Mike.
Title: A Call, a Fuck, and a Kiss
Author: Molly
Rating: R? Sure?
Pairing: Billie/Mike. All I ever write, really.
Disclaimer: Don't own them. Obviously. Which is why disclaimers seems kind of pointless to me.
When I was sixteen years old, I realized that I had fallen in love with my best friend. We met when we were ten, and I always knew I felt strongly for him and that I cared about him a lot. But then I started wondering why every time he smiled, my knees went weak, or why every time he touched me, this hot little jolt would go down my spine.
I'm not stupid. I started to process what my body was telling me. So I asked myself questions and sort of dug into my heart a little bit. Then it made sense, and I began to wish that I had never second guessed it.
Mike was straight. He had a girlfriend. She was a whore. Well... maybe my opinion was biased. But he didn't love me; I was his close guy friend that he jammed on guitars with. I know he didn't love her, but I also knew he didn't love me either. But he broke up with her, and eventually he found one that he wanted to marry. I went with him to pick out the ring, and I was his best man. On his wedding night, while he was making love to his bride, I was crying in my apartment with only a bottle of Jack Daniel's for comfort.
So I tried to move on. Before he had even got hitched, I met this girl in Minnesota while we were touring, and she was really nice. Her name was Adrienne, and if I had ever loved anyone other than Mike, I loved her. Maybe it wasn't the same, but I knew it was the best I could hope for. After all, Adie was sweet, and she loved me. I married her, and then kids came...
Being in love with him hurt. I tried everything to forget about him, but nothing worked. I had a wife who I had two boys with, but I loved him more than her and I was always thinking of ways I could explain a gay relationship to my young children. He was always on my mind, and almost every time Adrienne and I had sex, his face was in my mind. When I masturbated all alone in the shower, he was the one in my fantasies, and I'd cry as I came in my hand. I hated myself, and my entire life felt like a fucking lie.
Then Mike's marriage started to fall apart. He would call me on the phone and just ask me to stay on the line with him so he wouldn't lose it. And then she left him altogether, their daughter in tow, and when he asked me to come over and I did, he fell into my arms and cried.
He started to drink. I tried to get him to stop, but he didn't want to. He said that he had to forget about 'fucking bitch Anastasia' and alcohol did that for him. Sometimes he would call me so fucking wasted that I had to go to his house and pick him up off the floor. I'd put him in bed and tell him to sleep, and he would always say thank you before doing what I told him to do.
But then... then one day when I beckoned to Mike's drunken call, he wasn't on the floor. He met me at the front door, pulled me inside, and kissed me. At first I tried to stop him, but I couldn't. He had been the object of my desire for so goddamn long, and I didn't have the strength to resist temptation. The ring on my finger wasn't as important as he was.
He fucked me on the bed in his room. There was no preparation, and there was no lubricant. After tearing away my clothes and his own, with fierce kisses where he pulled on my lip, he entered me and just fucking fucked me. It was terrible, and it hurt, but at the same time, I couldn't hate it. Maybe it was denial, but I couldn't hate it because I loved him. I truly fucking loved him. And... he saw how much I hurt. He looked down at my face after he came inside of me, and then when he kissed me... it was gentle. There wasn't any tongue or teeth, just his lips and mine, and I'll never forget how I felt. I felt happy and whole and complete and right.
It went on like that for months. A call, a fuck, and a kiss. Mike never said a word to me, before or after, other than his loud moans. And when he moaned, it was her name. Her name. And I would bite his shoulder as he thrust into me over and over and cry. The worst part was that even though he said her name... I said his. Why? I wanted that kiss. I held on for that kiss. For those few blissful seconds before he fell asleep and I left with my eye makeup smudged, dignity shattered, and guilt on my shoulders. Some how it was worth it. Maybe it made me a whore, but... God, it was just so fucking worth it.
But then... he stopped kissing me. The first night he didn't, I figured it was just the alcohol. But then, it was never. A call and a fuck. No more kisses. But I still went because I thought he would kiss me again. That eventually, he would give me that feeling again. I waited. It never came.
Adrienne was worried. I cried a lot and couldn't tell her what was wrong. I barely ate, and barely slept. When I did sleep, I had nightmares. Tre was confused. Mike wasn't talking to him, and he asked all the time. I told him not to worry; I told everybody not to worry, that everything was going to be okay when some time passed. I just didn't know how much.
Then Mike didn't call for a week. It didn't make sense. He usually asked for me at least three days out of seven. I called him, but he never answered. Another week passed, so I went to his house. Sure enough, he was there, drinking on the couch.
I asked him if he was all right, and... and he yelled at me. Screamed, knocked over tables, threw things at me. A beer bottle got me and cut so that blood ran down my arm. Over and over again, he said it was all my fault, that he hated me, how I was a dirty whore who always came to him because I just fucking wanted it in the ass. I was filthy, disgusting, worthless, get out, just get out of his fucking house.
So I did. And now I'm here. Sitting in my car, parked on the side of the road, staring out at the San Francisco Bridge. There's blood all over my shirt and upholstery from the bottle Mike threw at me. I'm crying these silent tears, and it feels like somebody shot me in the chest. It's hard to breathe, and... and I don't even think I want to anymore.
My cell phone rings. It's Mike. Mike. Fucking Mike. What could he possibly have to say now? Hadn't he said enough? I don't want to answer, but... but what if he wants to apologize? What if he wants to kiss me again?
His voice is still heavy with intoxication, but he pleads with me to come over. Says that he needs me, misses me, that he is so, so fucking sorry. He just needs me so fucking bad.
I'm going to go. If Mike needs me... then I'll go to him. Because I love him.
And he just might kiss me.
