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George finds Mitchell in the kitchen, it's late, or maybe early now? George knows they've been avoiding each other at night, drifting from room to room like wraiths.
Mitchell's leaning on the side, balanced on his hands in loose tattered jeans and nothing else, shoulders so thin from this angle, twitching and shifting in tiny almost imperceptible movements.
Only this time there are no tomatoes. There's just silence, empty silence and awkwardness where there's never been any before and George doesn't like it. It's new and it grates and though they've never had a conventional friendship it's never been full of tension, full of something like this. George moves to the side, lays a hand there, inches from Mitchell's arm.
The silence drags on.
"You can touch me if you want to you know," Mitchell says quietly. George isn't expecting it and the cups clatter on the side, one of them falls, rolls. Mitchell sets it back the right way without even looking away from his face. "If you want to."
George breathes out, a rough exhale that's surprise, and relief but also a different kind of tension, a bright, hot, red tension coiled low in his stomach.
"We're friends and I don't know, I don't think- Mitchell I don't want to do something wrong."
"There's no wrong answer George."
He wants to, he thinks he wants to more than he's wanted anything since...since he changed.
"Where-" George swallows, hands uncertain even with permission. "Where can I-"
"Anywhere you want."
So he does, a cautious brush of fingertips on Mitchell's back, turning into fingers when Mitchell sighs quietly. When his body language just opens and he can't stop at fingers, lays his palm on the skin, and breathes out the breath he didn't know he was holding. George can't help winding an arm around Mitchell's waist, just because he can, and he's so thin, so impossibly thin, and yet he feels unbreakable under George's fingers. A curious mixture of softness and invulnerability.
"Do you think about it?" Mitchell asks.
George's hand slides to a stop on his skin and he nods.
"Of course I've thought about it," George has no breath left to add anything else, swallowing through a dry throat like it's going to help, and Mitchell is smooth under his fingers, smooth in a way which almost isn't real and his hands are moving again, learning the soft planes and hard edges that make up Mitchell.
"You feel guilty because you want to fuck me," Mitchell leans on the side, one hip balanced against the sink. "You shouldn't, we can't control what we want, only what we do."
"Do you-" George stops because there's no way he can phrase it without sounding ridiculous.
"Yes," Mitchell doesn't even hesitate. He turns his head, eyes half hidden by his hair, necklace dragging against the pale line of his chest. George has a sudden urge to touch it, his fingers twitch where they lay.
"If I asked would you?" Mitchell says and for a long second George doesn't have a clue what he's talking about, he's lost between words while his fingers skim the top of Mitchell's narrow hipbones.
"What?" The edges of Mitchell's jaw slides close when he turns his head and George opens his mouth there without thinking, hot and surprised and reckless.
Mitchell makes a sound, quiet and barely there, turns further, far enough that George can kiss him, can push into the wet half-warmth of his mouth, fingers in his hair, somewhere uncertainly between holding and pulling, and it goes on for a long time. Long enough for George's mouth to ache.
But he's holding too tightly, he's digging his fingers in too hard.
"I'm sorry," George loosens his fingers.
"Don't apologise," Mitchell's voice goes low and breathless, but it still manages to be clear and hard and so very close.
George's hand stops its retreat.
It's too close to the full moon and George is distracted by the way Mitchell smells, by the way his body shifts and curves in the light. By the way he presses into his hand when he touches him again, quick and shameless and George can't help the way his hands slither down and fold round Mitchell's hips. He takes a step, presses his forehead against the curve of Mitchell's neck.
"I want you to," Mitchell adds quietly. "I want you to and then I think I shouldn't."
"Why?"
"Don't be oblivious George," the words are clear but affectionate.
"I'm not, at least I'm not trying to be-" George exhales. "Mitchell," he says simply, like that explains everything.
Mitchell pulls ones of George's straying hands off of his waist and lays it on his belt, and George finds himself breathing hard into Mitchell's shoulderblade while his fingers work the leather through the buckle.
And George knows Mitchell thinks that this is his weakness but George wants this too, in a way that makes him feel hot and guilty. The button on Mitchell's jeans is strangely warm under his thumb, sliding through its hole silently, easily, and the zip just tears down in one slide, material almost falling over Mitchell's barely-there waist and hips.
