Fic: Tie Your Handlebars to the Stars (And Throw Away the Map) [1/2] | Mike/Kevin, R
Title: Tie Your Handlebars to the Stars (And Throw Away the Map)
Fandom: Bandom/Jonas Brothers
Pairing: Mike Carden/Kevin Jonas, various background pairings
Rating: Adult
Wordcount: ~15,700
Summary: In which Kevin Jonas gets lost twice and is found each time, and Mike Carden is almost (but really not) a fourteen-year-old girl. Or, a story about getting lost and finding more than just your way. (An obsessively-close-to-canon!AU.)
Notes: This is a close-to-canon AU that spans, with some time jumps, from December 2006 to December 2007. A shockingly large amount of this story is real. That does not mean it’s true. I have bent a lot of reality in the writing of this. Tours were extended, a blog post was pieced together from actual quotes and my own fabrications, and the Greek bakery near my apartment was moved to Chicago.
Should you wish to refer to reality, please see riorhapsody’s TAI… Ridiculous Primer and irishmizzy et. al.’s Jonas University Lecture Series, both of which were referenced extensively while I was writing this.
This story was partially inspired by this prompt at we_are_cities.
Special Thanks: This fic would NOT have been possible without the love and support of my completely fantastic beta, the lovely b_dsaint, who nearly deserves co-writer credit. Thank you for letting me bounce ideas off you for hours and hours, and for being honest when I was doing stupid things; you made this story so much better than I ever thought possible! As always, any remaining mistakes are mine and mine alone. <3
And, of course, to my friends on Twitter, for putting up with me as I chattered about this story for 3 months. I promise not to start on the sequel for at least a week. ;)
~*SUPER EXTRA SPECIAL THANKS*~ to the lovely skoosiepants, who made a fanmix for this fic!! \0/ You can find the mix here: Fuck This Map
Part 1 | Part 2
(December, 2006)
There's a five-dollar bill in the gutter at the edge of the crosswalk. It's grubby; folded haphazardly in half and damp with the last traces of slush still clinging to the asphalt. Kevin stares down at it for a full minute as the corner flutters in the wake of a passing Toyota, the toes of his sneakers less than an inch away. He'd nearly stepped right over it.
He picks it up carefully. It's not really that dirty, just wet and wrinkled. It must have fallen out of someone's pocket, but Kevin doesn't see anyone looking for their lost lunch money or cab fare or Starbucks latte or whatever the five was originally going to be for. Does that mean he can keep it? He looks at the bill again. Some previous owner has drawn a mustache on Abraham Lincoln with a Sharpie marker, and another (or maybe it was the same one?) has scrawled Bible verses around the outer edge in fading blue ink.
Jn 3:16, Rom 8:28, Jn 14:1, Gal 5:22, Jer 29:11, Judg 18:6... Kevin reads the numbers and letters slowly and deliberately, tucking himself against the rough brick wall of the Greek bakery that stands guard over this corner. He knows some of them, but not others, and some are too smudged and faded from age and fingertips and careless creases to be read at all. The air smells like baklava, and Kevin briefly considers putting the five to use, but decides in the end to save it.
He believes in signs, sort of. Not all the ladders and black cats and broken mirrors stuff, but little things like rainbows appearing on bad days or five-dollar bills inked with Scripture that he happened to see because he looked down at just the right moment. He's not sure what this sign means, though. Maybe it means everything will be all right. Or maybe it means that they'll have five dollars' worth of gas to get them home before Joe's jokes about eating their merch t-shirts instead of selling them-trying to sell them-become prophecy.
Their rep at Columbia had called again; sales were still slow, not much chance of another marketing push with the holiday season mostly over already. While his parents talked in low voices and Joe tried to teach Frankie how to play a G chord for the fourth time (even though his fingers could barely reach across the fretboard) and Nick read every word of their contract again and again, Kevin had grabbed his jacket and his wallet and took off-slipped out the door and started walking. He might be lost, now. No, he's pretty sure he's lost. He knows he's in Chicago, but that's about as good as knowing he's in the United States as far as finding his way back to the motel where the entire Jonas clan has been holed up for three days, three-to-a-bed. The symmetry is depressing.
Kevin tucks the five in his wallet. It looks lonely against the cheap leather, with only his driver's license for company. He slips the wallet back into his pocket and hunches inside his jacket. The sky had been clear all day-bright, crystal winter blue-but it's cold outside, and getting colder at an alarming rate now that the sun has set and the streetlights have turned on. He should've thought to bring gloves, or a hat, or something. He's not dressed for December in Chicago.
His jacket proves itself even more woefully inadequate as the night grows darker and colder. Kevin's got his hands stuffed as far inside his pockets as he can get them, but his fingers still feel cold-the wind whipping through the streets bites straight through the 'weatherproof' material. The cheap, plated metal of his purity ring is burning against his skin, and he feels a little guilty as he slips it off and tucks it carefully into his jeans' pocket, but he's sure God will understand.
Kevin wishes he had gone into the Greek bakery. Maybe they would've had a phone, or something. He's managed to wander into somewhere vaguely industrial and more-than-vaguely threatening, even though the whole place seems deserted, like five o'clock rolled around and everyone disappeared all at once. Kevin doesn't actually know exactly how long ago five o'clock was, but he thinks it was probably a long time. His family must be worried sick.
Kevin's about to give up and... Well, he's really cold and his head's kind of fuzzy so he really doesn't know what he's going to do, but something, when he hears the soft sound of a bass beat; not too far off, but far enough that he can't see the source of it. He's hoping and praying that when he finds the source of the noise it doesn't turn out to be a bunch of drug dealers (Kevin has heard bad things about drug dealers, or, more specifically, what drug dealers might do to teenaged guitarists who wander into their midst), but when he gets close enough, the bass resolves itself into music (good music) and voices, talking and laughing. He rounds a corner to see an open door about halfway up the next block, spilling light onto the sidewalk. There are a few people standing around in the glow-smoking, maybe? Every breath rises as a puff of condensation, but Kevin can't think of any other reason they'd be standing around outside when it's so cold, then one of them flicks a lighter to life so yeah, he was totally right!
He gets pretty close before they really notice him, close enough to see that they're all guys-probably older than him, but not by too much-and at least half of them are wearing skinny jeans, which is comforting. (Kevin doesn't think violent drug dealers are very into the skinny jeans thing.) But they do notice him eventually. Kevin can feel warm air pouring out of the doorway along with the music and the sounds of a party in progress, and the guy closest to him-he's got long hair and Kevin's first impressions are 'pretty' and 'they're not drug dealers they're serial killers!'-turns toward Kevin and his eyes open up wide and he says,
"What the fuck are you wearing, kid?"
and Kevin is quickly surrounded and hustled into the building, where it's deliciously warm, so he doesn't even object to the guy saying the F-word like that. His teeth are still chattering as he's deposited on a lumpy sofa that smells very, very suspicious and nearly engulfs him when he leans back into the cushions. There's suddenly a lot of noise and a lot of people Kevin doesn't know all standing around and looking at him, like he crash-landed from Mars or something.
He can't feel his feet, which is worrisome, and he's about to say something about it, presuming he can get his tongue to work properly, when something big and heavy and wiggling lands in his lap and declares loudly, "Carden! You brought presents to your own party?" So the big-heavy-wiggling thing turns out to be a person, who isn't actually that big for a person, and he's sitting in Kevin's lap the way Kevin's parents say nice girls don't.
"I'm Kevin," Kevin offers awkwardly, because he's not really sure what you're supposed to say to strangers who appear in your lap. The guy gives him this crazy, too-wide smile that's actually kind of scary and says, "Pete," so Kevin feels a little better that he at least knows the name of the person sitting on him. Then Pete is suddenly removed-which is sad, because he was really warm and Kevin felt like his brain was beginning to function again-and the serial killer from outside is standing there holding the back of Pete's hoodie, and saying,
"Hands off the jailbait, Pete."
Kevin doesn't get around to objecting, because Pete just smiles that huge smile again (it's still kind of scary) and attaches himself to a guy wearing a hat and a grimace of annoyance.
"Fine, be greedy. Besides, Patrick's all the jailbait I need! Right, Trickster?"
"I'm not jailbait," Patrick grumbles, and that's exactly what Kevin had planned to say, but his face was still kind of frozen.
"Kevin, right?" The serial killer is now sitting next to him on the lumpy sofa, and up close he doesn't seem so... serial-killer-ish.
Kevin nods. "I'm not jailbait," he says, just to clarify, and the probably-not-a-serial-killer gets this really stupid look on his face for a second, kind of stunned, and Kevin finally clues into how that's not actually the question he was asked.
"Oh. Um. Yeah, Kevin," he says, and he can't help the embarrassed flush that warms his cheeks.
A long, slow smile spreads across the guy's face, and wow, yeah, definitely not a serial killer smile, and he says, "Mike."
Mike turns out not to be anything like a serial killer, which is pretty awesome in Kevin's opinion. He lets Kevin borrow his cell phone so he can call his family-his mom answers, and she's crying, and Kevin feels so horrible he might cry, and then his dad's on the line and somehow Mike has the phone and is talking to Kevin Sr. and saying things like, "Yeah, he's fine," and "No, sir, just a birthday party," and "...from out of town?" and "...never find it. Yeah, he'll be fine here... yeah, in the morning, can you text the address to this number?" then Kevin has the phone again and it's Nick and Joe's voices telling him how worried they were and Kevin says, "I'm sorry," over and over until they hang up.
"So you didn't run away," Mike says, and it's not really a question or a statement, it just hangs there for Kevin to grab onto or not. He grabs, because if he thinks about the way Nick's voice had been so broken...
"No," he says, but he's not sure that's right. He pulls his feet up onto the edge of the couch and curls around his knees. "I mean, I didn't mean to. Not permanently or anything." He glances over, but Mike's just watching him, waiting for him to say whatever he's going to say. Kevin realizes abruptly that he hasn't really talked to anyone who isn't a blood relative in longer than he wants to admit.
