Word Count: 4873
Summary: A story about love, meetings and making things work.
Notes: Written for Sundrenched Days and Starlit Nights. The Pete/Mikey happyfic challenge
When I first saw MCR and Black Cards were playing in Scotland on the same night I knew I wanted to write about that time. Also, to write about Mikey and Pete eating a battered Mars Bar. So I did, and then worried about Pete or Mikey Jossing me all the while. Instead they did the exact opposite ♥
Thanks go to themoononastick who went above and beyond with an excellent and fast beta. Any remaining mistakes are mine and mine alone.
Prompt: I look at my emotions the same way that I look at musical mistakes. Trying to get rid of them or control them can seem an impossible task. Learn to recognize and understand what they have to tell you. Only then can you effectively work with and use your emotions
Scotland’s cold, and wet, and frankly, Pete’s miserable. He jams his hands further into his pockets, fingers buried in a mess of used tissues. Some of them are damp and if he weren’t so tired he’d be disgusted. As it is, all he does is curl his hands into fists and press himself further against the wall, sheltering under the overhanging roof.
If he’d had been sensible he’d have arranged to meet at the venue, but he’s in no mood for huge crowds and explanations. Plus, this secret meeting between the two cities had appealed to his sense of adventure. But that was before, when he wasn’t hours out from a post-show high, his head throbbing and feeling alone.
Pete pulls his phone out from the mess of tissues and wipes his thumb over the smear of snot on the screen. It’s been at least a minute since he last checked, and there are still no new messages. Which is unacceptable, and Pete’s about to send a text of his own when he hears the sound of an engine.
Pete grins. There’s a chance that it’s not actually Mikey in the car that’s pulling into the parking lot, but Pete knows that it is -- it has to be.
It’s still drizzling and Pete keeps his head bowed, rain misting the surface of his hoodie and puddles gleaming dark under his feet as he impatiently waits. He springs forward when the car pulls to a stop, the back door opening and Mikey stepping outside.
He looks worn at the edges, like he’s simply stepped off stage and straight into the car, and then dried off on the journey. All Pete wants to do is get close, tangle his fingers in the mess of Mikey’s hair and kiss away the layer of stale sweat and performance dirt.
But not here, in a parking lot in some town Pete can’t even remember the name of anymore. Here all Pete does is pull Mikey into a hug, holding on as long as possible and drinking him in as they fit effortlessly together, like the last months have been mere hours.
Mikey steps back, looking Pete up and down. “You look like shit.”
“I feel it,” Pete admits, and looks over his shoulder at his driver, who’s reading a newspaper while sitting waiting in Pete’s car. “If you’re hungry Gordon told me there’s a good chippie close by.”
“And a chippie is?” Mikey asks, and he’s just that bit too close for where they’re currently standing. Pete sniffs and pulls out a handful of tissues, blotting at his nose. “ A fish shop, they sell fries, and battered Mars Bars.”
“Sounds fucking disgusting,” Mikey says, and then adds. “I’m in.”
Pete’s smile widens and he deliberately brushes his fingers against Mikey’s before walking over to Gordon, who’s lowering the car window. “I’m going to go with Mikey, tell Bebe I’ll see her tomorrow.”
Gordon nods, and sets his newspaper down on the passenger seat. He looks up at Pete. “If you go to the Silver Grid tell them you want extra batter, it makes all the difference.”
“I will,” Pete says, and goes back to Mikey, who, despite the hoodie he’s wearing, is shivering, droplets of rain glistening in his hair. Pete reaches up and tucks a damp strand behind Mikey’s ear, says, “I like it. It’s like sunshine.”
Mikey’s mouth curls up at the side. “I look like mom.”
“Donna’s a very beautiful woman,” Pete says, enjoying how Mikey rolls his eyes in response.
“Flatterer.” Mikey’s eyes are bright and while he’s not out and out smiling the possibility is there, like happiness is pressing close, ready to spill free. It’s something Pete loves to see and his hands itch with the urge to touch.
Pete shoves his hands back in his pockets, says, “We should go eat.”
“A battered Mars Bar?” Mikey asks.
Pete grins. “Call me the last of the big spenders.”
The chippie turns out to be a small shop on the main shopping street. It’s nestled between what looks like a thrift store and some kind of grocers, both with their shutters pulled down, graffiti scrawled across the metal grills. Between them the fish shop looks like an oasis of life, lit up bright, the windows big and cluttered with neon colored cardboard stars, each one listing some kind of special.