Everything is pale under his hands, pale and slender and touchable, touchable in a way that's fragile and George is suddenly afraid-
"I don't know what I'm doing," George says, his voice is a mess and the words run together, come out breathless. "I don't want to break us, I don't want to ruin us."
"You can't," Mitchell's voice trails over the curve of his own shoulder. "George you can't."
"Everything, everything will be complicated-"
"We're already complicated."
Mitchell breathes in when George's hands flattens on his stomach, then presses back into him, hard enough to grind bare skin into the crotch of his jeans where they're pulled hot and too tight, and he swears, arm sliding round Mitchell's waist again and holding him there when he's sure he never intended to. And he can't protest into that, he can't.
So he doesn't, he just opens his mouth over the skin on Mitchell's back, listens to the catch when he lets his teeth skid over it.
"George," his name sounds pointed, a rush of breath in a particular tone that George doesn't quite understand, and then he does and his hands are pulling at the button and zip of his own jeans. Muttering half protests under Mitchell's clear amusement.
His hands aren't doing the best job of obeying his commands.
Mitchell slides the olive oil across the side and George is a second from some sort of pointed complaint about hygiene in the kitchen but he can feel the shiver of pending amusement through Mitchell's back. So he says nothing, just drags it within reach.
He's unprepared for Mitchell to shift, back sliding into a curve, curving into him, like it's familiar and...George spills it everywhere.
But there are advantages to having a slippery hand and Mitchell groans under one of them, the long curve of his neck stretching down, and George is the one having trouble breathing.
The brief, hot touch of slippery fingers on himself leaves him feeling briefly, beautifully drunk. But then there's a narrow hand on the edge of his hip, pulling him in while Mitchell's other hand slides on the side and George presses in until Mitchell makes a soft noise and folds over. The press becomes a slide, half wet and half tight. Then just hot and impossibly deep and Mitchell stretches under his hands and moves.
And after a stuttering moment of uncertainty he's left watching the way Mitchell's hips shift under every push of his own, which George thinks is going to be a fetish for the rest of his life. Watching anything else leaves him in danger of losing the frayed edges of what control he possesses. So he forces his eyes not to stray to where he's pushing inside, to what he's doing because he thinks that just might kill him.
Mitchell groans, elbows sliding on the side and he's so much thinner than George, no matter how sharp and strong he might be George feels like, he feels-
"George!" Mitchell snares his attention by tightening, maddeningly, impossibly around him.
"Oh god." George leans in, hands braced on the side, folded over Mitchell's back and for a minute George forgets, forgets everything but Mitchell's skin under his fingers, the long lengths of his thighs and the way his head is bowed into one pale arm, groaning into the skin while George gets lost, completely lost in every push.
Until his fingers ache and he's pressed Mitchell all the way into the side, hips ground into the edge, and Mitchell is making a soft, gasping noise every time he's held there, ragged and alive and not quite Mitchell at all and it's that sound that pushes George all the way to the edge. That flicker of helplessness where there wasn't one before.
And George wants, he needs to touch, hands drifting from Mitchell's waist, pulling on the edge of a hip until there's room enough for his hand, and Mitchell's next exhale is rough and surprised. The push into George's hand only half intentional.
George has time enough to wonder if too tight even applies before he has no choice at all. And he can't push any harder, though he thinks he might want to and then he can't breathe at all, groaning into Mitchell's back while he's taken apart piece by piece in a way he doesn't even try and resist, and he can hear Mitchell groaning into his own arm, all throat and teeth and George thinks he wants that too.
Mitchell shouldn't be strong enough to hold him up, but he is.
-
The kitchen isn't as warm as it was, though George is strangely afraid that this moment is breakable in some way.
"George the world isn't going to end if you let go."
George sighs and tips his head until he can press his forehead into Mitchell's back.
"Are you sure you can't read minds?"
Mitchell laughs and- oh that's an interesting sensation.
They separate, slowly, Mitchell find his jeans and draws them back up his legs. But George is certain he doesn't look half that composed trying to get back into his clothes.
Until Mitchell steps forward and drags his jeans shut, long hands putting him back together without even looking. Before he bends just far enough to press a kiss to his half-open mouth.
"No, I just know that you worry too much."