"I'm in a band. With my brothers," he says, and fully expects to be laughed at, because most people (who aren't family, anyway) laugh when Kevin says that, or smile condescendingly like they think Kevin and his brothers just goof around with instruments in their garage on weekends or something and call it a band, but Mike looks actually interested, and Kevin feels a little better already.
"It's pretty much the best thing ever. And we were doing okay. Or, I thought we were doing okay? We were on TRL, even," he says excitedly, because MTV; a few years ago he wasn't even allowed to watch MTV! "It was so cool. Except, our CD isn't doing very well, and our rep keeps calling, and Nick says the label's probably going to drop us if our sales don't pick up. He's my brother," Kevin clarifies. "Nick. And Joe. Um, I play guitar?"
"Yeah?" Mike's smile is back, and Kevin fights the urge to fidget. He settles for picking at the slightly damp hem of his jeans.
"Yeah. I was just going to go for a walk, you know? But I got lost."
Mike makes a noise that might be an aborted laugh. "We'll get you back in the morning," he says, "once Bill's not too drunk to tell me where his keys are." He nods his head at the group of people dancing in the center of the room. Kevin has no idea which one Bill is, but he's really glad his parents aren't picking him up here, because there are a bunch of guys grinding against each other in ways that Kevin is pretty sure aren't approved by the Assemblies of God. At all. Kevin gulps and looks away, but not before getting an eyeful. And the looking away doesn't really help, because he's not looking 'away' so much as 'at Mike' and possibly his face is going to burst into flames.
"Bill's the one who looks like a girl," Mike says, smirking, and Kevin reflexively looks back at the dancers, about half of whom fit that description. He lets himself look this time-he's trying to figure out which one of them is Bill, he lies to himself, and is instantly contrite.
He can't help that his heart skips beats when cute boys smile at him, and doesn't so much as flutter for the short-skirted girls Joe can't keep his eyes off. He tried for a long time, when he was younger and terrified that his parents would find out. Terrified that God knew his secret, because God knows everything, so there's no way He could miss the things Kevin daydreams about. But Kevin can't help that he doesn't want to kiss girls, or that he thinks breasts are nice enough in an aesthetic sense, but sort of confusing and weird. And Kevin Sr. taught him, when he was old enough to understand the lessons, that sins are choices you make, and that God made everyone exactly as He meant them to be.
Kevin watches the boys on the dance floor, and reminds himself that the lying is the sin. (It's still hard to convince himself, but it gets easier every time he does.)
"You okay?" Mike asks, sounding worried, and Kevin realizes abruptly that Mike has been watching him while he's been watching them, and that's... awkward. But then, these are Mike's friends, and Mike doesn't seem to care at all that his male friends are busy groping and... yeah, no, there are definitely tongues involved in the kissing that's going on.
Mike's jeans are old and torn (not for style, but because he wore holes in them), and his hair is several inches past the length where Kevin's mother would have started making noises about it being time for a trim, and his breath smells like tobacco and beer. He's pretty much the poster boy for everything Kevin is probably supposed to avoid, but he has really nice arms, and Kevin wants to see him smile again. And Kevin is never going to see him do anything again after tonight, so he doesn't stop himself from blurting out,
"Would you- Do you want to dance?" He blushes hard, and Mike blinks three times in surprise while Kevin fidgets.
"I don't dance," he says flatly, and Kevin is a little surprised at how much the rejection hurts, and how stupid he feels (which in itself is stupid, because this whole thing is stupid, but he stops himself before he can go any further down that route).
"Oh." Kevin clears his throat and fidgets some more. The fraying hem of his jeans frays just a little further, the damp strands of denim feathering out between his fingertips.
It turns out Mike plays guitar, too. Kevin recognizes the calluses on the fingers that close around his wrist and rescue his jeans from further destruction.
"Hey," he says, "No-" and Kevin's still processing how warm Mike's hand is on his wrist, dry and a little rough, but he turns to look at Mike and Mike's right there and then his lips are on Kevin's, firm but not demanding.
It's not like Kevin hasn't kissed anyone before. He totally has-Angie Thompson, 6th grade, on a dare.
This is nothing like kissing Angie Thompson.
Kevin can feel the stubble on Mike's chin as their lips slide together, scratching against his skin, and when he gasps a little, Mike licks inside his mouth, bringing a hand up to Kevin's neck to hold him steady. Kevin's grateful for that, because he feels like he might fall off the couch from shock. Mike's tongue is in his mouth, wet and hot and teasing along the edges of his teeth, and there's more spit than Kevin was prepared for but it's totally not gross. Mike tastes like beer and cigarettes and somehow that's not gross either; instead it's exciting and illicit and it's making Kevin's stomach feel sort of floaty and all knotted up at the same time.
Kevin's starting to worry about air, and also what he should do with his hands (is touching allowed? Kevin always thought you didn't even get to kissing until the end of the first date, at least, but this isn't a date and the kissing came much sooner than expected and if Kevin has a game-he suspects he doesn't-he's been totally thrown off it), when Mike breaks away, brushing his thumb across Kevin's bottom lip where a thin strand of saliva seems determined not to let them separate. Kevin still doesn't know what to do with his hands, but he reaches out and grips Mike's thigh, and he guesses that touching is allowed after all, because the corners of Mike's mouth turn up.
"Okay?" Mike asks, with just the barest hint of humor in his voice. Kevin just breathes for a moment, because this is something, right here. It's probably not something to Mike, but Kevin has to take a moment to fix this in his head, because this is a milestone, a line that's been crossed that he can never un-cross, and that he doesn't want to. Every second from now on is a second after he kissed a boy, and it feels like something he should remember. He's scared out of his mind and completely exhilarated at the same time, like the first time he went on a roller coaster at Six Flags, and Kevin wants... well, he really wants to go back to kissing Mike now, and maybe he can? He licks his upper lip, just a tiny movement of his tongue, but Mike's sharp eyes follow the movement and it gives Kevin just enough courage.
"Sure. Yeah, I'm- Can we do that again?" he asks, and he knows he sounds overexcited, but Joe's the smooth one in the family-Kevin long ago gave up on that.
It turns out to be smooth enough, though, because Mike smiles again-it makes Kevin's stomach flutter alarmingly-and says, "Yeah, we can do that again." He's laughing, Kevin knows, but not at Kevin, and his amusement is almost comforting.
The second kiss melts into the third, which melts into the fourth, which melts into just making out, and at some point Mike says, "C'mere," and pulls Kevin down horizontal on the couch so he's straddling one of Mike's thighs, Mike's hands bracketing his waist and sliding up under the hem of his t-shirt (he's not sure when he lost his jacket, but it was probably around the time he learned that he really liked it when Mike bit gently at his lower lip). Kevin has a moment of nearly heart-stopping anxiety when he realizes that he can feel Mike's dick rubbing against his hip through their jeans, half-hard and terrifying, because what if Mike wants him to...? Kevin has lots of vague ideas about things he could do with-to-Mike's dick; schoolyard whispers and PG-13, FCC-approved suggestions made on prime-time TV, and the images flowing through his head make him feel like he's burning up inside and Kevin's well beyond half-hard.
His hips stutter against Mike's, and Mike makes approving noises into Kevin's mouth and kisses the side of his neck, just below his jaw, and Kevin's sure it's going to kill him, but somehow, when Mike's hand drifts down to cup the front of his jeans, Kevin only thrusts into his palm once-so, so good!-before he breaks away, gasping. "-Can't, I can't," he's not even sure what he means; he can't do this? Or he can't stop himself if Mike keeps touching him like that?
It takes every ounce of self-control he has (and several ounces he hasn't) for Kevin to lever himself up-he nearly knees Mike in the crotch in the process, but at least they aren't groin-to-hip anymore, even if Kevin is sort of kneeling on Mike's leg and Kevin's erection feels obscenely visible, which is somehow far worse than when Mike could just feel it. Mike lies on the couch, looking a little stunned and a little inscrutable, but he pushes himself up on one elbow and tucks his hair behind his ear while Kevin calms down.
It takes several long breaths, but Kevin manages to gulp down the panic that had surfaced, which leaves only acute embarrassment in its wake. "Sorry," he says, looking down and then closing his eyes because looking down gives him a great view of the outline of Mike's dick beneath his jeans.
"S'okay," Mike says back, and Kevin doesn't really believe him at all, but then Mike's hand is on his thigh, his thumb rubbing little circles, and Kevin feels some of the tension drain out of him. Mike's hands slowly migrate upwards until Mike has a loose hold of Kevin's hips, tugging him forward.
"Come back down here," Mike commands, and Kevin lets himself be pulled downwards and arranged to Mike's satisfaction-lying half on top of him, their legs all tangled up. Kevin's wedged between Mike's solid chest and the back of the sofa, Mike's arm wrapped securely around his shoulders. Kevin drapes his free arm across Mike's ribcage and buries his nose in Mike's t-shirt and tries not to feel like a complete spaz.
He had nearly forgotten about the party, the thumping music nothing but background noise when all he could think about was MikeMikeMike, but there are only a few dancers left now. The party seems to have collapsed into piles of limbs and drunken laughter on the sofas scattered around the space, and on some choice sections of the floor.
"Sorry," Kevin says again, because the silence is stretching out between them and he's not sure if it's the good kind of silence or the other kind. Mike tightens his arm around Kevin's shoulders, squeezing for just a moment.
"I said it's fine." He looks at Kevin, and Kevin has to tilt his head back pretty far to meet his eyes-the angle is all awkward and he's sort of looking up Mike's nose. "If anybody ever tries anything you don't want, you should kick 'em in the balls," Mike says, and there's a moment of utter stillness while Kevin processes this, before he dissolves into completely undignified giggling, because what??
"Hey, I'm serious," Mike argues, but he's smiling and Kevin's lying on his chest so he can feel that Mike's laughing, too, and Kevin feels so much better it's almost ridiculous.
"Thanks," he says, when he can get the giggling under control (so embarrassing!), and Mike squeezes his shoulders again, and sometime not long after that, a wave of exhaustion crashes over Kevin and carries him to sleep before he can even put on a good show of fighting it.
