Later, much later, and more than once, he asks Micky, like a kid asking for a bedtime story. Micky must think so too, because while Mike runs a thumb across the tender crease of his inner elbow, he lays out his sex life with a flourish, like a winning hand in poker, clearing his throat and always beginning, with sonorous gravity, "Once upon a time, there was a boy called Micky…"

It's so far from shame it qualifies as downright ostentatious, and Mike has to shake his head and hide his grin in Micky's shoulder.

Of course, the stories aren't exactly 'happily-ever-after' fodder – if they're fairy-tales at all, they're the ugly, uncivilized kind with dirt under their fingernails. Despite the fact that Micky tells them with a brazenness that tips into gleeful, mostly what Mike gleans from him is that certain clubs aren't likely to be patronized by Prince Charming, and that public bathrooms are full of frogs wearing wedding rings.

He still asks, He doesn't even know if half of what Micky tells him is true, because Micky tosses in so many crazy, off-the-wall details that sometimes his stories read about as factual as one of Pinocchio's yarns.

But at the end of the day, he figures there's just enough truth sandwiched between the thick layers of strangeness to give an uneasy flavor to what would've been simple titillation otherwise (yeah, that's there…he won't deny it. Though, he thinks, not so much for the grimy, seedy encounters themselves, as the image of Micky, standing wild and audacious at the centre of everything).

" – and the next morning he skips out on me. No money. No motor. Had to hitch all the way back from the motel," Micky finishes, but his smile twists what could be a straightforward cautionary tale. "Some 'brother', huh?"

Mike can't help it – and it's dumb, he knows that, because Micky's…Micky's done all right, all things considered. He's still here, isn't he? He's made it through, relatively unscratched, younger than Mike and yet way hipper to the whole scene than he could ever be. But still, Mike hears the stories – he asks for the stories – and beneath the irreverent 'Boys Own Adventure' kind of tone Micky takes, there's something else. Something that twangs right through his chest…anger on Micky's behalf at every lowlife who's ever eyed him up in a club or restroom and hustled him into a stall or a cheap motel room, only to haul off and leave him stranded by the side of the road, after.

It's…provincial, is what it is, because Micky sure doesn't seem cut up about it, and it's not like he didn't end up using every last one of them right back. But he can't help it – it's always got to him, the way people can sell a person short. Then, when you add in that same someone selling himself short, well, it's no surprise it hits him hard in the gut. Micky's worth more than that.

So he strokes a finger down Micky's arm, and says, soft, "Doesn't seem like you've had much luck with the whole thing. Sounds like you got a regular love-em-and-leave-em parade going."

Micky stays real still for a second, before sitting up, pulling away. He studies Mike with unreadable eyes, and says, "Not exactly. There was this one guy…older. Afterwards, he wanted to take me home. His place."

Mike frowns, because the answer is in the way Micky tells it. "And you went?" He tries not to let his disapproval through in his words. Because well, Micky's here, isn't he? So it all must've worked out okay.

Micky shrugs. "I figured, worst came to worst, I could always outrun him."

It's flippant, but true – Micky's wild, but he's got a healthy streak of self-preservation too. He'd have to have, to come out of the whole scene as unscuffed as he has. Mike has come to realize that that's not completely down to sheer, dumb luck.

"Anyway," he says. "We get there, and it's nice. Real nice" – he adopts an exaggerated, clipped tone and says, "Wall to wall chartreuse carpet, artfully accented with medium-blue furnishings, state-of-the-art kitchen with enameled steel cabinets and modern appliances," his hands describe shapes in the air, "a spiral staircase leading to the master bedroom, decorated in shades of…" he stops. "Actually, I never got that far."

"You didn't?"

Micky shakes his head. "No. He starts talking, about how he'd like to make this a regular thing, and I can even stay at his pad – it's no trouble, and hey, those clothes look kind of shabby, and he wouldn't mind laying out for some new threads, if I wanted…"

"Provided that you didn't mind laying out for him?" Mike surmises.

Micky shakes his head. "I don't think it was that. He seemed pretty straight-up about it…just…he sat there, like he was waiting for me to thank him. Not like," his mouth tilts up irrepressibly at the corners, "More like – he was expecting me to fall all over him for making the offer. Like he wanted me to beg him to make it happen."

He looks at Mike. "But I wasn't going to act all grateful to him – and there was no way I was going to beg for it." Micky's lips curve into a full, shameless smile, as he confides, like it's the most ridiculous thing he's ever heard, "He wanted to make me breakfast, too."

Mike takes this in slowly. "Maybe he just wanted to help." Because somewhere in that sea of self-interested strangers, there had to be at least one person who stepped back and saw Micky – his motor-mouth and his motor-mind, his relentless, exhausting humor, his resilience. His – daring.

