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down at the lake with the shaking breath and the bloody owls
and the endless summer racket
you said tonight we can't be held by fences or by chains
we're thieves and lovers
the constantines, "thieves"
It's too damn hot inside his bus, so Andy is sitting out front in a lawn chair in a narrow wedge of shade, taking in the sights and sounds of Warped and trying not to completely pass out. It's too damn hot outside, too, but at least sometimes there's a gust of breeze, heavy with the smell of asphalt and exhaust, that ruffles the hair on his neck but does nothing for the sweat at his temples. It's only the end of June, and Andy has no idea how he's going to get through the rest of the summer.
It's then that what's-his-face from My Chem wanders up, the weird one with the hair. Mikey. He stops in front of Andy, blocks out the sun as he stands there, gazing inscrutably down at him. Andy blinks up at him in return, squinting at the glare from the sun.
Mikey reaches out, the tips of his fingers brushing over Andy's cheek before they close around the arm of his glasses, tugging as he lifts them from Andy's face. Andy is too surprised to react, and just sits there and lets Mikey take his glasses. Then Mikey takes off his own glasses and puts on Andy's instead.
Andy blinks up at him again, this time trying to get the Mikey-shaped blob in front of him to come back into focus. Eventually he registers that Mikey is holding something out to him, so he reaches for it, missing once before his fingers close around cool plastic. Glasses, but not his own. Mikey's, maybe. He puts them on and the world gets less blurry, but not completely.
Mikey beams down at him, the smile lighting up a face that looks different behind Andy's glasses, with their round lenses and wire frames. Andy stares back at him, his brows coming together a little in the middle.
Neither of them has actually spoken yet, and the silence between them is a brittle thing, hanging like a curtain and muffling the ever-present controlled chaos that is Warped as it carries on around them.
And then there is Pete. The door to the bus slides open and Pete's voice arrives before Pete does, loud and bright, saying, "No, seriously, Patrick, I haven't seen your iPod and I have no idea where you left it, okay? Why don't you go ask--" Pete cuts himself off when he sees Andy and Mikey, wearing each other's glasses and staring at each other in silence. "Dude," Pete says, "What are you doing? You guys are strange."
Neither Andy nor Mikey says anything. They keep looking at each other while Pete shrugs and leaves, and after a minute, Mikey pulls off his glasses and offers them back to Andy.
"Thanks," Andy says as he takes them, switching off Mikey's glasses for his own. The world becomes clear again, and the headache that was building behind his eyes disappears.
"Yeah," Mikey says. He shoves his glasses up his nose, looks down at Andy one more time, and then wanders away.
Andy wonders what the hell just happened.
+ + +
It's the next day, when Andy's out looking for a bottle of water that isn't on the verge of spontaneously breaking into a full boil, that he comes across Mikey, who's sprawled across the top of a picnic table, wearing head-to-toe black and not a drop of sweat to be seen anywhere on his person. He's alone, and wearing a pair of ridiculous oversized Chanel sunglasses. Andy gives in to the urge to roll his eyes, but instead of blowing past to continue his quest for drinkable water, he finds himself drawn towards the picnic table, sitting on one of the benches with his body turned halfway towards Mikey.
"Hey," he says, quietly, trying not to startle him.
Mikey grunts.
Andy looks at him, looks at his ridiculous glasses, trying to see if Mikey's eyes are even open and trying to guess if Mikey even realizes who he's grunting at. "Hey" isn't a lot to go on, after all.
They sit in silence for long minutes. Andy isn't sure why he's sticking around, isn't sure why he's so reluctant to leave. They're out in the sun, there's no shade anywhere, and he's trying to decide if he wishes he'd put a shirt on before he'd left the bus, to maybe keep some of the sun off.
"Yesterday," Mikey says suddenly, and Andy jumps, bashing his knee on the underside of the picnic table. He swears, but Mikey continues like he never even noticed--and maybe he really didn't. "When I came over?"
Andy makes an I'm-listening sort of noise, because it's that or swear at Mikey, and he wouldn't mean it, it's just that his knee really hurts now, and it feels like he scraped off a layer of skin or three.
"Do you guys have the first Preacher book? Gerard forgot to bring his and he's driving us all crazy."
"Uhhh," Andy says, trying to remember what he threw in his bag before they left for tour. "Maybe. I can look."
"Okay. Thanks." Mikey scratches the top of his head, and then puts his hand over his eyes.
Andy waits to see if Mikey is going to say anything else. When he doesn't, Andy gets up to go find some water.
+ + +
Andy isn't sure how it keeps happening, but somehow he ends up talking to Mikey every single day for a week. The third and fourth days are just as awkward and stilted as the first two were, but Mikey hasn't made any more grabs at Andy's glasses, so that's something. The fifth day finds Andy knocking on the door to My Chem's bus, Preacher in hand, and the way Mikey's face lights up when he sees Andy must make something click just right, because for the first time their conversation is actually a conversation and not just a loose collection of vague questions and vaguer answers.
