the room, leaving the door wide open behind him; and then went to the window and pulled up the shade before opening it to let in some fresh air. The sound and light caused Mike to stir, but only enough to turn away from the window and toward the wall. Micky leaned over and shook him gently.

"Mike?" There was no response. "Mike?" He shook him again.

"What?" Mike answered, irritated.

"It's the middle of the afternoon," he said quietly.

Mike opened his eyes, suddenly recognizing the voice. He didn't want to turn around for fear of being disappointed again. Every time he'd heard that voice in the last few days, he'd dreamed it. The hand on his shoulder felt real enough, but that didn't mean anything.

"Come on, Mike."

When Mike finally looked at him, Micky was taken aback. His face was covered with thick stubble, his hair was dirty, and his bloodshot eyes were rimmed with dark circles. He looked startled, but it was hard to tell if it was because of Micky's presence or because of the sunlight that now filled the room. It was obvious that he hadn't been taking care of himself; and Micky hated knowing that, whether directly or indirectly, he was the reason for it.

Mike started to sit up. He had that all-too-familiar feeling in his stomach and he knew that he looked like hell. He was somewhat embarrassed about it until he noticed the look in Micky's eyes, and all of the feelings of loneliness and longing that he'd had during his absence began to fade. If there was one thing he didn't need from Micky, it was his pity. As had become his routine after waking up, he reached for his pills. He was a bit unsteady, though, and the bottle fell to the floor when he tried to grab it.

Micky picked it up and handed it to him. "Does your hand hurt?" he asked lamely.

"Of course it hurts," Mike said as he yanked the bottle away from him. He then expertly opened it one-handed and popped a pill, dry. When he set the bottle back on the table, he saw that Micky was staring at him again. "What?" he asked, annoyed.

Seeing Mike in the sunlight confirmed what Peter had told him. "When's the last time you ate something?"

Mike looked at him sharply. "Who are you, my mother?"

Micky sighed in frustration, then crossed the room and started picking up the dirty clothes.

"Leave everything where it is," Mike said.

"The place is a sty," he replied, going on with what he was doing.

Mike got up and went to him, shoving the clothes out of his hands and back to the floor. "I said, leave it alone. They're my clothes, and when they need to be picked up, I'll do it myself."

"Well, I'm not gone yet," Micky said, "and I'm not going to live in the middle of a dirty laundry pile."

"Then go downstairs and share Peter's room. Davy's practically moved out, and I'd rather be alone anyway."

Micky seized the opportunity. "I thought that's exactly what you didn't want."

Mike took a few deep breaths and tried to convince himself that he was angry; that he didn't care about Micky and that he couldn't be rid of him soon enough. But it was a lie. He had only come to care for him more since he'd been gone, and being reminded of those feelings was too much for him to take. He felt himself starting to break down and turned quickly away from him. Noticing his robe hanging on the bed post, he decided that taking a bath would be as good a reason as any to get away from Micky for a while. He grabbed it and walked out of the room without a word.

Micky smiled at the slight victory. At least he'd gotten Mike out of bed; which, according to Peter, was more than he'd done for himself in the last few days. He finished picking up the clothes and stripped the beds of the dirty sheets; then stuffed the laundry, including his own, into a duffle bag. Before he hauled it downstairs, he took Mike's pills and put them in his pocket. He would be angry, but Micky would deal with that when he got back.

* * *

Mike stepped out of the bathroom, feeling much better for having washed the grime of the last few days from his body. It had taken a relatively long time, but he supposed it was worth it. It would give Micky one less thing to nag him about, he told himself as he pulled his robe closed and walked toward the staircase. He was beginning to think that he might actually feel like eating something when he saw the plate on the kitchen table. The note next to it was short and sweet.

"I'm at the laundromat. Make sure you eat this."

