This fic is NOT MINE. Originally by Notatracer on AO3

Two Parts

Rating: R

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{part one}

Mike's hand shook as he brought the cigarette up to his lips. He usually only smoked when he was high. Tonight was no exception. In fact, high didn't even begin to cover the state he was in. He already knew it was a bad idea to have smoked so much weed during their nearly non-existent lunch break after he'd been popping Ritalin all day. He didn't need to do anything else. In fact, he actually said, "Man, I don't need to do nothin' else" when the makeshift bong they'd been passing around had made its way back to him for the umpteenth time.

But, after they'd wrapped for the night, Bob had steered him to the production office and insisted they do a line together. He had already learned the hard way that you really don't say no to Bob when he insisted upon you. Half a line turned into three before he was rubbing violently at his burning nose, eyes clenched tight, face growing numb. Bob laughed and slapped him on the back before finally letting him go.

So, Mike found himself leaning against the outer wall of the office, feeling like he'd just run a marathon and was ready to run a dozen more.

He was going to hate himself tomorrow. He hated himself now.

He blew out a large puff of smoke as he watched the crew scurry across the multi-colored set, breaking down c-stands and gathering up scrims ... or whatever those things were called. Micky would know.

He really needed to find Micky.

As luck would have it, it was then that a movement in the shadows caught his eye. He stamped out the rest of his cigarette and took a deep breath, willing himself to walk straight.

Far off to the side of the set, Micky sat on an apple box, rocking back and forth. His fingers drummed against his thighs, head bobbing to the music only he could hear. Every impulse in Mike's body urged him to push Micky off the box and pin him to the floor before he knew what was happening. He shook his head, trying to dislodge the images that were creeping in.

He leaned down, intending to whisper absolute filth, but instead he pecked a quick kiss on that sweet little ear. When Micky's extremely delayed reaction finally happened, a smile lit up his face the moment he recognized Mike.

Mike hooked his hand under Micky's elbow, hoping he wouldn't need too much support walking because he was hardly steady on his feet himself.

"C'mon, Mick. They got a car waiting for us."

Micky wobbled as he stood.

"Where's Davy and ... um ...?"

"They already split."

"Oh."

"I thought you'd gone with them. Almost left without you."

"I thought I'd gone too."

He expected Micky to giggle, but his confused sincerity made Mike frown. He rested his hand on the crook of Micky's neck, fingers rubbing gently across the skin peeking out from the striped shirt.

Micky leaned into Mike's touch, tilting his head slightly to look at him with eyes that seemed as if they were made entirely of pupil. His lost expression morphed into contentment as he was guided out into the windy Chicago night.

They sat in silence, their bodies pressed close, as they rode in the back of the hired car. Micky's head rested on Mike's shoulder, his fidgeting fingers picking at the golden threads of his poncho being the only indication that he wasn't asleep. Mike adjusted himself as subtly as possible.

He reckoned he wasn't subtle enough because Micky's hand soon dropped onto his lap, fingers still just as busy. He let out a breath, trying to force himself to make Micky stop. Instead, he hoped the driver wouldn't notice but honestly not caring if he did.

The walk from the car up to the hotel room was blur of Mike hoping that nobody would so much as look at them and wishing that Micky would quit touching every new texture they passed.

It wasn't until they'd made it to the room that Mike realized Micky had a flower stuck in his tangle of hair. As he reached out to pluck it, Micky lunged forward - their mouths missing more than hitting.

Almost as quickly, Micky withdrew.

Mike watched him carefully as he stumbled out of his shoes and pants, hoping his reflexes would be fast enough if Micky took a tumble. Thankfully, he plopped down onto the mattress in one piece, albeit an only half-naked piece. He bounced twice on the bed before a grin spread across his face.

As Mike shucked off his own clothing as efficiently as the multitude of drugs would allow - which wasn't efficient at all considering he couldn't remember how buttons worked and got stuck in his own sleeve twice - he noticed Micky riffling around in the drawer of the nightstand until he pulled out a small pouch that Peter had given him. He thought about maybe asking if Micky hadn't dropped enough for one night, but he remembered the bloody tissue in his own pocket and decided against it. He's not exactly Mister Responsibility himself. Not really.

