Mikey watched the show from the side of the stage, with Frank and Ray. Brian and Gerard had gone back to the bus to make the most of the time to research, and Bob was mingling, because Bob was weirdly stealthy that way. Mikey couldn't figure it out, because Bob wasn't exactly little, and Mikey had gotten his bearings on more than one drunken night out by looking around for Bob's really, really blond hair, but there it was.
Apart from creepy Mark shooting them suspicious glances every so often, the show was really awesome, Mikey thought. He hadn't seen a band with the frontman-but-not-the-singer arrangement live before, so it was interesting. Mikey's favorite part was at the end, when Pete leaned out into the audience like the Chosen One or something, and all the kids went crazy, screaming and climbing on each other trying to touch his hand. It was only after Pete came off stage that Mikey remembered he'd had all those bad feelings about the show, like something terrible was going to happen. All for nothing, as it turned out.
Mikey would have chalked it up to paranoia, if it wasn't for the way Pete looked when he passed Mikey on his way backstage. During the show he'd been electric, Mikey couldn't take his eyes off him, but the minute he stepped into the wings he seemed to deflate dramatically. One of the techs was supporting him, and Pete was mumbling something that Mikey couldn't hear, his skin pale and soaked in sweat.
"That guy doesn't look so good," Ray said into Mikey's ear. Mikey nodded his agreement.
"I'll go see if he'll talk to me," he said. "I'll meet you back on the bus."
Backstage, Mikey flashed his pass and slipped into the dressing room. It wasn't like on TV, with bunches of flowers from adoring fans and champagne on ice. Mostly it looked like a bunch of dudes had gotten dressed in there in a hurry, but there was a mirror with the bulbs all the way around. The kind Mikey's Mom had always wanted.
The lights were out, though, and Mikey startled when Pete spoke.
"Hey, Mikeyway," his voice was tired and soft, and coming from a dim corner of the room.
Mikey squinted, and thought he could make out a vaguely Pete-shaped shadow in the gloom. "Pete?" he called softly, picking his way across the floor, trying to avoid stepping on anything or falling over. "Why are you sitting in the dark?"
Pete didn't say anything, just made another soft noise. Mikey's hand found the switch on a table lamp, and yellow light spilled out across the room.
Pete was balled up in the corner, his back against the wall. His knees were hunched up to his chin, and he winced in the light, pulling his hands up to cover his face. The sleeves of his hoodie were tugged all the way down to his fingertips.
"Pete?" Mikey said again. He crouched down next to Pete and reached out, sliding his fingers between the soft cotton of Pete's hoodie, and the side of his face.
His skin was cold and clammy to the touch - his tightly closed eyes were circled by deep, bruised shadows that looked like they hurt. He inhaled sharply when Mikey touched him, turning his face towards Mikey's fingers. He nuzzled briefly at the heel of Mikey's hand, and slowly opened his eyes.
"I never used to get this tired," he rasped. There were dry, tight lines around the corners of his mouth. "After the shows. I used to feel like I could take over the world."
Mikey pushed Pete's hood down gently; Pete's hair was plastered to his skull underneath. He was drenched in sweat, but had lost all of the flush and glow that he'd seemed so full of on stage.
"How do you feel now?" Mikey asked, resting his palm against the curve of Pete's neck. Pete's uneven pulse jumped rapidly under his skin.
"Exhausted," Pete said, then shook his head. "No - that's not the word. It's more like...did you ever play with iron filings? You know, with a magnet?"
"Sure," said Mikey. "My brother used them in one of his final projects at art school, I think."
"It's like that." Pete closed his eyes again and leaned his head back against the wall. "Like they've all been pulled out of me, through my skin. I feel like I should be full of holes."
Mikey folded himself down to sit next to Pete, mirroring his pose. He took Pete's hand and held it. "Does it hurt?"
Pete was quiet for a minute, his breathing slow and deliberate. "Not exactly. It's more like the way you feel after something hurts." Pete's eyes blinked open and he searched Mikey's face. "Only I don't remember the pain."
The room was warm and quiet, and Pete's hand was cold. Outside, Mikey could hear the crew hustling back and forth, the excited voices of one or two fans, the crackle of security's walkie talkies.
"When I saw you," Pete said, so quietly Mikey could barely hear him. "I thought that you could help me."
Mikey put his other hand over Pete's, and chafed it gently, trying to warm it up.
"Stupid, right?" Pete said, looking dully down at their hands. "I don't even know you at all."
There was a sudden rush of sound and air, and Mikey looked up to see Patrick closing the door behind him.
"Pete?" he said, and stopped when he saw Mikey, a look on his face that Mikey didn't quite understand. "Oh."
"It's okay," Mikey told him, standing up. He brushed his jeans off. "I should go find my brother."
Patrick hesitated, then nodded sharply and moved quickly towards Pete. He crouched down and Pete rolled instantly towards him, his hands seeking blindly until they were wrapped around Patrick's shoulders.
"It's okay," Patrick soothed, shooting Mikey a defensive, wary look over Pete's shoulder. "It's okay."
Mikey slipped out to the sound of Pete's murmurs, and Patrick's hushed replies.
