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They’d meant to try things again, as soon as possible. Or, at least, as soon as Michael was convinced that he hadn’t hurt James at all, which actually had required some persuasiveness after James had woken up in the morning, blinked, and said, “Hmm,” and Michael had panicked, not at all subtly.
“What's wrong? Are you all right? Tell me!”
“I’m fine. Are you going to be this dramatic every time I end up a tiny bit sore? Because you really don’t have to.”
“How sore, exactly?”
“Not much.” James proved it by sitting up without anything, apparently, hurting. “Sorry. Really fine. Just surprised by it, is all. Is there coffee?”
“Of course there is,” Michael had said, a little indignant because James should’ve noticed by now that Michael always made coffee on the mornings he stayed over, and James had smiled in a way that suggested his distraction had worked, which made Michael want to kiss him, and they’d ended up making love, slow and sweet and just slightly coffee-flavored, in the morning sunlight.
And then the entire film had gotten swamped with new scenes, long hours, delayed deadlines, and somehow they’d found themselves on opposite shooting schedules, Michael off filming missions of vengeance and memorizing lines in new languages while James pretended to party endlessly in various bars, and neither of them had had the energy to do anything other than fall into their respective rooms at their different locations and sleep when they could.
He’d missed James stealing his blankets in the night. He’d just missed James, generally.
But he had found the time to go shopping. He hoped James would approve.
He’d brought his laptop, and had been looking various things up online in his limited free time. Some of it was far too frightening to contemplate, but some of it was actually kind of reassuring: they really weren’t that strange or weird or bizarre. It wasn’t a bad thing, if he wanted to bend James over the hotel bed and spank him until the warmth lingered against his hand, leaving them both breathless. They both wanted that. He knew they did.
He’d also, at one point, pictured James naked except for several of the things he’d been reading about, and then had paused to go shopping again, and then had paused for a different but related reason which had resulted in a second shower. Thank god for the internet, he thought.
He’d made a list of things to ask James about, later, when they saw each other again. After he’d demonstrated how much he’d missed those eyes, that accent, that smile, of course.
And now, finally, it was later. Outside, rain was falling calmly, soft pattering against wide hotel windowpanes. The garish hotel of the day, all the lamps turned on against the greyness outside, somehow felt cozy and safe, despite the hideous décor, and Michael found himself watching James with absolute contentment, listening to the shimmer of the rain.
James, dressed again—they’d had the morning off while the crew set various unspecified things up, and had taken full and exuberant advantage of that fact, but they’d ended up going in to re-record problematic dialogue during the afternoon anyway, after Matthew'd called with desperate pleas about vanishing deadlines—had settled down cross-legged on the bed next to him, and was currently contemplating Michael’s list, with some amusement.
“I still can’t believe I’m sleeping with someone who itemizes our sexual preferences.”
“If you’re going to complain, we’re not going to do this.”
“I’m not complaining, I just want to frame it and display it somewhere. Next to your bed. Or on the wall.”
“I think the hotel staff might be worried by that.”
“They’ve probably seen worse. You know, I don’t know what some of these things are. And if you do, then we need to have a much more complicated conversation about this.”
“I didn’t, no. I took notes. But you can ignore the last five or six things. I’m pretty sure they don’t apply.”
“Hmm. Moving on, then. No gags? Really? I think I’d be fine with that; we did both enjoy it, I thought, when you told me not to talk…”
“I know. That’s different.”
“How?”
“More voluntary, I think. If I—if you really needed to, you could talk. I don’t want you not to be able to say something. Just in case.”
“Oh…that makes sense. All right. I still think you’re worrying too much, though. You’re not going to hurt me.”
“Not on purpose, no. Of course not.”
“Well, then.”
“Still no. At least not now.”
“Not arguing. Can I add something? No cameras. I’m sure you know why.”
