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Richie wasn’t sure how he’d come to be appointed Mikey’s semi-official minder, chaperone, nanny – whatever you wanted to call it – but he supposed it had happened sometime after Christmas. Sugar had thrown her hands up, Donna had fallen apart (and really, no surprise there, all the Berzattos could agree), and of course, Carmy had vanished into thin air just as soon as he’d materialized for seven goddamn fishes. To tell the truth, Richie could barely stand one fish, let alone seven of them. He’d never even been so much as a Long John Silvers man.
That being said, he’d been Mikey’s shadow for as long as he could remember, so why not get the dubious prestige of being the one who could at least give settling Mikey down the old college try. Or something like that – he’d never been the type for higher education, but a guy could guess, he supposed.
Settling Mikey down had somehow gradually become exponentially more difficult with the introduction of chemicals – pills, herbs, powders, beverages - whatever he could get his hands on like a kid in a fucking candy store with a big ass Ziplock bag of nickels. Mikey treated life like a candy store – always had – but he seemed tired, somehow, no matter how many uppers he stuffed himself to the gills with. As much as he seemed to be fading, his temper had remained, but maybe that part was genetic.
Tonight, Richie leaned against the bar, midnight having passed handily. It wasn’t like he had any deadlines to meet as far as leaving some shithole bar was concerned – he certainly wasn’t coming home to Tiff and Eva; Tiff certainly had made fucking sure of that – and his employer – best friend, but who was counting? – was currently resting his elbow on the opposite end of the bar talking to a small group made up of a bachelorette party. If his eyes were red, it was at least dim enough that four girls four Long Islands deep each might not notice. Richie rolled his eyes, at least grateful Mikey didn’t seem to have zeroed in on the one with the cheap party veil and sash on.
Richie was a fucking father – or at least a part time one these days, he conceded irritably – and still felt irresponsible and twenty and stupid, like the most important thing in his life might be a fake ID or staying out all night and sneaking in the house or whatever he did before he’d had to theoretically grow up, if anyone ever did. Sugar had, of course, but Sugar had been middle aged since she’d played with baby dolls like they were real fucking people or something. Other than that, the list he’d compiled was short.
He yawned, gesturing for the bartender to line up another Miller High Life for him – chicks liked it when you drank the Champagne of Beer, or at least Mikey’s theory had gone since they’d first started lifting it from the corner liquor store slash deli slash neighborhood meeting place down the block in high school. The two of them considered it a rule for life, at least when it came to ladies.
Mikey had been elbowing him in the ribs for months, trying to shake off what remained of him and Tiff and that white picket fence bullshit he’d been stupid enough to daydream about. Get back out there, motherfucker. Mikey wasn’t exactly a relationship expert – really, he was an expert in snorting drugs and staying up late and and making sandwiches and bad decisions and ruining holidays by being an out and out dick in a way the Baby Jesus probably wouldn’t appreciate. Richie tried to look the other way on most of the aforementioned skills – out of sight and out of mind and maybe better that way.
It was kind of laughable when he thought about it – that he’d been put in charge of the only bigger fuck up than himself.
Richie had always appreciated a good fuck up, he guessed – something about feeling like you were the only one walking around lost and hapless in a world that, like, paid their taxes on time and shit. He’d seen enough of Mikey’s office to wonder if the guy had ever saved a receipt in his life, knowing he could probably guess the answer without a second thought.
The Beef wasn’t perfect, but Mikey might insist that he preferred it that way. Do you think I’m one of those stiff motherfuckers? Do you think I want people coming in looking for a filet mignon or some shit? Mikey had asked it at the top of his voice in a musty dive bar to try to be heard over Hot for Teacher on the jukebox – on a night like this, if Richie’s bleary memory served him, though he could admit he wasn’t exactly the most reliable historian when it came to alcohol – probably digging at a kid brother who wasn’t around to defend himself.
It wasn’t rare for people to flock to Mikey, to be caught up in his charisma, and a smile that used to seem to come so much easier to him than it did these days. Richie had stuck to him since seventh grade gym class when he had no muscles and still fewer friends. When you made a friend like Mikey, you didn’t want to let them go.
