Part II: 'This is the End, Beautiful Friend'
By Woolhats Traveling Mood
"We really will pay up as soon as we can "
"This is the last time Nesmith! And with that, Mr. Babbit slammed his front door in Mike's face.
Normally the Texan wouldn't have bothered to go to his landlord's house and beg, but he would have done anything to detach himself from the house of hell. That old place could never hold anything for him anymore, to put it simply; he hated the sight of it. He hated the silence that built up inside of it; he hated the old windows and doors that allowed in Lucifer's playmates in the first place. Right then, for the first time in his life, he wished he could go back home. Yes he would be scorned and laughed at, the great wanderer returns, but at least he would be able to put all that pain away, hide it up like he knew he had to. He climbed the stairs at the back of the house, hoping he could just sneak in without being seen. That was just wishful thinking.
Davy growled at Mike as soon as he saw the Texan come through the door. "And where 'ave you been? His voice was shrill and irritating.
"Out to see Mr. Babbit, to tell him the rent will have to wait..."
"If you hadn't have lost it on that stupid bet! Davy was in full force this morning.
"Please Dave...just cool it, please?"
"Why?! You have to face up to your responsibilities!"
Mike closed his eyes wearily and wished that he could just throw Davy out of the nearest window. He had to tell himself that he was protecting Micky's interests, that he was lying for all the right reasons, but he wasn't sure how much longer he could cope.
"Did you hear me?"
Mike opened his mouth to scream and swear, but couldn't. If only Davy knew the truth. Mike nodded and strode towards the stairs, intent on making it to his room before another attack.
Just as his fingers gripped the doorknob, he felt a hand on his shoulder. It squeezed the bone it found there, and Mike turned his dull eyes to find a quiet, slightly saddened, dimpled smile.
"You ok? Peter asked,
" 'eah. Mike's voice caught in his throat with the threat of tears, "Yeah, I'm fine. He gave a tiny, almost invisible smile and tried once again to enter his room, but the hand didn't let go.
"I know you feel guilty about it Michael, you didn't mean to lose the money I'm sure. I know Micky's a bit upset about it, but I'm sure we'll manage."
"Thanks Pete," Mike murmured, forcibly loosening his shoulder and hurrying into the room so that Peter couldn't see his tears.
Mike launched his back against the door and slid down it, crumbling in a heap at the bottom. He tried wiping his eyes with the back of his hands, but found there were just too many tears. Instead he just covered his mouth and closed his eyes, wishing that for just a moment, he didn't have to be
Mr. Dependable any more.He brought his knees up to his chest and cried into them, not caring anymore. He chest heaved as the tears came harder and they almost seemed painful. He didn't care what images he was shattering. Michael Nesmith didn't cry, but Mike Nesmith did. He was allowed to cry because his lover's soul was crushed, and he was the one who was getting the blame. He reasoned in his head for what seemed like hours. For once he didn't feel guilty for crying. It wasn't my fault, it wasn't my fault.
It was in this twilight zone where Mike could see himself, that he felt a strange warmth beside him. He raised his head slowly and warily, and found a nest of curls by his elbow. A tired arm draped around his waist and as he stopped his sobbing, he was sure he heard its echo. But it wasn't the sound of his tears, these belonged to Micky. The arm tightened around him and slowly the curls moved until two flooded almond eyes gazed upon him as if he was the new Messiah, as if he alone could make things better again. Those eyes were childlike, living in some false hope that one day theyd open, and everything would be as it was. Things could never be as they were. Mike knew it and Micky knew it. Mike wiped away the dregs of his tears and pulled Micky up beside him. The two sat there for a while, just blocking out all the pain in some brief bliss of just being together. Mike sighed as he kissed Micky's forehead. The battle was only just beginning.
Peter sat, almost catatonic and glared down at the bowl of soup he had before him. Normally they would have had something substantial, it was Saturday night and they usually had a decent meal on Saturdays, but he remembered that they were practically living on fresh air.
He glanced at the bowl opposite him and grew confused. "Mick? He cooed, staring wistfully at the subdued drummer, who was perched nervously on the couch. "Aren't you gonna eat your soup? Peter's eyes were hopeful.
Micky growled something under his breath and Peter strained to hear.
"What was that Micky?!"
"I SAID YOU CAN FORGET YOUR FUCKING SOUP! YOU'RE FUCKING NEVER GONNA GET ME TO EAT AT THAT TABLE! NEVER!"