~*~
Kevin wakes up slowly-he always has-so it takes him a good five minutes after the first of many attempts to open his eyes to realize that it's not Joe's armpit his head is buried in. It's only after that realization that his erection becomes a problem, because early on in their touring life he and his brothers had made a mutual agreement that morning wood was to be completely and utterly ignored, no matter whose it was or who it was rubbing against. Whoever does own the armpit is clearly not aware of that rule, because they've got an encouraging hand on Kevin's hip.
"Wha-?" he mumbles intelligently, and the owner of the armpit chuckles and that's when the whole night comes flooding back, from getting himself lost to his big gay makeout session with Mike, the probably-not-a-serial-killer who is the owner of both the armpit and the hand that's on Kevin's hip, plus the thigh he's been rubbing himself against for who knows how long. Kevin is sorely tempted to bury his head right back into Mike's armpit and pretend he hasn't really woken up.
"I should be able to wake Bill up enough to get his keys," Mike says, and Kevin yawns in the middle of saying, "Okay," but he's pretty sure Mike got it, because he waits for Kevin to stop yawning and kisses him softly.
"G'morning," Kevin manages to mumble-he's actually pretty proud of that; it's more coherent than he usually is-and he doesn't even blush very hard this time.
"Morning," Mike answers, turning his head to look out at the space beyond the sofa, which in the light of day appears to be a warehouse that was partially converted into a nightclub or maybe a bar? Kevin hasn't been in any nightclubs or bars, so he's not really sure how they're supposed to look. The rest of the party is still snoring (mostly on top of each other), and Mike's thumb rubs across the front of Kevin's jeans in invitation, but Kevin bites his lower lip and shakes his head.
"I should, um. I gotta-" He makes a gesture at the space.
"The bathroom's at the back," Mike says, and Kevin ungracefully disentangles himself (the sofa is not helping). He spots the sign for the men's room and makes his way to it as Mike sits up behind him.
~oOo~oOo~oOo~
Mike watches the kid pick his way through the passed-out remains of the previous night's party and wonders just what the fuck he'd been thinking. Not pulling the kid in off the street, because shit, he'd looked about three minutes from freezing to death or something, but he doesn't normally go around hooking up with strangers at parties (if not actually getting off could even be considered "hooking up"). Call him classy or whatever, but the random hookups are Bill's job. All he'd planned to do that night was get drunk.
But then, fooling around with the kid (Kevin, Mike remembers, and feels a little better that he at least isn't that shitty of a human being) had accomplished the true goal of the evening, which was to spend one whole night without thinking about Tom's fucking bullshit, and without wanting to punch things. The album is actually working now, which is the one and only benefit to the whole mess-and it's a big benefit, yeah, but it had been a big mess, too. Bill is all fucked up over it and Sisky's been driving himself crazy for weeks trying to fix Bill, so the Butcher's busy trying to fix Sisky and Mike just wants to wring Tom's fucking neck, because they'll eventually be better off without him (they will), but at the moment, a couple of tracks laid down don't make up for any of it.
He'd managed to avoid spending the night thinking about Tom, but apparently that's all the reprieve he gets. Mike rubs a hand across his face and hauls himself off the couch and onto his feet. He finally locates Bill, who's drooling on Gabe's stomach and, apparently, wearing his hoodie. (Thank fuck for Gabe Saporta, who can actually get Bill to loosen up and smile; for that, Mike's willing to overlook how he's a crazy fucker who might actually worship an alien cobra and/or Justin Timberlake.)
Mike nudges Bill's shoulder with his foot. Several times. "Bill. Wake up, asshole, I need your keys," he says when Bill has awakened sufficiently to make some noises that almost sound like words. Luckily, Mike has lived in close quarters with Bill for long enough that he can translate Bill's before-noon-haven't-had-coffee-yet grumblings into useful information, and he finds Bill's keys in his coat pocket-which is located under Sisky's ass on one of the sofas, but Mike has fucking talent and also a zombie apocalypse couldn't wake Sisky up.
He thinks about going to get the car, but it's parked a couple of blocks away and he's not sure when Kevin will re-appear from the bathroom; the kid seemed jumpy enough without Mike disappearing on him. There was a red Sharpie in Bill's pocket along with his keys, and Mike had taken it with the vague intention of writing something stupid on someone's face (he's leaning toward Wentz, because he'd just laugh and take pictures of himself to put on MySpace, whereas Bill would freak out and refuse to come out of the bathroom until he'd gotten it all off), but then he gets another idea. It's a stupid fucking idea in addition to being ridiculously lame, but he remembers Kevin talking about his brothers and their band and their current shitty luck, and Mike can sympathize with that.
He just hopes Kevin won't check his pockets until Mike's dropped him off with his family, because he's not sure how he'd explain the chick-flick shit he's doing.
~*~
Kevin re-emerges from the bathroom not long after Mike slips the jewel case in the pocket of Kevin's jacket. His hair is wet at the edges of his forehead, like he tried to wash his face. (Mike's been in that bathroom a dozen times-Kevin must have been making a real effort to have actually gotten his hair wet.) It isn't enough to have washed away all the morning bleariness; Kevin's movements are only just barely over the line of "awake", and his clothes and hair are still sleep-rumpled. The overall effect makes Mike want to shove him back down on the sofa and muss him up some more, but he'd promised Kevin's dad-his dad, what the fuck-that he'd deliver his son in the morning, and according to the aging clock over the bar, the morning is nearly over.
Mike holds up the keys and jangles them. "Ready to go?" He asks, and Kevin nods and says, "Yeah," and fumbles into his coat, shoving his hands into his jeans pockets, thank fuck. The walk to the car is quiet, but in that subdued, it's-still-morning-why-am-I-awake sort of way, not the awkward walk-of-shame way, which is good. They haven't gone very far when Kevin asks to use Mike's cell again; he hands it over and figures he's not eavesdropping if they're walking together. Kevin calls his family again, to let them know he's on his way, that he's fine. He hangs up just as they reach Bill's car and hands the phone back. His fingertips are cold.
"Thank you," Kevin says awkwardly, ducking his head, "For everything." It's unreasonably cute and so innocent, and Mike thinks he needs to do some serious inner re-evaluation, because before Kevin stumbled half-frozen into his life, he would not have labeled either of those things as turn-ons.
"It's no problem," He says, because it isn't. Kevin's fidgeting, though, like there's more he wants to say, so Mike stands there, leaning up against Bill's not-quite-a-junkheap car with his breath forming clouds in front of his face, waiting for Kevin to get it out.
"I, um. I just-my parents-" He starts, and Mike blinks slowly at him and keeps waiting. "I just, can I-?" And Kevin reaches out and grabs Mike's hand, the one that's holding the keys, and leans in to kiss Mike tentatively. Mike smiles as the babbling makes more sense; he gets it. There won't be a chance for this kind of goodbye with Kevin's parents and brothers standing around.
"Yeah," he says, turning them and using his hips to press Kevin back against the side of the car, "Yeah, you can." They're not going to do anything more, Mike knows. It's too public, and too cold, and Kevin's family is expecting him. That doesn't stop him from kissing Kevin breathless.
~*~
The motel Kevin's family is staying at is a little run-down, but it's not the bottom-of-the-barrel kind of place that caters mostly to drug dealers and low-rent hookers, which makes Mike feel inexplicably better-he's not sure why he cares what kind of place the kid's staying in, but apparently he does. He'd recognized the name when he'd heard it on the phone; he's driven past it a thousand times and could probably find it in his sleep, but the maze of back alleys and one-way streets in hidden residential pockets of the city it takes to get there from the club would be difficult, if not impossible, for a non-local to navigate without precise directions.
Kevin's the oldest, Mike can tell instantly as three younger boys practically explode from room 6 while he parks the car. They've barely stopped moving when Kevin opens the door and is immediately engulfed in a four-way hug. A man and a woman, obviously Kevin's parents, are only milliseconds slower about greeting their son, but Kevin's father makes his hug rather brief, and then makes his way around the car to where Mike is standing. He looks Mike over, a carefully neutral expression on his face-which is fine, Mike's used to being disreputable-and Mike's not sure how, but he can feel Kevin watching them.
"Kevin Jonas," the man introduces himself, belatedly adding, "Senior." Mike can't help but smile a little at that; junior takes after his dad. "Thank you for bringing our son home." He extends a hand and Mike shakes it, trying desperately (and without much success) not to feel like he's meeting the in-laws.
"Mike Carden," He introduces himself back, "It wasn't any trouble." The hugging on the other side of the car has abated for the time being, and Mike is uncomfortably aware of four new sets of eyes focused on him. And yes, rockstar, but fuck that. Being stared at is what Bill's for; Mike wants to play guitar, not be the center of attention.
He's about to move to get back into the car when Kevin Sr. says, "I wish there was some way we could repay you for your kindness," and that's, yeah, no, Mike is definitely not going to take any money from these people when he spent the night feeling up their son. He's got some morals, sort of.
"That's really not-" he starts, but then Mrs. Jonas says, "Oh! I know!" and goes over to the van that's parked two spaces away, trailer hooked up behind it (Mike has known vans like that, and he has an instant flash of pillows pressed up against the windows and feet propped up on cardboard boxes full of merch and crumpled McDonald's bags wedged under the seats), and Kevin says, flustered and blushing again, "Mom, you don't have to-" and then she's wrapping Mike up in an entirely unexpected hug and pressing a jewel case into his hands.
"It's not much," she says, "But please take it. As a token of our appreciation." She smiles warmly at him, and Mike doesn't even really look at the CD before nodding and saying, "Of course, thank you," because Grandma Carden would have his head if he wasn't polite.
He says goodbye to Kevin with an appropriately chaste handshake, and after a brief minute of awkward interaction-Kevin blushes too much, and his father is still looking at Mike like he's some strange and possibly-dangerous new species-Mike is pulling away from the motel and heading back to pick Bill up and drag his sorry ass back to his apartment. His last look in the rear-view shows Kevin being dragged into their room by the smallest of his brothers.
And that's that, Mike figures, sparing a glance over at the jewel case sitting on the passenger seat and smirking at the coincidence (he wonders if Kevin's found the CD yet). He'll listen to the album, he thinks. The kid had said it wasn't selling well, but Mike knows there could be a million reasons for that that have nothing to do with whether the music is good or not. He can probably get away with calling it A&R if anyone asks, though he's almost certain their sound won't be what Pete's looking for. Whatever. He wants to hear it, even though he's never going to see the kid again.
