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"To A Flame"
Title: To A Flame
Author: Lydia N
Genre/Pairing: Torksmith, Stephen Stills
Warnings: Strong language, sexual situations
Disclaimer: This never, ever happened. Not in a million years, not in any parallel universe. It is a work of absolute fiction.
Summary: There wasn't anything on earth as erotic as a half-naked Peter Tork with an instrument in his hands. But Mike can't always believe what he sees, can he?
Author's Note: Maybenextyearplaces gave me the germ of the idea via a lovely photoset, then she was gracious enough to beta read the product of my lunatic imagination.
Good weed made Mike mellow. Great weed made him hyperactive. Great weed and a few beers made him hyperactive, horny, and utterly incapable of driving to his own house.
Fuck it, he thought as he wove his Lamborghini with grandmotherly caution through the late-night traffic on Mulholland Drive. Not for the first time, he wished that he drove a less conspicuous car. Getting pulled over tonight was not an option. He'd never pass a sobriety test. Tomorrow morning his name would be all over the gossip rags, and wouldn't Bob just ream his ass over THAT?
Even if he did make it home, he was far from certain of a warm welcome. Oh, Phyllis would give him a kiss and tell him what Christian had been up to that day. That was all on the surface. There was a wall going up between them, brick by brick, and Mike didn't want to waste a good buzz by being reminded that he was the bricklayer.
To Peter's house, then.
Mike hadn't given conscious thought to a destination other than not-his-own-house, but here he was on Laurel Canyon Boulevard, headed to what Peter called home and Davy called "a fucking hippie commune with fucking naked people fucking everywhere."
Mike thought that sounded just fine. The dozen or so times he and Peter had blown off steam in one another's arms had been well hidden by the sheer number of bodies wandering around the house. Mike and Peter were hiding, sexually, in plain sight.
It was almost a disappointment that there were no strange cars at Peter's house and no sign of group debauchery within. Peter was infamous for not locking his door, so Mike pushed it open and entered without even bothering to announce himself.
The living room seemed empty, lit by only a couple of candles that scarcely broke the haze of some very, very fine marijuana. Mike would have thought the house was deserted except for the shimmering notes of a lone acoustic guitar. It took a few moments for Mike's eyes to adjust, then a few more for him to realize that he still had his sunglasses on. Once it occurred to him to remove them, he blinked a few times and was able to pick out the back of a lone figure half-reclining on a divan, plucking melodies and chords with insolently lazy grace.
The amber flame of one candle made the guitarist's hair glow a rich gold, and another was close enough to his body to show that he was naked from the waist up. The sleek muscles of his back and shoulders flexed as he played, heedless of Mike's presence. Christ, there wasn't anything on earth as erotic as a half-naked Peter Tork with an instrument in his hands. Mike relished the little flare of arousal that taunted him as he watched and listened in silence. He didn't recognize the progression, warm and sexy, with suspensions and strange mutations of the dominant chord that spoke of musical knowledge far more sophisticated than his own.
Ordinarily, that reminder would have irritated Mike, but right now he was too aroused, stoned, and intrigued to let it get to him. Instead, he reached forward and placed his hands firmly on the strong, warm shoulders. "I'm horny as hell. Is this okay?" he purred, not bothering to mask his thick accent because he knew Peter was always amused by it.
The only response was the thud of the guitar being placed quickly on the floor. Mike blew out the candles and loosened his jeans, sliding them down over his hips. He felt a warm, sensual mouth surround his erection. "That's what I need. Ohhh, yeah." He steadied himself by holding onto his partner's silky hair. It seemed longer than he remembered, but still as soft. Maybe Peter hadn't even bothered to trim it since they weren't filming, and SWEET MOTHER OF GOD, when had he learned how to do THAT? Whatever he was doing with his tongue, that was going to be the proverbial it. "That's amazing. Oh, God, yeah, I'm gonna...gonna..." His body seized up, focusing every neuron, every cell of each muscle for orgasm. It was hitting him way too fast, but he didn't care about anything except...
Then it stopped.
"Peter! Jesus!" Mike howled in frustration as his impending release got shut down by one strong hand clamping tightly around the base of his penis and another tugging gently at his scrotum. Reflexively Mike tightened his hands in the sweat-dampened hair. His partner's response, almost as shocking as the quality of the blow job itself, was an open-handed swat on Mike's ass.
"What the fuck, Pete?" He received no verbal answer because that amazing mouth was on him again, licking and sucking and there was that tongue again...
He heard Peter hum something low and tuneless. The vibrations went straight to the backs of his knees, loosening and weakening them until he had to put one hand on Peter's shoulder to keep from collapsing to the floor. "Oh, shit, babe, that's amazing. That's so good..."
