one more troubled soul » petekey

Seven

Pete swallowed hard and did as he was told, wiping the vomit from his lips and chin. He then sat up on his knees and flushed the toilet, leaning his head against the cold porcelain as he continued to catch his breath. "Where's... Mikey?" he croaked quietly, looking at the man with a side glance.

The man immediately changed. His jaw tightened and he took a threatening step forward, eyes narrowing. "And why the fuck would I tell you?" He was ready to fight again, in fact, Pete was starting to think he was always ready to fight. He looked that way. Irritable, rough around the edges and protective, filled to the tiny brim with anger. Or maybe it was just passion.

"I need him," Pete admitted lamely. He'd never admit to himself that he needed someone else, especially a hitchhiker, but his heart was jumping out of his throat again. The man sighed and relaxed, stepping forward and holding out one of his hands. Pete studied it carefully before grabbing it, hoisting himself up with a pathetic grunt. Once up, he felt even more lightheaded than before, his brain pounding more than his own heart, it seemed. He leaned against the wall, sighing.

"You have no idea what you did, do you?" a voice sounded from behind the other man, shaking and frightened. Mikey's head poked out from behind, shadowed with exhaustion. He was looking at Pete strangely. There was no bright lights in his gaze or thankfulness, just wariness and clouded confusion. The other man moved out of the way, taking a step back to be at Mikey's side. He stood beside him like a small guard dog, tiny but ferocious, and bigger in spirit than size. He almost seemed to actually be baring his teeth. Pete waited for him to sharpen his claws.

"Mikey," Pete whispered, stepping forward carefully. He wanted to reach out and touch him, to feel something familiar and safe, to begin to understand what was happening and then figure out how to fix it. He didn't like the way Mikey was looking at him, his glasses low on his nose and his hair spiky with sleep. He had gotten a change of clothes, it appeared, his black skinny jeans replaced with big sweatpants and his sweater was now a hole covered Iron Maiden t-shirt. He looked comfortable and uncomfortable at the same time, warm and fresh in his new clothes yet standing like a deer in headlights. It appeared Pete was the car speeding towards him. He felt sick again.

"You have no idea." Mikey repeated, sounding disgusted yet intrigued. He looked down at his guard dog and made a quick motion with his head, pointing his nose to another corner of the room. Slowly but surely, he began to sulk away, moving with a frightening quietness. He watched Pete the entire time with frosty eyes, so cold they sent a shiver down his spine. And then, Mikey stepped forward into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. It was Pete's turnt in be a startled deer in Mikey's path, but he fully believed that he was already roadkill, and this was his judgement day.

Mikey leaned against the door and slid down, hitting the floor with an exasperated plunk. Pete did the same, moving to be next to him. But he sat far enough away so that they didn't touch, their hands both landing beside each other's. Pete felt his pinky burning with a broken promise. He had no idea how, but he had ruined the night and perhaps even their relationship, whatever it was. All the walls had been repaired and Pete was going to have to punch extra hard to get them down again, to be let in again. He wasn't sure he had the strength to do so. "I shouldn't be here, sitting next to you," Mikey whispered, staring straight ahead. Pete just held his breath. "I should be calling the police or something, or running away again." He let out a choked sob and Pete watched his head fall between his knees, his shoulders twitching violently. "Fuck, Pete. Look what you've done."

Pete didn't know where to look. He was scared to keep looking at Mikey, so he averted his gaze to sink. The faucet was dripping. "Mikey, I..."

"You did this!" Mikey yelled, suddenly moving in front of Pete. He grabbed his arms roughly and slammed them against the door, and Pete heard it shake on its old hinges. Mikey's grip tightened on Pete's arms, his fingernails digging deep into his skin. Pete didn't know how to react, staring straight into Mikey's eyes. They were wild and angry now. Pete wiggled beneath Mikey, his anxiety filling up his head and spilling out his ears. But Mikey just pushed his body against Pete's. "And you did this," he whispered hotly, his lips on Pete's ear. "And you kissed me and touched me and I said stop and you didn't stop." With those words, Mikey threw down Pete's arms furiously and buried his head in Pete's chest, swatting at him with terrible aimed punches. He kept hitting the door with his knuckles and finally Pete's chest, and he took every tiny bruise with full responsibility, the thought of him doing anything bad to Mikey making him want to throw up again. He wanted to throw up forever.