for autumn <33

because mike's blogs are special.

completely made up and completely fictional. the truth, in other words, hath been bent.

Kiss Me, I'm Contagious

Everyone has plenty to smirk about when they see you're both sick. No one says anything, well, not to your faces, but you can tell what they're thinking.

Coincidence, much?

You take a puff from your inhaler, groaning as your chest protests at the tiny movement. Brad lingers in the dressing room doorway, juggling a bottle of water with an orange. You sink into the couch and close your eyes. Two hours until the meet and greet. You'll sleep this off, no problem.

Someone lands heavily beside you and you open your eyes. Brad's gone, calling 'see you later dudes' from down the corridor. The body beside you shifts until it's firmly planted between your legs; head resting against your chest.

And then, "I don't feel any better," is what Chester murmurs.

You slide your hand down his back and close your eyes. You feel hot and cold at the same time; dizzy like the room is spinning even though you can't see it. Chester clears his throat and the motion sends vibrations through your chest. You wince and shift, finally finding some comfort when your head buries against a nearby pillow.

"Mike? You okay?"

Shaking your head is a fucking pain. It sends the room spinning again and you crease up your brow in frustration.

"You've lost your voice, haven't you?"

You can't hide it anymore. Which is a shame really, because you were doing so well when you woke up this morning and could barely speak. You just figured it would come back to you. Cancelling a show because you're sick? Lame.

"Mike," Chester sighs, sitting up, "We have to cancel..."

NO, is what you want to say but all the comes out is broken air, half a sound, if that. Chester rolls his eyes and gets up. He wipes his nose on the tissue from his pocket and sighs.

"I have some ginger tea, see if that soothes your throat? Seriously Mike, you should have let me know earlier..."

You close your eyes and nod. Yeah, you know. Should have let someone know earlier. Shouldn't have been so fucking stubborn. Shouldn't have let your pride get in the way. There's a whole bloody list.

The tea tastes vile. Even though Chester stirs in some honey and rubs your back as you drink it. It burns your throat and makes you feel even more nauseas. Butterflies flap around in your stomach, kicking up a storm as you glance at the clock. Chester follows your gaze and then glances at you, taking the empty mug and placing it down on the table.

"Okay. We have no choice. We've got to cancel..."

You shake your head and get to your feet. Luckily, Chester catches you before you fall and catching your breath as he forces you back into sitting, you point pathetically in the direction of your backpack.

He sighs and brings it over, hoisting it up into his lap.

"Being a mind reader and all," He starts as he opens the zipper, "I'm figuring you want some paper and a pen."

You nod. You instantly regret nodding. Chester's face begins to bob up and down before your eyes as your head starts to spin. Somehow, you manage to uncap the Sharpie he passes you and push it against the clean page of your notebook.

We can change the set so I don't have to sing. It won't be hard.

"Fuck off," Chester rolls his eyes, "That's not happening."

It is. You underline your words sharply and glare at him.

"No way Mike. I'm going to go talk to Bob and we're calling this off... Mike please don't cry."

You can't help it. It's really rather pathetic. In the back of your mind you know that there are far more serious things in life than having to cancel a show. But you hate it. You hate knowing the fans that have travelled will be let down; disappointed. You hate cancelling shows as much as you hate being ill. Being ill, it means not being in control and you hate that; you fucking loathe it.

"Hey," Chester's voice softens and he places the notebook on the table beside the empty mug.

Your shaking hands bat away the tears that fall but it's pointless because more just meander down your cheeks and replace them anyway. You hate crying too.

Chester wraps his arms around you and you close your eyes, wanting to escape from the dull throb in your head and the tightness in your chest.

"Look. We can reschedule the shows. Your health is more important. Isn't that what you're constantly telling me?"

You sniff and nod your head. He has a point. And you don't have a voice to argue with. Or the energy.

+

"Hey."

"Hi."

"You feeling worse?"

Chester points to the toilet and you lean forward, immediately jolting back as you see the vomit which sits not so prettily inside it. You pull the chain and crouch down beside him, pressing your hand against his clammy forehead.

"You have your voice back," He murmurs.

"Ten hours too late," You utter, "Chester you're burning. Why don't you take off your shirt?"

"Because I'm cold?" He shivers.

"Finished vomiting?"

"I think so."

"Come on," You sigh, "Let's get you back into bed."

Chester nods, doesn't protest when you loop your arms under his and pull him to his feet; practically carry him back toward the bed and lay him down on top of the blankets. The hotel room smells of cold and sick. That stuffy feeling. The Doctor that the rest of the band ordered you off to first thing says it's a bad bout of the flu. Said you should both rest.

Or as Brad said with a smirk in the hotel lobby, "I wouldn't be surprised if it's really Glandular Fever. You know 'The kissing disease'."

You just rolled your eyes and told him he should be thankful it's nothing that serious and to call you when the driver was ready to take you to the airport. Another show cancelled. This time round, you don't care.

"Mike?"

You sit down beside Chester, pressing a hand against his forehead, relieved to feel that he's cooling down.

"Yeah?"

"I'm sorry."

You roll your eyes and place a kiss to his cheek.

+

It's getting dark when you arrive back home. Brad sits in the back seat, smirking with Phoenix as you get dropped off outside your apartment. Joe gets out to carry your bags to the door and you end up nearly carrying Chester behind him.

"Dude, you're a good person. Looking after the ill and needy," Joe nods, grabbing your keys and unlocking the door.