~oOo~oOo~oOo~
(January, 2007)
Kevin's never really had crushes (that one he had on Emilio Estevez when he was nine does not count), so he's always liked to think that he doesn't "do" crushes, except for how maybe he does. In fact, it's becoming increasingly likely that he has a huge, dorky, schoolgirl-style, impossible crush on Mike Carden from The Academy Is....
This is completely awful for a number of reasons.
~*~
As it turned out, Kevin found the CD in his pocket approximately ten seconds after the motel door shut behind him, though he left it right where it was until they had piled into the family's touring van and hit the road toward their next destination, somewhere in Indiana. He claimed the back bench seat for himself (Joe didn't even put up a fight about it, and Kevin took a second to feel really bad about what he must have put them through) and waited until his brothers had settled in with their iPods (or Gameboy, in Frankie's case) to pull the CD out and look at it. The plastic shrink-wrapping had been torn off, though the case was still sealed. The cover featured a bright cartoon sunrise (or maybe sunset?) and small letters in the upper left corner read, "The Academy Is..." and "Almost Here". But most importantly, scrawled on the front in red Sharpie was, "Don't give up. -Mike".
Kevin wasn't stupid. Considering that Mike had introduced himself to Kevin's dad as "Mike Carden" and "Michael Carden" was listed in the liner notes, it didn't take him very long to figure out that this was Mike's band, and Mike's band's CD. And that the "Bill" whose car they'd taken was William Beckett, who was apparently their lead singer (and who did, in fact, look like a girl, but Kevin didn't find that out until later). Kevin hadn't been wrong about the calluses on Mike's fingers; he did play guitar after all; and he was good, Kevin discovered once he got a chance to get the CD transferred onto his iPod. He keeps the jewel case with Mike's message on it safely tucked away at the bottom of his duffel.
It was almost Christmas by the time Kevin got a chance to look for any more information. He went to the public library, mostly because using his dad's laptop to Google-stalk the guy he sort-of-maybe-hooked-up-with just felt wrong. They were home for the holidays, and being in Wyckoff meant that no one worried when Kevin disappeared for a few hours, since he actually knew his way home (and shopping for Christmas presents was always a good excuse to get away without company). His free hour with Google was informative.
For one thing, he learned that the "Pete" who had briefly occupied his lap was Pete Wentz of Fall Out Boy, and that the library's internet censors didn't like Pete Wentz very much (which was unnerving, and made Kevin doubly glad he had decided against using his dad's computer).
And for another, he learned that Mike Carden was not just a guy in a band who Kevin happened to have a stupidly massive crush on. No; he could-without any charity-be considered an actual rock star. TAI had their own headlining tour and everything-they'd been to Europe, and Japan! There were pictures all over the internet, and a blog that Kevin browsed through carefully.
By the time the timer started flashing to let him know his hour was almost up, he was fairly certain he was doomed.
~*~
Mike is cool-really, actually cool-and he's still... well. Kevin Jonas. Mike is so far out of his league; he's like, the Yankees to Kevin's intramural fast-pitch softball team (even if they had won the championship two years in a row). And yet the knowledge of Mike's coolness doesn't stop Kevin from wanting to kiss him again; or from wanting Mike's hands on his waist, pressing him back against the winter-morning-cold door of an aging sedan; or from waking up sweaty and hard with the memory-taste of tobacco and beer in his mouth.
~*~
Kevin's shrine to Mike Carden is not a shrine, exactly. It is located in the bottom of his touring duffel, and is comprised of only three items: the copy of "Almost Here" that Mike had given him; a nondescript USB flash drive containing one picture of Mike smiling and one picture of him smoking in a bathtub (which Kevin felt awkward about saving but can't bring himself to delete); and a scrap of paper-which is actually tucked into the liner notes of "Almost Here", for safekeeping-on which Kevin has scrawled Mike's cell phone number, hastily retrieved from Kevin Sr.'s recent calls list when no one was looking.
It's the last of these items that Kevin is worrying between his thumb and his first two fingers as he sits (okay, hides, but he doesn't have to admit that, does he?) in the bathroom with the cordless phone handset from the kitchen. It's not that he's not sure he wants to sign the contracts with Hollywood Records-it's the break they've been waiting and working for all this time, and not only would everyone be so disappointed if he said "No", but he'd feel like such a failure. It's just...
It's Disney; which Kevin loves, to be sure-he can sing all the songs from The Little Mermaid, which is a fact he tries not to advertise too widely-but he's under no illusions about what that means for him, personally. Disney doesn't let its boys kiss other boys, let alone any of the other things Kevin sometimes thinks about doing with other boys.
He knows-thinks he knows-that his family would be fine with him, would be able to accept that he's really, completely and totally gay, even though the church says it's wrong. They love him. And most of the time he's pretty sure they all know already (except maybe Frankie, who still thinks girls have cooties and wouldn't really understand). But he's not ready to tell them, is the thing. Because telling them... there's no way to go back from that. His worst nightmares are the ones where Nick won't hug him anymore; where Joe looks at him like he's a freak. They wouldn't; he knows his brothers and he trusts his brothers, but every time he thinks he might say something (sometimes he gets as far as opening his mouth to speak) the fear wells up and seizes his insides and he can't make the words come out.
Which brings him to Mike's phone number, and hiding in the bathroom.
The guy he made out with once when he was lost in Chicago (and subsequently developed a stupid fanboy crush on, but that's not important at this juncture), who turned out to be a semi-famous rock star, is perhaps not the best person to bring his emotional crisis to, but with his parents and his brothers and, obviously, all his friends from church automatically excluded, there's... truthfully, not many people left on the list of possible sounding boards.
Kevin's fingers shake as he dials; he accidentally hits the 5 and the 6 at the same time and has to hang up and start over. But his second attempt is successful, and possibly his heart is going to beat its way out of his chest in protest at being put through this, but the other end is ringing once, twice, three times, and then a sleepy voice is saying, "Yeah?" and Kevin pretty much completely forgets everything he had planned to say.
He settles for, "Um. Hi?"
"Who the fuck is this?" Mike's voice says, gravelly and unhappy and Kevin thinks, belatedly, that just because he is awake and worrying about things at 4AM doesn't mean that everyone is.
...Oops.
"Kevin," he blurts out, entirely sure that Mike is going to hang up on him (he would hang up on him, if he called himself at 4AM). "It's Kevin. I'm Kevin. You-We, um. I was lost, before?"
There's a not-quite-silence on the other end of the line, mostly made up of rustling sounds and a muted, "Fuck," that Kevin pretends he hasn't heard.
"Please tell me you're not wandering around outside again," Mike says, and his voice is still rough but he doesn't sound angry anymore.
"No," Kevin says. "I'm not. I'm home. In the bathroom, actually, 'cause Joe's kind of a light sleeper? So he'd definitely wake up if I was on the phone in the kitchen, um." Kevin does not know why he can't stop babbling.
Mike just sounds like he might laugh. "So why are you calling at three in the morning if you don't need rescuing?" Mike pauses. "And how the hell did you get this number, anyway?"
Kevin blushes, even though there's no one there to see it. "Um, the recent calls log on my dad's cellphone?" he offers, and Mike really does laugh at that. Kevin fights down the urge to shush him-it's not like Joe can hear Mike all the way from Chicago.
"It's... I mean, why I'm calling," Kevin fumbles, takes a deep breath. "Our label dropped us," he starts over, and Mike says, "Fuckers," which is not what Kevin would have said, but he appreciates the sentiment.
"We got an offer from a new label," he says, and Mike makes listening noises as Kevin lets everything spill out; how excited everyone is, how excited he is, and how scared, because, okay, he was already living in a closet (even if it was a pretty flimsy one), but signing with Disney is like stepping into a steel-lined vault. Or if it's not, it feels that way, because Kevin would never do anything to hurt his brothers, and that certainly extends to getting them dropped from another label because of his immense gayness.
Every feeling and worry and fear that's been trapped inside him has been spread out on the ceramic tile when he's done, and there's a long pause during which he gets to examine each piece under the overhead light (and feel a bit sick) before Mike speaks.
"What do you want to do?" Mike asks, and Kevin wants to smash his head against the cabinets, because he doesn't know and that's why he made this call in the first place.
"I don't-" he starts, but Mike cuts him off.
"Yeah, you do. What do you want?" He somehow makes the question a command, and the surety in his voice breaks through the intangible block in Kevin's head.
"I want to make music," he says, and it's the most honest answer he can give. He wants to write songs with his brothers. He wants to play guitar every day for the rest of his life. It's all he's wanted, for years now.
"Then make music, kid," Mike says, and Kevin can almost feel the reassuring squeeze to his arm, the back of his neck, his ankle, his thigh. "You'll figure the rest out."
"Thanks," Kevin says in a quiet voice.
"Yeah," Mike yawns, and Kevin remembers, right, 3AM in Chicago and that was nearly an hour ago. "I'm going back to sleep now," he says, and Kevin nods, feels stupid, then says, "Yeah, no, sorry."
It's just before they hang up that he thinks to ask, "Your number, I- Can I-" and for a second he thinks Mike already hung up, but then he hears,
"Keep it. 'Night, Kevin."
Kevin presses the End button on the handset and smiles down at the paper with Mike's number on it. He returns the handset to the kitchen and carefully stows the slip of paper back in its customary spot, tucked into the four-fold liner notes before sliding back under the downturned covers of his bed and sleeping straight through breakfast.
~*~
BIG NEWS!!!
Hey Everybody!!
As most of you already know we are no longer with Columbia Records.....but we are VERY happy and excited to announce we have signed with Hollywood Records.
We are currently very busy in the studio where we have already begun the first stages of our new CD which is tentatively due to release late summer 2007!! We have written so many new songs and can't wait for you to hear them.
~*~
We're sorry. You have reached a number that is no longer in service. If you feel you have reached this recording in error, please check the number and try your call again.
