Archive of Our Own

“James?”

“Yes?”

“Where’re your shoes?”

“I…don’t remember. I think I need pants before the shoes, though.”

“Yes, thank you, very helpful.” Michael grabbed the first visible pair out of James’s side of the closet. Old, a little worn, and comfortable-looking; good. James would probably need that.

The early morning, around them, practically crackled with crispness, obligingly coaxing them into clothing; a cold front had arrived during the previous night, and seemed to have settled down to stay. The hotel room, on the other hand, offered vivid coziness as a bulwark against the bite of the air; this week’s accommodations appeared to be fighting to include every color in the spectrum, and winning.

James had taken one look and started laughing. Michael had wondered, not entirely joking, whether the cost of comprehensive redecoration would be worth his sanity.

He’d admitted, eventually, after leaving James panting and blissful among them the previous night, that the rainbow-hued sheets might not be so bad. The carpet, on the other hand, constantly threatened to induce violent headaches; James had tried to help by finding the spare blankets in the closet and flinging them dramatically across the floor, which had led to a continuation of previous enjoyable activities but hadn’t done much about the still-visible vertiginous patterns.

At the moment, though, for once, he wasn’t looking at the carpet. He was looking at James. Who was studying him with an indecipherable expression.

“What? I’m allowed to take care of you. You’re—you know what you’re doing, today. For me.”

“Yes, but you’ve just tried to help me put on my pants.” But James stood there and let him do the zipper and the top button, despite that comment.

They did both know exactly what James was doing, for him, today. He’d asked, the night before. Had reminded James of a certain promise. Something he’d said he’d wear. On set. All day.

He’d asked again, in the morning, after James had woken up, blinking sleepiness out of jewel-shaded eyes. And James had blushed, every inch of naked skin going self-consciously pink, and had agreed.

“I can get dressed by myself, you know.”

“Not today, you can’t.” He found the warmest grey sweater—the fuzzy one, slightly too big, with the tiny v-neck—and tugged it over James’s head. Amused blue eyes emerged, on the other side, and met his.

“Are you going to be like this all day? Because I don’t mind—mostly—but I think other people might notice.”

“Not all day. Just for now. While I—while we can. Are you sure you’re comfortable?”

“Yes.” James ran a hand through his hair, trying to smooth it down; wayward wisps popped up again, in merry defiance. “It’s…interesting.”

“Interesting?” Michael picked up the closest set of James’s fingerless gloves. He recognized this particular pair; he’d seen them on camera the week before. He made a mental note to buy a few more of those; if James had resorted to stealing Charles’s wardrobe, he’d probably lost his own again. And James should never have cold hands.

He held up the left one; James started to take it from him, and Michael raised both eyebrows at him, and James sighed, and offered the hand for adornment.

When Michael touched him, thumb brushing the starburst scattering of freckles over that slim wrist, James looked at him, standing there beside the bed, and smiled.

And suddenly it wasn’t just about the gloves, or about James getting cold too easily on icy mornings. The slide of wool along pale skin, fingers slipping into place, felt breathless and somehow sacred, the most intimate touch in the world.

They both looked at those hands, after. Couldn’t help it. Especially not when James left them cradled in Michael’s, and curled fingers in and out, testing, displaying, inviting.

The air, in the room, got a little warmer. Even the hideous hotel furniture went silent and leaned in to watch, rainbow sheets and all.

Michael carefully transferred both of those gloved hands to one of his, where uncovered fingertips rested against his wrist. Set the other hand on James’s hip, and pulled him in closer. Walked the hand over to the waist of those jeans, and then under, searching, until he found what he was looking for, buried there. It welcomed his touch.

Earlier, he’d said, amused, “Orange?” and James had glared, defensively. “I’ve had it for years, okay? And it was the best option. The black one was sort of ominous, and an orange vibrator seemed more normal than purple or hot pink or blue, and yes, I realize what a bizarre sentence that was.”

“I wasn’t going to comment. James?”

“Yes?”

“I bought you a black one…”

“Yes, I know.” James had scowled at the carpet, and muttered something that sounded like “you’re not ominous.”

Which Michael had figured couldn’t be directed at the carpet, because the interlocking geometric patterns were, in fact, rather foreboding. “What?”

“I said that one isn’t ominous. Because you bought it. For me. All right?”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too. Are we doing this, then? Because if you wait much longer I’m going to think you didn’t mean it.”

“Oh,” Michael had said, emphatically, because he couldn’t have James thinking that, “I meant it,” and then had bent James over the bed, and collected the lube and the wonderfully orange vibrator, and listened to James moan, as Michael opened him up and made him ready, wet and waiting. And then filled him, gently, more slowly than he’d meant to.

