Chapter Text
It was roughly 5 pm when Mike arrived at Bill’s farmhouse. The drive had been four and a half hours. He went most of the way in silence, full of anticipation, enjoying the lush landscape passing him as he tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. Occasionally he would switch on the radio but he was too far away from anything to get a strong enough signal for bearable noise.
Bill’s property was on the edge of the middle of nowhere. Mike had to check his directions constantly to ensure he wouldn’t make any wrong turns and get even more lost than he already felt.
It occurred to him only during the final stretch of his drive that neither he nor Michael or Peter had been to visit Bill in his new home since he left, and when the gang did get together, it was a brief, solemn visit. The details of the drive dissipated within a few days and Mike felt the slightest sense of guilt for not memorizing it. After all, he and Bill were -
The wheels of his car crunched suddenly in gravel as he made the turn off the main road, then onto a street, and finally onto the long, winding path that led to the farmhouse. Recalling Bill’s instructions for parking, he drove halfway down and stopped off to the side. He gathered his things - just a small suitcase and backpack - then locked the car out of habit (there was no sign of human life for miles) before starting the walk to the house. With each step he took, his stomach felt heavier. He tightened the grip on his suitcase, looking around the property.
What are you so afraid of? He’s your friend. You’re visiting your friend.
Mike tried to hammer these thoughts into his head but the attempt was futile; they weren’t friends. They weren’t just friends. He didn’t know what Bill had in store for his visit and he didn’t want to force anything, but being in a gray area was eating him from the inside out. Hell, he himself didn’t know what he wanted from the visit. It was that uncertainty that made his throat dry.
He swallowed and knocked on the door. Footsteps. A shadow, his shadow, behind the sheer window curtain. Bill peered outside, as if he didn’t know who would be there, and opened the door, grinning. Mike set his suitcase down and they embraced. The air that spilled out of the house was savory and starchy, and the scent of Bill’s clothing was the same. Mike breathed him in. The steady, lingering weight of Bill’s toned arms on Mike’s body gave Mike the go-ahead to squeeze him tighter than he hugged anyone else, including Michael and Peter, his best friends. He rested his head on Bill’s shoulder and pressed a kiss to the side of the other man’s head. No flinching. Good sign.
“Hey, Mikey. Just finished setting the table,” Bill said.
Mike smiled, finally, feeling normalcy settle back into his bones when Bill spoke his name. Mike pulled away, asking, “What’s on the menu?”
“Chicken soup with carrots and potatoes,” Bill said as he went down to pick up Mike’s suitcase.
“I made some biscuits too - I don’t know how hungry you are.”
Mike nodded and felt his stomach rumble. It was audible. He hadn’t eaten since breakfast.
They crossed the threshold and Mike gazed lovingly around the living space. Homey was an understatement: the recessed lights were a warm off-white (whether from make or time, Mike couldn’t tell), all of the furniture was wooden, the living room had a large, rust-colored plush rug in front of a boxy TV and radio, and the wall was decorated with fishing and farming paraphernalia. Above the scent of dinner, Mike noticed a refreshing peach scent but couldn’t pinpoint its origin.
“I’ll set your things down in the guest bedroom - you go ahead and start without me. You need it,” Bill said, gesturing to Mike’s stomach. He gave a smile and walked towards the hallway.
‘Guest bedroom.’
Mike felt a pang in his heart as he sat at the head of the red oak dinner table. In front of him were a candle (unlit) in the center, two bowls and two small plates stacked to the side of the candle, silverware, two drinking glasses, a pot of soup, a basket of biscuits, and two glass dishes containing steamed carrots and boiled potatoes. He portioned a healthy amount of soup and potatoes for himself and took a biscuit despite the minor upset in his stomach. Did he want to sleep with Bill? Of course. Did he have enough courage to say that outright? Absolutely not. Not now, while he was sober, at least. A spoonful of soup made its way into Mike’s mouth as he wondered how long it would take before he could shed his casual masquerade and melt into the other man.
The soup was delicious, and his stomach settled immediately. Bill joined Mike and asked, “How was the drive?”, as he served himself. Once seated he filled both of their glasses.
Mike cleared his throat, keeping his eyes on the middle ground.
“Fine, yeah, no problems. Except the radio,” he chuckled. “The weather was great too.”
Bill smiled and took a bite of his first of two biscuits, replying, “I’m glad you didn’t get lost,” nudging Mike’s arm. Mike’s eyes rolled and landed on Bill’s.
Jesus, his eyes. They stood out starkly, proudly, against his dark hair and sunkissed skin. Mike wanted to drown in them.
“It’s a miracle, really,” he said dryly but still smiling.
The conversation dwindled as Mike continued his meal. Not that he didn’t want to talk, but he was starving, and Bill watched him, talking here and there between bites about various home projects he had been working on for the last three months. He felt his heart swell, watching Mike eat with so much gratitude. He loved providing for people but it touched him differently when it came to his friends. It tugged his heart more when it was Mike. It was also a relief to see him eat a real, heavy, home-cooked meal, which would have been a luxury in their Macon days. Mike was still pretty slim, but his body was taken care of and his energy was healthy, not just driven by adrenaline. When they both finished eating, Mike continued to drink the water and Bill gathered the dirty dishes, then moved the leftovers into various Tupperware containers.
“I didn’t make dessert but I have some honeycomb wedges and those little caramels somewhere in the pantry,” Bill said as he set the dishes in the sink.
Forget the candy, I want to devour you.
When Bill turned back to him, Mike shook his head, smiling.
“Dinner was enough, thank you. I’m beat.”
Bill nodded and flicked the kitchen lights off, then nodded towards the hall.
“Want me to read you a bedtime story?”
They both chuckled.
Yes, Mike answered in his head. He rubbed his eyes and made for the guest room, where he envisioned himself tossing and turning or clinging pathetically to a pillow in his friend’s absence. Bill followed Mike into the hallway, turning off the rest of the lights in the living room. Once in the room, Mike kneeled, opened his suitcase, and changed into his pajamas, folding his regular clothes neatly.
“Anything else you need?”, Bill asked, with only his upper body leaning into the room. Mike set his glasses down on the bedside table and drew the top blanket back. He eased into the mattress.
“All set.”
Bill nodded and hit the hallway lights.
“Sleep tight, Mikey.”
Mike said goodnight and watched Bill shut the door softly, then turned on his side, with his back to the wall. He tried to wait, wishing Bill would come back into the room, but his body soon took control and within minutes he was sound asleep.