~*~
We're sorry. You have reached a number that is no longer in service. If you feel you have reached this recording in error, please check the number and try your call again.
~*~
We're sorry. You have reached a number that is no longer in service. If you feel you have reached this recording in error, please check the number and try your call again.
[Continue to Part 2]
.
Fandom: Bandom/Jonas Brothers
Pairing: Mike Carden/Kevin Jonas, various background pairings
Rating: Adult
Wordcount: ~15,700
Summary: In which Kevin Jonas gets lost twice and is found each time, and Mike Carden is almost (but really not) a fourteen-year-old girl. Or, a story about getting lost and finding more than just your way. (An obsessively-close-to-canon!AU.)
Notes: This is a close-to-canon AU that spans, with some time jumps, from December 2006 to December 2007. A shockingly large amount of this story is real. That does not mean it’s true. I have bent a lot of reality in the writing of this. Tours were extended, a blog post was pieced together from actual quotes and my own fabrications, and the Greek bakery near my apartment was moved to Chicago.
Should you wish to refer to reality, please see riorhapsody’s TAI… Ridiculous Primer and irishmizzy et. al.’s Jonas University Lecture Series, both of which were referenced extensively while I was writing this.
This story was partially inspired by this prompt at we_are_cities.
Special Thanks: This fic would NOT have been possible without the love and support of my completely fantastic beta, the lovely b_dsaint, who nearly deserves co-writer credit. Thank you for letting me bounce ideas off you for hours and hours, and for being honest when I was doing stupid things; you made this story so much better than I ever thought possible! As always, any remaining mistakes are mine and mine alone. <3
And, of course, to my friends on Twitter, for putting up with me as I chattered about this story for 3 months. I promise not to start on the sequel for at least a week. ;)
~*SUPER EXTRA SPECIAL THANKS*~ to the lovely skoosiepants, who made a fanmix for this fic!! \0/ You can find the mix here: Fuck This Map
Part 1 | Part 2
(December, 2006)
There's a five-dollar bill in the gutter at the edge of the crosswalk. It's grubby; folded haphazardly in half and damp with the last traces of slush still clinging to the asphalt. Kevin stares down at it for a full minute as the corner flutters in the wake of a passing Toyota, the toes of his sneakers less than an inch away. He'd nearly stepped right over it.
He picks it up carefully. It's not really that dirty, just wet and wrinkled. It must have fallen out of someone's pocket, but Kevin doesn't see anyone looking for their lost lunch money or cab fare or Starbucks latte or whatever the five was originally going to be for. Does that mean he can keep it? He looks at the bill again. Some previous owner has drawn a mustache on Abraham Lincoln with a Sharpie marker, and another (or maybe it was the same one?) has scrawled Bible verses around the outer edge in fading blue ink.
Jn 3:16, Rom 8:28, Jn 14:1, Gal 5:22, Jer 29:11, Judg 18:6... Kevin reads the numbers and letters slowly and deliberately, tucking himself against the rough brick wall of the Greek bakery that stands guard over this corner. He knows some of them, but not others, and some are too smudged and faded from age and fingertips and careless creases to be read at all. The air smells like baklava, and Kevin briefly considers putting the five to use, but decides in the end to save it.
He believes in signs, sort of. Not all the ladders and black cats and broken mirrors stuff, but little things like rainbows appearing on bad days or five-dollar bills inked with Scripture that he happened to see because he looked down at just the right moment. He's not sure what this sign means, though. Maybe it means everything will be all right. Or maybe it means that they'll have five dollars' worth of gas to get them home before Joe's jokes about eating their merch t-shirts instead of selling them-trying to sell them-become prophecy.
Their rep at Columbia had called again; sales were still slow, not much chance of another marketing push with the holiday season mostly over already. While his parents talked in low voices and Joe tried to teach Frankie how to play a G chord for the fourth time (even though his fingers could barely reach across the fretboard) and Nick read every word of their contract again and again, Kevin had grabbed his jacket and his wallet and took off-slipped out the door and started walking. He might be lost, now. No, he's pretty sure he's lost. He knows he's in Chicago, but that's about as good as knowing he's in the United States as far as finding his way back to the motel where the entire Jonas clan has been holed up for three days, three-to-a-bed. The symmetry is depressing.
Kevin tucks the five in his wallet. It looks lonely against the cheap leather, with only his driver's license for company. He slips the wallet back into his pocket and hunches inside his jacket. The sky had been clear all day-bright, crystal winter blue-but it's cold outside, and getting colder at an alarming rate now that the sun has set and the streetlights have turned on. He should've thought to bring gloves, or a hat, or something. He's not dressed for December in Chicago.
His jacket proves itself even more woefully inadequate as the night grows darker and colder. Kevin's got his hands stuffed as far inside his pockets as he can get them, but his fingers still feel cold-the wind whipping through the streets bites straight through the 'weatherproof' material. The cheap, plated metal of his purity ring is burning against his skin, and he feels a little guilty as he slips it off and tucks it carefully into his jeans' pocket, but he's sure God will understand.
Kevin wishes he had gone into the Greek bakery. Maybe they would've had a phone, or something. He's managed to wander into somewhere vaguely industrial and more-than-vaguely threatening, even though the whole place seems deserted, like five o'clock rolled around and everyone disappeared all at once. Kevin doesn't actually know exactly how long ago five o'clock was, but he thinks it was probably a long time. His family must be worried sick.
Kevin's about to give up and... Well, he's really cold and his head's kind of fuzzy so he really doesn't know what he's going to do, but something, when he hears the soft sound of a bass beat; not too far off, but far enough that he can't see the source of it. He's hoping and praying that when he finds the source of the noise it doesn't turn out to be a bunch of drug dealers (Kevin has heard bad things about drug dealers, or, more specifically, what drug dealers might do to teenaged guitarists who wander into their midst), but when he gets close enough, the bass resolves itself into music (good music) and voices, talking and laughing. He rounds a corner to see an open door about halfway up the next block, spilling light onto the sidewalk. There are a few people standing around in the glow-smoking, maybe? Every breath rises as a puff of condensation, but Kevin can't think of any other reason they'd be standing around outside when it's so cold, then one of them flicks a lighter to life so yeah, he was totally right!
He gets pretty close before they really notice him, close enough to see that they're all guys-probably older than him, but not by too much-and at least half of them are wearing skinny jeans, which is comforting. (Kevin doesn't think violent drug dealers are very into the skinny jeans thing.) But they do notice him eventually. Kevin can feel warm air pouring out of the doorway along with the music and the sounds of a party in progress, and the guy closest to him-he's got long hair and Kevin's first impressions are 'pretty' and 'they're not drug dealers they're serial killers!'-turns toward Kevin and his eyes open up wide and he says,
"What the fuck are you wearing, kid?"
and Kevin is quickly surrounded and hustled into the building, where it's deliciously warm, so he doesn't even object to the guy saying the F-word like that. His teeth are still chattering as he's deposited on a lumpy sofa that smells very, very suspicious and nearly engulfs him when he leans back into the cushions. There's suddenly a lot of noise and a lot of people Kevin doesn't know all standing around and looking at him, like he crash-landed from Mars or something.
He can't feel his feet, which is worrisome, and he's about to say something about it, presuming he can get his tongue to work properly, when something big and heavy and wiggling lands in his lap and declares loudly, "Carden! You brought presents to your own party?" So the big-heavy-wiggling thing turns out to be a person, who isn't actually that big for a person, and he's sitting in Kevin's lap the way Kevin's parents say nice girls don't.
"I'm Kevin," Kevin offers awkwardly, because he's not really sure what you're supposed to say to strangers who appear in your lap. The guy gives him this crazy, too-wide smile that's actually kind of scary and says, "Pete," so Kevin feels a little better that he at least knows the name of the person sitting on him. Then Pete is suddenly removed-which is sad, because he was really warm and Kevin felt like his brain was beginning to function again-and the serial killer from outside is standing there holding the back of Pete's hoodie, and saying,
"Hands off the jailbait, Pete."
Kevin doesn't get around to objecting, because Pete just smiles that huge smile again (it's still kind of scary) and attaches himself to a guy wearing a hat and a grimace of annoyance.
"Fine, be greedy. Besides, Patrick's all the jailbait I need! Right, Trickster?"
"I'm not jailbait," Patrick grumbles, and that's exactly what Kevin had planned to say, but his face was still kind of frozen.
"Kevin, right?" The serial killer is now sitting next to him on the lumpy sofa, and up close he doesn't seem so... serial-killer-ish.
Kevin nods. "I'm not jailbait," he says, just to clarify, and the probably-not-a-serial-killer gets this really stupid look on his face for a second, kind of stunned, and Kevin finally clues into how that's not actually the question he was asked.
"Oh. Um. Yeah, Kevin," he says, and he can't help the embarrassed flush that warms his cheeks.
A long, slow smile spreads across the guy's face, and wow, yeah, definitely not a serial killer smile, and he says, "Mike."
Mike turns out not to be anything like a serial killer, which is pretty awesome in Kevin's opinion. He lets Kevin borrow his cell phone so he can call his family-his mom answers, and she's crying, and Kevin feels so horrible he might cry, and then his dad's on the line and somehow Mike has the phone and is talking to Kevin Sr. and saying things like, "Yeah, he's fine," and "No, sir, just a birthday party," and "...from out of town?" and "...never find it. Yeah, he'll be fine here... yeah, in the morning, can you text the address to this number?" then Kevin has the phone again and it's Nick and Joe's voices telling him how worried they were and Kevin says, "I'm sorry," over and over until they hang up.
"So you didn't run away," Mike says, and it's not really a question or a statement, it just hangs there for Kevin to grab onto or not. He grabs, because if he thinks about the way Nick's voice had been so broken...
"No," he says, but he's not sure that's right. He pulls his feet up onto the edge of the couch and curls around his knees. "I mean, I didn't mean to. Not permanently or anything." He glances over, but Mike's just watching him, waiting for him to say whatever he's going to say. Kevin realizes abruptly that he hasn't really talked to anyone who isn't a blood relative in longer than he wants to admit.