He’d been holding his breath, without realizing it. They were doing this. James was doing this, for him. Would be walking around, all day, caressed by his own vibrator, the vibrator that he was letting Michael slide inside him, at that exact moment. Wouldn’t remove it, wouldn’t find release or relief in orgasm, unless Michael told him to.

Leaning over James, who’d stayed stretched out beneath his hands, he’d been tempted to find his own release right there, cock rubbing against that firm ass, painting all those joyfully spiraling freckles with his own need, knowing that James would feel all of that and still not be allowed to come. Not until commanded.

He’d decided that that might be too cruel, though. And also they’d have to shower. Again.

And he’d glanced at the unsympathetic clock, and realized how little time they had, and had then gone through several colorful curses in his head, but had left James on the bed and started hunting for clothes.

Now he was starting to seriously question his own sense of priorities. They didn’t really have to be all that punctual, did they?

The gloved hands, in his, had trembled a little, with his previous explorations; when he tightened his hold on them, squeezing wrists together, James licked his lips. Intrigued, Michael moved the other hand away from the vibrator. Found unmistakable evidence of arousal, waiting for his touch.

“You’re already—you do like this idea, don’t you? Walking around, wearing this for me, being mine, in public?”

“Yes, sir.”

“…really?”

James’s expression suggested honest startlement at his own reply. “I didn’t mean to—I just—that just came out, I swear!”

“Hmm.” Michael studied him for a minute, the two of them standing close together in the crisp morning air, the beginnings of sunlight peeking inquisitively around the gap in the curtains. He hadn’t quite expected that first answer, either.

He thought maybe he understood, though. The memories, from the previous week, suggested themselves as an explanation: James giving him orders, wrist cuffs and fingertips and that voice like dark honey over whipcord leather. And himself listening, to every word. It’d been fantastic, yes. And he’d do it again in a heartbeat, if James offered. But that wasn’t what James needed from him, not really.

Reassertion, then. For both of them. That hadn’t been exactly why he’d reminded James of his promise today, but it suddenly made perfect sense regardless. Of course they needed this.

James hadn’t moved. Not even to go find his shoes. The advancing sun crept up and made dancing golden highlights in all that curling hair.

Michael put out one hand. Ran a finger along one cheek, touching soft skin and familiar freckles. James shut his eyes, briefly, in the sunlight, at the touch. Breathed in, just once.

“You would do anything I asked, right now, wouldn’t you? If I asked you to get on your knees, still dressed, with this—” He slid the other hand back under worn denim, across smooth curves. Found the end of the vibrator, hidden from view, and nudged it, slightly. Heard the answering gasp.  “—still inside you, and I told you to suck my cock, here, right before we leave?”

The ocean-water eyes widened, all glittering blue and anticipatory black in the morning light, and not expressing any sort of objection in the least. “Yes, sir.”

“I want that, too.” He eyed the clock. Inwardly swore. No time.

And as badly as he was tempted to say “fuck the schedule” and let them both be late, they did have to be professional. Which meant he had to get James to come back, a little, enough to remember that they were about to be on camera, anyway.

Even though he himself wanted to rip off all those just-assembled clothes and pounce on James right there.

He glared at the clock again. It informed him, unhelpfully, that they now had even less time.

Okay. Later, then. Definitely later. With emphasis on the definitely.

“James? Look at me, please. Now.”

The morning-glory eyes met his, waiting. Asking, wordlessly.

“I do want to. You know I want to. I want you. But not now. Now I need you to listen, all right? We have two minutes and you don’t have shoes on and we have to go. And I need you to not call me sir on the set. And remember that we’re in public. Despite this. And that is an order, understand?”

James blinked. Almost visibly shook himself. “All right…”

“Are you going to be okay? All day?”

“Um…I think so. Thank you for that, by the way.”

“One of us had to remember. And it wasn’t going to be you. Where are your shoes, again?”

“Possibly under that very unattractive chair? That looks like the left one. Are you all right? You look—”

“Like I want to have sex with you right now? On the unattractive chair? Why are your shoes under the chair?” He’d meant to toss them across the room, in James’s direction, but apparently James had followed him. Maybe he shouldn’t’ve said that first sentence out loud.

But James blinked again, glanced at the clock—which remained stoically inflexible, even when met with those normally irresistible eyes—and then sighed and accepted errant footwear. “Either that’s where they ended up last night—and you were very much there for that, so you should know—or they’re just making friends with the furniture. Can I have sex with you later, at least? If you say no, I might end up going insane from frustration by the end of the day, just so you know.”