Down at the other corner of the bar, Mikey continued to chat with the girls in their Saturday night finest, flitting from bar to bar in search of karaoke and guys who were a shade less creepy than the dingier bars in Chicago had to offer. It was cold outside, a perfect night to drink enough not to let the frost bother you.
Mikey waved at Richie from the end of the bar. He’d initially gone to the jukebox on the opposite end of the dim room to put on some Guns N’ Roses. Even if he’d grown more erratic as the seasons changed, he could also be counted on to default to November Rain. Richie rolled his eyes good naturedly but picked up his beer, crossing the room to join the group.
“ – and this is my friend, Richie,” Mikey said, voice slurring a little around the edges in a way that Richie could pick out in a blind lineup any day of the week. “Richie, this is – ” He paused, wracking his brain for names he’s at least had the decency to ask, even if it was clear he’d forgotten. “ – this is Mindy; she’s getting married.”
“Mandy,” the bride-to-be told him, and Richie wasn’t sure if she was annoyed by the slip or not.
“Well, congratulations,” Richie said, hoping to sound upbeat despite the fact that he’d worked a double today and felt dead on his feet. Mikey hadn’t seemed keen on the idea of letting him go home to sleep, probably because Mikey had upped his stash with something to keep him awake. Richie pretended not to notice. It might not be too bad to flirt tonight, at least with the single ones. “Is this creep bothering you?”
The blondest girl in the group laughed, sipping at some pink drink that probably tasted like sugar and rubbing alcohol. “We were just about to leave,” she said, clearly eager to extricate her friends from a conversation with two guys who didn’t exactly exude the kind of class that some fussy girls seemed to find mandatory these days.
“You’re going to duck out before Paradise City?” Mikey scoffed, sounded almost genuinely offended. Normally Richie might be able to see the almost-trademark twinkle in his eye but found them glassy instead. “No accounting for taste, I guess. Sorry it’s not fucking Bruno Mars.”
The rest of the girls laughed uncomfortably despite what Mikey clearly felt was a charming smile but rather looked like someone who’d been drinking since he got off of work and mixed booze with god only knew what.
“Mikey, it’s getting late,” Richie said, trying for easy congeniality but sounding more like a warning.
“Who fucking cares,” Mikey countered, draining his own Miller. It was a line that kind of felt like the status quo more and more often lately.
“We really do have to go,” the blonde girl said, giving a furtive glance to her friends, who nodded and seemed anxious to flee and pluck their coats off of their respective barstools. “Nice to meet you both,” she said in a tone that seemed to convey that it had not, in fact, been particularly nice.
Before either of them had the chance to register their ultimate decision, the girls were gone in a cloud of Sephora perfume and stale cigarette smoke.
Mikey rolled his eyes, slapping a hand down on the sturdy, pockmarked surface of the bar with a halfhearted sense of annoyance. “I think I could have gotten one of them,” he told Richie, perhaps feigning confidence to cover up a regrettably wounded ego. He waved his hand dismissively. “They were from the suburbs anyway. I don’t have time for that shit.”
“Couple of them were cute,” Richie said with a shrug. “Coulda made time for that shit.”
“Too late now.” Mikey’s voice sounded far away, like his mind had gone somewhere particularly complicated for the moment. He blinked and gestured for the bartender. “Two shots of Jaeger, please,” he said, fixing the bartender with a smile.
“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Richie grumbled. “You know I hate that shit.”
“You know I love that shit, and we both know Richie Jerimovich never turns down a free shot.” And really, Richie would never argue with that – something about being a bad son of a bitch on a budget. Mikey had nearly spit out his Fireball shot when Richie had first claimed that title for himself, and as such, it had stuck.
Richie rolled his eyes but picked up the shot glass, examining the thick black liquid inside with an immediate flip in his stomach at the thought of choking it down. Mikey smiled at him over the small glass rim, and his stomach churned hard for reasons he didn’t want to put a name to. Richie tapped their glasses together.
“To your continued health and prosperity,” he said solemnly – a remnant of better days when both had been true, when they’d both been young and fresh and drafting up plans for whatever the fuck seventeen year olds thought about.
“I’ll drink to that,” Mikey confirmed, tipping back the shot, as if a toast wishing good things and stability might be something of a magic potion. Richie followed him, swallowing the Jaeger in one too-big gulp in hopes of not tasting it, which backfired spectacularly. He made a face and coughed, making Mikey laugh and clap him heavily on the back as if to shake the resentment out of him.
