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It was quiet. The radio was barely audible over the sound of his own breathing.
He trailed a hand along Arcade's stomach- the pads of his digits soft and silken as they made their way across rough terrain, feeling their way against the large red lines, like cattle brands across his figure.
Marking him permanently and perpetually was an unwavering truth that was personal to the cruelty of the legion. Lash marks. They lie across his abdomen like an intruder taking up space. The way they stood stark against his pale skin, completely insensitive to the trauma of their origins; Was it a reminder to never forget, or a disregard for the tonality of the subject? Arcade had never given him any hint to how he felt about them. And while the wounds had long since healed over, the way the scar tissue puffed up from his skin still made Michael feel like he was touching an electric wire any time he grazed them. It was an intrinsic sort of caution, one that no matter how many times he'd been reassured that his actions didn't hurt, he just couldn't manage to shake. It was as if they'd hurt him too if he lingered on them for too long.
He sat watching as Arcade's skin twitched and contracted under his ghosting fingertips, goosebumps creating new texture for him that he gladly traced his touch over.
Strange, how a motion that he'd practiced a thousand times over now felt foreign.
He let the backs of his nails scrape slightly across warm skin, across collar bones- across the thin skin of his throat- catching on the structure that lied just beneath for a brief moment, before traveling their way up and around the corner of his jaw.
With head tilted back and a breath released from shuddering lungs, Arcade gave a silent answer to a question never asked. He didn't need to. Michael knew. He always did, and it had always been this way.
In the way his eyebrows knit themselves he wove a small plea for Michael to continue; his eyes fluttering shut and his throat humming on the back edge of a large exhale that was meant to help cool him down. It sent a plume of warmth billowing into Michael's core.
His air chilled tongue pressing bright kisses against feverish skin was a stark and welcomed contrast as both of their bodies had begun to heat. The sound of the sheets shifting and the small press-click of his kisses filling the space between and around the two of them. Arcade's quiet, searching hands also aided well the throb that had settled itself at the base of his core; A low hum that numbed his mind and blurred his vision. He indulged himself in ignoring its urgent nature, his focus enraptured by the way Arcade's breath hitched whenever he dared to stray lower with his tongue.
It was a diligence; the worship he showered him with. Something he'd started to notice of himself more and more as of late. One that he took pride in, and gave as effortlessly as breathing.
'Loving him is… easy.' Michael thinks. It was hard for him not to, he loves with his whole heart every person that means anything to him. He loves easily- so it hurt for the brief time it had nowhere to go.
'He's back- he's not going any time soon…' Michael reminds himself as he finds that his lips are pressed against Arcade's inner thigh. He laves at its warm surface with the pad of his tongue- pushing his trail up until Arcade has stilled his breathing entirely. And then, to his own satisfied amusement he moves back to do it again, playing at a cycle of anticipation and disappointment. Arcade hums a desperate note that isn't entirely voluntary when Michael traces his nails over his hard-on, through the thin fabric barrier that spares his modesty.
He's tortured him long enough now, he thinks, as he moves to place a trail of kisses along the twitching shaft of his member through the fabric, his hands hinting his intent by playing at the edges of the garment- which arcade eagerly assists in removing not moments later.
It is a needy action. One that is frantic in nature: his eagerness a nonverbal plea. One that Michael answers dutifully with his lips. His hot breath a gentle reassurance and his tongue the savior as he takes Arcade into his mouth. Its an action he takes slow and deliberately, and the cruel nature of his pace is not lost on him, either. This something he does on purpose. A bit of selfishness he indulges himself in, purely due to the fact that it drives Arcade crazy. A kiss to the tip, feather light. And a delicate wetness that spikes that lazy warmth into a frenzied heat inside of him. He swallows him down, minding his teeth, and presses him to the back of his throat and holding him there- acutely aware of how he twitches against his tongue. Arcade chokes out a high, desperate note, hips pressing up to bury himself just a little bit further, and Michael lets him, bumping his nose against his belly. They sit like this for a moment, Michael letting his throat adjust to the weight of Arcade, before a pleading hand searches, feeling for his face. Fingers slick with sweat and trembling with strain; they find their way into Michael's hair, gently tugging his need.
With a quick, practiced motion, Michael pulls off until only his lips remain on the very cusp of Arcade, before taking him back in fully. A cry breaks the silence and the hand in his hair tightens quick. He does it again just to hear that sound again. A sweetness to his ears. *That's* what he's looking for. He keeps his rhythm steady.
Muffled hums and stilted breathing. The sounds of sex. An act of service. That worship again- there it was. Michael thought. This man who lie before him, vulnerable and nude, he worshipped him. Devoted to him til the very end. This man who had the patience of a thousand and a heart that deep down saw the good in all. He was Michael's faith.
Arcade Israel Gannon, you beautiful thing.
You kind, caring, tragic thing. Intelligent and scared, yet brave and hopeful. With you, I can love unforgivingly. Michael thinks.
And there is no mercy to the way Michael loves.
Muttered syllables and mouth sounds brought him back to reality, a sweet repeating utterance, like a prayer. Michael's own name on the lips of Arcade Gannon. A mantra whispered desperately like a command, urgent and pleading. His thumb rubs a small repetitive path against the scar that marks the left side of his forehead. With this, he matched Arcade’s desperation with one of his own. He set a mercilessly pace. Relentless and cruel in an entirely different way. Sucking him down until Arcade is desperately whining, legs twitching, hand fisted into tangled golden hair as Michael pushes him to the edge. With A whimpering cry he is swallowed quickly down the back of Michael's throat. A few more contractions of those muscles and Arcade is pulling him away gently, breath heavy and hands trembling. Liquid silver beads on his brow as relief and exhaustion seep their way through his face. Michael looks up at him, not a single word said- and Arcade offers him a soft smile. Fingers detangle themselves and smooth the hair from Michael's forehead. That little gesture: A thank you, I love you.
…
Michael sits with him now- clothes returned and own needs taken care of, as they read from the same page of a book. This tender gesture of sharing space and novelties means the world to him.
A tender act they partook in often- not always preceded necessarily, but one that they both enjoyed just as much. It was something of a ritual, really. It made Michael feel good.
For him, Like poetry, an ever flowing stream of words were sealed behind stuck lips- leaving only his actions to speak. He wanted to say "I love you, I love you, I love you, you deserve the world."
But It never came out right- brain damage robbed him of that ability, but he could still show it.
Yeah-
Even if things are a bit different now, he could still show it.