Mike flung the note aside. Part of him wanted to eat the sandwich, chips and soda that were sitting there so neatly prepared; but part of him wanted to tell Micky to shove them straight up his ass. He hated this. He hated the implication that he needed to be taken care of; that he had to rely on anybody else for help. He stood there stewing about it for a while, until finally his hunger gained dominance over his pride and he yanked the chair out from the table and sat down. He ate slowly; his mind drifting back to something Micky had said earlier... that he wasn't gone yet. That was true. He was going to meet with the draft board tomorrow, but he probably wouldn't receive his orders for another couple of months. Even if Mike couldn't convince him to stay, the two of them had to find some way to live with each other until then.

* * *

Micky came home a few hours later to the sound of someone swearing and rummaging around upstairs. He sighed and set down the duffel of clean clothes and then went to deal with Mike, who had apparently discovered that his pills were missing. Not wanting to take him by surprise, he called to him as he ascended the stairs.

"Mike?"

The noise stopped and Mike appeared in the doorway. "Did you take my pills?"

Micky took some satisfaction in noting that Mike looked a little better than he had when he left; cleaner, at any rate. He reached in his pocket and produced the bottle. "Here," he said, holding it out to him. "I knew I'd be back before you needed another dose so—"

Mike grabbed the pills from him and immediately took one. He then put the bottle in his own pocket for safekeeping. "You've got a hell of a nerve," he said. "Stealing my pills, doing my laundry, making my dinner... You think I can't take care of myself?"

Micky glanced downstairs and saw that some of the food he had left earlier was gone. "It's not that you can't take care of yourself," he answered. "I think you just don't give a damn right now."

"No, I don't give a damn. Everything I do care about is—"

He stopped and silently cursed himself. He looked down at his injured hand and painfully wiggled the fingers. His anger began to resurface, and he decided that he was going to give Micky something fresh to think about when he met with the draft board in the morning. He grabbed him and pulled him close; looking intently into his eyes before kissing him forcefully.

Micky was taken by surprise, not only by the action, but by how rough Mike was being with him. It ended as suddenly as it had begun, and then he was being pushed away.

"Get undressed," Mike ordered.

Micky hesitated. Intimacy with Mike was something that he had missed more than he could have imagined; and part of him was willing to do whatever it took to experience it again, but another part of him wasn't sure about giving in to him like this. While he debated with himself on his course of action, Mike took a fistful of his shirt and pulled at it.

"What are you waiting for?" Mike said, more a challenge than a question.

Micky kept his eyes locked on him as he began unbuttoning his shirt. His mind wandered back to the sex dreams he'd had while he was away; vivid fantasies where Mike let loose on him, fucking him without mercy until Micky thought he couldn't take it anymore. He tried to push the thoughts from his mind, but his body was already responding to the mental images. His cock began straining against his pants; something which didn't escape Mike's gaze.

Mike was cautious not to let his satisfaction register on his face; but the closer Micky got to being naked, the more his own cock betrayed him. He was about to pull off his t-shirt, but instead decided that he would have Micky do it for him. Undressing another man would probably be a first for him, and it would serve to further establish Mike's dominance over the evening's activities. But he had to play this carefully; he didn't want to frighten Micky away from him forever. Rather, he wanted to instill in him the desire stay with him and to tell the draft board – and everyone else – exactly what was going on.

As Micky discarded his shirt and started unbuckling his belt, he couldn't help but look Mike over. He seemed to be sporting a hard on of his own, but he wasn't disrobing yet. Before he could proceed any further, Mike stopped him.

"Wait," he said.

He looked at him warily. "What?"

Mike took a step toward him. "Take this off," he said, tugging at his own shirt.

Micky swallowed hard as Mike closed the distance between them and then began pulling the garment loose from his pants. Being this close to him, Micky could smell his cologne and hear his breathing; and his senses started to open up for what was in store. He closed his eyes slightly as he lifted the shirt up over Mike's head and tossed it to the floor. When he was done, he backed away from him.