It could be said that it was one of these lapses of responsibility that led him to be buried in Micky's too-hot, still half-dressed, body mere moments later. This was by no means the first time and he was certain that this wouldn't be the last, but Mike really hoped that next time they'd be sailing at least a little less high.

Mike's mind raced with more simultaneous thoughts than he could sort. He was having a difficult time concentrating, thinking of everything and nothing. Mercifully, the cluster of bells that hung from Micky's neck had quickly shifted around so they only jingled with the more forceful thrusts. However, the heat that was absolutely radiating off of Micky's flushed body was not helping.

When a cool breeze from the blasting air conditioner broke through to chill some of the sweat that had formed between them, Mike sighed. Whose sweat it was, he wasn't quite sure, but he was grateful for the cold prickling across his skin.

An image from the night he watched Micky slide a purple popsicle up some chick's skirt flashed into his mind ... the taste of grape on his mouth later. Mike's efforts doubled at the memory, unconsciously pulling Micky's trembling, weak leg too high.

Mike squinted his eyes, trying to keep his busy mind from wandering too far. He was taking too long and he knew it. Think about how good Micky feels, those sounds he's making, his smell .... Oh, mercy, the way Micky smells. Usually lingering just under his cologne, but now permeating in full force. He inhaled deeply.

Micky gasped sharply when he finally registered the discomfort in his leg. His fingertips raked down Mike's neck and chest, the nails chewed too short to scratch, before they dug into his arms with a bruising grip.

When Mike was able to open his eyes again, he found Micky's head had lulled to the side. His entire body shook with the effort needed to stop moving, sweat rolled down the small of his back.

"Mick, you with me, babe? Micky!"

"Huh? Yeah ..... yeah. Mmh. Don't stop."

When Mike didn't move, Micky huffed, whispering something under his breath. He flopped his head forward, staring up in Mike's general direction with glassy, unfocused eyes.

"I'm here. Honest."

"What do you see?"

"Infinity. Nebulas of blue that sound like a sunset."

"Sounds - sounds like a sunset? Man, maybe we should st-"

"No! No, no. I feel you down in my every molecule. We're ... we're mingled. Subatomic. I love it. I love you."

Mike's already exerted heart skipped a beat. He smiled despite himself.

With the little bit of his brain that remained conscious, he prayed neither of them would remember this moment in the morning.

Micky's fingers were soon wrapped in his damp hair, tongue in his mouth, urging him to finish. Without any warning, Micky clenched tightly around him, causing him to let out a loud groan and jerk his hips involuntarily. It didn't take much longer before Mike came shuttering as he kissed just below Micky's ear.

He lay pressed against Micky's ridiculous tablecloth poncho, hoping he could catch his breath, but knowing he had too many uppers in his system to feel even remotely relaxed. Soon the warmth of Micky's body was too much to bear so he rolled off of him, onto the welcome cold touch of the sheets.

He reached for Micky, but his hand was swatted away with a, "Mmm ... later."

Mike didn't argue. Truthfully, he'd rather just be still for a moment while the sound of his own heartbeat seemed to fill the room. He wondered if Micky could hear it.

Maybe that's the sound sunsets make.

{part two}

Micky woke with a jerk.
Well, not technically woke since he wasn't asleep but he might as well have been.

How long had he been out?
It was still dark. That was something at least.

He smacked his lips.

Why did his mouth taste like cigarettes?
 Why was he so unbearably hot?
 Why was he sore and sticky, like he'd spent the night being roughly .... whoa! Why were there fish swimming across the ceiling?

Oh. Right.

He rubbed absently at his hip as bits and pieces of the night came to him in a technicolor haze.

He rolled onto his side, raking his eyes down the long body lying peacefully beside him. His fingers ran along Mike's back, momentarily leaving neon pink and green trails in their wake.

"You're alive," came a mumble from the pillow.

"Sorry. I didn't mean to wake you."

"S'alright. I wasn't asleep."