Richie chased the shot with the last swig of his beer, watching Mikey waver more than a little on his feet. And really, he’d be lying if he said his own vision wasn’t swimming a little, if he said his eyelids weren’t drooping with the kind of lethargy that came with too many beers to count in polite company. He rubbed at his eyes, suddenly unable to fight a yawn.
“You crashing out on me?” Mikey asked, voice rough with liquor and disappointment.
“I’m an old man,” Richie said simply, hoping it might end the conversation. “We’re both old men.”
“Being old is a state of mind,” Mikey told him in a way he clearly intended to sound sage. “I don’t plan on getting old.” Richie rolled his eyes.
“Let’s go, you Peter Pan motherfucker,” he said, dropping a stack of one dollar bills on the bar to settle his own tab. He gestured at Mikey to do the same. Mikey made a dramatic show of producing his wallet with a beleaguered sigh. He slid a big bill toward the bartender who eyed him warily.
“You owe me another ten,” the bartender told him, voice blasé yet firm at the same time.
“What? That’s fucking bullshit,” Mikey said, clearly rankled. “I gave you a fifty, man.”
“You owe me sixty. You might know that if you counted the drinks you buy for girls you scare off,” the bartender told him pointedly, clearly rubbed the wrong way by Mikey’s tone and having no problem putting an agitated drunk in his place.
Mikey tapped the bar in simmering indignation. “Not my fault you can’t do math,” he half-spat, and Richie couldn’t count on two or four or six hands how many times he’d seen Mikey lose his worn-thin temper, particularly when it came at the end of an evening of substances. He put his wallet in his back pocket as though to demonstrate his take it or leave it intentions.
“I’m going to get my bouncer in here and maybe he can help you with your math,” the bartender said, now venomous in his tone.
“Oh, he’s going to get his fucking bouncer,” Mikey said, laughing a little as if to indicate disbelief. “Get him then, asshole, and we’ll see who can add and multiply and all that good shit, huh? Maybe you’re too much of a pussy to fight your own fucking fight.”
“Mikey,” Richie said, voice sharp as he wrestled in his jacket pocket for his own wallet, scrambling to pull out two tens – an extra one for the bartender’s trouble – before setting the two bills on top of Mikey’s fifty. “Time to get the fuck out of here.”
“Time to get the fuck out of here and not come back,” Mikey grumbled, letting Richie mostly drag him out of the bar by the crook of his elbow, maybe leaving bruises through the leather of his jacket.
The two of them spilled out into the Chicago streets, where snow had begun to fall and coat the already frigid pavement. Richie could see his breath, hot with liquor but cooling immediately when he exhaled. He regarded Mikey with an annoyed glare.
“Was that fucking worth it?” he snapped, suddenly realizing he’d rather be crawling into bed than wrestling his best friend out of some shitty bar. “Really – was there a point to that?”
Mikey rolled his eyes, stuffing his fists into his pockets to try and stave off the cold. “Let’s go home,” he said, predictably ignoring Richie’s question. “Can I crash with you? Too fucking cold to take the train all the way to my place.”
For his part, Richie’s annoyance seemed to soften. “If you want to,” he said, faking coolness in a way that probably wasn’t terribly convincing.
This had been part of the settling Mikey down charade for years – pulling him home, upstairs, and onto the couch or into somebody’s spare bed, and putting him to sleep. Mikey seemed to sleep less these days, even though there were times where Richie found him still in bed and late for work with little inclination to move. Mikey’s sick was usually a good enough explanation, or at least one nobody had the absence of tact to question anymore.
The train ride to Richie’s apartment was significantly shorter, and the two hustled up the stairs to his walk up in a haste to get inside to the heater. When Richie closed the door behind them, Mikey shrugged his jacket off and began rummaging in his pockets.
“Want to smoke?” he asked, not meeting Richie’s eyes and instead searching for still another vice someplace he’d left it and probably forgotten about.
“Smoke what?” Richie asked warily.
“Something to take the edge off,” Mikey said, producing a small sandwich bag of something green and leafy.