The sixth day brings them together on a bench in honest-to-God shade, under a line of trees in the back corner of the lot. Mikey has a bottle of water that's somehow on the cool side of tepid, and he lets Andy take sips of it. It sits on the bench between them, dripping condensation onto the raised knots and veins in the rotting wood.
Mikey drags his finger through the puddle of condensation and stares down at the dirt between his toes. "Gerard is sober now," he says, and then trails off like he hasn't figured out where that thought goes next.
"I know," Andy says eventually, filling in the space as best he can. "I'm really glad for him."
"Yeah. Me too," Mikey's head is hanging so far forward that he mumbles into his own chest.
Andy stares out across the field, watching tiny figures carting around tiny pieces of equipment, listens to the muddy mix of music from four stages at once, damped by distance but still loud enough to be annoying, if he lets it. Shouts and shrieks and the roar of the crowd all mix together, a ringing in his ears that only gets louder when he closes his eyes. He can feel sweat collecting under the bridge of his glasses, rolling down his back between his shoulder blades, dripping into the backs of his knees.
"It's hard," Mikey's voice is soft enough to be almost inaudible above the background noise. "Sometimes before we go on, he gets..." He shrugs, and Andy feels Mikey's arm brushing against his. "And sometimes at night, it's worse. But he's stubborn, so I don't think he's going to slip. It's just really hard for him."
"I know," Andy says again. "Warped is a hard place for sobriety."
"I know," Mikey echoes. "And it's hard for us, too. Sometimes I slip..." He trails off, coughing to cover a nervous giggle.
"Hey," Andy says, "you're not your brother, okay? You make your own choices."
Mikey lifts his head a little, looks at Andy from the corners of his eye. Andy looks back at him, turning his head only the slightest fraction.
Mikey's lips look like they're seriously considering smiling. "I knew you'd understand," they say, and Andy feels his face starting to get warm. It must be the heat, he tells himself. Should find some air conditioning, drink some water.
When Andy reaches for the water, his fingers close around Mikey's hand, which had just barely beaten him to the bottle. Mikey doesn't pull his hand away. Andy doesn't let go.
The seventh day is when Mikey kisses him for the first time. Mikey doesn't say much to him that day, choosing instead to grab Andy's hand and pull him behind a half-erected merch tent and press in close. They're tucked into a haphazard corner, and the stained canvas is warm against Andy's back. Andy looks up at him, cocks his head in question and smiles, and Mikey smiles back. Sunlight gleams from the lenses of Mikey's glasses, flashing in Andy's eyes in the moment Mikey leans down. So Andy kisses him back, dazzled but unsurprised. He's not gentle as he presses his mouth up against Mikey's, as he brings his hands to Mikey's shoulders, as thumbs grip the hard edges of collarbones. His fingers, though, are light on the shoulder seams of Mikey's t-shirt, stroking the worn, slightly-damp fabric in time with the movement of Mikey's mouth.
When they break apart it's at a natural ebb, their lips sliding apart with a wet noise. Mikey's face is flushed, right up to the temples. Andy allows himself a small smile, and then jumps when his phone starts vibrating in the pocket of his shorts.
He answers it, glancing briefly at the caller ID before his eyes return to Mikey's face. "What, Pete?"
The light in Mikey's eyes dims as Andy's conversation drags on, as the crease between Andy's eyebrows digs itself deeper, and goes out when Andy snaps his phone shut.
"Pete fucked something up," Andy says by way of explanation. "I have to go clean it up, nobody can find Patrick." He meets Mikey's eyes, briefly, and then slips between the tents and out into the crowd.
+ + +
Andy doesn't talk to Mikey for two days after that. It's not that they're avoiding each other--or at least, Andy knows he isn't deliberately avoiding Mikey, and he hopes that's mutual--as much as that life on Warped just gets in the way.
He's lying in his bunk, staring at the low ceiling scant inches above his nose, and tapping aimless rhythms on his leg in time with the bus's rumblings across endless miles of highway, when he realizes how long it's been since he's so much as even seen Mikey. He surprises himself when he pulls out his phone and dials the number he's still not entirely sure how he came by.
It rings for longer than Andy might like before it gets picked up.
"Hello?" Mikey's voice is thick and muzzy.
"Hi," Andy says. "Sorry, I woke you, didn't I? I can let you--"
"It's fine," Mikey says, already sounding more clear. "What's up?"
Andy is silent for a moment, still trying to gather his thoughts. It's stuffy in his bunk, stifling with the curtain pulled tightly shut, but it brings a certain stillness. "I was just thinking about you," he finally says, whispering in the dark. "I haven't seen you in a couple days."
