"Micky? What's the matter?"

But Micky couldn't speak, he felt like he was choking and he covered his mouth in a look of disgust. What had he done? He couldn't remember. Had he been so drunk that he'd actually…no, he couldn't have done. Peter was getting up now and he too was just in his underwear. For a moment he tried to stand and reach out to the drummer, but Micky merely bolted to the other side of the room.

"What did we do? What?" Micky felt a lump build up in his throat at the thought of what he may have done while he was out of it.

"Micky, calm down man, don't you remember?" Peter showed his hands calmly, trying to tell Micky that everything was alright.

"No I don't! Do you think I'd fucking ask if I remembered?" Micky was getting his hysterical. His head was hurting so much and the sight of Peter sitting there, almost as if he was waiting for him, made him feel even worse.

"Look. You got smashed, I brought you home, you were wet so I took off your clothes. You couldn't make it up the stairs so I brought you in here."

"You didn't have to join me did you?"

"I'm sorry, I must have been a little out of it too. We didn’t do anything Mick." Peter shrugged, almost as if the whole thing didn’t matter.

The blond sighed, running his hand through his hair before getting up and moving right in front of the trembling drummer.

"He's got you really worked up hasn't he?" Peter whispered, pulling Micky reluctantly into a hug. Peter could feel Micky tense against his own bare skin as well as the drummer's hot, frantic breath blowing against his neck.

Micky couldn't stop himself from trembling and he wished Peter would just leave him alone. He didn't need company, he didn't need sympathy, he just wanted to be left alone.

Just then Micky heard footsteps on the stairs and before he could move, the door opened.

"Oh, sorry, am I interrupting something?" Mike asked slowly, his dark, hateful eyes narrowing at Micky.

"Mike!" Micky shoved Peter away hard, "It's not what it looks like!"

But the Texan had already slammed the door again and Micky heard the front door slam too.

"Micky…I'm sorry man," Peter extended an arm but Micky merely swiped it away viciously before gathering up his clothes and running away as fast as he could.

Micky walked the whole day, searching the forest and the fields, hunting around the lake, desperately trying to find Mike. For a while he cried, then he was angry, fitfully punching the air as the rain began to fall once again. Had Mike suspected him all along? Is that why he had been so spiteful the past week? But why? Micky didn't understand, he had never dreamt of loving anyone but Mike, he hardly ever noticed if anyone else was in the room. Why would Mike think that? Whatever the reason for Micky's rejection, the drummer knew that now Mike had his evidence: he and Peter, both almost naked, hugging so tightly, the bed conveniently well slept in, while Micky's bed upstairs lay unused. It sickened Micky right down to the core. Why had he gone for a drink? Why couldn't he have stayed at home? It was all so unfair. He loved Mike, more than anyone he had ever loved in his life, and he wanted so badly to tell him.

Micky could still see Mike's face as he opened the door to see the embrace. At first, before the look of anger and hate set in, his expression looked hurt and upset, almost as if he had suspected what was going on but had hoped he would find out the opposite. Micky wondered what he would be doing now if he had hit Peter for what had happened and then Mike had wandered in. Would he be with Mike now?

There was a fallen tree lying by the water's edge, and Micky sat on it woefully, listening as it creaked under his weight. The tears welled up again and that only made him feel sicker with himself. Why did he have to feel this way? It was obvious Mike wasn't that upset, at least, he didn't look it. Just angry, and perhaps a little hurt.

Micky remembered when, still as friends, the two of them would sit up late in their room, sharing a bag of potato chips and secrets. On one such occasion, with the added help of a couple of bottles of beer, Mike told Micky how he had got hurt in the past and how rejection, like nothing else, made him feel so worthless. Mike blamed his father, Micky blamed those who were quick to judge and even quicker to leave. But had Mike been telling the truth? Or was it just a fabrication to make him sound more normal, your average guy with your average problems.

"You do realise it's raining don't you?" Micky heard a familiar voice and turned to see Davy looking at him gently, his mouth contorted to an expression of slight puzzlement.

"I don't care."

"I didn't think you would." Davy wandered round and sat beside Micky on the log.

Micky tried to look in the other direction, he hated people seeing him like this, but Davy merely grabbed his chin and pulled until they were eye to eye.

"Micky, I heard about what happened. Was it just a mistake? I don't want to believe that you would seriously do that without finishing it with Mike first."

"No! Of course it was a mistake. I didn’t sleep with Peter…I was drunk last night, I was practically unconscious when I went to bed. I'd never do that to Mike." Micky gave Davy a hard stare, trying desperately to convince him.

"So what are you gonna do?"

"What can I do? Christ, Davy I miss him so much. I can't understand why he was angry with me to begin with. What did I do?"

"I don't know. All I know is you got to get it sorted. You may think he doesn't care, but he does. Do you know he's hardly eaten a thing over the past week? He just spends his time locked in his room. Does that sound like a guy who doesn't care?"