“Of course you can. I wouldn’t want you to end up insane. Even if no one would ever notice.”

“Oh, thanks.”

“Well, you did just suggest that your shoes were plotting an alliance with the furniture. I’m pretty sure no sane person would’ve come up with that one.” He stuck a travel lid on this morning’s coffee cup. Handed it over. Watched James smile, warm as the sunbeams pouring through the window. “Love you.”

“I love you, too. Ready?”

“Mmm-hmm. Shall we go be superheroes? Hey, you know what would be a fun mutation?”

“If you say anything about spontaneous orgasms, I’m not having sex with you later.”

“…invisibility?”

And he had to laugh, mostly at James’s terrible attempt at an innocent expression, through the escaping swirl of coffee-scented steam. Of course.

He grabbed the hand not clinging to the morning’s infusion of caffeine, tugged James out the door, made sure they both had script pages and hotel keys and chapstick, and got them into the elevator and down to the lobby and out to the waiting car with thirty seconds to spare. Impressive, he thought. If he did say so himself.

And James smiled again, and held his hand right back, the entire way.

The morning, despite intermittent mortified glares from James once he realized they still had to change into the day’s wardrobe, ended up going rather well. Clouds bounced around cheerfully in the sky, flirting with the sunlight, and the cameras rolled flawlessly, and no one forgot lines or missed cues, not even during the endless conversations with CIA minions.

Michael had pointed out, while halfway into Erik’s black turtleneck of the day, that at least they weren’t shooting a film that would require James to remove his underwear, and James had given him a look that suggested complicated ideas about homicide, and Michael had laughed and kissed him, both of them half-dressed and perfectly willing to scandalize the costume department interns.

It was a good day, he thought again. No delays, no equipment malfunctions, even the exact right amount of wind to keep the sunlight from becoming too friendly.

And also James, who, after the most recent hour of sitting in desk chairs at the mock-CIA set, had started squirming slightly, whenever the cameras were turned off. They’d finished the meeting-room discussion, and were just sitting patiently around for people to bring the car over, so that they could walk out of the building, hop in, pretend to drive off, and then be released for lunch.

Well, in theory they were waiting patiently. James seemed to be having some difficulty sitting still.

“Still all right?”

“What? Yes. Fine.”

“Really?” He was fairly certain that that was a lie, but he was less sure about what James wasn’t telling him. Neither of them had ever done this before, and it had been a long morning; what if James wasn’t comfortable? Worse, what if he was in pain? James probably wouldn’t admit it, if he was in pain. And hadn’t answered him, either.

“James?”

“Um…let’s just say it’s a good thing there was also an enormous table in this scene.”

“Oh. Really?”

“Wasn’t that what you had in mind? When you suggested this?”

He honestly hadn’t had a specific result in mind. Just the thought of James, walking around, with the constant reminder of that presence inside him, hidden there, telling him with each step that he belonged to Michael, that he was doing this because Michael had asked. Letting all that want build up, in public, throughout the day.

And now he might also be very glad for the enormous, and enormously helpful, table. He wouldn’t mind James noticing, but other people might walk in at any second and tell them to go start filming again.

“So…you are all right, then? Seriously, I mean. Other than the…”

“Potential death by sexual frustration? Um…” James wriggled around in his seat again. Michael noticed, with amusement, that the chair was too big for him; when James sat all the way back, his feet ended up not quite flat on the floor.

Maybe they could have sex in this chair. They hadn’t managed it that morning, after all.

No. One more scene to shoot. Focus. Besides, the chairs didn’t look that sturdy, a casualty of current budget issues. They might break if he tried.

“I think,” James was saying, oblivious to Michael’s sudden raging desire to destroy the economically-minded furniture, “it’s definitely distracting, and I can—I know it’s there. But it doesn’t hurt, if that’s what you’re asking. Not exactly.”

“Not exactly?”

“Not yet.”

“Not yet?”

“Don’t look at me like that. I can hear you worrying. It’s like…muscles.”

“What?”

“Like when you stretch something, and you know it might hurt later, or the day after, because you’re not used to—to doing that. This. But it doesn’t hurt then. Now. I mean this doesn’t hurt now. I mean—you know what I mean.”

“I think so…Do you want to stop?”

“No.” James grinned. “You did say all day. And it’s a challenge. I’ve been trying not to let any of it show; on camera; I’m pretty sure I’ve been doing all right, so far.”