Peter stopped, dropped his spoon and his mouth unhinged. He had never heard Micky scream at him like that before. He watched as his best friend rose to his feet frantically and stormed towards him. He couldn't get out of the way fast enough as the table was sent flying across the kitchen area, soup drenching everything.
Peter crawled out from beneath the stairs where he had darted and found a heap of what was formally his friend. Micky cowered on the floor, tears pouring down his face, hands shaking. Micky's eyes were wide and he shuddered again and again. It hurt, it hurt so bad. The grinding, again and again and again and again. Leave me alone! For Christ's sake leave me alone. Where's Mike? I need someone here, please let them go away, go away, leave me to die, go please go. They can't make me do anything, it hurts so bad.Peter felt his natural high level of pity well up and he stumbled over to Micky, slowly wrapping an arm around his shoulder. If he had known what that gesture would do, he would never have done it.
~~~
Mike dragged himself wearily to the front door and opened it quietly. It was already ten o'clock and he was exhausted. He hated the fact that he had left Micky for nearly a whole day, but deep down he told himself that he had done it all for a valuable reason. He looked down at the object in his hand and shuddered slightly, although he would never admit it to himself. Slowly he put it in his inside jacket pocket and gave it a gentle pat. "We're safe now," he whispered.
He felt his heart pump and he realized that he was terrified again. The fear would leap on him every time he went to open a door, he was so frightened of what he might find. Lately, all he had felt, was the need to release. He needed someone to just ramble on to, someone who cared or wouldn't judge him. He couldn't keep breaking down in front of Micky, which just upset the both of them. He wished that
they all knew the truth, but he still couldn't bring himself to tell them about what he let happen to their best friend, in their living room. The fact that he just sat and watched. The pad was silent and he tried to stop his hand from shaking. There was something very wrong. He staggered inside and immediately fell over Davy. The room was pitch black.
" 'bout bleedin' time! The Englishman swore, standing up and giving Mike his best stare.
"Wha...what's wrong? Mike cursed himself for seeming so vague and dazed.
"You! I want some explainin'!"
"What?"
"What have you done to Micky? He's gone bleedin' mental!"
"Where is he?"
"In your room, now are you gonna tell me what's going on."
"Nothing. Mike lied as he reached for the light switch, why was it so dark in here? He felt Davy try to stop him but it was too late. The room lit up and Mike's heart stopped beating. "What the hell happened," He murmured, not believing what he saw. There was no fragment of furniture left that looked salvageable. All fabrics were torn, all chairs, tables and cupboards were hacked and broken. Thousands upon thousands of pieces of china lay across the entire living room. He gazed on, with tears in his eyes at the band's drum kit, the drums ripped beyond repair and his pride and joy, his
beautiful twelve string guitar, mangled and crushed. Peter's keyboard was out on the veranda, where it had obviously been used as a missile to smash the large bay windows. And there was blood. It seemed like the whole room was decorated with the sickening sight of blood.
"I told you, he went fucking mental," Davy whispered, trying to regain Mike's attention.
"Where is he? Mike mumbled uncertainly,
"In your room, haven't you been listening? But before Davy could finish his sentence, Mike was upstairs at the door.
The bedroom was dark and seemed so cold. Mike crept in, his fear subsided, surely he had seen the worst? He glanced around the room and saw a body on his bed - Micky. Before he made it to his lover's side he felt a tug at his arm.
"Careful. Peter whispered, his voice muffled.
"Pete? Mike glared into the darkness. Slowly he reached for the lamp and watched Peter scurry from the light in shame.
"I didn't mean to upset him Michael...please don't be angry with me," Peter was so terrified of the usual Texan temper, but it didn't come. He flinched as he saw a hand outstretch towards him, but let it touch him. The fingers trailed from his black eye, along his swollen jaw and bleeding lips. Mike wiped away a few tears with his sleeve as he regarded Peter's battered form.
"I'm so sorry Pete," Mike whispered and Peter knew Mike was crying, just by the tone of his voice.
Mike turned to the bed and swallowed hard, stepping closer. Glassy eyes gazed up at him, red, and swollen. Mike reached down to stroke away a curl and sighed.
"Why did you do it Mick?"
Micky looked straight at him and allowed a tear to fall. "He...he touched me...I didn't want him to touch me, you won't let him touch me, please Mike?! As he spoke, his voice grew faster and higher in pitch.
"I won't, Shhh, I promise." He drew up one of Micky's hands and found his arms were heavily bandaged. He looked back at Peter and the blond nodded, realizing Mike's worst fears.
"You didn't...try to? But Micky crumbled before Mike could finish his sentence.
