Late Dawns And Early Sunsets (Pete/Mikey)
Pete/Mikey fic under the cut. Thanks Mony for the beta. Inspired by March 10 07.
disclaimerish: I have no idea how touring works. Or what went on in MCR's bus. That's why I make things up.
Part one.
Gerard thinks it’s cute how Frank’s nose twitches when Ray’s coarse mop of hair tickles it, head nodding on Frank’s shoulder, both having dozed off on the loveseat opposite of Mikey and Pete almost immediately after getting on the road.
The bus clatters somewhere in the middle of nowhere. Gerard thinks he might have seen a perfect strip cartoon-like cactus and two vultures circling the setting sun ten miles back but his mind has always twisted his surroundings, made the world appear like a messy over-the-edges-smeared coloring book in his eyes. He prefers it this way, to be honest, even if Mikey thinks it’s fairly alarming.
…
Mikey has passed out on Pete’s arm, glasses askew and a drop of drool trailing along Pete’s bicep making a slow journey down Jack The Pumpkin King’s round skeleton face.
Mikey and Pete, Gerard thinks.
Pete and Mikey.
He studies his brother’s content face and notices that Pete is doing the same. His heart swells when Pete reaches a hand up to brush a curling lock of hair from Mikey’s closed eye and leaves his hand in his hair softly rubbing the skull.
Pete focuses his eyes on Gerard giving him a soft lopsided smile, the hood of his t-shirt -Gerard is sure every single shirt Pete owns has a hood, short sleeves or not- casting seven o’clock shadows to the sides of his face. It makes him look uncharacteristically hollow and his eyes are tired but he looks genuinely happy. Gerard beams back at him and turns around in his seat to give them a lick of privacy. Pete being in their tour bus instead of his own has become a self-evident fact by now. It’s okay, there’s always room for Pete, Gerard thinks, especially when he’s been nothing but completely entirely amazing with Mikey.
…
Bob sleeps his mouth open in his bunk, his snoring reaching Gerard’s ears making him snort at the sound. He picks up Frank’s sunglasses that have somehow found their way on his lap, toys with them, tries them on and then fits them on Brian who is sitting next to him, squinty eyed as he makes phone calls.
“For the sun,” Gerard says simply before starting to drum his thighs with the balls of his palms making up new beats to old classics the radio feeds them with.
He could easily fall asleep, but then he would miss out on moments like this, moments he has started to live for.
Part two.
When Gerard finally stops fighting sleep, they have arrived in what seems like a populated area judging by the adjacent houses, sheet metal dumpsters and a gas station at the side of the road. It’s two hours past sunrise and united murmurs of stopping for breakfast from Frank, Bob, Ray and Brian awaken Pete from easy dreams. His arm feels numb where Mikey’s head still rests and he is sure that when he gets out of the bus his back will hurt like a motherfucker. He knows Mikey’s neck will feel the same.
…
They stop by what seems like a very exemplary American diner, right-angled and dirty windows; waitresses carrying coffeepots in pig pink mid-calf length dresses.
Pete shakes Mikey awake when the others start making their way out of the bus.
“Wakey wakey, Mikey Way,” he singsongs stupidly, snickers when Mikey’s head suddenly jerks up leaving a fading warm spot on his arm.
“Ow ow ow,” Mikey whines rubbing his neck and catches his glasses just in time before they get a chance to slide down his nose onto his lap. “Fuck,” he curses trying to flex away the stiffness in his muscles. “Tell me again why it was a good idea to sleep on the seat instead of the bunk?”
“Because you didn’t want your brother to think we were doing something naughty back there,” Pete winks pushing past Mikey to get to the open door and steps into a bright morning, turns to wait for Mikey to drag himself clumsily out of the bus.
“Where are we?” Mikey asks ignoring Pete’s comment. He rubs his eyes the way Gerard tends to. “Did we reach the border yet?”
“I have no idea. Come on let’s get some breakfast. I don’t know about you but I could do with some fresh pancakes and coffee right about now.”
Mikey nods his head but turns to look at his brother on the longitudinal seat on the aisle: comfortably asleep, cheek resting on arms above kneecaps. “You think we should wake him?”
“Nah, we can just get him something for the road.”
Mikey nods again, his broad smile catching Pete as they head towards the diner, knuckles brushing against knuckles. Before stepping inside, Mikey checks his reflection on the window and quickly, almost neurotically, starts combing his fingers through the tousled hair.
…
The booth Frank, Bob, Brian and Ray have stumbled into is the furthest from the door.
Pete traces dried up coffee stains and ketchup smudges with the tips of his fingers, arranges the salt and pepper sprinklers and a lonely Tabasco bottle into a neat row and then messes it up.
He walks the Tabasco on the table and up Mikey’s arm but stops when Mikey swats his hand away. When the waitress -HELLO my name is Penny tacked above her left breast- finally pushes a steaming cup of the blackest coffee he has ever seen towards him and another cup under Mikey’s nose, Pete can finally sigh and start the day.
He knows this warm feeling of contentment -that endless roads, stiff muscles and dirty diners can’t ruin for him because right now they mean he gets to experience them with Mikey- has to end sooner than later but he can’t find the energy to care. Not yet, anyway. What matters now are the floury pancakes in his stomach and Mikey’s grin on the back of his shoulder when he tries to throw a piece of Bob’s egg into Frank’s open mouth and fails.
disclaimerish: I have no idea how touring works. Or what went on in MCR's bus. That's why I make things up.