--
Not my best, I know. But hey. I appreciate comments and criticism. :)
Author: Molly
Rating: R? Sure?
Pairing: Billie/Mike. All I ever write, really.
Disclaimer: Don't own them. Obviously. Which is why disclaimers seems kind of pointless to me.
When I was sixteen years old, I realized that I had fallen in love with my best friend. We met when we were ten, and I always knew I felt strongly for him and that I cared about him a lot. But then I started wondering why every time he smiled, my knees went weak, or why every time he touched me, this hot little jolt would go down my spine.
I'm not stupid. I started to process what my body was telling me. So I asked myself questions and sort of dug into my heart a little bit. Then it made sense, and I began to wish that I had never second guessed it.
Mike was straight. He had a girlfriend. She was a whore. Well... maybe my opinion was biased. But he didn't love me; I was his close guy friend that he jammed on guitars with. I know he didn't love her, but I also knew he didn't love me either. But he broke up with her, and eventually he found one that he wanted to marry. I went with him to pick out the ring, and I was his best man. On his wedding night, while he was making love to his bride, I was crying in my apartment with only a bottle of Jack Daniel's for comfort.
So I tried to move on. Before he had even got hitched, I met this girl in Minnesota while we were touring, and she was really nice. Her name was Adrienne, and if I had ever loved anyone other than Mike, I loved her. Maybe it wasn't the same, but I knew it was the best I could hope for. After all, Adie was sweet, and she loved me. I married her, and then kids came...
Being in love with him hurt. I tried everything to forget about him, but nothing worked. I had a wife who I had two boys with, but I loved him more than her and I was always thinking of ways I could explain a gay relationship to my young children. He was always on my mind, and almost every time Adrienne and I had sex, his face was in my mind. When I masturbated all alone in the shower, he was the one in my fantasies, and I'd cry as I came in my hand. I hated myself, and my entire life felt like a fucking lie.
Then Mike's marriage started to fall apart. He would call me on the phone and just ask me to stay on the line with him so he wouldn't lose it. And then she left him altogether, their daughter in tow, and when he asked me to come over and I did, he fell into my arms and cried.
He started to drink. I tried to get him to stop, but he didn't want to. He said that he had to forget about 'fucking bitch Anastasia' and alcohol did that for him. Sometimes he would call me so fucking wasted that I had to go to his house and pick him up off the floor. I'd put him in bed and tell him to sleep, and he would always say thank you before doing what I told him to do.
But then... then one day when I beckoned to Mike's drunken call, he wasn't on the floor. He met me at the front door, pulled me inside, and kissed me. At first I tried to stop him, but I couldn't. He had been the object of my desire for so goddamn long, and I didn't have the strength to resist temptation. The ring on my finger wasn't as important as he was.
He fucked me on the bed in his room. There was no preparation, and there was no lubricant. After tearing away my clothes and his own, with fierce kisses where he pulled on my lip, he entered me and just fucking fucked me. It was terrible, and it hurt, but at the same time, I couldn't hate it. Maybe it was denial, but I couldn't hate it because I loved him. I truly fucking loved him. And... he saw how much I hurt. He looked down at my face after he came inside of me, and then when he kissed me... it was gentle. There wasn't any tongue or teeth, just his lips and mine, and I'll never forget how I felt. I felt happy and whole and complete and right.
It went on like that for months. A call, a fuck, and a kiss. Mike never said a word to me, before or after, other than his loud moans. And when he moaned, it was her name. Her name. And I would bite his shoulder as he thrust into me over and over and cry. The worst part was that even though he said her name... I said his. Why? I wanted that kiss. I held on for that kiss. For those few blissful seconds before he fell asleep and I left with my eye makeup smudged, dignity shattered, and guilt on my shoulders. Some how it was worth it. Maybe it made me a whore, but... God, it was just so fucking worth it.
But then... he stopped kissing me. The first night he didn't, I figured it was just the alcohol. But then, it was never. A call and a fuck. No more kisses. But I still went because I thought he would kiss me again. That eventually, he would give me that feeling again. I waited. It never came.
Adrienne was worried. I cried a lot and couldn't tell her what was wrong. I barely ate, and barely slept. When I did sleep, I had nightmares. Tre was confused. Mike wasn't talking to him, and he asked all the time. I told him not to worry; I told everybody not to worry, that everything was going to be okay when some time passed. I just didn't know how much.
Then Mike didn't call for a week. It didn't make sense. He usually asked for me at least three days out of seven. I called him, but he never answered. Another week passed, so I went to his house. Sure enough, he was there, drinking on the couch.
I asked him if he was all right, and... and he yelled at me. Screamed, knocked over tables, threw things at me. A beer bottle got me and cut so that blood ran down my arm. Over and over again, he said it was all my fault, that he hated me, how I was a dirty whore who always came to him because I just fucking wanted it in the ass. I was filthy, disgusting, worthless, get out, just get out of his fucking house.
So I did. And now I'm here. Sitting in my car, parked on the side of the road, staring out at the San Francisco Bridge. There's blood all over my shirt and upholstery from the bottle Mike threw at me. I'm crying these silent tears, and it feels like somebody shot me in the chest. It's hard to breathe, and... and I don't even think I want to anymore.
My cell phone rings. It's Mike. Mike. Fucking Mike. What could he possibly have to say now? Hadn't he said enough? I don't want to answer, but... but what if he wants to apologize? What if he wants to kiss me again?
His voice is still heavy with intoxication, but he pleads with me to come over. Says that he needs me, misses me, that he is so, so fucking sorry. He just needs me so fucking bad.
I'm going to go. If Mike needs me... then I'll go to him. Because I love him.
And he just might kiss me.
--
Not my best, I know. But hey. I appreciate comments and criticism. :)