Mikey presses his palms around his mug of coffee, that odd not-quite-smile returning to his face. Pete exhales and tells himself to relax. Reaches for another topic; something mundane. You’ve gotten used to LA? and Do you ever miss Jersey?—and he knows the answers to both, but he asks anyway.
He smiles when Mikey says fuck yes he misses Jersey. When he says that LA is nice (No, really, the weather is great—not that I have to tell you…), but it’s not really ‘home’.
And somehow they pass through an hour, two hours, and the tight-coiled tension in Pete’s gut starts to unwind.
“Hey—um. I should go, though,” Mikey says, pulling his phone out of his pocket. Checking the time. “We’re heading out in a few hours.”
“Yeah, no. Me too.” Pete gets to his feet.
They walk to the door together, shrugging into jackets and bracing themselves for the cold. Outside, it’s getting dark, and the castoff light of a streetlamp catches on Mikey’s bleachbright hair, making it look almost white against the ashen fall of twilight.
Pete stuffs his hands into his pockets. “Where’re you headed?”
Mikey nods north. “Midtown. You?”
“Brooklyn.”
“Brooklyn?”
“Long story.”
Mikey shakes his head. “Okay.”
“Well—” Pete looks off to the passing flow of traffic in the street. “I guess I’ll catch you soon?”
“Yeah. Just text me or something.”
“Sure. Um. Later.”
“Yeah.”
Pete starts to turn, starts to walk away, moving against the unforgiving chill of the wind when—
“Hey.” Mikey catches the elbow of his coat. Pulls Pete’s hand free of its pocket.
He twists around—and once again, they’re standing too close. Crowding. Mikey’s hand brushing his. Breath misting between them, a thin and transient screen.
“Yeah?” There’s a weird, erratic flutter beating against the inside of Pete’s chest.
“I’m glad you didn’t quit, you know.”
“Quit?”
“With the music thing. I’m glad you’re still doing it.”
“I—yeah. Me too.”
Mikey’s fingertips are warm—weirdly so, in contrast with the cold. Pete’s ears are stinging.
A beat.
Another.
And neither one of them backs away.
Fuck this.
He twines his fingers through Mikey’s. Pulls him in. The kiss is haphazard—almost a miss—and Mikey sucks in a breath against Pete’s mouth. The wind picks up, whistling in Pete’s ears. Mikey grips Pete’s hand. Presses closer. Pete feels teeth and bites back. Licks at the line of Mikey’s lower lip, chasing the taste of him.
And then it’s over.
Mikey pulls back, breathing heavy. The skin below his lower lip is pinkish, even in the washed out glow of the streetlamp. His fingers still interwoven with Pete’s and—oh. Pete wonders when his heart started beating so fast.
“Um,” Mikey says. “I really have to—”
“I know. Me too.”
Mikey squeezes his hand, gentle and quick, and extricates himself. Pete stands quiet and still, watching him go, the long stripe of blond hair twisting this way and that in the pull of the winter wind.
Re: Crossover, Pete/Mikey (pt. 2)
He smiles when Mikey says fuck yes he misses Jersey. When he says that LA is nice (No, really, the weather is great—not that I have to tell you…), but it’s not really ‘home’.
And somehow they pass through an hour, two hours, and the tight-coiled tension in Pete’s gut starts to unwind.
“Hey—um. I should go, though,” Mikey says, pulling his phone out of his pocket. Checking the time. “We’re heading out in a few hours.”
“Yeah, no. Me too.” Pete gets to his feet.
They walk to the door together, shrugging into jackets and bracing themselves for the cold. Outside, it’s getting dark, and the castoff light of a streetlamp catches on Mikey’s bleachbright hair, making it look almost white against the ashen fall of twilight.
Pete stuffs his hands into his pockets. “Where’re you headed?”
Mikey nods north. “Midtown. You?”
“Brooklyn.”
“Brooklyn?”
“Long story.”
Mikey shakes his head. “Okay.”
“Well—” Pete looks off to the passing flow of traffic in the street. “I guess I’ll catch you soon?”
“Yeah. Just text me or something.”
“Sure. Um. Later.”
“Yeah.”
Pete starts to turn, starts to walk away, moving against the unforgiving chill of the wind when—
“Hey.” Mikey catches the elbow of his coat. Pulls Pete’s hand free of its pocket.
He twists around—and once again, they’re standing too close. Crowding. Mikey’s hand brushing his. Breath misting between them, a thin and transient screen.
“Yeah?” There’s a weird, erratic flutter beating against the inside of Pete’s chest.
“I’m glad you didn’t quit, you know.”
“Quit?”
“With the music thing. I’m glad you’re still doing it.”
“I—yeah. Me too.”
Mikey’s fingertips are warm—weirdly so, in contrast with the cold. Pete’s ears are stinging.
A beat.
Another.
And neither one of them backs away.
Fuck this.
He twines his fingers through Mikey’s. Pulls him in. The kiss is haphazard—almost a miss—and Mikey sucks in a breath against Pete’s mouth. The wind picks up, whistling in Pete’s ears. Mikey grips Pete’s hand. Presses closer. Pete feels teeth and bites back. Licks at the line of Mikey’s lower lip, chasing the taste of him.
And then it’s over.
Mikey pulls back, breathing heavy. The skin below his lower lip is pinkish, even in the washed out glow of the streetlamp. His fingers still interwoven with Pete’s and—oh. Pete wonders when his heart started beating so fast.
“Um,” Mikey says. “I really have to—”
“I know. Me too.”
Mikey squeezes his hand, gentle and quick, and extricates himself. Pete stands quiet and still, watching him go, the long stripe of blond hair twisting this way and that in the pull of the winter wind.