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"The City of Love"
Title: The City of Love
Rating: NC-17, at least
Summary: Sometimes being lonely makes people do things, they'd never do in different circumstances.
Warnings: Explicit sexual language and situations, mention of drugs. Don't let the title fool you, this is a bit more realistic/angsty than the usual stuff.
Disclaimer: Nothing of this did ever happen! I own nothing!
Author’s Note: Partly based on this pic.
Nights in Paris were lonely.
That was the strongest impression he would take back with him to the States.
That and something else.
The shooting was a drag.
They spent hours running around in the dirty streets of the French capital, pretending to be chased by manic fans, when in fact nobody knew them in this country.
If they had done it just once, it might have been tolerable, but they had to do countless retakes of every shot, jogging down the same street up to 15 times.
Flipping the switch and being funny by command became harder from day to day. Everything always looked hilarious on TV, but for them it was work.
They all coped with the situation differently: Micky had Samantha to keep him in high spirits, and Davy seized the opportunity of being in Europe to invite some friends and family over, Peter took to smoking more pot than he already did and Mike, well, Mike started brooding over all sorts of things, trying to solve questions he didn’t really have an answer to.
It was like there was a little black cloud over his head following him wherever he went.
He missed home, his wife and child; he even flinched a little when he saw someone walking a dog in the streets. At night he lay sleepless in his bed, feeling like the loneliest person on the planet.
The first night he had felt this way, he had gotten up and stepped out onto the balcony to let his gaze wander over the lights of the city.
The Eiffel Tower had caught his eye, rising above the surrounding buildings as if it was keeping watch over the nightly life down in the streets.
A sound of disgust had escaped Mike’s throat.
The City of Love – the irony of it all was almost unbearable.
From this night on he had turned his back on the window when he lay in his bed and with this to the city and the Tower that seemed to mock his loneliness.
The day before the last day of shooting it was decided that they should have a little wrapping party and a reservation at a little restaurant was made.
The food was good and the wine even better.
They all drank just a little too much, but Peter outdid them all and was simply wasted at some point shortly after midnight.
His speech slurred and he laughed about things nobody else thought were funny. When he tried groping one of Davy’s female friends, they all decided they’d better get him back to the hotel.
Mike had been the epitome of boredom throughout the dinner and because it wasn’t as if it mattered anyway if he stayed or not, he volunteered to take Peter back to their hotel.
Peter was too drunk to walk on his own, and although things in Mike’s field of view didn’t exactly stand still either, he took Peter’s arm and put it around his shoulder and put his own arm around Peter’s waist to support him.
Like this they made their way through the dimly lit streets of the city, Mike silent, Peter babbling happily away, occasionally singing something that sounded suspiciously like their theme tune.
They got up to their floor without problems, but while he struggled to unlock the door to Peter’s room, Mike saw out of the corner of his eye how his band mate suddenly covered his mouth with his hand.
Great! That’s the last thing I needed!
“Mike?” Peter croaked, but Mike had already opened the door and now dragged the other man to the bathroom.
Just in time.
Peter almost collapsed in front of the toilet and started retching right away.
Mike sighed in resignation.
Maybe it was some kind of paternal instinct, but he couldn’t leave Peter to take care of himself, so he stayed, trying to swallow down his disgust.
The cosy dizziness the wine had created in his tired mind had almost gone, suppressed by his damned sense of responsibility that never seemed to let him rest.
When the gagging stopped and Peter slumped down over the ceramic bowl, Mike wet a towel and then crouched down beside Peter to support him and clean his face.
His band mate’s drunken enthusiasm had disappeared and all that was left was a picture of misery, leaning against Mike behind him and silently uttering apologies.
Mike helped the other man to get up and then fetched some water in the toothbrush tumbler so Peter could rinse his mouth.
On the way to the bed Peter kept on mumbling about being sorry and not wanting to be a burden.
Mike tried to assure him it was okay, but he suspected that he didn’t get through to Peter anyway.
So he restricted himself to telling Peter what to do, when he helped him take off his shoes and clothes and tucked him in.
When he turned around to leave, Peter suddenly gripped his arm.
He was still feeling tipsy and tired and just wanted to get into his bed, he didn’t have much patience left.
Peter looked even more miserable than before, the shadows under his eyes looked almost as dark as his iris in the little light that shone through the window.
Mike felt sorry for him.
“Please stay?” The words came out of Peter’s mouth haltingly. “I get so lonely at night.”
His first sentiment was repugnance, but then his own loneliness made him feel sympathy for his band mate.