The genuine tone to his voice suggests he's not been talking to Phoenix and Brad about the pair of you. You glance back at the van, notice them staring at you like a couple of schoolgirls, making tongues and batting their eyes.

Later, long after Joe has gone, you're tucking the sheets around Chester and lying down beside him. He's drugged up on antibiotics and hot tea and you smooth your hand over his glistening forehead.

"I feel like I cursed you," You murmur, "I pass this onto you yet I'm recovering... I feel bad..."

Chester smiles, tired eyes looking back at you.

"Come to bed?" He whispers, "It's cold in here without you."

+

The scalding hot water tingles your skin as it rolls down your back, dropping effortlessly from your body to the basin of the shower. Chester's back presses against your stomach, his slick skin covered in soap suds. You glide the sponge up and down his chest, biting down on your lip as he arches his back and pushes harder against you.

You slip your free hand lower, keep going until it's wrapping around his morning erection. He shudders, steadies himself against the wall with his left hand as you tighten your grip. The sponge falls away, splashing to the ground, forgotten as you start to move your hand. A lump forms in your throat and you trail your tongue against his shoulder blades, musky scent of the soap awakening your taste buds.

Chester jerks. Your erection slides between his ass. You moan and let go of him for a fleeting moment, hand fluttering down between his legs.

"Don't..." He gasps as your fingers slide inside him.

"Please..."

"I.. I can't hold.. I'm..."

The words never come, but Chester does, shaking violently as his warm essence spills out, covering your hand as you continue to work it back and forth. You push him gently against the wall, both hands gripping his shoulders as you slick yourself against the soapy suds that are dripping down his back. Your cock rubs against the bottom of his spine, and you slide an arm around his stomach, pulling him closer; thrusting harder as your erection begins to slide between his ass.

"Ugh... Chester..."

Distorted patterns flicker before your eyes, your legs threatening to buckle as you hit your climax. You thrust one final time, coming all over your stomach and Chester's back, and just before your eyes close and relax against him, you watch your sticky, white seed mingle with the soap suds and spiral down the drain.

Chester turns in your arms, the water sprinkling down between you from the faucet above. You lean in, brush your lips against his but he turns his head, only letting your lips graze his cheek.

"Not yet," He murmurs, "Not until I'm completely better."

+

Later that day you're sitting in Staples Center, listening to the deafening sound of Coheed and Cambria which filters from the stage, down the corridors and into your dressing room. The Doctor, he said you were okay; said Chester was making a hasty recovery. You're surprised. And elated. No more shows to cancel. You even have the jitters about playing. Maybe because this is home.

Brad sits opposite you, eating macaroni cheese and talking with his mouth full, as per usual.

"So," He says, "You looked after Chester nicely? Got him feeling better pretty quick..."

"Brad..."

"What?!"

"Stop digging for dirt. You're not going to find any."

It's a lie. But Brad knows enough not to push it. Of course he knows you're fucking Chester. Of course he knows you're in love with the guy. Brad, he knows everything without you ever having to spill a word. Ask him, and he'd probably be able to tell you what underwear you have on.

"Half an hour, guys."

You glance up as the stage hand nods at you and get to your feet, stretching your arms above your head. Three days and no shows. It's amazing how fucking restless it's made you feel. Thirty minutes to go and you're bouncing off the walls. Clearly you're not dying anymore.

+

"What you doing?" Chester asks you.

It's late. Probably past midnight. You're not sure because you're still buzzing from the show and you still can't sit still.

"Blogging."

"Ugh," Chester follows this with a laugh as he walks up behind you, resting his hands either side of your arms; his chin atop of your head.

"And what pearls of wisdom are you sharing with the fans today?"

"I'm just telling them about the SoHo EP."

"Cool."

"And the fact that I got a personalised Lakers shirt!" You grin, "I can't believe that. This may be the best day of March so far."

"Mike," Chester laughs, "It's only the fifth."

"I know.." You start typing again as he fidgets with your hair.

"Come to bed..."

"Just be a second," You murmur, "How's this sound?" You clear your throat, "Firstly, Chester, and I although less than him, got sick and we had to cancel two shows. It was a real bummer for us, we hate to have that happen. Thanks for your “get well” wishes, we’re feeling better now, still a little scratchy on the voice, and coughing a ton, but we can play shows."

Chester chuckles softly, "That's sweet..."

"It's missing something," You murmur, brushing your fingers against the keys.

Chester's breath tickles the top of your head as he begins to read what you're typing, "I just wish Chester would stop being an over protective bitch though and let me kiss him again. Three days is a long time," Chester pauses as you stop typing.

"That's better," You joke.

"Yeah, I think so," Chester nods, leaning over you, "Now will you come to bed?"

"Yeah let me just delete that and..."

You stop as Chester's breath hits your earlobe, shortly followed by his tongue and his hands running down your sides. Your eyes flutter shut for a moment as he kisses the back of your neck, slips his fingers under the hem of your shirt and slowly rolls it up.

"Now will you come to bed?" He repeats.

Your eyes snap open and you're just about to push your laptop away when Chester snatches your hands from the keyboard, hits the big, red SUBMIT button and the page on the screen starts to load.

"Chester, I hadn't deleted that last line!" You gasp, grabbing the laptop as quick as you can.

Chester however, he pushes it away, slams the lid shut and sits down in front of you on the desk.

All he's wearing is your brand new, bright yellow Lakers shirt.

Nothing.

Else.

He tilts his head. He opens his legs. He pulls you in between them and murmurs the two words you've been longing for all day.

"Kiss. Me."

FIN.