Davy's tone cut into Micky but it was he needed to here. He had to try harder to get through to Mike, to find out what was wrong. Micky wiped his eyes and sniffed before leaning over and giving the Englishman a brief hug.

"Do you know where I can find him?"

"He's in his room, as usual, and Peter's gone out for a walk. The two of you will be all alone."

"Where will you be?"

"Oh, I have a date with a cute little Irish girl called Mary. I think you met her…"

Micky gave Davy a playful punch on the arm and headed off in the direction of the cottage. Just as he was leaving, he turned one final time and called back, "Hey Davy?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks man."

Davy gave him the thumbs up followed by a shooing motion sending Micky back the house.

The cottage was silent when Micky entered. The late afternoon sunshine left dusty pool of yellow splattered across the walls and the furniture glowed in its dark oak. Micky walked carefully through the narrow living room and up the small staircase, which creaked slightly as he climbed. He passed his room on the right and then came to Mike's room. The door was locked as Davy had told him but the Englishman had also told him that all the doors had spared keys stored in a tin above the stove in the kitchen. Something both Peter and Mike were unaware of.

Micky drew out the key from his pocket and felt his heart pound loudly in his ears. If this went wrong Mike would probably hit him again, harder this time and their relationship would almost certainly be over. Could he risk more heartache? He had to, he had to get this settled, he needed to know.

Micky slowly turned the lock and the door opened slowly and silently. Micky anticipated seeing Mike sitting on the edge of the bed, or looking out of the window, or reading a book. He didn't expect to find him curled up on the bed in an almost foetal position, his arms wrapped around himself, his back to the door. Micky immediately felt a sting inside, a mental jibe telling him how cruel he was to hurt Mike like this and for a moment he hesitated.

When Micky did move again, he did so silently and carefully, unsure whether Mike was awake or asleep. Slowly, like a cat circling its prey, he edged round the bed and looked upon the Texan's face. He looked asleep, his eyes closed with thick ebony lashes, his mouth parted slightly. As Micky looked at him, all he could feel was love, a burning, growing feeling inside that seemed to engulf him. He wanted to wrap himself in those arms, and kiss those lips, the ones that always were so sweet.

Micky stepped closer and the raging feelings overwhelmed him until there was only one thing he could do. Gently, easing himself towards the bed, Micky leant over Mike's still form and captured his mouth, tasting and enjoying what he had missed so much. A thought flashed across Micky's mind and he tried to hide it but it remained loud and clear: 'what if this is our last kiss?'.

As they parted, Micky looked down to see Mike's eyes flicker and the two coffee coloured orbs looked back at him naked and silent. Micky knew that now might be the only chance to redeem himself and so he spoke quickly.

"Mike. I love you. I want to be with you, and you only. I'm not interested in Peter; that was an accident, I didn't sleep with him, I've NEVER slept with him. I've been so hurt this part week, I don't know why you're angry with me, but for whatever it is, I'm sorry and I don't wanna be alone anymore."

Micky could feel the tears stinging his eyes and choking his throat, but he wouldn't shed them, not yet.

Mike continued looking at him and Micky knew that the expressionless face was a mask Mike used while he tried to think up an answer.

"I didn't want to be alone either, but you gave me no choice." He spoke no louder than a whisper as he rose into a sitting position. "You hurt me Mick, I didn't think you of all people would, but you did."

"I don't understand. What did I do, please tell me."

Mike glowered and Micky immediately felt vulnerable. "What didn't you do?! You sleep with that fucking bastard and then pretend that nothing is going on. What kind of a stupid jerk do you think I am?"

"I didn't sleep with him! How could you think that?" Micky's expression was of pure and genuine shock.

Mike lurched forward and grabbed Micky's arm, squeezing it painfully, all his anger concentrated on that one point and the venomous words he growled.

"When we were in Davy's Grandpa's house, it all became so clear. How could I have been so stupid to think that I could trust you? On that Thursday, the 18th, I saw the two of you, hugging together as if I didn't even matter and then later, in his room…"

"What?" Micky was aghast, not understanding how Mike could believe this,

"I found your underwear Mick, it was in his room. Then, we come here and what do you do? You jump straight into bed with him again! Surely I deserved the dignity of being told how you felt?"

Mike turned away for a moment and closed his eyes briefly. Slowly his grip on Micky's arm loosened and he swallowed hard.

"Jeez Mick, I loved you so much, why did you have to do that to me?"

"Mike. I didn't sleep with Peter. Honestly. When you saw us downstairs, it was because I got drunk and he put me to bed…I was unconscious, you got to believe me." The tears were spilling now and Micky wrung his hands nervously, wishing he could see a smile on Mike's face, wishing that he didn't have to go through this.