He’d actually debated that one, because he knew it made sense, certainly on a professional level—they both knew the horror stories—but some small piece of his head had been wistfully imagining pictures of James, something he could hold onto, tangible memories. But yes, he understood.
“Fine.”
“All right, then. I think I approve of your itemizing.” James started to toss the list onto the nearest table, and then stopped. “No, wait. One more. Nothing that…um, no knives. Or other similar sharp objects.”
“What? What the fuck, James, you think I would ever—” And then he actually saw James’s expression. “Did someone—you were—someone tried that with you?”
Outside, the rain crashed down like noisy tears; James didn’t say anything for a second, and then, “Only once.”
The words hung in the air and turned the comfort of the room into sudden cold; Michael looked down at his hands, because they’d started to hurt, and realized that they’d tightened into fists, without him noticing. Carefully, he uncurled fingers, one by one, and tried to listen to James instead of the horrified anger now thundering in his ears. “Do you want to tell me?”
James watched the rain, where tumbling water hit the unyielding glass of the window and slid away. “Not necessarily. It’s nothing to do with you. And it’s years over, anyway.”
“If—listen, if you don’t want to do this—James, you know you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, right?”
And James looked at him, honest surprise in the clear blue of the glance. “I know. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”
“Then—”
“I don’t mind telling you, if you really want me to. But it doesn’t matter. I was a lot younger and very stupid and I didn’t say stop when I should’ve because that was the first time I’d tried anything even remotely like this. Also the only time, of course. Until you.” James gave a little one-shouldered shrug, as if dismissing everything he’d just said as unimportant. As if he actually thought Michael would think so, too. “Besides, nothing happened; I got out of there. After I kicked him very hard.”
“Good for you.” He winced as soon as the words came out; had that sounded patronizing? But James grinned. “Glad you approve. Agreed on that, then? Just making sure.”
“Agreed. And I’m sorry.” He’d never even guessed, and he’d seen all the scenes in every film in which James, on-screen, casually tossed around knives and sharp objects and various assorted weaponry. Were there other things he didn’t know, other secrets still hidden behind all that cheerful affection for the world? He wanted to know, he thought. Everything. Anything that James wanted to share with him.
“Oh, please. Don’t apologize for things that happened before I’d even met you. You said you’d been shopping. Can I see?”
“Of course you can.”
The box of mysterious things sat on the table next to the bed and looked back at them, imposingly. James picked up a scrap of fabric from the top, curiously. “Blindfolds? Really?”
“I might’ve just bought everything.”
“I can see that.” James wound the blindfold around his fingers, while talking. Michael watched black silk twist and slide against skin, and swallowed, hard. “I’ve never tried blindfolds.”
“Oh?”
“And when would I have? It’s not as if I’ve trusted anyone with this since--anyone but you. We could try it.”
Michael really wanted to shout yes please now!, but that second-to-last comment got stuck in his brain instead, and so he just sat there on the bed staring at James delightedly, surrounded by the giddy sounds of the rain.
“That was an invitation, just to be clear.”
“Then…why aren’t you naked, yet?”
And James laughed, tossed the blindfold at him, and started peeling off clothing. Michael got up to help, not because James needed it, but because he wanted to be the one to expose all that bare skin, out from under the concealing sweater and jeans. James laughed again, and let him take over.
“Really not a Christmas present, you know.”
“But you are fun to unwrap. Why are you wearing so many layers?”
“I was cold. And aren’t more layers more fun, by that logic?”
“There’s a limit to my patience with your clothing, James.”
“Yes, I’ve noticed.” James kicked discarded clothing away, grinned, and then snuck his hands up under Michael’s shirt and made it disappear. “Your turn.”
“Why are your fingers freezing? Come here.”
“I told you I was cold. And then you made me get naked. No, you can’t hold my hands; I need them to take off your pants. Like that.”
“I didn’t realize you meant icicles. Get in the bed. Under the covers. No arguing.”
“Are you joining me? Because I’ll feel warm much faster if you do.”