“I love you. And I think you’re fine; no one’s said anything, anyway.” Though now he might have a similar problem, in the next scene.

“Or they just like shots of Charles thinking very hard about all the kinky sex he and Erik are planning to have, later. And I love you, too.”

Michael had his mouth open to inquire just what James had been thinking about, with regard to said kinky sex, and then one of the assistant directors tapped on the doorframe. “Ready?”

“Of course!” James hopped to his feet, and Michael realized yet again how good an actor James really was, because there was absolutely no evidence of all that frustration and want and ache that they’d just been casually discussing.

A challenge, in all sorts of ways, he decided. And hoped his own expression was at least equally convincing, as they headed towards the door.

Half an hour later, he’d come to the conclusion that he should never have even thought the words about the morning going well.

At first, it was just hilarious. The handle of the car door came loose when James tugged on it, which made them both crack up, at the astounded expression in those blue eyes. And then again when, after some frantic supergluing, they did another take, and James walked up to the car and stared at the door handle warily and then yelled, “Erik!” when it plopped off a second time, and Michael almost fell over laughing.

Matthew called them both idiots and demanded more adhesive, muttering dire warnings about time and punctuality and schedules, and possibly the car understood him, because this time all the pieces stayed put, held on by sheer self-conscious remorse.

Unfortunately, Michael was still trying not to laugh, and forgot to swing his door shut on cue, after they got in the car.

“Again! That’s supposed to be coordinated! Together! You’re thinking in unison!”

“Fine!”

This time James was the late one.

“That’s not my fault! I was trying to watch you!”

“Again!”

“Still not my fault!”

“Yes, it was!”

“Oh, my god,” James said, and started laughing again, “how can we be so terrible at this, they’re only car doors, come on, we must be able to do this…”

“Are you sure about that? All right, maybe if I count to three, next time?”

“Okay…”

Thump.  Pause. Thump. And a grumble from Matthew’s direction that sounded like “morons.”

“Wait, were we doing it on three? Or three, then go?”

“Did you just quote Lethal Weapon at me?”

“Lethal Weapon Two!” James was practically convulsed by amusement. “Learn your terrible American action movies!”

“Couldn’t you at least’ve used Die Hard?”

“No! Okay, we’re doing it on three, ready?”

“No, hang on—!”

After that spectacular failure, they both just sat in the car and looked at each other and laughed, hysterically. At one point Michael said, in between breaths, “Mel Gibson, seriously?” and James dissolved into helpless giggles, leaning on his shoulder. “Come on, I didn’t specify, you could’ve been Danny Glover…”

“I refuse to tell you I’m getting too old for this,” Michael retorted, which made James laugh even more, looking up at him, eyes dancing like sunbeams over glittering water. And somehow that glance, that moment, the laughter and the terrible movie references and even the damn car doors, settled into his bones, and warmed him from the inside out, giddy and brilliant and magnificent.

And suddenly all that frustrated desire from earlier came crashing back, too, and he found himself breathless with it, gazing into sparkling blue eyes and wanting.

James, however, distracted by laughter and horribly inconvenient car doors, had regained just a little too much self-control in regards to the aforementioned desire, he decided.

The next time they got into the car, Michael put his hand, casually, on the other seat, right before James, not looking, sat down. Squeezed, firmly. Watched blue eyes go wide.

“You—”

“What?”

“I really—oh, that’s not fair.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He squeezed the curve of that perfect ass again. When James squirmed against his hand in response, he moved the fingers over slightly, searching. Found what he was looking for, under layers of today’s professorial suit, buried in between those tempting curves. Pushed on it. Hard.

“Fuck!”

“Hmm?”

“You—stop that. Seriously. Or this scene is going to be over right now. And it won’t be in any way my fault.” But even while talking, James was pushing back against his hand, shifting position, biting his lip, moving again. Michael grinned.

“I mean it. Stop that.”

“I don’t think you get to give orders today, James.”

“Oh, and you do? Also I don’t think you doing that with your hand counts as an order—”

“Yes. I do. And I’m going to do whatever I want, to you. Later. And here, right now. And you’re going to let me.”

James had his mouth open already, probably to reply, but just froze in place with lips slightly parted, and stared at him.

“Clear?”

James was saved from having to answer by the sound of Matthew shouting, “Okay, one more, just walk out of the building and get in the car again, and if you can’t do it in unison this time I will keep you here through lunch if I have to, until you figure out what unison means!”

“Fine!” Michael shouted back, because James evidently still couldn’t talk, and Matthew added, “Also, I don’t know what you’ve just said to James, but can you tell him not to look at you like you’re about to have sex on camera, please, for one minute!”