Pete shuffles along the back seat of the car and rests his hands against the door, his breath misting the glass as he peers at those stars, reading each one.
“Would you still kiss me if I ordered garlic sauce and chips?”
“I’d think about it,” Mikey says, and Pete doesn’t even have to look at him to know Mikey’s smiling. Shifting focus, Pete looks at Mikey’s reflection in the glass, and moves his finger so they’re pressed over the curve of a reflected smile.
“I have to have the battered Mars Bar,” Pete says, assessing the area around them. This late the shop is empty apart from a woman behind the counter while the street itself is deserted. Still, Pete has to consider the risks of being recognised. Not that that’s an issue in itself, just, tonight is for Mikey and Pete only.
Mikey leans in close, his hair brushing against Pete’s cheek as he says, “I don’t think she’s a threat, we could take her.”
“I don’t know, she looks tough,” Pete says, and pushes back the urge to protect what’s his, even when they don’t actually need that protection. He opens the door, says to the driver. “You want anything?”
“Nothing, thanks. “The driver shakes his head and looks at Mikey in the mirror. “Want me to come?”
“Not this time,” Mikey says, and follows Pete outside.
Immediately Pete hunches inside of his hoodie, wishing he’d taken Bebe’s advice and actually worn a coat. Sniffing, he checks Mikey is behind him and then enters the shop, getting hit by a wave of grease scented heat.
The woman behind the counter looks tired, but she smiles, says, “You just caught me before closing, what can I get you boys?”
Mikey’s staring up at the menu, his eyes narrowed and hair falling forward into his face. Apart from the hoodie he’s burrowed inside he’s still wearing his stage clothes, and the contrast between his blond hair, tight pants and black boots against the insipid pale blue walls and floor is shocking.
Pete steps closer to him, says, “Want to share?”
“Sure,” Mikey says, and looks through the glass into the warmers where some battered somethings are lying. Pete’s not actually sure what they are, and he tries to make sense of the shapes as Mikey orders. “Battered Mars Bar and fries, please.”
“With extra batter,” Pete says, remembering Gordon’s advice.
“You’re lucky, we’ve one left,” the woman says, and scoops fries from under the warmer, dropping them onto a sheet of white paper. When they’re piled up she swaps to tongs, and plucks a misshapen, battered lump from the warmer, setting it on top of the fries. “Salt and vinegar?”
Pete considers, the battered Mars Bar sounds gross enough, adding vinegar would be an extra level of wrong. Which of course means they need to get it. He glances at Mikey and then says, “Please.”
The woman shakes on salt and vinegar and then efficiently wraps paper around the food until it’s a neat package which she sets on the counter. “That’s £4.”
Before Mikey has a chance, Pete pulls out his own wallet. Looking inside he takes out a five pound note and hands it over, says, “Keep the change.”
For a moment the woman seems thrown, then says, “I’ll put it in the charity box.”
Which is fine by Pete, and he picks up the warm parcel, keeping it cradled against his chest, enjoying the heat when it travels through his layers of clothes. Something that’s even more welcome as they go outside, back into the cold and damp.
Immediately, Pete sneezes, and Mikey starts to head back to the car which is parked on the other side of the road.
“You need to get out of the cold.”
Pete shakes his head. It’s been too long since he’s been alone with Mikey, and maybe this meeting isn’t exactly what he pictured, but he’s not about to give up relative privacy for sitting in the back seat of the car, even if it would be warmer. He looks around, and sees a bench close by.
It’s positioned under a street lamp, and the bench glistens damply in the pool of white light. Pete touches Mikey’s wrist, says, “Eat first.”
Mikey doesn’t ask if Pete’s sure, just changes direction slightly and swipes his arm over the bench, drying it the best that he can. He sits, knees together and feet splayed, chin tucked down into the neck of his hoodie and the overhead light brightens his hair even further while casting shadows that deepen the sockets of his eyes.
Pete clutches the parcel and takes a moment to just look, memorising this version of Mikey to add to the others he holds close.
Mikey looks up at Pete, his mouth curled into a small smile. “You’re staring.”
“And you’re beautiful,” Pete says, the simple statement meaning as much as any complex lyric.
Before, Mikey would have brushed off the compliment or made some kind of joke. Tonight he just looks right back at Pete, still smiling as he says, “Come sit.”