“In a minute.” He watched James dive under the blankets, golden skin against white sheets, and then peek back out at him impatiently.
“What’re you doing?”
“Making it warmer.” At least the thermostat worked efficiently. He’d always liked hotel rooms to be cold, not quite perfectly comfortable; the chill kept him more focused, reminding him that he had work to do, that he wasn’t, quite, at home. And James stole all the blankets when sleeping in his room but had never complained, he thought, and wondered for the first time why not.
“It would be warmer if you came back here,” James said, hopefully, from somewhere in the depths of the bed, and Michael crossed the room and came back to him. “Sorry about that. Tell me if you’re cold, all right?”
“No, it’s fine, if we sleep in my room it’s probably too hot for you, isn’t it? I don’t mind.” James walked icy fingers along his back, pulling him closer. “Didn’t you have plans involving me and that blindfold?”
“You did issue the invitation…” Michael kissed him, tasting laughter, and faded chapstick, and James himself, welcoming and familiar, lips parting readily for Michael’s exploring tongue. He slid one hand up James’s thigh, over the thin skin across the curve of a hipbone, to the hardness of arousal, waiting for his touch.
James smiled, into the kiss, and Michael pushed him onto his back in the middle of all the fluffy pillows, and kicked the blankets away—James was probably warm enough by now; at least, his skin under curious fingertips felt perfect—and reached out for black silk.
When he eased the blindfold over closed eyes, he felt James go very still, suddenly, beneath him. “James?”
“That’s…different.”
“Good different, or bad different?” He rested fingers on that flat stomach, not quite touching the inviting evidence of desire just below his hand; James shivered.
“I don’t know. Different. Intense. More than I expected, honestly.”
“Do you want me to take it off?” James looked gorgeous like this, black silk against pale skin and flushed cheeks, but there was no way they were going to do anything if it made James uncomfortable.
“Um. Maybe. I think I’d rather be able to see you. I’m sorry.”
“Not a problem.” He kissed James, softly, offering an apology, as he tugged it off. James kissed back, with reassuring enthusiasm. Blue eyes, visible again, sparkled cheerfully, and Michael gazed into them and tried not to feel too relieved by that.
“I’m not saying never,” James observed. “Just…not yet, I think.”
“That’s fine. That’s…anything you want is fine. Just tell me what you do want, then.”
“Wait,” James said, “that’s not really the point, is it?” and then started laughing. After a second, Michael found himself laughing, too, because it was impossible not to, because James was fine and happy and still there beside him.
“Sorry about that.”
“No. Come here.” James reached for him, and pulled him over on top, and Michael tried to hold himself up on his elbows, because he didn’t want to crush James with his weight. James looked at him like he’d heard that thought and disagreed with it entirely, and then started nudging the elbows away, and Michael flopped down on him anyway, despite all best efforts to the contrary.
“You’re not that heavy, you know. And I’m not that delicate.”
“I know.”
“You’re trying to take care of me, aren’t you? What else did you buy, anyway? Can I go look?”
“Yes, you can. In a minute.” They were breathing in unison, not on purpose, just something that had fallen into place naturally, and Michael didn’t want either of them to move, even if he was probably crushing James by now. The rain billowed against the window, happily.
James waited for all of ten seconds. “It’s definitely been a minute.”
“I’m not going to ask where you learned to tell time, but clearly it wasn’t a great success.”
James promptly started poking him in the ribs, repeatedly, with just the right amount of force to be annoying but not quite hurt, at least not yet. “Says the person who made us late this afternoon. It’s been at least five minutes, hasn’t it?”
“It really hasn’t, and that was not my fault. You were walking around only wearing a towel, and I’m not responsible for my actions.” He let James escape from under him, reluctantly, in part because he was still afraid that James, who after all was comparatively speaking a tiny person, might be feeling squashed, and in part just to make the poking stop, because he knew from painful past experience that James could be terribly persistent in that area.