"Mmmm," came the hummed reply. Not being able to see much in the darkness made Mike's other senses become hyper-aware. They rendered each touch, combined with the scent of the ocean on Peter's hair and the filthy, wet sounds of the blow job, enough to send him into a frenzy.
"Don't you dare stop," Mike panted. If Peter did that again, he was sure he'd keel over dead. There was no sign of stopping, or even slowing down, as Peter grasped Mike's hips and took him in as far as Mike could go. The oversensitive head of his cock bumped against the tightness of Peter's throat. "Ohhh...ohhh..." Mike was reduced to nothing but moans as he felt everything tighten up a second time. He let out a long, wordless cry and spent himself into Peter's welcoming mouth.
When it was over - long, agonizingly beautiful moments later - Mike fell to his knees, gasping. His hands were shaking so badly that he couldn't even grab onto Peter's wrists when he tugged Mike up to the divan and helped him curl himself into a tight ball. A soft, shushing sound was all he could hear other than his own harsh panting and the rapid beat of his own heart.
The last things Mike remembered before darkness overtook him were the feel of strong arms around his chest and the silky tickle of soft hair against his neck.
Daylight hurt like a son of a bitch.
Mike was only able to crack one eye open, and not very far at that. He had a hangover the size of L.A., and the resultant headache pounded as if Micky had taken up residence inside his brain and was using it to learn a new bass drum lick. Even the faint hiss of his breathing ricocheted from his eye sockets to his jaw.
"Fucking kill me," he whimpered. He licked his dry lips. There was a lingering taste of something disagreeably sour-salty - he must have kissed Peter at some point after that blow job - but also a touch of butter. It was toast. Someone was poking a piece of buttered toast at his mouth. He managed to grab hold of it and shove it between his teeth. Chewing was a miserable experience and swallowing was worse, but eventually he got the whole slice down and it started to make him feel marginally more human. "Thanks," he muttered.
He tried the eye-opening thing again and found it less horrific this time. He smiled as his blurred vision registered a strong profile, sun-lightened receding hair,and blue eyes.
The smile vaporized. Mike leapt to his feet, failed to gain traction, and landed hard on his ass. Grabbing the first item of clothing he could find, which happened to be a shirt he'd never seen before, he covered his groin with it. The shattered fragments of what had once been his brain tried to coalesce long enough to give a clue as to what had happened.
Or, rather, who had happened.
Stephen Stills, as naked as the day he was born, rose from the divan and stretched. "Morning," he said far too cheerfully.
Mike gaped at him.
"Peter's making coffee. Should be ready in a minute or so. Hey, I kinda need that, you mind?" Stephen reached for the shirt Mike was holding and snapped it out of his hands. He turned to the tangled mess of Mike's clothes and handed them over. "You might wanna shower first, man. You've got, you know..." He gestured vaguely. "It's all over you."
"Mine?" Mike asked, hoping like hell that his memory gap wasn't going to give him any further surprises.
Before Stephen could answer, the door between the living room and kitchen popped open and Peter came in, wearing a striped orange pullover and jeans and carrying three cups of coffee. His bare feet slapped across the wood floor as he came over to his friends. He handed one cup to Stephen, kept one, and set the other down near where Mike was still folded up on the floor. "Wow, Michael, I didn't think you'd be up until late afternoon," Peter said. "You were so fucked up you thought Stephen was me."
There was this guy in the Village, one that everyone said looked like me.
Blond, blonder than Peter but it had been too dark to tell by candlelight...
Bob and Bert asked if he knew anyone who looked like him, but with better hair and teeth.
That THING with the TONGUE, that's nothing Peter's ever done...and the only hair I touched was at the back of his head...
So he suggested me.
And stopping him, that was definitely not Peter's scene, not Peter, the man who wanted to make everyone happy one hundred percent of the time...
Jesus Christ on a fucking Harley. What ELSE had they done?
"You gave a surprisingly good hand job for someone too stoned to fuck," Stephen remarked casually.
Mike looked down at his right palm, which was certainly covered in something that had once been fluid.
The room spun. Mike clasped his hand - his left hand, which mercifully only smelled like pot and beer - over his mouth. He managed to meet Peter's concerned gaze long enough to make his point as his stomach began to lurch.
"Shit," Peter muttered as he hauled Mike to his feet and steadied him as much as he could. "Hold it in for ten seconds. I've got you." He half-guided, half-dragged Mike to the nearest bathroom. Mike was grateful for the cold Saltillo tile against his burning skin and even more grateful that he managed to vomit into the toilet instead of all over Peter and himself. His stomach muscles spasmed painfully and his head hurt so much that he thought his eyes might pop into the toilet as well.