Man, Mike'd clocked all those things in that first half-second meeting of their eyes, across the crowded floor of The Cascades. And that wasn't a well-lit club, by any stretch of the imagination.

"Nah," Micky says, dismissively, and it takes Mike a minute to remember what they were talking about. "If he wanted something real, he wouldn't have been asking someone he figured needed a hand-out. He would've gone looking for someone on his own level." His eyes meet Mike's as he says, "Getting ditched in a Motel 6, it's not exactly a dream come true but…at least that's honest. All that stuff that guy was trying to sell me – the breakfast, the pad…the niceness…man, I could spot how phony it was from a mile away."

Mike agrees…well, at least in theory. He's always preferred hard, thorny truths over the easy, marshmallowy party-line.

Except. He'd have bought Micky breakfast, just based on that first look. Nothing else. He doesn't know what kind of a pathetic phony that makes him.

Micky asks him, just once. Well, it's not like he needs to ask more than that. He finishes one of his crazy, disturbing anecdotes, with a final flourish of his hands, then nudges Mike's shin with his big toe. "How about you?" he asks, doing a pretty good job of hiding his curiosity. "What did you do in Texas?"

"I played the guitar," Mike says, brusquely, because he feels downright gauche, greener than grass – and being completely naked while having this conversation isn't helping any. Micky might have a full house when it comes to debauchery - but all Mike's got is a lousy pair of twos.

"For real?" Micky asks. He doesn't answer, and he can feel Micky's eyes on the top of his head. Eventually, he says, "Well, you coulda fooled me."

It's maybe meant to be one of those double-edged compliments, but the tone's off, and Mike can't take it as anything other than straight-up consolation. It almost rankles, how much it eases his mind…

…so maybe it is double-edged after all.

And once, just once, Mike brings them up. It's maybe a faux-pas…from the sounds of things, it didn't seem like Micky and any of his past paramours were having heart-to-hearts in those bathroom stalls and motels, but…well – it's not like Mike has all that experience to go on. He's just got this – and maybe that would've been enough, if he didn't know from Micky himself that he's not a big fan of encores and repeat performances.

So, he doesn't know what all this screwing makes them – other than queer, that is.

And, naked, again, and in Mike's narrow bed, again, he says, "So, this…" and waits.

Micky's eyes flick to him. "What about it?" he asks. He sounds friendly, unconcerned, like he's never given it a second thought. Mike doesn't let that deter him. It's not like Micky doesn't already know how raw he is. "What does it mean?" he asks bluntly. "What're we doing here?"

"Okay," Micky says, but then follows it up with, "You want a diagram? Or maybe...a demonstration?"

Mike catches his hands and pushes them back. "Maybe I don't mean 'what.' Maybe what I mean is…why?"

Micky doesn't answer right away, and when he does, his words ease out with that unfamiliar carefulness that makes Mike twitch. "Because…we both like this. And – why not? It's…convenient."

"Convenient?" Mike repeats.

Micky shrugs. He runs a finger along Mike's chest and Mike tries not to let that distract him. "You're here. I'm here. We've got this place…"

"So what you're sayin' is, this is the fucking version of 'all mod cons,'" Mike says slowly, attempting to pin him down.

Micky grins. "Hey, I'd rather have this than a refrigerator."

"That's easy to say," Mike tells him. "It's not like ours ever has anything in it, anyway."

It's an answer, and for that, he lets Micky roll him over and pin him down on the rumpled sheets. It's not his fault it wasn't the answer Mike wanted. It's the one he expected, really. He's always figured this whole queer thing was mostly about taking what you can get, anyway. How can it not be, when from what he can see, it all comes down to secret hang-outs and furtive restroom handjobs?

Add to that the fact that Micky'd never seemed that all-fired eager to hustle him into some bathroom stall or alley, back when they'd been making eye-contact like the new time across crowded club floors…well, that just cements things in his mind. Convenient. That's what this thing is.

It's not a comfortable realization, and he's got all these echoing voices in his head, prodding him -

"If I were you, I don't think I could stand it. Dwight sure couldn't, but then, he's a real man…and I suppose you're just one of those…accommodating souls…"

"Well, boy, I never thought you'd amount to much…but I would've pegged you as more than just some California queer's sure thing. Guess that was my mistake."

"It's just…not quite…how I would've pictured you, Michael…"

But at the end of the day, if queers use each other and take what they can get – well, then, Michael guesses he can do that too. And if what he can get is Micky, then who's to say he's the one getting the raw end of the deal here?

It's not like he could afford to buy Micky fancy breakfasts and new clothes anyway, even if Micky wanted him to. Even if he wanted to.