Besides, he wanted to know what James would think of some of the other purchases, anyway. He was keeping a couple of them secret for now.
James pounced on the box, gleefully, and then got distracted at the first glimpse of something shiny.
“Oh…handcuffs? Not too cliché for you, really?”
“I was curious.”
James looked at him thoughtfully, and spun the metal around one finger, and Michael felt his mouth go dry, watching James play with the handcuffs.
The desire he’d felt earlier, put on hold but never entirely gone, suddenly flooded back with avalanche-sized vengeance. James in handcuffs, he thought, and tried to will James into wanting the same thing, somehow. One of those times when telepathic mutant powers would be amazingly useful, he decided.
But maybe James could actually read minds, because he came back to the bed, still flipping the handcuffs around, and lifted those expressive eyebrows, and inquired, “Did you want to indulge your curiosity, then?”
“Yes?”
“Are you asking, or answering?”
“Um. Answering. And maybe telling you to let me put them on you. If you want that.”
“Please do.” And that answer, delivered in that voice, informed him that yes, James wanted this. As much as he did, if that were actually possible.
“Then…on the bed. And you’re going to let me handcuff you, and then do what I want to you. Whatever I want. All right?” He tried to make it sound like an order, but he still had to ask. Needed to hear James agree.
“Definitely all right. Go on.” James actually held out his wrists for them, a sight which made Michael almost forget to click them shut, staring at those arms, stretched out like an offering, decorated with golden profusions of freckles and, now, shining metal that rested like jewelry against pale skin.
The headboard of this particular hotel bed had been designed by some sort of insane carpenter, possibly related to the mastermind behind the orange carpet and pink curtains, and it contained a multitude of tiny elaborate carvings and ornate loops. Michael had despised it at first sight, but by the time he’d finished securing James to it, he’d decided that he might not mind the swirling patterns, after all.
“Okay?”
“Yes.” James flexed one wrist, experimentally. The handcuffs were a little bit big on him—James had small wrists—and he could probably get out of them with some effort, but Michael was actually all right with that. Just in case.
He watched the shine of them slide across James’s skin, reflecting a distorted scattering of gold-dust freckles back at him. “So…yes to these?”
“I think so, yes. We’re still enacting some sort of terrible cliché, but…yes. I can see the appeal, I think. You?”
“You can’t tell?” James clearly had no idea how much effort it was taking for Michael not to jump on him, right then and there. The second he’d said yes.
“Oh…I think you might also see the appeal.” James tugged, lightly, on one arm, and grinned when Michael’s gaze followed the glint of metal as it tightened. “Yes for you, I think, too. Right?”
“Absolutely. So…you like me spanking you, you like handcuffs, you like me telling you what to do….”
“You can add you talking about doing all these things to that list.”
“I can do that.” He’d never been particularly talkative in bed—sex was about sex, right, and words weren’t really necessary, were they?—until James. James, who talked all the time, and wanted him to have opinions, too. And he’d discovered that he didn’t, actually, mind.
“And you’ve been listing everything we know I like. Anything you’d like? Other than this, I mean. Any other secret fantasies about me?”
“Yes, but I’m not telling you those yet.” He had something very specific in mind, but one new thing was enough at a time, right? But James tipped his head to one side and said, “Why not?” and Michael thought, suddenly, why not? James was offering and obviously intrigued and they could always stop if they had to, and what the hell was he hesitating about?
“All right. Hold on.”
“Not going anywhere,” James murmured, and tugged on the handcuffs again. “All yours.”
At which Michael almost gave up on trying anything else except for discovering how quickly he could make James scream for him, but no, he’d practically been dared to indulge himself, and he was going to.
He found what he was hunting for, and then paused to glance from it to James, who was trying to see what he was doing and looking terribly annoyed that he couldn’t.
“James?”
“Yes?”
“Ever done this before?”
James stared at the sleek black length of the vibrator in his hands, and then, rather surprisingly, admitted, “Yes, actually.”