“Please Mike. Stay here, the bed is big enough for two. I just don’t want to be alone another night.” Peter sounded almost frightened.
The drugs - he knew that they sometimes caused Peter paranoia and anxiety - probably the drugs in combination with the alcohol…
He had experienced bad trips himself and knew that it was enough to bring down even the strongest man.
“Alright then,” he sighed. “I’ll stay.”
So he got out of his street clothes and slipped under the covers of the unoccupied side of the bed.
“Thank you! I really appreciate this,” was all Peter said, before he closed his eyes.
When he awoke again, it was still dark.
Something didn’t feel quite right, but in his sleepiness he couldn’t pinpoint it right away.
He was feeling rather sober, quite comfortable, warm and secure, so unlike all the previous nights.
Then he sensed a steady breath against his neck and realised that Peter slept spooned against his back.
Of all people…
Everyone thought they didn’t get along and he knew that on some days this was a valid statement, but right now the truth was that he hadn’t felt this good in all the time they had been in Paris.
He could just have snuggled up in his blanket to let himself drift off to sleep again, but some drowsy impulse made him turn around to face Peter.
His band mate was sleeping peacefully, his face relaxed, so that for the first time Mike understood why their fans referred to his face as angelic.
Peter was pretty.
He had never noticed, but the harmonious features, the slightly curved-up nose, the full lips, those brown eyes he knew to be behind the closed lids and the strands of glossy hair falling across his forehead made him pretty in an almost classical sense.
He was still wondering about his new-found perception, when Peter opened his eyes.
It was nothing like in the movies: no sparks between them, no overwhelming feelings of love.
It wasn’t more than their need and solitude that they recognised in each other’s eyes.
Mike couldn’t say who made the first move, but all of a sudden he found himself in Peter’s arms, kissing the other man and being kissed, the aroma of alcohol and smoke and that little hint of gastric acid on his tongue, feeling the other’s stubble against his chin and breathing his musky scent.
Driven by desperation they got rid of the blankets between them to be able to let both their hands and mouth wander aimlessly over the strange territory of the other’s body.
Mike had stopped thinking; the heat between their bodies was almost unbearable.
When one of Peter’s hands found its way into his underpants, closing around his throbbing cock, he surrendered to his instincts and thrust instinctively into Peter’s grip.
Their moans and gasps had been the only sounds made, and when Peter suddenly loosened his grip and said “Wait”, his voice sounded unnaturally loud in the silence of the room.
Mike reluctantly stopped in his movements, to see Peter roll over to his side of the bed and get something out of the drawer of the nightstand.
Mike had no experience with this kind of thing, but nevertheless he knew what Peter wanted him to do and to his own surprise found that he didn’t want to stop either. So he got rid of the last bit of clothing he still wore.
Peter first readied himself, and then rubbed some oily substance on Mike’s cock, never tearing his dark gaze away from him, building an intimacy between them that both excited Mike and made him squirm.
Fucking Peter felt like nothing he had ever done before and nothing he did thereafter.
He felt so tight around him, and with every thrust into Peter Mike had to stifle a cry of lust.
Peter moaned loudly under him, a mix of pleasure and pain written across his face.
For a second Mike wondered if he was hurting him, but when he slowed down, Peter dug his fingernails into his back as if he were clapping spurs to a horse.
Mike yelled out in pain, but willingly quickened his rhythm.
His pulse was pounding in his ears and somewhere along the line his arms gave way under him, so that he sunk down on his elbows, almost burying his nose in Peter’s chest.
The other man seemed to take pleasure in the increased friction between his erection and Mike’s body, it didn’t take long and he spilled himself, clenching his muscles around Mike’s cock.
Mike himself came only a few thrusts later still inside Peter’s body and then fully collapsed on top of the other man.
Everything after this felt awkward.
When he came back to his senses he found himself lying on Peter’s chest, breathing on his skin, suddenly conscious of the smeary mix of sweat and semen between them and even more conscious of what they had just done.
Deep inside he yearned for being able to stay, spent and deeply satisfied.
He wanted to snuggle up against the warm body underneath him and revel in this new intimacy between them.
But instead he felt guilty and soiled.
“This should never have happened.“
Why do we always fall back upon clichés when confronted with something that we can’t define?
As if it gave us security to think what millions of people thought before…
Wordlessly he rolled over to his side.
The questions had returned, even more had surfaced, and with them came back the loneliness.
When Peter’s breath had evened out, he got up, dressed sloppily and left the room.
They never spoke of this night again.