"And when we were in England? What then? Were you drunk again?" Mike was turning nasty again, changing his energy from sadness to anger.

Micky stopped and thought. What had happened on the 18th? Why had he been hugging Peter?

Then suddenly, like a bolt of lightning it struck him and all the memories came flooding back. That was the day he had pulled his ankle. He could see it so clearly now. He had been walking along the old path in the garden, which was made up of rocky slabs. He had fallen, scraping his knee and hurting his ankle. His surprised cry had alerted Peter who came running. As the blond tried to help Micky to his feet, his ankle had given way and he had fell against the bassist for support. From a distance it would have looked like they were hugging closely.

Micky turned and saw Mike giving him an angered yet hurt look, his eyes searching Micky endlessly.

Micky explained his story to Mike, giving every last detail as tears rolled down his cheeks. He wanted Mike to believe him as he had never wanted anything so much in his life. He felt like he was standing in front a jury, pleading for his life.

All the while Mike kept a stony expression until finally he spoke.

"Why should I believe you? Do you really think I'm that stupid?"

"Well, if you can't trust me, then what have we got? Nothing. I'm telling you the truth. If I did like Peter, why wouldn't I just admit it? It's because it's not true. I love you, and I don't know what I can do to prove that."

Mike was silent. Micky could see he was torn, wanting to believe, but not wanting to be hurt. Wasn't that how Micky himself felt? He wanted Mike so much, but could he stand much more heartache? The Texan sat still for a long while, his face openly expressing his predicament as he mulled over what had been said, his eyes downcast. Micky looked upon him again, his face still wet from tears and did the only thing he could think of.

Gently he moved over and took Mike's head, pressing it against his chest as he kissed his hair. For a moment the guitarist stayed still and then slowly, timidly, he extended his arms and wrapped them around Micky's waist.

Micky held onto Mike, feeling his love so strong, wanting more than anything for this mess to be over and for everything to be the way it was.

"Micky?" Mike mumbled against his chest, "Do you promise you won't…"

"I won't." Micky promised, lifting Mike's head by his chin and kissing him fully on the mouth. For the first time in so long Mike kissed back and they stayed like that for a while, just enjoying being together again.

Micky relished in the taste of Mike's skin as they touched and kissed underneath the covers. Micky explored everywhere with his hands, feeling as if he hadn't had such affection in a hundred years. Mike nuzzled his neck, his soft black hair brushing Micky's shoulder as he rubbed his hardness against him. Micky let his head roll back and he moaned loudly, not caring who heard. There was only one thing that mattered and that was here and now. Micky rolled onto his back and pulled Mike with him, loving the feeling of skin upon skin, mouth upon mouth.

Just before Mike entered him they shared a lingering glance into each other's eyes, a verification of love before Mike broke into a smile.

They made love gently, flowing together in a perfect rhythm and Micky groaned loudly. How he had wanted this so much, physically aching to be loved again. He could feel Mike's rippling muscle and his soft skin, but most all he felt him inside him and he spread his legs wider, urging him deeper, savouring every last feeling.

Soon he could control himself no longer and Micky came hard, dragging Mike over the edge with him. As always, they collapsed into a heap together and Micky reached for Mike's mouth, kissing him for all he was worth. It was the little things that made life worthwhile.

The sea was playing with the shore and offered a gentle hushed sound as L.A. slept. Micky lie back against his pillow, a smile tickling his lips. Looking down, he found a mussed up mess of ebony hair nestled against his chest as Mike slept in soundless, carefree dreams. Micky hoped he was in them.

It was late, but he wasn't tired and so he lay and thought about everything that had happened. If he looked at it in one way, it seemed like Peter could have been trying to split them up. The underwear for example, how did that get there? Micky never needed to ask, and he didn’t want to. The matter was at rest and that's where he wanted it to stay. It seemed funny nevertheless, and all evidence pointed in the direction of Peter trying to split them up, but why?

Micky tried to stifle a laugh as he thought that maybe Peter had a crush on him. No, the blond was too innocent to scheme anything. It was a series of life's coincidences that were sent to try them and they had won.

Micky kissed the top of Mike's head and slowly closed his eyes.

Downstairs, Peter lay awake too, glaring at the ceiling. Everything had seemed to be working, but obviously their love was stronger than he had anticipated. So close. If only they had remained angry at each other, then he would have been in with a chance. No one would have been any the wiser. Peter thought of all the things he could have experienced if he had managed to separate them, all his wildest dreams. Why did he always have to be the one to lose out? He should have seen that relationship happening and intercepted before it got too far. Oh well, he would just have to try another way. He wasn't suspected, so at least that had worked. Peter sighed and lay back in his bed. While he was still alone, there was only one thing for him to do, he thought, as his hand slowly reached down to his crotch. The blond tried to hold in a moan as he stroked himself while thinking of his one love. Michael.