This is the case of Corona talking, here. This is Mikey’s anxiety and his desperation for a stable home for more than three months out of the year. Gabe knows that. He’s felt it before.
There’s a reason Mikey moved to Brooklyn. He doesn’t quite remember the entire story behind it on account of being just a little bit tipsy and shrugs the idea off, deciding to focus more on the bright lights of downtown Manhattan across the water. That side of the city never sleeps, so the rumor goes, but all the lights are off in this borough and Mikey could just stare at the skyline for hours if you gave him enough liquor to motivate him to do so.
It’s three in the morning and the bright lights of the big city are still reflecting off the East River, lighting up his alcohol-glazed eyes in the most beautiful way, in Gabe’s opinion. He stands behind Mikey and presses him gently into the edge of the balcony, breathing evenly into his neck as he places soft kisses there. He can feel the shiver running down Mikey’s spine and smiles. “I love the city, too, kiddo,” he whispers. The younger man hums in response and scrunches his face up at the feel of Gabe’s stubble.
“It’s so pretty,” Mikey says dreamily and tilts his head back a bit to rest on Gabe’s shoulder. “I can’t not look at it.”
And Gabe takes the opportunity to kiss a wet trail up his neck and to his cheek, finally ghosting over his lips until his hazy mind takes over and presses firmly. The fact that Mikey is kissing back is just collateral, really. Mikey’s still pressed firmly between the balcony banister and Gabe, reaching a long arm to wrap around his head and keep him there. The beer in his system makes him forget his need to breathe and he pulls away gasping, taking in deep breaths with his lips just barely touching Gabe’s. “Shit,” he mumbles.
Gabe hums against his lips. He turns Mikey around so they’re facing each other, holding him up so he doesn’t fall over the banister. “Shit, indeed,” he says. They stay like that for a few minutes, drunkenly kissing and nuzzling each other’s cheeks and noses.
“Don’t wanna go back on tour, Gabe,” Mikey’s voice breaks through the sound of waves crashing against the Brooklyn shores not too far away. “Don’t wanna leave and live on a bus for nine weeks.”
This is the case of Corona talking, here. This is Mikey’s anxiety and his desperation for a stable home for more than three months out of the year. Gabe knows that. He’s felt it before. He knows exactly what his friend is thinking, and that nothing but a beer or two can help it, maybe a shot of liquid Nyquil. So he wraps the younger man inside himself and nods his head, urging him on. Mikey’s arms weave their way around him and he hums softly, resting their foreheads together.
“Don’t wanna leave you, Gabe,” he whispers.
Gabe knows that, too. “But then you packed all your shit for nothing,” comes the reply, dry and blunt like all signature Saporta jokes, but still genuine like all the rest. “It’d be a waste of time to have packed it then put it all back ‘cause you don’t want to leave.”
He hears a quiet ‘Fuck you,’ and feels the tiniest of kisses against his jaw. Gabe shrugs, leaning them both a little bit over the edge, with Mikey’s legs awkwardly spreading and bending to keep balance. It’s oddly sexual, this feeling of danger. They could fall off their three-story high balcony in the middle of fucking Brooklyn where no one would care, and all Gabe can really focus on is the position in which they’re standing; Mikey’s legs spead, leaning against the banister and clutching onto his hoodie strings.
Just when he thinks they’re about to tip over, Gabe’s shoved backwards, hearing a grunt of effort from his shorter companion. “Fucking fatass,” Mikey growls. “Trying to kill us?”
“You know I love you too much to let us fall, kiddo.” Stepping closer, Gabe nuzzles his face into Mikey’s neck, his arms wrapping themselves around his thin frame. “Wouldn’t be a bad way to die, though, if I’m with you.”
Mikey’s arms stay planted firmly at his sides as he sighs into the embrace. “Shut up, Gabe.”
A laugh escapes from Gabe’s mouth, echoing in the silence of west Brooklyn. “You don’t want me to.” It’s not a question, because he knows it’s true. Mikey doesn’t even bother denying it and leans his head up to kiss him desperately, like he’s never going to come home from this tour; like he’s never going to see Gabe again and he just can’t get close enough.
But he doesn’t want to have sex. Not because he doesn’t enjoy it – he does, actually – but because he thinks it will be harder to be empty both emotionally and physically once he leaves. Nine weeks is too long, Mikey thinks. The downside to having so many people that love and support you is having to go thank them with all your heart and energy, and do it again for months at a time. It’s the best part, too, but not when he’s thinking about Gabe.
Gabe, and their shitty one-bedroom apartment in Brooklyn, their dog and their two cats that shit everywhere but their litter boxes, and that stupid bed that’s too soft for Mikey’s liking. He’s going to miss it, and it sucks. He shouldn’t be missing these pointless, domestic little possessions but he’s clinging to them all through Gabe’s hoodie and his lips and a case of beer that wasn’t even worth the price he paid.
Pulling away he feels the arms around his waist tighten, and suddenly Mikey’s being pulled away from the balcony, away from the lights across the river and back inside. He’s pushed softly onto the plush mattress and it swallows him instantly, and he’s never loved it more. Gabe’s tugging on both their shirts at the same time until Mikey takes his own off, his hands flying to his boyfriend’s chest to feel every inch of skin. His hands are burning like this is the first time he’s done this, while his own chest is tingling with the feel of Gabe’s cool hands against it. The whimper Mikey lets out is completely unintentional, but he doesn’t care. Because Gabe knows. He knows what’s going on and he knows why he needs to do this.
“Love you, Mikey,” He feels heavy breathing on his neck and kisses trailing up to his face, his eyelids and his lips. “Love you so much.”
It’s all just too. fucking. much. and suddenly Mikey’s pulling on Gabe’s arms so he falls on top of him. Closing the space between them that’ll only just grow larger in a matter of hours. “Shut up, Gabe,” he warns, mashing their lips together to make sure it happens. It’s drunkenly sloppy and not romantic at all, and Mikey’s completely okay with that. He just /needs/. He needs this closeness and this desperate feeling or else he’ll explode the second he steps on that bus in the morning. But Gabe knows what he needs, so he doesn’t think he’ll be spontaneously bursting into bits anytime soon.
And even if he does, he knows Gabe would be the one putting him back together.
I haven't written in a while so... tell me what you think!