"Still high?"

"Yep."

Micky kissed his shoulder.

"Not the same though. I wish you were tripping with me. I've got a few tabs left if you want."

"Maybe next time."

"Right on. Christ, I'm burning up."

Micky struggled out of the remainder of his clothes, flinging them unceremoniously onto the floor. Soon he was sitting on the bed, clad in nothing except the beads and bells dangling from his neck. Mike's fingers lightly danced across his thigh.

Micky rummaged around in the nightstand until he found his stash tin. Despite the motion trails, he still managed to expertly pack his pipe. And, by some miracle, only singed his thumb with the lighter. He inhaled deeply before leaning down, gently brushing his nose against Mike's as he exhaled the smoke into his mouth. Micky's tongue soon followed. Deep, rapid.

Micky felt dizzy, the world around them swirling, as he clambered over Mike to straddle him. There's always that moment in an acid trip when he would regret going down the rabbit hole just because of how long it took to climb back out. As he kissed between Mike's shoulder blades, each kiss rippling reality like a raindrop in a puddle, he had one of those moments. He closed his eyes.

Soon Micky was jack-rabbiting his hips, blissfully unaware that he wasn't actually in, thinking he was accomplishing something every time Mike would grunt at the collisions against his tailbone. He jerked the annoying cluster of jingling bells from around his neck, tossing them across the room.

As Micky's entire body trembled uncontrollably, a single well aimed thrust just slightly breached. The momentary, incredibly tight sensation caused Micky to come instantly. Mike scrambled against the mattress, crying out "fuck!" at the unexpected entrance, but wishing it lasted longer. So much longer.

Micky, panting heavily, rested his forehead against Mike's back for several, long seconds before flopping off of him.

They lay in relative silence aside from Micky's occasional cough. Mike gingerly rolled himself off the wet spot, settling in close to Micky's side, trailing the back of his fingers along Micky's still slightly heaving chest.

Micky turned his head, relieved to find a disheveled Mike smiling at him. That sweet, secret smile reserved only for times he truly meant it. A smile that felt like sunshine when it was cast in your direction.

Micky brought Mike's hand up to his lips, kissing it, before setting it to rest on his stomach; their fingers intertwined.

Mike's voice was barely above a whisper as he said, "Man, we got to shower ... and move to the other bed."

"I'm hungry. Let's walk to that diner down the street. Nobody there this late'll bat an eye at us."

"Are you straight enough for me to take you? I don't want you freakin' out if the table starts melting."

"I'm cool. No melting tables here."

With a nervous laugh, Micky thought it best not to mention the silver butterflies fluttering near Mike's head.

"Ok, dig, let's get cleaned up and if you're still hungry, we'll go. I'm not sleeping no time soon anyhow."

"Mmm. I want sugar donuts."

"I don't think they're gonna have sugar donuts, Mick."

Micky shrugged.

"I really just want to spill powdered sugar on my dick and have you lick it off."

Mike let out a loud breath.

"I - I'm sure that could be arranged."

Micky half-grinned, his eyes getting heavy.

Most of Mike's fingers tightened against Micky's hand. His mouth opened, brow furrowed, looking as if he was composing all kinds of thoughts deep within his coke-addled brain. Micky couldn't help but feel nervous about whatever Mike was about to say.

Mike disentangled their fingers, bringing his hand up to gently caress Micky's cheek. He pressed their lips together, softly. Barely moving.

Mike pulled back just far enough so he could whisper, "Let's go wash the sticky off."

Micky nodded, "Oh ok, just gimme a minute."

He closed his eyes, head swimming, geometric shapes dancing behind his eyelids. The air conditioner was finally starting to break through his elevated temperature. He could feel breath against his neck, bangs tickling his cheek, as Mike's head came to rest on his shoulder. He could almost swear that Mike was whispering something against his skin, but he was slipping out of consciousness too quickly to catch the words.

The last thing he felt before falling into a deep sleep was Mike's arm wrapping around his waist, holding him tight. And, thinking, in half-formed sentences comprised mostly of colors, that he wished he could stay like this forever.