Rather than speaking, Mike motioned for Micky to continue his undressing. As he did, Mike considered how he would proceed. He wouldn't be able to fondle him much as he would've liked, with his hand in the cast. He was getting better at doing things left-handed; but he still felt awkward, and he didn't want to let any kind of weakness show tonight. He decided that he would give Micky a lesson on how to please him instead. When the younger man kicked off his shorts, Mike smugly noted how stiff his cock already was. He then glanced down at his own jeans, silently commanding Micky to take them off for him.

Micky approached him and then crouched down slightly so that he could better see what he was doing. He noticed Mike's breathing becoming heavier as he fumbled nervously with his fly. His own heart pounded as he gently tugged at the garment, pulling it down past Mike's hips and to his ankles. He hoped that Mike would finish the task himself, but all he did was lift one leg and then the other so that Micky could pull the jeans off the rest of the way. His face was close to his crotch now, and Micky could see through Mike's shorts how hard he was. He glanced up at him as he removed the last of his clothing, and then slowly started to rise.

"Stay there," Mike said. When Micky looked up at him again, Mike thought he would come right then and there. Having him in this position was a dream come true. "Have you ever sucked cock before?" he asked, his voice husky with anticipation.

He maintained eye contact with him. "You know I haven't."

"Then it's about time you learned how," Mike said as he sat on the edge of the bed, his cock standing at attention.

Micky knelt down, his face inches away from Mike's swollen member. He unconsciously licked his lips as he stared at it, wondering how he should start. He could feel Mike looking at him, waiting for him to do something. Finally, he took a gentle hold of it and began stroking it slowly. For a brief moment he thought of the first and only time he'd had his hand on Mike's cock – that night under the deck. He had done a pretty good job of pleasing him then, but he knew that a hand job wasn't what Mike wanted from him now.

He glanced up at him again before lowering his head. His hand was still on the shaft as he opened his mouth slightly and touched his tongue to the head. He heard Mike sigh as he slowly took it into his mouth and rolled his tongue over it. To Micky's surprise, it felt strangely natural; and instead of concentrating and thinking too much about what he was doing, he simply let his intuition guide him. He felt Mike shift his position, and looked up to see that he was now leaning back on his elbows.

Mike gave him the slightest hint of a smile, encouraging him to continue with his learning exercise. When Micky again lowered his head and bravely tackled the rest of his cock, Mike couldn't help but moan. He closed his eyes tightly, willing himself to maintain his composure. He didn't want to relinquish control of the situation by letting Micky know what a great job he was doing. Mike wondered if this was another dream; if he would wake up yet again to nothing but harsh reality. He ventured to place his hand where Micky's head should be, and was gratified to encounter the thick curls he had expected to find there. He entwined his fingers in the unruly mass and gently pushed him down.

Micky tried to relax as Mike began thrusting his hips upward, fucking his mouth. As soon as he thought he had gotten the hang of it, Mike's movements slowed and he let out a series of unmistakable grunts. A split second later, Micky's mouth was filled with his juices. After what seemed like an eternity, Mike untangled his fingers from his hair; and he was able to come up for air. Micky looked up at him, wanting to ask him how he had done; but that somehow seemed too submissive. Instead, he sat back on his heels and waited for him to recover.

"Satisfied?" he asked when Mike finally sat up.

"Not bad, for a beginner," he answered dryly as he glanced down at Micky's swollen cock. He smiled inwardly, knowing how much he must want some attention of his own now.

He couldn't fuck him just yet, much as he wanted to. He thought of making Micky jerk off while he watched, but he didn't want to humiliate him. Besides, that would be a waste of a perfectly good hard on. He stood, as did Micky; and the two of them looked at each other silently. Mike softened his expression slightly before putting his arms around him and kissing him. It wasn't a tender kiss, but rather a lustful kiss that let Micky know he wasn't done with him yet. He turned him around so that his back was toward the bed, and then pushed him down.

"Lie down," he said.