“Fuck no – it’s too cold for that,” Richie declined. “ – and besides, your ass needs to get in bed and go to sleep. You’re supposed to be at your mom’s tomorrow at noon.” Sometimes he felt more like an assistant than a chaperone.
Mikey groaned, stuffing the small bag back in his pocket. “God damn it,” he gritted out. “ – last fucking thing I want to do.”
“Go get in bed,” Richie urged, watching Mikey kick off his snow-slick boots, leaving more than a few dirty droplets of city water all across Richie’s cheap laminate floor. “You just need to go to bed. Sleep it off. I’ll sleep on the couch.”
“Don’t be stupid,” Mikey scoffed. “It’s too cold to sleep out here.” It was true – the walls of the apartment were paper thin and held little heat, and it wasn’t like Eva’s Frozen comforter was enough to keep a grown man warm.
Richie considered for a few seconds before adjourning to the bedroom, slipping out of his jeans and into a pair of ratty sweats and a faded thermal shirt. Mikey had made a beeline for the bathroom, and Richie wondered but simultaneously could live without knowing what he was doing – or gulping down – in there. He heard the sound of running water for a few seconds before Mikey entered the bedroom.
“Here,” Richie said, handing him a pair of pajama pants that were too big for him, and a t-shirt with ragged holes near the bottom hem. Mikey stripped his shirt off, and Richie left to go brush his teeth.
He regarded himself wearily in the mirror, finding himself tired and maybe a little grayer than he’d like to admit. He ran water over the bristles of his toothbrush and began brushing them, eager to get the licorice taste of the Jaeger finally all the way out of his mouth. Mikey had probably slathered toothpaste on a fingertip, even though it never seemed to get rid of the residual taste of cigarette smoke. Richie felt a faint flush to remember that he knew this fact well.
When he returned to his bedroom, he found Mikey lying under the covers with his shoulders clearly bare where they protruded from under the blanket.
“I can’t sleep with a shirt on, man; you know that,” he said, waving a hand. “And besides, you’ve got flannel sheets and I’ll probably wake up hot as hell in the middle of the night.”
“It is the middle of the night, asshole,” Richie muttered, flicking off the light switch and unceremoniously crawling underneath the covers.
It was quiet for a few minutes, save for the sound of Mikey restlessly shifting from side to side, unable to get comfortable or relaxed or sober enough to try to fall asleep. Richie heard him take a deep breath, and could see the way a frown creased his face in the light of the moon above and the streetlights below. He caught Mikey frowning a lot more often these days, but it may as well be code between the two of them not to ask about all that feelings type shit.
Mikey took in another deep breath and exhaled lowly. “Richie,” he said quietly, but made no move to speak further.
“What?” Richie protested, rubbing the heels of his hands back and forth across his eyes. “Go to sleep, Jesus Christ.”
Mikey didn’t say anything, which always served to frustrate Richie – Mikey had enough words for the both of them, maybe even a dozen people. It was rare to find him without something to say, even if it was annoying or abrasive or even flirting with rage. His weight shift in the bed as he rolled over onto one side, laying a still-cold hand at Richie’s waist.
It wasn’t the first time this had happened – it wasn’t the tenth time, or the fifteenth time, or really any number he could count; it wasn’t the first time Mikey had pulled him close and nuzzled into the curve of his neck and the stubble on his cheek like he had chosen to now. It wasn’t the first time Mikey dragged his lips up the column of Richie’s throat, taking his time and laying a possessive hand on Richie’s belly.
“Come on,” Richie muttered, though he didn’t take any initiative to push him away. “It’s late. You’re drunk.” Among other things, he noted grimly.
“You’re drunk too,” Mikey reminded him, brushing his lips across Richie’s – fucking finally- and Richie could admit that he sometimes hoped for this when Mikey dragged him out for more than a few beers. Mikey was handsy with him when he was drunk or tired or stressed or any number of intolerably negative emotions – always had been, since they were old enough to be interested in girls, or at least interested in getting off.
“Fine,” Richie said quietly, turning on his side and kissing him back. Mikey smiled against his mouth – and it was nice to see or at least feel Mikey smiling as it grew rarer and rarer – pulling the covers higher over them. His skin was surprisingly warm despite the frigid temperatures outside, and Richie let his hands slide down over the muscles of his shoulders. Mikey’s mouth was hot and insistent against his own, clearly reminding him that even if Richie had been dispatched for years to try to force him to mind his manners, Mikey was still ultimately in charge.