"I didn't want to hurt you anymore, I didn't want to see you cry again.." Micky's sobs were so devastating that Mike couldn't help but cry with him. What could they do? What could he do?
This time, Davy stepped forward and gave Mike a look that spoke volumes. "Tell us," he demanded.
Mike opened his mouth, looked down at Micky, and knew that lying was the worse thing he could have possibly done. If only he had told the others, maybe this wouldn't have got so far. His head spun. And through all this, he was the one who was still the guilty party. He looked at Micky for permission, but there was nothing. The drummer no longer acknowledged anything that wasn't soothing vibes from Mike. Anything else he blotted out, if it was painful then he didn't want to know. Mike took a deep breath; there was no hiding anymore. "I.I should have told you two days ago, the next morning...I was just looking after Micky."
"Tell us now," Peter placed that faithful hand on Mike's shuddering shoulder.
"It was Thursday night. You were out. I never lost that money on a bet, I just said it so that I had time to think. I wasn't ready to tell you." His grip tightened on Micky's hand and he closed his eyes.
"Guys, Thursday night, five men broke in here, stole our money and...and raped...Micky."
He hung his head. He could feel their eyes burning into him and he felt the guilt of a rapist. It may as well have been him who had done it. In lying, he had merely helped Micky's attackers.
Peter said nothing. His hand dropped from Mike's shoulder and he wandered, empty headed from the room, into the devastation below that symbolized Micky's shattered heart and soul.
Davy's glare fell rapidly and when he regarded the crying wreck of his guitarist friend, he realized just how spiteful he had been, how much pain he had added, and he left, guilt looming over him like a great cloud.Micky looked at him again. Eyes wide, expectant. Mike merely shook his head and leant forward, brushing his lips against Micky's. "He touched me. Micky murmured again as soon as they had
parted.
"Ok," Mike whispered, shuffling Micky over and crawling into bed beside his lover.
The Texan drew a weary sigh and pulled Micky into his arms. He felt the drummer shiver, and a bloodied hand reached up and clasped at his upper arm, holding on tight for the safety Micky needed.
"It's all over now, we're safe. Mike whispered over and over.
Silence dwelled upon the couple for what seemed like an eternity. There was no need to speak. The truth was out and hopefully, now, it would end. Finally Micky looked deep into Mike's eyes, breaking the endless gaze he had held for so long and whispered, "You left me...where did you go?"
Mike looked at him and he squeezed Micky closer. "I went and bought our safety...I didn't mean to take so long. And with that, he delved into his jacket pocket. Slowly he pulled out a little cloth bag, dark emerald in color and opened it.
Micky's eyes widened in astonishment, but not fear. That object was only frightening when it was held by someone other than his lover. When it was in those familiar hands, it seemed as harmless as a butterfly. Mike inspected the gun, showed Micky how to use it and then placed back in the bag, and back in his pocket.
"No one will ever hurt you again. Mike promised.
Micky wriggled closer and hugged Mike's broad chest with an unadulterated love. He closed his eyes and let out a deep breath, clasping Mike's nearest dormant hand. He felt a familiar tingle as Mike's finger traveled gently up and down his spine. Micky rolled onto his back and pulled Mike with him, until the Texan was gazing down at him with chocolate eyes, before moving in with an eager kiss. Soon they were skin-to-skin, just as before and, just like before, everything was gentle. Mike was gentle and slow, his hands caressing as he went and Micky moaned with the pleasure that had lain damaged in the dust with the past. He wrapped his arms around Mike's shoulders as they went, never breaking eye contact, and he was blissful in that moment of ecstasy when he came, gentle, painless and loving. When they had finished, Mike dressed his lover again, before dressing himself and settled down to hold Micky just
as before.
It was only the sound of rummaging from downstairs, the sound of glass being swept up that Mike remembered that reality would soon come toppling back on them, and there was no where to escape. They had no money, they couldn't work because they had no instruments, they would be forever
living in fear of every corner, and that was one thing he knew he wouldn't be able to cope with. With one last glance at Micky's bloodied wrists, Mike came to a conclusion.
"I didn't mean to upset him. Peter chanted again and again.
"And all this time I was having a go at Mike, I've been such a bastard. Davy spoke almost silently as he began to sweep up some of the debris and brush them mindlessly into a bag.
They continued like this for what seemed like hours, until they finally realized that it was all over. It was quick and they were both unable to comprehend at first, what it all meant. Both stood, almost as a mark of respect, they couldn't do anything else, as they heard the sound of two final gunshots.
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