Pete does, enough that they’re touching down one side. It’s all the contact he dares have out in public and he’s hyper aware of the brush of Mikey’s hand, the way his thigh feels warm against Pete’s.
Pete wants to turn his head and snatch a kiss, but he busies himself opening the paper parcel on his lap, exposing the fries and batter. Blinking against the vinegary steam, he picks up a fry and, despite the heat, chews then swallows, enjoying the combination of salt, vinegar and fried potato.
Mikey’s eating too.His eyes gleaming as he picks up fries one by one and blows away the steam before taking a bite. Pete wants to taste the salt on Mikey’s mouth, to run his tongue over the grease that’s turned Mikey’s lips shiny.
Abruptly, Pete picks up the battered Mars Bar and breaks it in half, both repulsed and wanting as he watches caramel and melted chocolate ooze over the batter.
“That looks disgusting,” Mikey says, and prods at a torn end, making more caramel ooze free. He swipes his finger through the mess, catching up batter, chocolate and caramel and sucks it all into his mouth. “Tastes okay though.”
Not to be outdone, Pete swipes up his own finger-full of chocolate/batter/caramel mess and puts it into his mouth. Surprisingly, it does taste okay, and Pete is tempted to eat more, maybe risk an actual solid bite, when he sees that Mikey’s sucking his fingers again, Pete catching glimpses of Mikey’s tongue as he licks them clean.
Heart racing, Pete can’t look away. He knows Mikey isn’t doing it as some kind of show, but that knowledge only makes things hotter. This isn’t the Mikey from magazines, air brushed and made flawless. This is Mikey, Pete’s Mikey who unselfconsciously sucks at his own fingers, who doesn’t smell the best and has pants that are filthy at the knees.
Giving into impulse, Pete looks around, ensuring they’re still alone before pressing a kiss against Mikey’s mouth. He tastes like chocolate and salt, the faintest hint of mint from the gum he’ll have been chewing.
Pete feels himself relax, their late dinner forgotten as he pulls back slightly and runs his thumb over the corner of Mikey’s mouth, catching up grains of salt.
“Not the best of places,” Mikey says, but he’s not moving away, just bundles up the fries and Mars Bar, the paper crumpling in his hands. “Come back with me?”
Of course, Pete says yes.
His sinuses ache and his eyes feel gritty. Pete rests his head against Mikey’s shoulder, watching as he sends a text, the screen of his phone tilted so Pete can see.
“It feels like I’ve spent half of my life at truck stops,” Pete says, and then adds, “Tell Gerard I said hi.”
Mikey’s fingers are blurs as he types and Pete pushes himself up on one hip, pulling out his own phone. He types out a text and pushes send, closes his eyes as Mikey’s phone announces a new message.
Mikey laughs, sudden and loud against the quiet drone of the road. He rests his head against Pete’s, says, “You know I’m right here.”
“I know,” Pete says, listening to Mikey breathe. “I always know where you are.”
My Chem’s bus is parked at the far side of a truck stop, huge and white, each window lit up. Pete rubs at his eyes and sneezes, hesitating as Mikey starts to open the door of the car.
“What if I get you sick? Or Gerard.”
“I’ll take the risk,” Mikey says, stepping outside. “And just don’t swap bodily fluids with Gerard.”
Pete worms his way along the seat, following Mikey outside. “Spoilsport.”
“It’s my life’s work to make you miserable,” Mikey says, and bends, looking in through the open driver’s window. “Thanks for the ride.”
“No worries, mate.” The driver turns in his seat so he can watch Mikey and Pete. “I’ll stay here until you’re inside.”
Mikey flashes a smile and then pushes Pete forward. “Come on, I’m freezing my balls off out here.”
Pete needs no persuading. In the last hour the temperature seems to have dropped even further and his teeth are chattering as he waits for Mikey to input the code to the bus.
Finally, the door opens with a hiss of air, and Mikey turns, waving goodbye to his driver. Edging past him, Pete goes inside, and while he’s never been inside of this bus, it feels like a long known home. Despite only using it for days, clothes and magazines are spread across the table and couches, while Gerard is sitting hunched over his laptop, his smile so wide Pete feels instantly warmer.
“Pete, come and say hi to Bandit,” Gerard says, and turns his laptop so Pete can see Bandit and Lindsey.