“Let me make you feel good, Richie,” Mikey said, his breath hot against Richie’s cheek, and his fingertips dipping below the waistband of Richie’s sweatpants – not far enough, if you asked Richie.
“Mikey,” Richie said, unsure what he was protesting since he could acknowledge that he didn’t want this to stop. He had never wanted it to stop, even when he could abstractly recognize that Mikey might be slipping slowly but surely through his fingers.
“What?”
“Touch me,” Richie said, sounding pathetic to his own ears. Mikey groaned against his throat, hooking an ankle around the backs of Richie’s thighs to bring him in closer.
Mikey’s hands slid further past the elastic waistband, reaching back to grasp at Richie’s ass and rub their cocks together through the thin fabric they’d both worn to bed. Richie could feel Mikey stirring to attention, could feel the low, rumbling sigh that Mikey exhaled as he ground their hips together. Richie panted, caught off guard by the way Mikey’s cold hands kneaded his backside.
“That’s real good,” Mikey said, voice rough like gravel. “Loosen up, asshole.”
“You’re the – ah – the asshole,” Richie complained, rasping out a small gasp as Mikey nipped at his earlobe before finally cutting him off with another kiss. “ – could’ve gotten our asses kicked over ten goddamn dollars.”
“Let that go, baby,” Mikey murmured, and that was new. Richie felt a hot blush rise to his cheeks, unsure why he had had such a strong reaction to a term of endearment that the two of them both saved for one night stands with short skirts and fake phone numbers. “We don’t have to talk about that, huh?” For all his faults, Mikey was persuasive, and damn good at it too.
“I guess not,” Richie mumbled. He kissed Mikey harder, trying to push his sweatpants down before Mikey let go of his ass to roll him onto his back and pin his arms at his sides. He shivered, trying to convince him it was because of the temperature and not the way Mikey held him down. Mikey climbed on top of him, limbs not exactly coordinated as a result of everything he’d consumed tonight.
He adjusted his hips so he could continue to move against Richie, reaching up with one hand to slide his fingers through the short crop of Richie’s hair. He held Richie’s hand down with his knee – he was strong without having to do much to get that way, stronger than Richie, who could still hold his own in a fight if he had to.
Mikey pushed his own pajama pants down, fully hard now and clearly ready for attention. He took mercy on Richie, shoving his sweats down without pretense and rubbing the hot skin of their dicks together with a soft grunt. Richie sighed, arching up despite his goal of keeping his fleeting dignity.
“You feel good,” Mikey rasped against his ear, rutting against him to confirm what he wanted, if there was any doubt. “You feel really fucking good, Richie.” His name was gritty and rough in Mikey’s mouth, and Richie strained up to kiss him in a hopeless mess of teeth and tongue. Mikey let his big, free hand wrap around their cocks, slowly dragging upward from the bases. Richie let out a shaky breath, hoping not to be too loud. He didn’t exactly want his elderly neighbors to hear him screwing his best friend, if it was all the same to everyone. “You sound good too.”
“Shut up,” Richie said, but there was embarrassment heavy in his tone rather than malice. “You talk too fucking much.”
Mikey smiled against his throat, sucking a light indigo bruise between his collarbones, making Richie moan ashamedly.
“You like it when I talk,” Mikey reminded him. “You like it that I have a filthy fucking mouth.”
Richie let out a soft, sputtering laugh, not able to find the energy to argue with him on that point. He sighed as Mikey continued to stroke the two of them, feeling a mounting burn low in his belly. No matter how many times Mikey touched him like this, he never quite got used to what felt like the good, undeserved fortune of such a thing.
“You’re fucking hot,” Mikey continued, swiping the pad of his thumb through the moisture beading up at the tip of Richie’s cock and making him shiver. “You always have been, y’know.” Mikey laced the fingers of the hand that wasn’t wrapped around the two of them with Richie’s, holding his hand and not letting go. He was maudlin and fond tonight, warm enough in the bed to make Richie forget that Chicago was in the middle of a freeze he’d spend weeks bitching about when he went out to smoke. This was enough of a distraction.