James apparently had recovered enough to answer, this time. “That’s how Charles always looks at Erik! It’s character acting!”

“Still not paying you to have sex on camera!”

“People would totally pay to see that, you know! I’m very talented at sex!” James started to get out of the car, to the sound of Matthew laughing, and Michael leaned over and noted, “Yes, you are,” in a tone that made James blush ferociously.

“You’re not helping, you realize.”

“Oh, I know.”

“Remind me why I agreed to do this, for you, again…” But James was smiling, not really annoyed at him, over the roof of the car, sunshine spilling down over that rumpled hair and those laughing eyes, and Michael found himself just smiling back, even though he’d meant to say something else clever or tantalizing or seductive.

“I think it was because you love me.”

“That, yes. And also because we’re going back to my trailer after this. So you can apologize for all the not helping.”

“What did we say about you giving orders, today?”

“I think we said that if you don’t have sex with me within the next fifteen minutes, you’re never having sex with me again.”

“Ah. All right.”

“Okay, then. On three?”

The car doors slammed in perfect unison, this time. Naturally.

Matthew eyed them both suspiciously, but grudgingly waved them off for lunch, after extorting promises of punctuality for the afternoon.

Michael started to ask why all the emphatic reminders about promptness—they had made it on time that morning, after all, but maybe Matthew somehow could sense how difficult that decision’d been; he wouldn’t be surprised—but James turned blue eyes on him, very pointedly, and he decided that now wasn’t really the time to start conversations, and he didn’t actually care that much anyway.

They’d barely made it inside the trailer before James pushed him up against the door and kissed him, soundly, tongue finding its way into every crevice of his mouth, hands working his shirt loose and then sneaking up to touch his bare skin, as if craving as much contact as possible.

“You feel wonderful. Can you be naked now?”

“Desperate, are you?”

“You have no idea.” James had started on Michael’s pants, already; Michael, somewhat surprised by the urgency, but not at all unwilling, reached over to return the favor, while kissing his way along the delicate lines of that pale throat, following the tempting trails of pinwheeling freckles.

“Seriously, that bad? Or that good?” He’d gotten James naked, with as much speed as he was humanly capable of. Could feel, with exploring fingertips, the rim of that unyielding vibrator, where it’d been so competently keeping James on edge all day.

“Both.” James kicked unwanted clothing away, and then reached out and wrapped one hand around Michael’s cock, which undeniably approved of the rapid progression of events. “I want you.”

“I noticed…” He wanted, too. Just found himself rather bemused by all the speed. And the sudden assertiveness. That was supposed to be his role, wasn’t it?

“James?”

“Yes?”

“How desperate, exactly?”

“What?”

“I mean…you remember this morning. You wanted…I could…” He hesitated—what if James wasn’t in the mood, considering the apparent desire for immediate satisfaction?—but James stopped to look at him, and licked those magnificent lips, moistening them.

“I do remember, yes. You want me to suck your cock, I think you said?”

Jesus. Those words, that suggestion, offered in that voice, ought to be illegal. And also real proof of aforementioned desperation; that wasn’t a normal James comment, especially not in that intensely determined tone.

“Um…yes.” Not nearly commanding enough. Distracted by the voice. Damn. “On your knees, James.” Better.

James, not even bothering to answer, dropped to his knees, leaned forward, and pulled Michael into his mouth in one fluid motion.

“Oh my god—”

Tongue. Lips. Wet heat. Pressure in the exact right places, swirling up and down and everywhere, stroking, searching out each sensitive spot and then caressing, relentlessly, and Michael thought he might scream, or pass out, or come right then, exploding in place. Filling up that unbelievably talented mouth.

Knowing that James, even while licking his way along Michael’s cock, still had that hardness buried inside him, filling him up that way, too. Because Michael had asked him for that.

At that thought, he almost did come; James, possibly sensing the abrupt tension as he fought for self-control, pulled away, and sat back on his heels. “Michael?”

“Oh god—you—James—” Words. He needed words. “You—what do you—you said you wanted—”

“You. Please.” The ever-present sapphires, in those eyes, looked up at him, imploringly. “I want you inside me. I can’t—this isn’t enough—” James shivered, still kneeling on the thinly-carpeted trailer floor, arching his back. Offering the movement of hips, the invisible shift of the weight they both knew was there, as an explanation. “I need you.”

Jesus, Michael thought again. He’d heard James beg before, had listened to that luxurious voice wrung out and gasping his name, but this…he’d never heard that raw and imminent edge to it, pleading with him, asking for everything now.