Micky dizzily complied, hoping that Mike would give him some kind of relief soon. He thought perhaps that he would go down on him; but instead, he sat on the bed and leaned over him. Micky closed his eyes as Mike pushed the curls back from his face and kissed him again. He heard the drawer of the bedside table opening, but didn't comprehend the meaning until Mike suddenly broke off the kiss and straddled him. Micky opened his eyes and in Mike's hand he saw a familiar bottle.

"Mike, what are you—?" He stopped when he felt the baby oil being spread over his cock. The contact alone was enough to send him through the ceiling; but then he understood the implications of what Mike was doing.

Mike continued wordlessly with his task. If this wasn't enough to make Micky want to stay with him, nothing would be. Besides, it had been a long time since he'd been fucked, and he couldn't think of anyone he'd rather take it from than Micky. He tossed the bottle aside and adjusted his position; then, looking into his eyes, lowered himself onto him. The sensation was exquisite.

Micky took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He had never felt anything so tight, and when Mike began making slow and purposeful movements, it was all Micky could do not to scream. He forced his eyes open and looked at him. His face was flushed, his soft brown eyes were glazed, and the slightest sheen of perspiration glistened on his skin. Micky's gaze trailed from his face down past his chest to where their bodies met. With each movement, he saw the muscles of Mike's strong thighs tensing and relaxing, and felt his semi-rigid member against his belly.

Mike leaned forward and kissed him hard as he continued with his steady pace. His wakening cock was sandwiched between them, and the friction soon brought it fully back to life. He moaned into Micky's mouth before lightly nibbling his way down his neck and to his chest. He knew from the sounds Micky was starting to make that he was close to coming, and he didn't want to be left out. Quickly sitting back up, he took Micky's hand and placed it on his own throbbing cock. He smiled when he wrapped his fingers around the shaft and began stroking it hard and fast. They matched each other's rhythms and just as Mike felt his release, he heard Micky's cry.

After a moment, Mike separated from him and got dressed. He walked out of the room without saying a word; and left Micky to contemplate their future.

* * *

Micky sat on a hard wooden chair, nervously bouncing his legs, and folding and unfolding the paper he had been told to give to the doctor. He glanced around at the other young men who waited to be called for their physicals, and it was like looking in a mirror. They all had long hair, they all wore similar clothing, and they all had the same expression of dread on their faces. Some of them were talking to each other, but Micky didn't feel like striking up a conversation with anybody; he was too busy talking internally with himself.

The whole situation with Mike had become more complex than it ever should have been. There was no doubt that they were physically compatible, but there was more to it than just sexual satisfaction. The two of them were now engaged in a mental and emotional battle for which Micky hadn't been prepared. But it wasn't only Mike that he was fighting; it was his own inner demons. At first, the prospect of anyone knowing about them was more frightening to him than going off to war; but after last night, he wasn't sure if he really cared what anyone else thought.

"George Dolenz," a voice called, jarring him out of his thoughts.

Micky didn't realize right away that he was the one being called; he was so unused to being addressed by his proper name. He blinked a few times and stood up slowly. It was like being in a horror movie; dozens of people watching him as he walked the seemingly endless corridor to the small room where the doctor would examine him. He clutched at the paper in his hand and his heart felt like it would fly out of his chest, it was pounding so hard. The man led him inside, and when he closed the door behind them, it felt to Micky as if the lid of his coffin was closing.

* * *

Mike paced anxiously around the living room, waiting for Micky to return. He checked his watch for the hundredth time and ran his hand through his hair. When he let it drop back down, he grazed the lamp that was on the table next to him. He was unable to stop it from falling; and when it hit the floor, its porcelain base shattered. He glanced quickly toward Peter's bedroom, thankful that he was such a sound sleeper.

He looked down at the broken pieces, which seemed like a metaphor of his life right now. God, he wished he knew what Micky was telling the draft board. He hadn't seen him before he left that morning, and they hadn't talked at all after their activity the night before. Mike absently kicked at the remains of the lamp and wondered if he had really done all he could to convince Micky to stay.