“You have?”
“You’ve been curious about handcuffs, I was curious about…but I have to say mine is much smaller than that.”
Michael’s brain heard the present tense of that reply, and promptly imploded. “You actually own a—”
“Well. Not like that. That’s enormous. Larger than you. And I always thought you were impressive.”
James still managed to astonish him, all the time. Amazing, he thought, and reached over to collect the lube from the bedside table. Blue eyes watched his movements, there and back.
“Thank you for calling me impressive, by the way.”
“Don’t look so pleased about it, I’m not certain it was entirely a compliment. You really want me to—”
“Maybe. Are you saying no?” He hesitated, fingers waiting, wrapped around the bottle.
“No. I’m not saying no, I mean. Just…never mind, I trust you.” James’s breathing had become a little more rapid—Michael could see it in the rise and fall of his chest—but the deep waters of his eyes remained calm and unconcerned.
“You were going to ask me to be careful, weren’t you? If you really aren’t sure—”
“No, I am sure. Though I’d love to hear about where you get these ideas, sometime.”
“Mostly just from looking at you.” Michael moved his fingers, slowly, sliding one into place, then two, and after a couple of minutes he felt James relax, open and trusting and wet around his hand from what was probably too much lube. He glanced up at those eyes, got a tiny nod of agreement, and then took a deep breath and slid the tip of the vibrator into position, carefully, shining with lube, too, because he’d been worried and he really, really, didn’t want to hurt James at all.
“I’m…quite certain I never walk around in handcuffs…” James stopped talking for a second, as the first few inches slid inside him. The smoothness of it moved more easily than Michael had expected, and he paused. “Too fast?”
“No. Large, though…”
“Still okay?” He went back to sliding the vibrator deeper, slowly; that curve of tight muscle tensed, gave up, yielded to the invasion. James had started panting, softly. “You’re gorgeous.”
“I…really am not…”
“Yes, you really are.” He paused again, to kiss the soft skin over the closest hip. “About halfway, by the way.”
“Half? That feels…I don’t know if I can do this. Tell me I can?”
“You can.” Deeper. He watched the thickness of it force James wider for him, black against all that pinkness. He was already so hard with want that he thought he might explode if James looked directly at him, or made that last little whimpering sound one more time.
Almost all the way, now, and James breathed in, shakily, and whispered, “That…there…”
“There?” He slid the vibrator out, a tiny bit, then back in, trying to hit whatever spot that’d been one more time, and James groaned, and the handcuffs rattled against the headboard. “That—I can’t—I need to—”
“Not yet.” One last inch, one last inexorable slide forward, and he stared, forgetting about air for a minute, watching James quiver with it, like plucked harpstrings, shaking on the edge of glorious sound. So full, and stretched, and yes, gorgeous, taking everything, all of that, for him.
He stroked a hand, still slippery with excess lubrication, across James’s cock, hard and hot and desperate, already leaking wetness across that taut stomach, and James closed his eyes, breathed, “Please,” and lifted his hips, trying to get Michael to touch him harder, trying to ask for more.
“Wait,” Michael told him, and took the hand away, despite how much he wanted to leave it there, to feel James erupt beneath his fingertips. But he had bought a vibrator for a reason, after all.
“James?”
James lifted his head to look, hair curling around his face and damp with sweat.
“You didn’t think that was all, did you?”
“What—”
Michael grinned at him, and flicked the tiny little switch, hidden at the base of the vibrator, to the on position.
James, breathless, tried to scream, couldn’t, and shuddered all over, wrists pulling uselessly against the handcuffs. Gasped, “Michael—” and then slammed his eyes shut, hips arching off the bed, already coming, helplessly, pulses of warmth spilling from his cock, across his stomach, painting white heat over the graceful lines of his hips.
And Michael watched in awe, because he’d never seen this before, had never seen James lose control so fast, so completely. For him.