"Oh," Mikey breathes, "we haven't, have we?"
Andy shakes his head. The sound of his hair against the pillow is almost loud in the silence. "No," he whispers. "How have you been?"
"I'm okay, I guess. Tired, hot, you know."
Andy grunts, a noise to the affirmative. "Summer tours, man."
"Yeah... yeah. Hey, so Gerard says thanks for the Preacher, by the way."
"Awesome. Just make sure I get it back at some point, okay?"
"Uhhhh... you might not actually want it back, after it's spent a few days on our bus."
Andy snickers. He's never been inside the My Chemical Romance bus, but he's heard stories, and he knows what his own bus is like, and he has an imagination. "Why don't you tell him to keep it, then?"
They're on the phone for two hours, alternating whispered slices of life with expansive silences, before Mikey interrupts Andy's recounting of the horrors of the day's catering.
"I lied, before. When I said I was fine." Mikey breaks off. Andy listens to him breathe for almost a full minute. "I might have fucked up."
"Might have?"
Mikey sighs. "Well, Gerard's not mad."
"I hear a 'but', there."
"He hasn't said anything, but it's enough that he knows."
"Knows what?"
Mikey breathes.
"What happened, Mikey?"
Andy can hear Mikey shifting around in his bunk. "It's hard, sometimes," comes the whisper through the line, harsh and muffled. "To stop."
Andy doesn't ask, stop what, just takes a deep breath in and out. "But you want to, right?" is what he says instead.
"Yes," Mikey whispers.
"Isn't that what matters?"
"No." Mikey sounds miserable. "Not when I keep fucking up. Not when I keep failing."
Failing him, Andy hears, the unspoken word ringing in his ear.
Andy isn't sure what to say, and the line is silent for uncountable moments that stretch into lifetimes. Andy rolls from his side to his back, stares with unfocused eyes at the plastic ceiling above him as drops of sweat roll down the side of his neck. His phone is hot on his skin, humid against his ear, heavy in his hand. He pulls it away, glances at the screen, squints to make out the time.
"Okay," he finally says, as if no time has passed since Mikey's confession. "The buses should stop soon. I want to see you. I'll come find you. Okay?"
"Okay." It's less a whisper than a breath holding the sketch of a word.
There is mostly silence for the next forty minutes, punctuated occasionally by night noises and a single cough from Mikey. When Andy's bus finally, finally slows to a stop, he lets out a loud breath.
"You guys stopped yet?"
"Mmm."
"I'm getting up now, meet me outside."
"Yeah."
Neither of them hang up, though Andy puts his phone down for a moment to shrug on a t-shirt he finds crumpled at the end of his bunk. He slinks out of his bus and through the front lounge, where Pete is curled on a couch. Andy's not sure if he's sleeping or not. The TV is on but muted, the picture shedding flickering highlights on the contours of Pete's face. He steps lightly down the stairs, and winces as the bus door shuts loudly behind him. His phone is still pressed to his ear, and he can hear Mikey breathing.
He walks through the parking lot of yet another interstate truck stop, and only hangs up when Mikey comes into view, walking curled in on himself, arms wrapped tight around his ribs, looking barely upright. As he gets closer, Andy can see dark circles under his eyes, hanging low beneath the shallow curve of his glasses. Closer still, the whites of Mikey's eyes are pink and watery.
Mikey tucks his phone in his pocket as Andy walks up. He puts a hand on Mikey's waist, looks up at his face. Mikey tilts his face down and it's the exact same movement as when they kissed, but he only presses his forehead to Andy's. They stand for a moment, and then Andy reaches for Mikey's hand, leads him around the side of the squat brick building with neon lights in front and on top.
Andy stops when he's past the corner, and Mikey stops behind him. The sun is coming up, weakly orange on the horizon but throwing pale blue light. Their shadows stretch long across the parking lot, wavering faintly as held heat radiates from the asphalt.
Andy turns to face Mikey, looks him in the eye and says, "What do you really need, Mikey Way?"
Mikey looks at Andy for a moment, and then shoves him up against the wall and kisses him hard, his skin hot against Andy's face, his breath sour in his mouth.
Andy kisses back, just as fiercely, his teeth scraping at Mikey's lower lip. Mikey's hands come up to hold Andy's shoulders, holding him against the wall, pushing him into brick and mortar. Rough edges catch at the back of Andy's arms, dig into the bone at the top of his spine.
Mikey leans in, tilting his whole body to press his hips to Andy's. He's hard; Andy can feel it against his own hip. Mikey cants his hips a few times, rubbing against Andy, and Andy breaks the kiss to exhale harshly against Mikey's lips, his next breath coming in ragged and low. He kisses Mikey again, his lips slipping wetly across Mikey's mouth, his hands clasping Mikey's forearms, fingers pressing in between the bones of his wrists.