“That feels so good,” Richie rasped, writhing a little under Mikey’s weight and the sensation of his hand moving over him for what felt like an eternity. “I’m – I’m close,” he admitted sheepishly.
“Me too,” Mikey agreed, leaning down to work Richie’s nipple with his teeth and tongue, making him let out a hoarse, embarrassing sound. “I want to make you come, baby.” There was that word again – maybe he could chalk it up to whatever Mikey had probably choked down in the bathroom and they could ignore it and never speak of it again, although the thought of that made something corny and melancholy twist in his stomach. “Can you come for me?”
As if to further illustrate the instruction, Mikey reached between them with his free hand to ruck up Richie’s shirt, baring his belly.
“ – wanna make you come all over yourself,” Mikey urged, his strokes speeding up noticeably, and Richie panted helplessly into the open air.
“I’m – I’m gonna,” he agreed shakily, unable to catch his breath but finding it really didn’t matter. Richie suddenly felt hot enough to burn all over, the blood in his veins running molten and relentless.
They’d done this so many times through the years – here, or on the couch in Mikey’s mom’s basement or in the backseat of Richie’s car – but it felt different now in a way that Richie couldn’t put a finger on. More intimacy, maybe – something scary and intense and worrisome, like the first time Mikey had wanted to kiss him again after Tiff left. He flushed all over, trying to pay no mind to the desperate noises Mikey was wringing out of him.
“Do it,” Mikey murmured, lips moving over the front of Richie’s throat, and Richie’s hips stuttered between the two of them, coming abruptly, hotly across his belly and almost up to his chest, just missing the t-shirt. “That’s good. That’s so fucking good, Richie,” he ground out, stroking himself faster and making Richie moan brokenly at the oversensitivity. “Fuck,” he panted, doubling over and spurting across the mess already slick on Richie’s abdomen.
The bedroom was quiet as Richie desperately tried to slow his breath, to compose himself, to roll back over and hide his metaphorical soft parts from Mikey, who had always known them anyway. Mikey rolled off of him, pajama pants kicked off and to the side. He made no effort to pull them back on, suddenly gone boneless.
“I’m going to go – y’know, get a towel or something,” Richie said, suddenly feeling sheepish and caught red handed in his shyness. Mikey made a dismissive noise of acknowledgement, draping the crook of his elbow over his eyes. Richie retreated to the bathroom, this time not meeting his eyes in the mirror and wondering if his cheeks were still flushed. He wetted a washrag and mopped the drying come from his belly as it began to go tacky and cool.
He took a deep breath to try to compose himself, somehow unsettled by what felt like sentimentality in the dim light of the bedroom. Stupid fuck, he chided himself before realizing he’d said it out loud. Richie sighed, returning to the bedroom.
For a moment, he thought Mikey had drifted off to sleep, and wondered if he would be lucky enough to escape any semblance of a conversation. Mikey was silent for a moment, his usual soft, snuffling snore absent in a way that made Richie feel wary.
“That was nice,” Mikey said sleepily, and maybe he was tired by the exertion of taking Richie apart, or maybe it was just whatever he’d probably taken hoping Richie wouldn’t notice. It was never something they discussed.
“Yeah,” Richie agreed, crawling back in bed. Mikey laced their fingers together for a moment but made no effort to pull him back in close. It was quiet again until Richie cleared his throat. “Mikey,” he mumbled, cheeks pinking again.
“Hmm?” Mikey’s voice sounded tired and far away again.
“You’d tell me, like, if something was wrong, right? Y’know, like some bad shit.”
Mikey made a sleepy, contended sound. “Yeah, I’d tell you. Go to sleep, Richie.” He offered nothing further, and Richie imagined his eyes were closed and his mouth slightly ajar as he drifted off to sleep.
He’d asked the question to try and put himself at ease but found that even an answer in the affirmative didn’t make him feel much better. He stroked the pulse point of Mikey’s wrist with the pad of his thumb before bringing his own hand back to his chest, knowing that Mikey might find waking up in the morning holding Richie’s hand girly and embarrassing and stupid. He tried to ignore the flutter of anxiety blooming in his chest, the feeling of a piece of a puzzle you tried to shoehorn in somewhere it didn’t belong.
They’d wake up with clear heads tomorrow, and Richie’s would stay that way – or close to it – at least.