"I'm in a band. With my brothers," he says, and fully expects to be laughed at, because most people (who aren't family, anyway) laugh when Kevin says that, or smile condescendingly like they think Kevin and his brothers just goof around with instruments in their garage on weekends or something and call it a band, but Mike looks actually interested, and Kevin feels a little better already.
"It's pretty much the best thing ever. And we were doing okay. Or, I thought we were doing okay? We were on TRL, even," he says excitedly, because MTV; a few years ago he wasn't even allowed to watch MTV! "It was so cool. Except, our CD isn't doing very well, and our rep keeps calling, and Nick says the label's probably going to drop us if our sales don't pick up. He's my brother," Kevin clarifies. "Nick. And Joe. Um, I play guitar?"
"Yeah?" Mike's smile is back, and Kevin fights the urge to fidget. He settles for picking at the slightly damp hem of his jeans.
"Yeah. I was just going to go for a walk, you know? But I got lost."
Mike makes a noise that might be an aborted laugh. "We'll get you back in the morning," he says, "once Bill's not too drunk to tell me where his keys are." He nods his head at the group of people dancing in the center of the room. Kevin has no idea which one Bill is, but he's really glad his parents aren't picking him up here, because there are a bunch of guys grinding against each other in ways that Kevin is pretty sure aren't approved by the Assemblies of God. At all. Kevin gulps and looks away, but not before getting an eyeful. And the looking away doesn't really help, because he's not looking 'away' so much as 'at Mike' and possibly his face is going to burst into flames.
"Bill's the one who looks like a girl," Mike says, smirking, and Kevin reflexively looks back at the dancers, about half of whom fit that description. He lets himself look this time-he's trying to figure out which one of them is Bill, he lies to himself, and is instantly contrite.
He can't help that his heart skips beats when cute boys smile at him, and doesn't so much as flutter for the short-skirted girls Joe can't keep his eyes off. He tried for a long time, when he was younger and terrified that his parents would find out. Terrified that God knew his secret, because God knows everything, so there's no way He could miss the things Kevin daydreams about. But Kevin can't help that he doesn't want to kiss girls, or that he thinks breasts are nice enough in an aesthetic sense, but sort of confusing and weird. And Kevin Sr. taught him, when he was old enough to understand the lessons, that sins are choices you make, and that God made everyone exactly as He meant them to be.
Kevin watches the boys on the dance floor, and reminds himself that the lying is the sin. (It's still hard to convince himself, but it gets easier every time he does.)
"You okay?" Mike asks, sounding worried, and Kevin realizes abruptly that Mike has been watching him while he's been watching them, and that's... awkward. But then, these are Mike's friends, and Mike doesn't seem to care at all that his male friends are busy groping and... yeah, no, there are definitely tongues involved in the kissing that's going on.
Mike's jeans are old and torn (not for style, but because he wore holes in them), and his hair is several inches past the length where Kevin's mother would have started making noises about it being time for a trim, and his breath smells like tobacco and beer. He's pretty much the poster boy for everything Kevin is probably supposed to avoid, but he has really nice arms, and Kevin wants to see him smile again. And Kevin is never going to see him do anything again after tonight, so he doesn't stop himself from blurting out,
"Would you- Do you want to dance?" He blushes hard, and Mike blinks three times in surprise while Kevin fidgets.
"I don't dance," he says flatly, and Kevin is a little surprised at how much the rejection hurts, and how stupid he feels (which in itself is stupid, because this whole thing is stupid, but he stops himself before he can go any further down that route).
"Oh." Kevin clears his throat and fidgets some more. The fraying hem of his jeans frays just a little further, the damp strands of denim feathering out between his fingertips.
It turns out Mike plays guitar, too. Kevin recognizes the calluses on the fingers that close around his wrist and rescue his jeans from further destruction.
"Hey," he says, "No-" and Kevin's still processing how warm Mike's hand is on his wrist, dry and a little rough, but he turns to look at Mike and Mike's right there and then his lips are on Kevin's, firm but not demanding.
It's not like Kevin hasn't kissed anyone before. He totally has-Angie Thompson, 6th grade, on a dare.
This is nothing like kissing Angie Thompson.
Kevin can feel the stubble on Mike's chin as their lips slide together, scratching against his skin, and when he gasps a little, Mike licks inside his mouth, bringing a hand up to Kevin's neck to hold him steady. Kevin's grateful for that, because he feels like he might fall off the couch from shock. Mike's tongue is in his mouth, wet and hot and teasing along the edges of his teeth, and there's more spit than Kevin was prepared for but it's totally not gross. Mike tastes like beer and cigarettes and somehow that's not gross either; instead it's exciting and illicit and it's making Kevin's stomach feel sort of floaty and all knotted up at the same time.
Kevin's starting to worry about air, and also what he should do with his hands (is touching allowed? Kevin always thought you didn't even get to kissing until the end of the first date, at least, but this isn't a date and the kissing came much sooner than expected and if Kevin has a game-he suspects he doesn't-he's been totally thrown off it), when Mike breaks away, brushing his thumb across Kevin's bottom lip where a thin strand of saliva seems determined not to let them separate. Kevin still doesn't know what to do with his hands, but he reaches out and grips Mike's thigh, and he guesses that touching is allowed after all, because the corners of Mike's mouth turn up.
"Okay?" Mike asks, with just the barest hint of humor in his voice. Kevin just breathes for a moment, because this is something, right here. It's probably not something to Mike, but Kevin has to take a moment to fix this in his head, because this is a milestone, a line that's been crossed that he can never un-cross, and that he doesn't want to. Every second from now on is a second after he kissed a boy, and it feels like something he should remember. He's scared out of his mind and completely exhilarated at the same time, like the first time he went on a roller coaster at Six Flags, and Kevin wants... well, he really wants to go back to kissing Mike now, and maybe he can? He licks his upper lip, just a tiny movement of his tongue, but Mike's sharp eyes follow the movement and it gives Kevin just enough courage.
"Sure. Yeah, I'm- Can we do that again?" he asks, and he knows he sounds overexcited, but Joe's the smooth one in the family-Kevin long ago gave up on that.
It turns out to be smooth enough, though, because Mike smiles again-it makes Kevin's stomach flutter alarmingly-and says, "Yeah, we can do that again." He's laughing, Kevin knows, but not at Kevin, and his amusement is almost comforting.
The second kiss melts into the third, which melts into the fourth, which melts into just making out, and at some point Mike says, "C'mere," and pulls Kevin down horizontal on the couch so he's straddling one of Mike's thighs, Mike's hands bracketing his waist and sliding up under the hem of his t-shirt (he's not sure when he lost his jacket, but it was probably around the time he learned that he really liked it when Mike bit gently at his lower lip). Kevin has a moment of nearly heart-stopping anxiety when he realizes that he can feel Mike's dick rubbing against his hip through their jeans, half-hard and terrifying, because what if Mike wants him to...? Kevin has lots of vague ideas about things he could do with-to-Mike's dick; schoolyard whispers and PG-13, FCC-approved suggestions made on prime-time TV, and the images flowing through his head make him feel like he's burning up inside and Kevin's well beyond half-hard.
His hips stutter against Mike's, and Mike makes approving noises into Kevin's mouth and kisses the side of his neck, just below his jaw, and Kevin's sure it's going to kill him, but somehow, when Mike's hand drifts down to cup the front of his jeans, Kevin only thrusts into his palm once-so, so good!-before he breaks away, gasping. "-Can't, I can't," he's not even sure what he means; he can't do this? Or he can't stop himself if Mike keeps touching him like that?
It takes every ounce of self-control he has (and several ounces he hasn't) for Kevin to lever himself up-he nearly knees Mike in the crotch in the process, but at least they aren't groin-to-hip anymore, even if Kevin is sort of kneeling on Mike's leg and Kevin's erection feels obscenely visible, which is somehow far worse than when Mike could just feel it. Mike lies on the couch, looking a little stunned and a little inscrutable, but he pushes himself up on one elbow and tucks his hair behind his ear while Kevin calms down.
It takes several long breaths, but Kevin manages to gulp down the panic that had surfaced, which leaves only acute embarrassment in its wake. "Sorry," he says, looking down and then closing his eyes because looking down gives him a great view of the outline of Mike's dick beneath his jeans.
"S'okay," Mike says back, and Kevin doesn't really believe him at all, but then Mike's hand is on his thigh, his thumb rubbing little circles, and Kevin feels some of the tension drain out of him. Mike's hands slowly migrate upwards until Mike has a loose hold of Kevin's hips, tugging him forward.
"Come back down here," Mike commands, and Kevin lets himself be pulled downwards and arranged to Mike's satisfaction-lying half on top of him, their legs all tangled up. Kevin's wedged between Mike's solid chest and the back of the sofa, Mike's arm wrapped securely around his shoulders. Kevin drapes his free arm across Mike's ribcage and buries his nose in Mike's t-shirt and tries not to feel like a complete spaz.
He had nearly forgotten about the party, the thumping music nothing but background noise when all he could think about was MikeMikeMike, but there are only a few dancers left now. The party seems to have collapsed into piles of limbs and drunken laughter on the sofas scattered around the space, and on some choice sections of the floor.
"Sorry," Kevin says again, because the silence is stretching out between them and he's not sure if it's the good kind of silence or the other kind. Mike tightens his arm around Kevin's shoulders, squeezing for just a moment.
"I said it's fine." He looks at Kevin, and Kevin has to tilt his head back pretty far to meet his eyes-the angle is all awkward and he's sort of looking up Mike's nose. "If anybody ever tries anything you don't want, you should kick 'em in the balls," Mike says, and there's a moment of utter stillness while Kevin processes this, before he dissolves into completely undignified giggling, because what??
"Hey, I'm serious," Mike argues, but he's smiling and Kevin's lying on his chest so he can feel that Mike's laughing, too, and Kevin feels so much better it's almost ridiculous.
"Thanks," he says, when he can get the giggling under control (so embarrassing!), and Mike squeezes his shoulders again, and sometime not long after that, a wave of exhaustion crashes over Kevin and carries him to sleep before he can even put on a good show of fighting it.