Entranced, he almost didn’t flip off the vibrator. He wanted to watch James, like this, forever. Always.
But James was almost sobbing now, shaking with the relentless stimulation and the delayed and drawn-out aftermath, and Michael needed him, needed to feel all of that now, and he hit the tiny switch and slid the vibrator out and away in one swift smooth motion, and heard the corresponding shocked cry, a sound that might’ve been ecstasy or pain, or someplace in between.
He hesitated, at that. “James?” And James shook his head, which might’ve meant no, too much, please stop, or no, I’m fine, go on, but Michael couldn’t tell which one it was.
“James, you need to talk to me. Please. Can I—”
“Yes, you can, yes…” James sounded utterly exhausted, the familiar melody of that voice, scraped raw by desire, frayed into a rougher music.
Michael swallowed, hard; whispered, “All right,” and slid forward, into that space still stretched open and slick and hot around him, offering no resistance at all. He tried to be gentle but, feeling all that, he couldn’t, and when he thrust harder he heard James, eyes still closed, moan inadvertently, as if he couldn’t hold back the sound, and that was almost it, almost, but not it, not quite.
“James,” he managed to gasp, “open your eyes.”
And James, clearly taking that as the order it was, looked up, directly at him, endless blue like the exhilaration of ocean waves, crashing joyfully into welcoming sand.
And that was it. Distantly, he heard James cry out beneath him, felt a startled last spurt of wet warmth between their bodies, but he was already falling over that precipice, the world suspended around them in that moment, bright and clear and sharp as crystal, shattering forever.
After a while, time came unstuck again, slowly.
A while after that, he managed to process what had happened, and reached out, carefully, and brushed fingers across one cheek. “You—did you—again?”
James actually blushed at that, pinkness creeping up across those cheekbones and hiding the shyest of the freckles from view, and nodded, not saying anything. “Oh,” Michael said, because he couldn’t remember any other words, “oh, you’re fucking amazing,” and leaned down to kiss him. James kissed back, lightly, unhurriedly, dreamlike; and when their lips drifted apart he smiled, just a little.
“Good?” Michael said, because he had to ask, had to know, and James nodded, still smiling faintly, but didn’t speak.
Michael frowned at that, suddenly worried. James this silent after sex—James this silent ever—was something unheard of, and entirely new in his experience. “Can you talk?”
James hesitated, and then shook his head. Michael realized, abruptly, that not only was James trembling slightly, but those graceful arms remained pulled up and pinned to the headboard, and he could see the beginnings of marks that would become bruises, where metal had fought with slim wrists and won.
His fingers felt awkward as he tried to unfasten the cuffs, clumsy now with real and growing concern. The rain, outside, had tapered off, as if listening in as well.
James made a tiny noise as he brought his arms down, finally, a noise that might’ve been gratitude for the release, or hurt from the emerging bruises, or just pleasure at returned mobility, and Michael whispered, “I’m sorry, fuck, I didn’t mean to—you are all right, aren’t you?” and thought please say yes, please talk to me, please.
James nodded again, and still didn’t talk, but looked at him with those depthless eyes, and Michael wrapped both arms around him, and both legs for good measure, and James curled up against him, breathing softly and unevenly into his shoulder, and Michael thought fuck again but didn’t say it out loud this time.
But the panicked thumping of his heartbeat must’ve been audible, because James breathed in—Michael could feel the inhale—and then murmured, quietly, “Relax,” and Michael almost went ahead and had the heart attack anyway, out of sheer surprised relief at hearing his voice.
“You—I’m so sorry, James, you should’ve said, you have to tell me if I’m hurting you—”
“You weren’t,” James told his shoulder, and even if his voice still sounded far too quiet, it also carried the certainty of absolute truth, along with the words themselves. “Really. I’m good. We’re good, all right?”
“No.”