“Hey trouble.” Pete waves toward the web cam and grins when Mikey comes to stand behind him and wraps his arms around Pete’s body, causing Bandit to jump in place, her flailing arms just missing Lindsey’s nose.
“You causing trouble, Miss Sunshine?” Mikey asks, and Pete can feel his smile when Bandit shakes her head.
“We’re listening to a story,” Gerard says, and Pete sees that Bandit’s wearing pink pajamas, a dinosaur plushie clutched in her arms.
Ray looks up from where he’s lounging on the couch, a magazine on his chest. “Lindsey tells good stories. You should listen.”
“Can’t,” Mikey says, and wraps his fingers around Pete’s wrist, holding on and tugging him toward the bunks. “Pete might kiss Gerard and kill him.”
Hearing Lindsey laugh, Pete looks toward the screen and shrugs. “He’s just that irresistible. I can’t help it.”
“I know the feeling,” Lindsey says, and while she’s talking to Pete she’s looking slightly off to the side, her attention on Gerard who looks a combination of wistful and content, elbows on the table and the ugly t-shirt that he’s been wearing constantly for weeks gaping open at both sides.
Feeling like he’s intruding on some private moment, Pete pulls out a handful of damp tissues and blows his nose, slowing when Ray waves his hand.
“Frank’s back there talking to Jamia, so try and keep it down.”
Mikey stops walking all together, says, “Who says we’re going to be noisy?”
“You’re always noisy,” Frank yells, and his head and shoulders appear from behind the curtain of his bunk. “Every damn time. We’ve been off tour for a long time, I need time to re-acclimatise to this shit, not going from zero to you making out over my head.”
“Sucks to be you,” Mikey says, and pushes his way past Frank to get to his bunk. Climbing inside, he folds forward and starts to untie his boots, his legs and feet hanging outside. Pete waits, leaning against Frank’s bunk.
Frank pulls back his curtain further, exposing the photos he’s got taped to the wall and ceiling. Seeing Pete looking, he reaches for his phone and thumbs through the gallery until he finds a picture which he shows to Pete. “Jamia just sent it. I think they’re smiling.”
To Pete it looks like the twins have got wind, but the memories of his own first months of being a new parent are still fresh and he nods, says, “They’ve got Jamia’s grin.”
“I know, right?” Frank’s grinning himself, pride radiating outwards and this should be awkward, Mikey shuffling around in his own bunk, getting undressed, Pete waiting to join him and talking to Frank. But it’s not at all. It feels comfortable and Pete takes out his own phone, showing a picture of Bronx wearing a mini Clandestine hoodie.
“I’m thinking of making it a full range.”
“You should send us some,” Frank says, shameless as always, and Pete makes a mental note to send some samples for the twins.
Mikey pulls in his legs and lies so his head and upper body are hanging over the edge of his bunk. “Show me the new picture.”
Frank takes hold of a handful of Mikey’s hair and tugs gently. “Nosy,” but he’s already scrolling through pictures again, and holds out his phone. “They look like they’ve grown.”
“They do,” Mikey says, studying the photo.
Pete kicks off his own shoes and shoves them out of the way, then, unable to resist, he runs his fingers over the nape of Mikey’s neck, over the baby fine hairs and soft skin. Then sneezes. Twice.
Mikey peers at Pete through the strands of his hair. “We’ve contaminated you.”
“You’ve contaminated me,” Pete corrects. “You’re deadly.”
Frank snorts and rolls out of his bunk, squeezing past Pete. “I’m out of here,” then winks at Mikey. “Have fun.”
Pete watches him go and then turns back to Mikey. For the first time he feel completely relaxed, with no need to censor words or action. “I’ve missed you.”
“Ditto,” Mikey says, and moves over in his bunk, half lying on his side. “Get in.”
“You’re getting bossy in your old age,” Pete says, but climbs inside, fitting himself next to Mikey. As always it’s a tight squeeze, the bunks barely having room for one person never mind two. But they’ve always made it work somehow, fitting together easily, face to face, Mikey’s arm and leg draped over Pete’s side. It’s something that makes Pete feel safe, grounded, and he feels sleep heavy, the chill that seems to have settled bone deep easing at last.
“You sounded good tonight,” Mikey says, and moves his arm so he can burrow his hand under Pete’s hoodie and t-shirt, finally touching bare skin. He moves his thumb, following the line of Pete’s tattoo. “Bebe’s amazing.”