There was one thing he could have done, but it was too late now. How could he expect Micky to find the courage to face his inner fears when Mike couldn't even find the courage to say three words? His mind raced with what-if's, and he began to feel like a caged animal. He was about to leave his mess and go for a walk on the beach when he heard the front door opening.

Micky walked in; his expression blank, giving no indication of what had happened at his meeting. He closed the door and turned to Mike, but didn't say anything. Instead, the two of them just stood and looked at each other.

"What happened?" Mike finally asked.

Micky walked over to him. "They rejected me," he answered simply.

Mike's heart jumped and he smiled broadly. "I knew you could do it!" he said, grabbing Micky and pulling him into a bear hug.

He didn't return the embrace. "Mike..."

"I was nervous as a first-time father," he continued, letting him go and resuming his pacing. "You really had me worried for a while—"

"Mike," he said again, interrupting his elated rambling. He looked at him guiltily. "I didn't tell them."

The smile disappeared from his face. "What are you talking about?" he asked, confused.

"I didn't have to," Micky said quietly. "I... failed my physical."

Mike felt as if someone had punched him in the stomach. The images he'd had in his head of the two of them living happily ever after vanished in a wave of concern. He stared at him, looking for signs of whatever had caused his rejection by the draft board.

"Just what's wrong with you?" he asked, his voice catching slightly in his throat.

He looked down at himself and then back to Mike. "I'm too skinny," he said with a chuckle.

"That's it? You're too fucking skinny?"

Micky failed to notice that he wasn't laughing. "Yeah," he nodded. "So it turns out all that worry was for nothing."

Mike's relief that Micky was alright was immediately pushed aside by his aggravation. "Nothing?" he asked. "What if you hadn't failed? What would you have told them?"

"What?"

"What would you have told them?" he asked again, raising his voice and punctuating each word.

Micky took a few steps away from him and rubbed at the back of his neck. It was a question he had asked himself a hundred times since he left the draft office, but he still didn't have an answer. "I don't know," he finally said.

Mike followed him and turned him back around. "Yes you do. Tell me."

"Mike..."

"Tell me, dammit!"

"What difference does it make what I would have told them?" he asked, frustrated that they had returned to that familiar argument. "It doesn't matter now," he said flatly.

He looked at him, incredulous. "So what happens now with you and me?"

Micky had been so relieved that he didn't have to reveal their secret that he hadn't thought about their future together. He looked at Mike blankly, unable to give him an answer.

"Because I'll tell you, Mick," he continued, "if you can't come clean about us, then there is no more us."

He couldn't believe that Mike was giving him an ultimatum. What they had was fine just the way it was, and he couldn't understand his insistence on going public. "Why can't we keep our private life to ourselves?" he asked, exasperated.

Mike smiled wryly. "It's not private anymore; my lovely ex has seen to that."

"But that's not why I was rejected," Micky quickly replied, as if practicing for when he'd have to start explaining himself to their friends.

"You think that'll make a difference? People are gonna believe what they want to believe." He stood in front of him and placed his hand on his cheek. "Besides, I don't wanna keep quiet about it anymore," he said, his voice softening. "I can't pretend that you're nothing more to me than a friend. I can't look at you without wanting to haul you upstairs and make love to you. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

Without waiting for a reply, Mike leaned in and kissed him tenderly; but instead of letting himself be caught up in the moment, he forced himself to stay focused. He wanted to remember every last detail of how Micky felt, tasted and smelled. He needed to create an indelible memory of him; for if Micky didn't respond the way he hoped, that's all Mike would have left.

The kiss ended and Mike lightly embraced him, resting his head on his shoulder. He took a deep breath and summoned his own courage. "I love you," he whispered.

Micky didn't realized how much he'd wanted to hear those words until Mike actually said them. He felt an almost physical pain as his heart battled his head over his reply. He closed his eyes and sighed as he held him closer, and his fears about what lay ahead of them faded. It would be naïve to think that life with Mike would be utter bliss; but the prospect of life without him was almost unbearable. They parted, and Micky looked into his eyes.

"I love you, too."