~*~
Kevin wakes up slowly-he always has-so it takes him a good five minutes after the first of many attempts to open his eyes to realize that it's not Joe's armpit his head is buried in. It's only after that realization that his erection becomes a problem, because early on in their touring life he and his brothers had made a mutual agreement that morning wood was to be completely and utterly ignored, no matter whose it was or who it was rubbing against. Whoever does own the armpit is clearly not aware of that rule, because they've got an encouraging hand on Kevin's hip.
"Wha-?" he mumbles intelligently, and the owner of the armpit chuckles and that's when the whole night comes flooding back, from getting himself lost to his big gay makeout session with Mike, the probably-not-a-serial-killer who is the owner of both the armpit and the hand that's on Kevin's hip, plus the thigh he's been rubbing himself against for who knows how long. Kevin is sorely tempted to bury his head right back into Mike's armpit and pretend he hasn't really woken up.
"I should be able to wake Bill up enough to get his keys," Mike says, and Kevin yawns in the middle of saying, "Okay," but he's pretty sure Mike got it, because he waits for Kevin to stop yawning and kisses him softly.
"G'morning," Kevin manages to mumble-he's actually pretty proud of that; it's more coherent than he usually is-and he doesn't even blush very hard this time.
"Morning," Mike answers, turning his head to look out at the space beyond the sofa, which in the light of day appears to be a warehouse that was partially converted into a nightclub or maybe a bar? Kevin hasn't been in any nightclubs or bars, so he's not really sure how they're supposed to look. The rest of the party is still snoring (mostly on top of each other), and Mike's thumb rubs across the front of Kevin's jeans in invitation, but Kevin bites his lower lip and shakes his head.
"I should, um. I gotta-" He makes a gesture at the space.
"The bathroom's at the back," Mike says, and Kevin ungracefully disentangles himself (the sofa is not helping). He spots the sign for the men's room and makes his way to it as Mike sits up behind him.
~oOo~oOo~oOo~
Mike watches the kid pick his way through the passed-out remains of the previous night's party and wonders just what the fuck he'd been thinking. Not pulling the kid in off the street, because shit, he'd looked about three minutes from freezing to death or something, but he doesn't normally go around hooking up with strangers at parties (if not actually getting off could even be considered "hooking up"). Call him classy or whatever, but the random hookups are Bill's job. All he'd planned to do that night was get drunk.
But then, fooling around with the kid (Kevin, Mike remembers, and feels a little better that he at least isn't that shitty of a human being) had accomplished the true goal of the evening, which was to spend one whole night without thinking about Tom's fucking bullshit, and without wanting to punch things. The album is actually working now, which is the one and only benefit to the whole mess-and it's a big benefit, yeah, but it had been a big mess, too. Bill is all fucked up over it and Sisky's been driving himself crazy for weeks trying to fix Bill, so the Butcher's busy trying to fix Sisky and Mike just wants to wring Tom's fucking neck, because they'll eventually be better off without him (they will), but at the moment, a couple of tracks laid down don't make up for any of it.
He'd managed to avoid spending the night thinking about Tom, but apparently that's all the reprieve he gets. Mike rubs a hand across his face and hauls himself off the couch and onto his feet. He finally locates Bill, who's drooling on Gabe's stomach and, apparently, wearing his hoodie. (Thank fuck for Gabe Saporta, who can actually get Bill to loosen up and smile; for that, Mike's willing to overlook how he's a crazy fucker who might actually worship an alien cobra and/or Justin Timberlake.)
Mike nudges Bill's shoulder with his foot. Several times. "Bill. Wake up, asshole, I need your keys," he says when Bill has awakened sufficiently to make some noises that almost sound like words. Luckily, Mike has lived in close quarters with Bill for long enough that he can translate Bill's before-noon-haven't-had-coffee-yet grumblings into useful information, and he finds Bill's keys in his coat pocket-which is located under Sisky's ass on one of the sofas, but Mike has fucking talent and also a zombie apocalypse couldn't wake Sisky up.
He thinks about going to get the car, but it's parked a couple of blocks away and he's not sure when Kevin will re-appear from the bathroom; the kid seemed jumpy enough without Mike disappearing on him. There was a red Sharpie in Bill's pocket along with his keys, and Mike had taken it with the vague intention of writing something stupid on someone's face (he's leaning toward Wentz, because he'd just laugh and take pictures of himself to put on MySpace, whereas Bill would freak out and refuse to come out of the bathroom until he'd gotten it all off), but then he gets another idea. It's a stupid fucking idea in addition to being ridiculously lame, but he remembers Kevin talking about his brothers and their band and their current shitty luck, and Mike can sympathize with that.
He just hopes Kevin won't check his pockets until Mike's dropped him off with his family, because he's not sure how he'd explain the chick-flick shit he's doing.
~*~
Kevin re-emerges from the bathroom not long after Mike slips the jewel case in the pocket of Kevin's jacket. His hair is wet at the edges of his forehead, like he tried to wash his face. (Mike's been in that bathroom a dozen times-Kevin must have been making a real effort to have actually gotten his hair wet.) It isn't enough to have washed away all the morning bleariness; Kevin's movements are only just barely over the line of "awake", and his clothes and hair are still sleep-rumpled. The overall effect makes Mike want to shove him back down on the sofa and muss him up some more, but he'd promised Kevin's dad-his dad, what the fuck-that he'd deliver his son in the morning, and according to the aging clock over the bar, the morning is nearly over.
Mike holds up the keys and jangles them. "Ready to go?" He asks, and Kevin nods and says, "Yeah," and fumbles into his coat, shoving his hands into his jeans pockets, thank fuck. The walk to the car is quiet, but in that subdued, it's-still-morning-why-am-I-awake sort of way, not the awkward walk-of-shame way, which is good. They haven't gone very far when Kevin asks to use Mike's cell again; he hands it over and figures he's not eavesdropping if they're walking together. Kevin calls his family again, to let them know he's on his way, that he's fine. He hangs up just as they reach Bill's car and hands the phone back. His fingertips are cold.
"Thank you," Kevin says awkwardly, ducking his head, "For everything." It's unreasonably cute and so innocent, and Mike thinks he needs to do some serious inner re-evaluation, because before Kevin stumbled half-frozen into his life, he would not have labeled either of those things as turn-ons.
"It's no problem," He says, because it isn't. Kevin's fidgeting, though, like there's more he wants to say, so Mike stands there, leaning up against Bill's not-quite-a-junkheap car with his breath forming clouds in front of his face, waiting for Kevin to get it out.
"I, um. I just-my parents-" He starts, and Mike blinks slowly at him and keeps waiting. "I just, can I-?" And Kevin reaches out and grabs Mike's hand, the one that's holding the keys, and leans in to kiss Mike tentatively. Mike smiles as the babbling makes more sense; he gets it. There won't be a chance for this kind of goodbye with Kevin's parents and brothers standing around.
"Yeah," he says, turning them and using his hips to press Kevin back against the side of the car, "Yeah, you can." They're not going to do anything more, Mike knows. It's too public, and too cold, and Kevin's family is expecting him. That doesn't stop him from kissing Kevin breathless.
~*~
The motel Kevin's family is staying at is a little run-down, but it's not the bottom-of-the-barrel kind of place that caters mostly to drug dealers and low-rent hookers, which makes Mike feel inexplicably better-he's not sure why he cares what kind of place the kid's staying in, but apparently he does. He'd recognized the name when he'd heard it on the phone; he's driven past it a thousand times and could probably find it in his sleep, but the maze of back alleys and one-way streets in hidden residential pockets of the city it takes to get there from the club would be difficult, if not impossible, for a non-local to navigate without precise directions.
Kevin's the oldest, Mike can tell instantly as three younger boys practically explode from room 6 while he parks the car. They've barely stopped moving when Kevin opens the door and is immediately engulfed in a four-way hug. A man and a woman, obviously Kevin's parents, are only milliseconds slower about greeting their son, but Kevin's father makes his hug rather brief, and then makes his way around the car to where Mike is standing. He looks Mike over, a carefully neutral expression on his face-which is fine, Mike's used to being disreputable-and Mike's not sure how, but he can feel Kevin watching them.
"Kevin Jonas," the man introduces himself, belatedly adding, "Senior." Mike can't help but smile a little at that; junior takes after his dad. "Thank you for bringing our son home." He extends a hand and Mike shakes it, trying desperately (and without much success) not to feel like he's meeting the in-laws.
"Mike Carden," He introduces himself back, "It wasn't any trouble." The hugging on the other side of the car has abated for the time being, and Mike is uncomfortably aware of four new sets of eyes focused on him. And yes, rockstar, but fuck that. Being stared at is what Bill's for; Mike wants to play guitar, not be the center of attention.
He's about to move to get back into the car when Kevin Sr. says, "I wish there was some way we could repay you for your kindness," and that's, yeah, no, Mike is definitely not going to take any money from these people when he spent the night feeling up their son. He's got some morals, sort of.
"That's really not-" he starts, but then Mrs. Jonas says, "Oh! I know!" and goes over to the van that's parked two spaces away, trailer hooked up behind it (Mike has known vans like that, and he has an instant flash of pillows pressed up against the windows and feet propped up on cardboard boxes full of merch and crumpled McDonald's bags wedged under the seats), and Kevin says, flustered and blushing again, "Mom, you don't have to-" and then she's wrapping Mike up in an entirely unexpected hug and pressing a jewel case into his hands.
"It's not much," she says, "But please take it. As a token of our appreciation." She smiles warmly at him, and Mike doesn't even really look at the CD before nodding and saying, "Of course, thank you," because Grandma Carden would have his head if he wasn't polite.
He says goodbye to Kevin with an appropriately chaste handshake, and after a brief minute of awkward interaction-Kevin blushes too much, and his father is still looking at Mike like he's some strange and possibly-dangerous new species-Mike is pulling away from the motel and heading back to pick Bill up and drag his sorry ass back to his apartment. His last look in the rear-view shows Kevin being dragged into their room by the smallest of his brothers.