Pete moves his head so he can tuck his face against Mikey’s shoulder, unsurprised that somehow he’s already seen video of the show. “She’s brilliant.”
Mikey keeps moving his thumb, says softly, “How’s Patrick?”
“He’s good.” Pete thinks about Patrick’s last call, how enthused he sounded as he talked about things and people Pete hadn’t seen. “His stuff’s going to blow people away.”
“Probably.” Mikey moves his hand, his fingers cupping Pete’s hipbone. “I prefer something more lyrical.”
“You don’t have to choose,” Pete says, eyes open but unfocused, the nearness of Mikey helping fill the emptiness that remains conjoined with Patrick’s name. “His music’s great, Andy and Joe’s too.”
Mikey shrugs, says, “I know. My opinion stands.”
And Pete’s glad that it does. As much as he tells himself that the hiatus was needed and he wasn’t really left behind, Pete needs someone who’ll be on his side always. “I thought about going to see them.”
“And?” Mikey prompts, when Pete trails off.
“And I’m not going. The show’s about The Damned Things, not me.”
“You could have hidden back stage.” Mikey shifts and raises his knee, his hands moving to Pete’s belt buckle which he starts to unfasten. “No one would see.”
“I would.” Pete sniffs and closes his eyes, giving himself up to the feel of Mikey’s hand as he slides it down the front of Pete’s pants. “They have to do it alone.”
“Their loss,” Mikey says, the end of Pete’s words engulfed in a kiss.
Pete brings up his arm, his hand against Mikey’s back. Mikey’s taken off his hoodie but is still wearing the t-shirt that’s he’s been wearing for days now. It feels rough under Pete’s grip and he pushes it up so material is bunched under Mikey’s arms and across his shoulder blades. Then gasps at the feel of Mikey’s fingers around his dick and his tongue in Pete’s mouth.
Pete touches his own tongue against Mikey’s and moves his hips the slightest amount, skin dragging against skin as Pete tries to breathe through his nose. Which is impossible, and Pete pulls back, his mouth open and brushing against Mikey’s “I can’t breathe.”
“And you say I’m difficult,” Mikey says, and brushes a kiss against the tip of Pete’s nose. “Stay still.”
Pete does, watching as Mikey inches down to the end of the bunk, body folded and straddling Pete’s legs. In this position Mikey’s t-shirt is hanging down, the scooped neckline exposing his chest and stomach, his necklace a swaying dark line against the pale of his skin.
At Mikey’s urging, Pete pushes up his hips, allowing Mikey to pull down his pants to mid-thigh. It effectively traps Pete in one position, his legs bound by denim and hands fisted in the covers, their breathing loud in this dim space, like at this this moment they’re the only two people alive.
Pete wants, craving to be touched, and he presses his hand over his mouth, breathing wetly through his fingers as Mikey fits his hands over Pete’s hips, his thumbs over the tips of the bart skull and Pete’s shaking, his thighs trembling as he looks down his own body. His hoodie and t-shirt rucked up and pants pulled down, the dark patch of his pubic hair and then up, to where Mikey’s bent forward, his mouth slightly open and lips nestled against the head of Pete’s dick. It’s the most gentle of touches, more an indication of intent than any pressure, and that intent is driving Pete crazy. Mikey slides his tongue over the slit, yet another barely there touch, and Pete whines, suddenly too hot as heat rolls over his body, sliding over his spine and radiating out, intensified with each slow slide of Mikey’s tongue.
Pete cranes his neck, transfixed by the sight of Mikey sucking his own fingers into his mouth again, and this time it is a performance. Lips pursed and his eye lashes spiked against his cheeks Mikey looks down, and pull out his fingers, slowly, saliva stringing out then snapping as he drops his hand down between Pete’s legs.
Pete’s heart is thundering, his teeth digging into the heel of his hand as Mikey takes a moment to caress Pete’s balls, and then moves further back, Pete trying to spread his legs to give better access as Mikey slides his finger inside.
He doesn’t go in far, just enough that Pete craves more, trying to move his hips, something Mikey doesn’t allow. He’s keeping Pete still with one hand splayed out on Pete’s stomach, which, in combination with his finger and mouth, is driving Pete insane.