Mikey's hands press harder on Andy's shoulders, but down, now, instead of back. The bricks scrape Andy's back as he slides down to his knees, pulling at the button of Mikey's jeans as he drops. It slides free between his fingers and then he tugs down sharply until the denim slides off Mikey's narrow hips.
Andy knows how to make good use of his tongue piercing.
Mikey sounds like he appreciates it.
It's a matter of minutes before there are stripes of come on the faded asphalt, greyish but gleaming in the thin morning light.
Andy's knees pop as he gets back to his feet, and he stares at the toes of his Vans as Mikey puts himself away. It feels like the back of his arm near the elbow is bleeding, skin peeled off on the brick, but the fingers he uses to check come away clean and dry.
When Mikey's movements still, Andy turns and walks back towards the parking lot. He hears Mikey's footsteps crunching in the gravel behind him, and is surprised when the noise follows him all the way to his bus. He looks over his shoulder as he punches in the door code, and Mikey is gazing at some point just over Andy's shoulder, face impassive.
"You're coming with?" Andy asks, blinking.
"Do you mind?" Mikey's voice sounds clearer, lighter.
Andy doesn't mind.
They settle in Andy's bunk together after some shuffling of limbs. Andy lies pressed to Mikey's back, has Mikey's hair in his mouth, has Mikey's cold toes against his calves. He ignores it all and wraps an arm around Mikey's waist, holding him close and listening closer to his breathing until it finally evens out into sleep.
+ + +
The next night, Andy and Mikey are sitting in the back lounge of the Fall Out Boy bus, gazing at the flickering screen of Andy's laptop. A discussion of the overwhelming shittiness of comic-to-movie adaptations had somehow culminated in a viewing of Daredevil, which Mikey had found half-buried in the couch. Andy thinks the DVD might belong to Joe, because it sure as hell isn't his.
"This is so bad," Andy grumbles.
"It really is," Mikey agrees.
But they keep watching the movie anyway, sitting close together on the saggy couch despite the stuffy heat of the room, despite the extra space available at the other end of the couch. Their legs are pressed tight, thigh to thigh and knee to knee; their fingers sometimes meet between them, but their eyes generally don't.
And then there was Pete. "Yo, you guys seen Patrick?" he yells, sticking his head in through the door.
Andy and Mikey shake their heads.
Pete steps into the room, letting the door fall shut behind him. "What're you guys watching?" He leans over Andy to peer at the laptop's screen. "Is this Daredevil? For real? You guys are watching this crap? Why?"
Andy shrugs.
"Sucks how they did such a shitty job on this movie, right?" Pete goes on, throwing himself onto the empty end of the couch. He sprawls as best he can, his knee knocking against Mikey's.
"Yeah," Mikey says, turning to look at Pete.
"Now X-Men," Pete says, "that was a good comic book movie."
Andy distinctly recalls having said exactly the same thing half an hour earlier, but says nothing to Pete, who is still talking. Mikey is still turned towards Pete, watching his face as Pete keeps talking. Andy has trouble trying to tune Pete out and watch the movie, which is unusual because he's had a lot of practice at doing exactly that.
After another half-hour of Pete pontificating on the good, the bad, and the ugly of big-screen adaptations ("I heard they're going to do Transformers. They better not fuck that up") Andy's had enough. He gets up off the couch and heads for the door. His leg feels cold where it had been pressed against Mikey's, an unusual chill in the sticky summer heat. He slips into his bunk and jams his headphones onto his ears, turning up the volume on his iPod to drown out Pete's voice and the tinny explosions coming through the thin door to the lounge.
Mikey is still on the bus when Andy gets up the next morning, sitting with Pete in the front lounge, his legs across Pete's lap, their faces close, and their fingers twined together. Andy blinks, takes off his glasses to rub at his eyes, puts them back on, and then walks off the bus with only the most cursory of "good morning"s.
Andy wonders what the hell just happened.
+ + +
The day after that, Andy ventures into the small crowd at the side of the stage where My Chemical Romance is playing. He's under the pavilion but the shade there isn't much cooler than anywhere else, with the lights and the press of bodies and the total lack of breeze. Sweat pools at the hollow of his throat and the small of his back. There's a buzzing in his ears he can't quite shake.
The entire band is good but Andy can't take his eyes off Mikey, can't look away from the line of his throat, the angles of his fingers, the glare from his glasses. Andy leans against a stack of amps and squints at Mikey's right arm, trying to decipher the blur of writing someone had left behind.
Finally, when Mikey turns between songs to grab a bottle of water, Andy has a clear view of the letters.
EASY, they say.
In Pete Wentz's handwriting.
Later that night, Andy is approached by a slight girl with a dark hair and a soft smile. He doesn't say no.
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