Peter ran a hand towel under the faucet and placed it gently around the back of Mike's neck. "I'll be, uh, out there," he said in a tone Mike would have registered as guilty if he hadn't been so busy trying not to puke his intestines all over the floor.
When the retching finally subsided, Mike wiped his face with the wet towel and rested his cheek against the porcelain rim of the toilet. He could hear a low sussuration - Peter and Stephen talking about God only knew what - and the thought made his stomach turn over again. He coughed up bile once more before the nausea finally abated.
He spent several moments trying to sum up his situation. If he could catalogue it, then he could control it. The facts were these: he was naked, trembling with hangover and remorse, having vomited in front of Peter after finding out that he'd had sex with Stephen.
"Good luck controlling that," Mike grumbled to himself.
After a few seconds of fumbling with the handles, Mike turned the shower on as hot as he could endure and scrubbed himself until he was lobster-pink. By the time he rinsed his hair and toweled off, someone, probably Peter, had come back to the bathroom and left his clothes just inside the door. There was nothing for it, then, but to suit up and face whatever shitstorm he'd just created. He fumbled with every single item of clothing, finally deciding to stay barefoot rather than negotiate the laces on his boots.
Slowly, feeling as if his body had disconnected from his brain, Mike wandered back to the living room. Peter and Stephen sat like bookends on either side of the divan. Stephen was scarcely containing laughter. Peter looked as if he were about to cry.
"I suppose," Mike said as he sat heavily between them and let his boots fall to the floor with a thud, "you two think this was incredibly funny."
"Yes," Stephen said at the exact time Peter exclaimed, "No!"
Mike glared from one to the other. Peter hung his head, his eyes scrunched closed. Stephen ran a hand through his thinning blond hair.
"Man, I'm really sorry," Stephen said. "We didn't mean anything by it. Well, hell, I just got into town this morning and I came in to find you and Peter pretty much 'in flagrante delicto.' You were out cold. When Peter woke up we put our heads together and decided to switch places."
"I had no idea you'd take it like that," Peter began, then he swallowed so hard that Mike could hear it. "I didn't think it through."
"No, you didn't think," Mike growled. "And where did you learn those tricks you pulled on me, anyway?"
"I have sources--"
"And you didn't say one fucking word the whole time!"
"My mouth was full and you fell asleep ten seconds later!" Peter protested.
Stephen began to chuckle. Mike tried to scowl at him but his own sense of humor was beginning to kick in. He punched Stephen's arm and pulled Peter close for a hug. "You're crazy, you know that? Crazy as a damn loon." Mike ran his cheek against Peter's hair, relishing the pull of his stubble against the long strands.
The telephone on the end table began to ring shrilly. Peter, frowning, reached over and answered it. "Hello?" His eyes widened and he mouthed 'Phyllis' at Mike. "No, he came by for a while last night, but he's not...no, I'm sure he's fine. He probably just crashed with John...well, have you called Micky? Yeah, I'll let you know if I hear from him. Don't worry, okay?"
Mike's heart hammered. God almighty, could he possibly find a better way to screw up his entire life?
When Peter finished the call, he hung up and turned back to Mike. "You'd better get home. She's worried sick."
Nodding, Mike got slowly to his feet and picked up his boots. They were heavy, as heavy as sin itself. "Sorry I played the porcelain tuba. Nothin' personal, Stephen."
"Not offended. Drive carefully. Give Phyllis a hug from me."
"And me," Peter murmured. He looked up into Mike's eyes. "I'm sorry--"
"Never mind. Just don't mention it. Ever." Mike leaned over and breathed into Peter's ear. "I'll make it up to you," he murmurred, low and sweet. "That's a promise."
Peter blinked, a pink flush rising on his cheeks. He gave Mike a tight smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "See you later, Michael."
Mike nodded. He opened the car, threw his boots in the front seat, put the key in the ignition, and mused on the metaphor involved in going home.
Peter sighed as he stood by the window and watched Mike's car pull away. "I feel terrible, man."
"Nah, it's okay." Stephen stood up and stood behind Peter, sliding his arms around his waist and pressing a kiss to the back of his neck, then another kiss, and another. "I definitely understand what you saw in him."
"See," Peter murmured. "He's not dead, Stephen."
"No. But you're gonna have to tell him sometime. About us, I mean." Stephen's hands became more insistent, his caresses more fervent. "C'mon, Peter. Let me show you that thing he liked so much."
When this love is over, start again.
Find a new friend, fall in love again.
--To a Flame, Stephen Stills