And that's that, Mike figures, sparing a glance over at the jewel case sitting on the passenger seat and smirking at the coincidence (he wonders if Kevin's found the CD yet). He'll listen to the album, he thinks. The kid had said it wasn't selling well, but Mike knows there could be a million reasons for that that have nothing to do with whether the music is good or not. He can probably get away with calling it A&R if anyone asks, though he's almost certain their sound won't be what Pete's looking for. Whatever. He wants to hear it, even though he's never going to see the kid again.
~oOo~oOo~oOo~
(January, 2007)
Kevin's never really had crushes (that one he had on Emilio Estevez when he was nine does not count), so he's always liked to think that he doesn't "do" crushes, except for how maybe he does. In fact, it's becoming increasingly likely that he has a huge, dorky, schoolgirl-style, impossible crush on Mike Carden from The Academy Is....
This is completely awful for a number of reasons.
~*~
As it turned out, Kevin found the CD in his pocket approximately ten seconds after the motel door shut behind him, though he left it right where it was until they had piled into the family's touring van and hit the road toward their next destination, somewhere in Indiana. He claimed the back bench seat for himself (Joe didn't even put up a fight about it, and Kevin took a second to feel really bad about what he must have put them through) and waited until his brothers had settled in with their iPods (or Gameboy, in Frankie's case) to pull the CD out and look at it. The plastic shrink-wrapping had been torn off, though the case was still sealed. The cover featured a bright cartoon sunrise (or maybe sunset?) and small letters in the upper left corner read, "The Academy Is..." and "Almost Here". But most importantly, scrawled on the front in red Sharpie was, "Don't give up. -Mike".
Kevin wasn't stupid. Considering that Mike had introduced himself to Kevin's dad as "Mike Carden" and "Michael Carden" was listed in the liner notes, it didn't take him very long to figure out that this was Mike's band, and Mike's band's CD. And that the "Bill" whose car they'd taken was William Beckett, who was apparently their lead singer (and who did, in fact, look like a girl, but Kevin didn't find that out until later). Kevin hadn't been wrong about the calluses on Mike's fingers; he did play guitar after all; and he was good, Kevin discovered once he got a chance to get the CD transferred onto his iPod. He keeps the jewel case with Mike's message on it safely tucked away at the bottom of his duffel.
It was almost Christmas by the time Kevin got a chance to look for any more information. He went to the public library, mostly because using his dad's laptop to Google-stalk the guy he sort-of-maybe-hooked-up-with just felt wrong. They were home for the holidays, and being in Wyckoff meant that no one worried when Kevin disappeared for a few hours, since he actually knew his way home (and shopping for Christmas presents was always a good excuse to get away without company). His free hour with Google was informative.
For one thing, he learned that the "Pete" who had briefly occupied his lap was Pete Wentz of Fall Out Boy, and that the library's internet censors didn't like Pete Wentz very much (which was unnerving, and made Kevin doubly glad he had decided against using his dad's computer).
And for another, he learned that Mike Carden was not just a guy in a band who Kevin happened to have a stupidly massive crush on. No; he could-without any charity-be considered an actual rock star. TAI had their own headlining tour and everything-they'd been to Europe, and Japan! There were pictures all over the internet, and a blog that Kevin browsed through carefully.
By the time the timer started flashing to let him know his hour was almost up, he was fairly certain he was doomed.
~*~
Mike is cool-really, actually cool-and he's still... well. Kevin Jonas. Mike is so far out of his league; he's like, the Yankees to Kevin's intramural fast-pitch softball team (even if they had won the championship two years in a row). And yet the knowledge of Mike's coolness doesn't stop Kevin from wanting to kiss him again; or from wanting Mike's hands on his waist, pressing him back against the winter-morning-cold door of an aging sedan; or from waking up sweaty and hard with the memory-taste of tobacco and beer in his mouth.
~*~
Kevin's shrine to Mike Carden is not a shrine, exactly. It is located in the bottom of his touring duffel, and is comprised of only three items: the copy of "Almost Here" that Mike had given him; a nondescript USB flash drive containing one picture of Mike smiling and one picture of him smoking in a bathtub (which Kevin felt awkward about saving but can't bring himself to delete); and a scrap of paper-which is actually tucked into the liner notes of "Almost Here", for safekeeping-on which Kevin has scrawled Mike's cell phone number, hastily retrieved from Kevin Sr.'s recent calls list when no one was looking.
It's the last of these items that Kevin is worrying between his thumb and his first two fingers as he sits (okay, hides, but he doesn't have to admit that, does he?) in the bathroom with the cordless phone handset from the kitchen. It's not that he's not sure he wants to sign the contracts with Hollywood Records-it's the break they've been waiting and working for all this time, and not only would everyone be so disappointed if he said "No", but he'd feel like such a failure. It's just...
It's Disney; which Kevin loves, to be sure-he can sing all the songs from The Little Mermaid, which is a fact he tries not to advertise too widely-but he's under no illusions about what that means for him, personally. Disney doesn't let its boys kiss other boys, let alone any of the other things Kevin sometimes thinks about doing with other boys.
He knows-thinks he knows-that his family would be fine with him, would be able to accept that he's really, completely and totally gay, even though the church says it's wrong. They love him. And most of the time he's pretty sure they all know already (except maybe Frankie, who still thinks girls have cooties and wouldn't really understand). But he's not ready to tell them, is the thing. Because telling them... there's no way to go back from that. His worst nightmares are the ones where Nick won't hug him anymore; where Joe looks at him like he's a freak. They wouldn't; he knows his brothers and he trusts his brothers, but every time he thinks he might say something (sometimes he gets as far as opening his mouth to speak) the fear wells up and seizes his insides and he can't make the words come out.
Which brings him to Mike's phone number, and hiding in the bathroom.
The guy he made out with once when he was lost in Chicago (and subsequently developed a stupid fanboy crush on, but that's not important at this juncture), who turned out to be a semi-famous rock star, is perhaps not the best person to bring his emotional crisis to, but with his parents and his brothers and, obviously, all his friends from church automatically excluded, there's... truthfully, not many people left on the list of possible sounding boards.
Kevin's fingers shake as he dials; he accidentally hits the 5 and the 6 at the same time and has to hang up and start over. But his second attempt is successful, and possibly his heart is going to beat its way out of his chest in protest at being put through this, but the other end is ringing once, twice, three times, and then a sleepy voice is saying, "Yeah?" and Kevin pretty much completely forgets everything he had planned to say.
He settles for, "Um. Hi?"
"Who the fuck is this?" Mike's voice says, gravelly and unhappy and Kevin thinks, belatedly, that just because he is awake and worrying about things at 4AM doesn't mean that everyone is.
...Oops.
"Kevin," he blurts out, entirely sure that Mike is going to hang up on him (he would hang up on him, if he called himself at 4AM). "It's Kevin. I'm Kevin. You-We, um. I was lost, before?"
There's a not-quite-silence on the other end of the line, mostly made up of rustling sounds and a muted, "Fuck," that Kevin pretends he hasn't heard.
"Please tell me you're not wandering around outside again," Mike says, and his voice is still rough but he doesn't sound angry anymore.
"No," Kevin says. "I'm not. I'm home. In the bathroom, actually, 'cause Joe's kind of a light sleeper? So he'd definitely wake up if I was on the phone in the kitchen, um." Kevin does not know why he can't stop babbling.
Mike just sounds like he might laugh. "So why are you calling at three in the morning if you don't need rescuing?" Mike pauses. "And how the hell did you get this number, anyway?"
Kevin blushes, even though there's no one there to see it. "Um, the recent calls log on my dad's cellphone?" he offers, and Mike really does laugh at that. Kevin fights down the urge to shush him-it's not like Joe can hear Mike all the way from Chicago.
"It's... I mean, why I'm calling," Kevin fumbles, takes a deep breath. "Our label dropped us," he starts over, and Mike says, "Fuckers," which is not what Kevin would have said, but he appreciates the sentiment.
"We got an offer from a new label," he says, and Mike makes listening noises as Kevin lets everything spill out; how excited everyone is, how excited he is, and how scared, because, okay, he was already living in a closet (even if it was a pretty flimsy one), but signing with Disney is like stepping into a steel-lined vault. Or if it's not, it feels that way, because Kevin would never do anything to hurt his brothers, and that certainly extends to getting them dropped from another label because of his immense gayness.
Every feeling and worry and fear that's been trapped inside him has been spread out on the ceramic tile when he's done, and there's a long pause during which he gets to examine each piece under the overhead light (and feel a bit sick) before Mike speaks.
"What do you want to do?" Mike asks, and Kevin wants to smash his head against the cabinets, because he doesn't know and that's why he made this call in the first place.
"I don't-" he starts, but Mike cuts him off.
"Yeah, you do. What do you want?" He somehow makes the question a command, and the surety in his voice breaks through the intangible block in Kevin's head.
"I want to make music," he says, and it's the most honest answer he can give. He wants to write songs with his brothers. He wants to play guitar every day for the rest of his life. It's all he's wanted, for years now.
"Then make music, kid," Mike says, and Kevin can almost feel the reassuring squeeze to his arm, the back of his neck, his ankle, his thigh. "You'll figure the rest out."
"Thanks," Kevin says in a quiet voice.
"Yeah," Mike yawns, and Kevin remembers, right, 3AM in Chicago and that was nearly an hour ago. "I'm going back to sleep now," he says, and Kevin nods, feels stupid, then says, "Yeah, no, sorry."
It's just before they hang up that he thinks to ask, "Your number, I- Can I-" and for a second he thinks Mike already hung up, but then he hears,
"Keep it. 'Night, Kevin."
Kevin presses the End button on the handset and smiles down at the paper with Mike's number on it. He returns the handset to the kitchen and carefully stows the slip of paper back in its customary spot, tucked into the four-fold liner notes before sliding back under the downturned covers of his bed and sleeping straight through breakfast.
~*~
BIG NEWS!!!
Hey Everybody!!
As most of you already know we are no longer with Columbia Records.....but we are VERY happy and excited to announce we have signed with Hollywood Records.
We are currently very busy in the studio where we have already begun the first stages of our new CD which is tentatively due to release late summer 2007!! We have written so many new songs and can't wait for you to hear them.
~*~
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~*~
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~*~
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[Continue to Part 2]
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