Part one.
Gerard thinks it’s cute how Frank’s nose twitches when Ray’s coarse mop of hair tickles it, head nodding on Frank’s shoulder, both having dozed off on the loveseat opposite of Mikey and Pete almost immediately after getting on the road.
The bus clatters somewhere in the middle of nowhere. Gerard thinks he might have seen a perfect strip cartoon-like cactus and two vultures circling the setting sun ten miles back but his mind has always twisted his surroundings, made the world appear like a messy over-the-edges-smeared coloring book in his eyes. He prefers it this way, to be honest, even if Mikey thinks it’s fairly alarming.
…
Mikey has passed out on Pete’s arm, glasses askew and a drop of drool trailing along Pete’s bicep making a slow journey down Jack The Pumpkin King’s round skeleton face.
Mikey and Pete, Gerard thinks.
Pete and Mikey.
He studies his brother’s content face and notices that Pete is doing the same. His heart swells when Pete reaches a hand up to brush a curling lock of hair from Mikey’s closed eye and leaves his hand in his hair softly rubbing the skull.
Pete focuses his eyes on Gerard giving him a soft lopsided smile, the hood of his t-shirt -Gerard is sure every single shirt Pete owns has a hood, short sleeves or not- casting seven o’clock shadows to the sides of his face. It makes him look uncharacteristically hollow and his eyes are tired but he looks genuinely happy. Gerard beams back at him and turns around in his seat to give them a lick of privacy. Pete being in their tour bus instead of his own has become a self-evident fact by now. It’s okay, there’s always room for Pete, Gerard thinks, especially when he’s been nothing but completely entirely amazing with Mikey.
…
Bob sleeps his mouth open in his bunk, his snoring reaching Gerard’s ears making him snort at the sound. He picks up Frank’s sunglasses that have somehow found their way on his lap, toys with them, tries them on and then fits them on Brian who is sitting next to him, squinty eyed as he makes phone calls.
“For the sun,” Gerard says simply before starting to drum his thighs with the balls of his palms making up new beats to old classics the radio feeds them with.
He could easily fall asleep, but then he would miss out on moments like this, moments he has started to live for.
Part two.
When Gerard finally stops fighting sleep, they have arrived in what seems like a populated area judging by the adjacent houses, sheet metal dumpsters and a gas station at the side of the road. It’s two hours past sunrise and united murmurs of stopping for breakfast from Frank, Bob, Ray and Brian awaken Pete from easy dreams. His arm feels numb where Mikey’s head still rests and he is sure that when he gets out of the bus his back will hurt like a motherfucker. He knows Mikey’s neck will feel the same.
…
They stop by what seems like a very exemplary American diner, right-angled and dirty windows; waitresses carrying coffeepots in pig pink mid-calf length dresses.
Pete shakes Mikey awake when the others start making their way out of the bus.
“Wakey wakey, Mikey Way,” he singsongs stupidly, snickers when Mikey’s head suddenly jerks up leaving a fading warm spot on his arm.
“Ow ow ow,” Mikey whines rubbing his neck and catches his glasses just in time before they get a chance to slide down his nose onto his lap. “Fuck,” he curses trying to flex away the stiffness in his muscles. “Tell me again why it was a good idea to sleep on the seat instead of the bunk?”
“Because you didn’t want your brother to think we were doing something naughty back there,” Pete winks pushing past Mikey to get to the open door and steps into a bright morning, turns to wait for Mikey to drag himself clumsily out of the bus.
“Where are we?” Mikey asks ignoring Pete’s comment. He rubs his eyes the way Gerard tends to. “Did we reach the border yet?”
“I have no idea. Come on let’s get some breakfast. I don’t know about you but I could do with some fresh pancakes and coffee right about now.”
Mikey nods his head but turns to look at his brother on the longitudinal seat on the aisle: comfortably asleep, cheek resting on arms above kneecaps. “You think we should wake him?”
“Nah, we can just get him something for the road.”
Mikey nods again, his broad smile catching Pete as they head towards the diner, knuckles brushing against knuckles. Before stepping inside, Mikey checks his reflection on the window and quickly, almost neurotically, starts combing his fingers through the tousled hair.
…
The booth Frank, Bob, Brian and Ray have stumbled into is the furthest from the door.
Pete traces dried up coffee stains and ketchup smudges with the tips of his fingers, arranges the salt and pepper sprinklers and a lonely Tabasco bottle into a neat row and then messes it up.
He walks the Tabasco on the table and up Mikey’s arm but stops when Mikey swats his hand away. When the waitress -HELLO my name is Penny tacked above her left breast- finally pushes a steaming cup of the blackest coffee he has ever seen towards him and another cup under Mikey’s nose, Pete can finally sigh and start the day.
He knows this warm feeling of contentment -that endless roads, stiff muscles and dirty diners can’t ruin for him because right now they mean he gets to experience them with Mikey- has to end sooner than later but he can’t find the energy to care. Not yet, anyway. What matters now are the floury pancakes in his stomach and Mikey’s grin on the back of his shoulder when he tries to throw a piece of Bob’s egg into Frank’s open mouth and fails.