“Yes. Yes.” No other possible answer.

He tugged James back to his feet. Got them both over to the stoically accepting cushions of the couch. Yanked the lube out of its customary hiding place in the drawer of the endtable.

“James—?”

“Please—”

Yes, then. He curled fingers around the base of the vibrator. Pulled. Heard James gasp, suddenly bereft. That sound dug itself into the last tenuous shreds of his restraint, and tore them away.

He grabbed those slim hips with both hands, not giving James time to adapt to the emptiness, and maneuvered them until he had James on top of him, poised above him.

“I have to—now, I can’t wait, I need to—” He’d barely had enough presence of mind to remember the lube; he hoped, frantically, that James was still relaxed enough, open enough, to accommodate him.

He didn’t hear any noises of protest, and the blue eyes were shining down at him, so he tightened his grip on those hips, and thrust upwards, holding James there against him.

James gasped again, and tipped his head back, squeezing those eyes shut, but moved with him, riding him, finding a rhythm, losing it, finding it again. Not in pain, Michael managed to think, processing the realization through the haze of want. Pleasure. Relief. Ecstasy.

He thrust again, fingers leaving bruises on pale skin when he pulled James closer, but James didn’t seem to care. Just groaned, somewhere low in his throat, and dropped both hands on top of Michael’s, as if making certain they wouldn’t move.

And Michael could feel the release building up, coiling under his skin, but this wasn’t about him, not today, it was about James, about making James feel perfect, and so he slid one hand away and fastened it around James’s cock, flushed and hot and hard, and stroked, and James caught his breath and rocked those hips forward on top of his. And Michael got out, “Together, now, I want you with me—” and barely finished the words before they were both coming, simultaneously, swept up in the supernova and gasping for air.

James flopped down onto his chest, still breathing hard. “That—you—oh, wow.”

Michael put both arms around him, and held on. “I think…wow to you, too. James?”

“Hmm?”

“That was totally in unison.”

And James burst out laughing, lying there in his arms, exhausted and sticky and grinning so widely Michael thought the whole world must be able to feel it, sheer coruscating joy that leapt out to fill up all the distant corners of the air. Perfect.

Afterwards, James started to look around for tissues, and then for clothing. “These are your pants. Where are my pants?”

“Over there. But you’re not putting those on yet.”

“I’m not? Why not?”

“You have something else to wear, you know.”

“I—oh, no. Seriously? More?”

“We did say all day.”

“Oh, my god,” James said, but obediently came back over to the couch. “You really want me to—”

“Yes, I do.”

“But I’m not—I mean, we didn’t shower or—”

“I know.” He watched that comment sink in. The sea-shaded eyes went enormous, once James realized what he wanted.

“You—I—oh, my god.”

“Are you disagreeing with me, James?”

“Um. No, sir.”

“Good.” He collected the vibrator from the table; he had left it there deliberately, keeping track. “Bend over for me.”

James opened his mouth. Closed it again. Shut his eyes, and leaned over the couch. Hmm, Michael thought. Apparently James could still be embarrassed, in front of him. But shouldn’t be.

“Eyes open, please.”

“You can’t even tell,” James muttered, “I’m not looking at you,” but when Michael checked, blue eyes met his, even though James was blushing.

“I love you.”

“I…like you. Sometimes. A little. On Tuesdays. When—ow!”

“Sorry. You did deserve that.” Michael rubbed, guiltily, at the new handprint across pale skin, trying to take some of the sting away. Might’ve been a little too hard, especially when James wasn’t expecting it.

“Oh, I know. Don’t worry, I love you, too. Not just on Tuesdays; every day.”

“I know. Relax, please?”

“Easy for you to say…” But James was audibly smiling, and, when Michael touched him, even lifted his hips, welcomingly. “Go on, then.”

“Okay.” James was still wet, to his touch, residue from everything they’d just done, and muscles gave way easily, remembering too-recent penetration and succumbing to the renewed presence. And he couldn’t help staring, for a second, after, thinking about the remaining slipperiness, held inside by hard plastic. He had tried to wait, let James clean up a bit, before asking—they had to be back on set, after all—but still. Extraordinary.

“Can I have my pants now?”

And impatient. Always.

“Yes, you can. They’re over here.”

“Thank you,” James said, and then, when Michael handed him various articles of clothing, leaned up to kiss him, startling and beautiful and bright as the sunshine breaking through the clouds outside. Michael grinned, and kissed him right back, and they headed out the door together.