It feels like he’s going to explode with sheer want, pressure building up with nowhere to go and Pete’s prepared to beg, to do anything, when finally, Mikey moves, taking Pete in, Pete’s dick hitting the back of Mikey’s throat. It’s wet heat combined with pressure as Mikey pushes further inside, fingers crooked and knowing exactly what Pete can take -- going from nothing to everything within a heart beat.
Which is exactly what Pete needs. To not think and just feel, and he’s fucking himself on Mikey’s fingers, gasping when one turns into two at exactly the right time. Their rhythms meshing like always, Mikey sucking and working his tongue over Pete’s dick, while Pete thrusts as best as he can, wanting more and deeper and they’re pushing the pace until Pete can feel sweat at the nape of his neck and in the crease of his groin, has his hand jammed over his mouth and eyes tightly closed.
“Mikey,” Pete warns, knowing he’s close. But Mikey doesn’t slow, just keeps pushing the pace and Pete’s grasping for purchase in the messy covers, holding on as his whole body tightens, pulled taut and played by Mikey’s expert hands. His touch sure as he builds to a crescendo, one where all Pete can do is follow along and try to remain quiet. Until he can’t do that at all, his gasp strangled and teeth digging into his hand as the pressure banked up inside him shatters and spills.
It feels like minutes later that Pete’s stumbling through the bus, still half asleep and so tired that all he wants to do is crawl back into Mikey’s bunk. But he can’t. My Chem are leaving the country and Pete needs to get back to Bebe, and leave Mikey once again.
Scrubbing at his eyes with his hands, he leans against the kitchenette counter and debates the effort of looking for pain pills, tissues and a cup for some water, but it all seems like too much effort. Instead he pulls out his phone, checking the time.
“Planning on running away?”
Mikey’s wrapped in his quilt, his hair standing up on one side and cheek sleep-creased. His feet and legs are bare and when he comes close and lifts his arm, sharing the quilt with Pete, Pete sees that he’s still wearing his t-shirt and boxers, his pants probably still crumpled at the base of his bunk.
Pete snuggles into the warmth of Mikey’s body. He rests his cheek against Mikey’s, feeling the slightest rasp of stubble that catches with Pete’s as he turns his head and gives Mikey a brief kiss. “I need to go.”
“I know,” Mikey says, and they stand still, hands together and taking these last moments as the bus pulls into yet another truck stop. It’s so early that the parking lot is almost empty, only a few early risers cradling cups of coffee that leave trails of steam as they walk from the main building, where only the coffee shop seems to be open.
There’s a car parked close to the entrance, and Pete’s sure it’s his ride. Gordon there to pick him up and take him away. For a moment Pete wants to hide under the quilt with Mikey and pretend he can’t see the car. But the facts are, Pete won’t. He likes his life now, his new band, his family, and along with that, he has Mikey.
There’s only one thing Pete needs now, and he says, “We need a picture.”
“We do,” Mikey says, and looks down, curling his toes against the floor. “I should put on some pants, “ and then, “Oh fuck it, they won’t care.”
Pete grins and reaches out his arm, taking a photo of them both with his phone. Then turns it around, looking at the picture. Pete’s nose is bright red and they both look more asleep than awake, the quilt bundled over their shoulders, but they’re also both smiling, the kinds of smiles that Pete knows are for real.
“Send a copy to me, and Alicia, she’ll want to see,” Mikey says, and reaches behind him into one of the cupboards, taking out a handful of napkins which he hands over to Pete. “You’re dripping.”
“Thanks,” Pete says, and blows his nose, handing the used napkin to Mikey. “I should go.”
First though, Pete files the picture he’s just taken, scrolling through his galleries until he finds the one that he needs. It’s the one that’s devoted to Mikey and their meetings, the photos showing multiple looks and locations, representing a relationship that’s lasted for years.
“Done?” Mikey asks, and at Pete’s nod he pulls Pete into a tight hug, holding him close before finally, letting him go. “Germany, yeah?”
“Yeah,” Pete says, their next meeting already noted and scheduled. He takes a step back, as always, in these moments, reluctant to go. “I’ll be able to stay longer then.”
“Good.” Quilt clutched tightly around him, Mikey follows Pete to the door and down to the bottom step of the bus. Stands there and watches as Pete heads for his car.
He looks back once, sees Mikey standing in place, pigeon-toed, the quilt flapping against his legs and exposing a bruised knee. Also, Mikey mouthing ‘love you’. Pete brings up his hands and forms a heart in reply.
Tags: my stories:bandom