“I’m fine,” James insisted, patiently, and tried to sit up, as if that might help prove anything, and Michael tightened his grip with both arms and legs and refused to let James move a centimeter in any direction. “You’re not getting up until you can convince me that nothing hurts when you move. Stay put.”
“I swear, it’s like I’m sleeping with a sloth,” James muttered, settling back down, but he didn’t sound terribly upset by that. Nor did he protest being clung to with every possible limb, and Michael decided, privately, that he was perfectly happy to be compared to a sessile tree-dwelling mammal, if James would willingly accept this arrangement and stay in his arms. “Can you move your knee, though? Sorry. Sensitive spot, at the moment.”
“Better?” He couldn’t see blue eyes from their current position, and he didn’t like that fact.
“Mmm-hmm. You’re still very tense. I thought you enjoyed yourself. I did. Twice.”
Michael stared at the top of his head until James looked up, possibly sensing the intensity of the gaze even through all that explosion of sweat-darkened hair, and then told him, honestly, “You have no idea how much you not talking terrifies me.”
“Oh…I’m sorry. I just…I think you made me forget how, for a minute. And then I could’ve tried, but I didn’t want to scare you; I felt like I might not be very coherent. Might’ve cried all over you. Sorry.”
“I made you cry?”
“Not like that! You were fantastic. Everything was fantastic. I promise. Just…reaction, I think. Shaky.” James sighed. “Just believe me, will you? Please. You don’t need to worry.”
He’d made James want to cry. Worry was justified, he thought. Maybe even slight panic. Or not so slight.
James shook his head, wriggled around, freed an arm, and then smacked him on the shoulder. “Stop that, I said. I’m fine. I’m wonderful.”
“You—”
“I’m trying to explain. And I’m sorry I scared you anyway. I didn’t want to. Not bad shakiness. Like…oh, I know! So I know you know how Charles gets Erik to cry, right?”
“Please don’t tell me you want to role-play as the X-Men next…” It wasn’t the greatest joke in the world, but he was trying to do as asked and relax, and it did get James to grin at him.
“Now that you mention it…but no, actually, that hadn’t occurred to me. Until now. Would you want—”
“Focus, please.”
“Oh…right, thank you. I mean, you know how that’s a good thing, right? Like a breakthrough moment?”
“Yes…”
“Well, then. Like that. Catharsis. Or something.”
“Really?”
“Well, mostly. That and sheer exhaustion. I think I might need to take tomorrow off from the fantastic sex, as fun as you are. Sorry.”
“That’s fine. And I’m sorry, too. I really don’t want you to get hurt.” He ran a hand across James’s arm, just under the thin line of newborn dark soreness. “I’m not happy about this.”
James examined his arm, curiously. “To be honest, I didn’t even notice that. Bit distracted at the time. I’m not sorry you bought the handcuffs, though. I like the handcuffs. And the, er, other thing, too.”
“I thought you did…I do, too.” Maybe he could find padded cuffs instead.
James poked at one of the bruises, said, “Ow,” and then, displaying his talent for reading Michael’s mind again, added, “I’m sure they make softer versions. You know, like the fuzzy ones.”
“Don’t do that. Do you want me to buy you the fuzzy ones?”
“Yes. Michael?”
“Hmm?”
“About tomorrow night. Do you still want me to—would you mind me sleeping here anyway? Even without the fantastic sex. And also I think I’d like to shower. Now, I mean, not tomorrow night. Though probably then too. If you don’t mind.”
James had gone from not talking at all to talking even more than usual, Michael reflected, but he was learning how to read that voice, how to hear what James didn’t say, the important thoughts that ended up buried in the middle of a stream of words, as if hesitations and uncertainties could be hidden behind fast-flowing sentences, whirlpools of doubt under the whitewater rapids.
He wasn’t the best navigator, he thought, but he was getting better. And if he ever met that person who had made James so unsure about his own desirability, so afraid that he wouldn’t be wanted, not for sex but just for himself…Michael had never actually hit anyone in real life, other than in stunt-coordinated and neatly-scripted film scenes, but he was becoming more and more certain that violence would have to occur.