The afternoon, as if trying to make up for the car incident, passed more or less without drama, unless one counted the time James accidentally dropped the Cerebro helmet on the ground, and Nicholas, still getting used to the prosthetic Beast feet, kicked it across the set. Michael had come to the conclusion that that shouldn’t count, though, since strictly speaking it might’ve been his fault anyway. The camera hadn’t been focusing on his hands, and if he happened to be making interesting gestures while James, equally coincidentally, happened to be looking, well, none of that would make it into the finished movie.

At least, he hoped not. He had noticed Matthew giving them both some very meditative stares, and then muttering enigmatically about sequels and doomed epic love and star-crossed romance. He also thought he might’ve heard the phrase “gay mutants in Vietnam,” and had tried not to imagine the mental processes at work behind that particular comment.

He’d looked at James, standing there in rolled-up sleeves and a helmet out of a bad steampunk convention but still smiling, and found himself smiling, too. Their life, he’d decided, was fantastic. In every single damn sense of the word.

Speaking of fantastic sensations, he did think the afternoon had been easier for James, too. Standing up probably helped—at least, James didn’t seem uncomfortable—but the relief of some of the tension had, he guessed, helped more. Plus, James occasionally grinned at him, for no visibly apparent reason. He had certain guesses about that, too.

Matthew had let them go home, finally, sounding pleased, which made a pleasant change from the earlier grumbling; Michael had insisted that they stop for food, because they’d ended up missing lunch for reasons he couldn’t regret, and he knew that if he was hungry, James was probably starving. This decision had prompted James to both scowl at him and then ask whether they could find a McDonald’s and order strawberry milkshakes.

“Strawberry?”

“I like strawberry.”

“I thought you’d be in more of a hurry to get back to the hotel.”

“You were the one who wanted food. Not sex with me. Food, you said. Very clearly.”

“James, I can hear your stomach growling at me from here.”

James had sighed and offered, “Take-out?” as an attempt at compromise, at which point their driver had turned around to observe, “There’s a McDonald’s down the street from your hotel,” and Michael had resigned himself to kissing someone who tasted like artificial strawberries and sugar.

He’d never admit it, not even to James, but he’d discovered that he didn’t hate the taste of fake strawberries, after all.

Now, though, food was long since over, and James had walked in first through the door of their room and spun around and kissed him, smiling, mouth flavored with sweetness and cold from the ice cream, and when Michael had tried to kiss back James had laughed, then looked at him, raised both eyebrows, and licked those lips, unmistakably suggestive.

“Did you want to—?”

“Oh yes.”

And James had laughed again, and had gotten them both naked before Michael had managed to remember all the unspoken plans he’d been making for later, that morning.

He’d ended up sitting on the technicolor bed, which despite the dramatic sheets and pillowcases was actually sinfully comfortable, with James over his lap. He also couldn’t help thinking again, at the moment, about strawberries. About redness, specifically, and the tiny freckles that winked back at him like a sprinkling of exultant seeds in all that ruby color.

The moon winked back at them, through the open window. A half-moon, actually; it hung there, balanced between brilliance and shadow, and smiled down as if it knew what Michael had in mind.

And he very much did have something in mind. Good for the moon, for approving.

He rested the hand in place, momentarily. Tapped fingers against that barely-heated skin. James was obviously trying to be good, not asking the obvious question; Michael waited, and let the anticipation spread out into every corner of the room.

James ran out of patience first. No surprise, of course. Truthfully, he would’ve been a little disappointed, otherwise.

He loved James for that impatience, too, after all.

The wide eyes, washed with silver when James twisted around out of shadow into moonlight, met his with curiosity, and some disappointment—which made Michael smile; James had no idea about what might be occurring next—and maybe also some concern, as if he thought something might be wrong.

“Are you—did I do something you didn’t—”

“No.” Well, not exactly. Certainly not in the last few minutes. “You’re wonderful. Don’t worry.”

James did need to be told that, needed to hear that, he’d realized. Needed the reassurance, even though he shouldn’t, even though he was incontrovertibly the best person Michael’d ever known. Needed a voice to answer all the old injuries that shouted otherwise, in the night, when James felt alone or tired or uncertain, unfading bruises that whispered insidiously about pain and doubt and self-worth measured only by what other people could take—what one particular nameless person had taken—from him, not about James himself at all.

Some of those wounds had already healed, long before they’d ever met. Some of them, maybe, never would, not completely. But some of them, he thought, had, finally, begun to close.

He looked at James looking at him in the tapestry of light and darkness, yellow lamplight inside their room dancing up to play with the opalescent moonbeams, and thought, for a second, about how damn grateful he was, that he could be there, that James wanted him to be there. That he’d been able to help.