“James?”
“It’s fine if you want to sleep alone, I know you like it cold at night and you probably want your blankets, I’m sorry, I never even notice when I take them—”
“James. Stop. Please. Look at me. When have I ever said that I only want you here for sex?”
James blinked at him, surprise evident against the backdrop of tangled white sheets and the confused disarray of scattered pillows. “Well…you haven’t, no. Not that I can remember.”
“That’s because I want you. The sex is amazing. I like having amazing sex with you. But I’d want you to stay whether or not we’re having the amazing sex, all right?”
“But I’m not—”
“Don’t. Just—don’t make yourself not important. Please. You are.”
James stared at him, apparently back to not saying anything, at least for the moment.
“Listen,” Michael said, desperately, and tried to think of the right words, the thread that would stitch all those undisclosed and hidden past wounds back together. “You know you like me telling you what to do, sometimes.”
“Yes, why—”
“So, I’m telling you to believe this. Believe me when I tell you I want you to stay. I want to hold you when you fall asleep, and I want to see you when you wake up, and I want you to be the first thing I see when I wake up, and I don’t want you to ever think that you’re alone. And I want you to steal my blankets if you need them and tell me whenever you’re cold. Tonight. Tomorrow night. Every damn night. All right?”
James looked away, for a second, and then back up, and Michael tried to read those fathomless blue eyes and couldn’t. “All right. Yes. Shower?”
And, okay, maybe he hadn’t come up with the exact right words after all, or he’d said something actually wrong, or maybe instant epiphanies only happened on-screen and never off, not in real life where nothing could be fixed with a last-minute script change. Maybe that was just how things were going to be.
But, in the middle of trying not to be disappointed by that, he realized that James was touching the bruises again, fingers curled around his left wrist and pressing hard into the fragile skin, as if the pain could offer some affirmation of everything he’d just heard, the reassurance of reality.
Very carefully, Michael reached over, nudged that hand out of the way, and replaced it with his own, not squeezing at all, not exerting any pressure. Just making contact, softly. Being there. If he could be there enough, James wouldn’t need the pain, maybe, anymore, to know that everything was real.
After a second, he said, quietly, “I bought your damn apple shampoo, too, it’s in my shower, just waiting for you…” And James tried to laugh, and cry, at the same time.
“You didn’t have to…”
“I know. I wanted to. And don’t ever think I don’t want you here again, not after I’ve ended up with a fruit-scented shower because of you.”
“You,” James said, mostly laughing now, “you’re incredible, really, you are,” and then leaned over and kissed him, which Michael hadn’t actually been expecting, and so almost forgot to kiss him back out of surprise.
Beyond the window, the rain, deciding that it was safe to come back, tapped lazy rhythms onto the glass; Michael kept his hand where it was, holding on, and let James kiss him, everywhere, just the two of them secure in the expanse of bed, sheets in spectacular disarray and pillows shoved off to the side and down to the floor. He could, he thought, stay there forever, still tasting those lips against his own.
But they really were both tired and sticky and they’d have to be up in…he attempted to read the clock without moving from his current position, and failed, and James said “Six hours,” into his stomach, because James apparently was actually a mind-reader, at least about the unimportant things.
“We should probably go shower. You did buy me shampoo.”
“I’ll get up if you get up.”
“I thought we already did that.”
Michael tried to reach one of the fallen pillows, in order to hit him with it, and couldn’t. Contemplated several responses, discarded them all, and looked at James, who lay there all happy and amused and comfortably, trustingly, naked in bed with him.
“You did that twice. I’m thinking you owe me one.”
“We’re keeping score? Really? All right, then, you’re welcome to whatever energy I’ve got left. In the shower?”
“In the shower now.”
And the splashing water, indoors and outside, fell across all the rough-edged places in the world, and began, slowly, to wash them all clean, and bright, again.