He would try to help forever, if James would let him. And if a few of those scars never entirely vanished, he would love James forever, too, with or without them.

James needed reassurance, he thought again. Needed to know that he could let go, fall apart, completely, and know that Michael would catch him. Always.

Those eyes seemed a little less worried now, silently reading his own, but consequently they’d started sparkling more, with sapphire-toned impatience. “So, then…why are we stopping?”

“Good word choice.”

“What—”

“You do remember that I asked you to wear this—” He tapped the vibrator with the flat of his hand, pushing it slightly deeper; James lifted his hips in response. “—all day, without stopping…”

“I did—”

“No, you didn’t. Unless you’ve somehow forgotten what happened in your trailer this afternoon.”

“That—you wanted to! You said you couldn’t wait—”

“And you begged me to fuck you. Practically ordered me, as I recall. Not very obedient, James.”

“Really not fair, you know.”

“You did promise. All day. You knew that, too. In fact, I think you knew exactly what you were asking for. Then. And now.”

“I—” But James was blushing, now, just a little bit; and if that assertion hadn’t quite been true at the time, it was certainly true now.

Also, he loved the fact that, despite everything, all the things they’d done, he could still make James blush. Incredible.

“What were you imagining I’d do about it, James? Did you want me to bend you over my lap and spank you until you’re begging me for more? Or maybe I should handcuff you to the bed, and leave this inside you—” He toyed with the tiny control, pushing the vibrations up to the highest setting, and James bit his lip, shivering, but the suddenly-enormous eyes never left Michael’s. “—and not let you come, all night, until you learn to be patient for me?”

James actually made a small inadvertent sound, at that. Interesting, Michael thought, and filed that away for future reference. “You seem to enjoy that one. But I’m not sure that’s the point of me punishing you, you know. And you do want me to punish you, correct?”

James stared at him for a second, eyes wider than the midnight sweep of night outside, and then finally remembered to answer. “Yes, sir.”

“All right, then. You know where everything is; go bring the box over here. Now.”

James swallowed—obviously thinking about that, about being sent to collect the instruments of his own punishment—and then licked his lips, and nodded, and Michael let the pause slide without comment, because that particular variation of lip-lick suggested that James was very interested in the idea.

So did other things, of course. He could see how aroused James was already, cock flushed with it and pressing up hard against his stomach. Wanting him. Wanting to be his.

The expectation hummed in the air, under his skin, through his veins, like wine, just as strong and sweet. Of course, he knew what he’d planned for the evening, and could anticipate. James, on the other hand, would just have to find out moment by moment.

He watched James walk across the room, as instructed, orange flashes of the buried vibrator winking at him from newly-pink curves.

He could only imagine how intense those sensations must be, by now; but he could see it in each step, all of those small movements, not quite as graceful as usual, in the tiny flinch when James came back and set everything on the table beside the bed and then knelt down, waiting.

Michael contemplated that, briefly; he hadn’t told James to kneel, but he could handle that, if James wanted to be pushed further. If James was asking.

He thought he knew why, too. He thought about that morning, again. About how easily James had slipped into obedience, for him. About reaffirmation, after that single afternoon of astonishing role-reversal, and what James needed from him.

“On the bed. Hips up. Don’t move.”

James might’ve been startled—normally that particular order was over the bed, not on—but he didn’t argue. Just stretched out, facedown, and then pulled both knees up, lifting those rosy hips for inspection.”Like this?”

“I didn’t say you could talk, but yes.” He ran a hand over the closest bright skin; James breathed in, quivering with the effort not to move, to ask for more, but stayed still, obedient. As a reward, or maybe a test, Michael walked the hand over to the vibrator, still on high, and nudged it in deeper; James gasped, into the sheet, but managed not to move. Impressive.

“Good,” he said, out loud, so that James could hear the approval. “But we still have this afternoon to deal with. All that impatience. But you know that. You want this.”

“Yes, sir.”

Michael smiled, even though James couldn’t see it, at the quickness of that answer. Of course James wanted this. They both did.

He picked up the thin strap of leather, this time, black and slim and flexible enough to sting. They hadn’t tried that one before; he’d wondered, even when he’d been shopping, if that would be too much, concentrating all the force into such slender lines. But he’d bought it anyway, envisioning James spread out over the bed, perfect backside turning slowly red for him.

“Can I ask a question?”

“Of course.” Always.

“Um…no handcuffs?”

Evidently James did want to be pushed further. But… “No. You’ll find out why in a few minutes. For now, you don’t get anything else holding your hands in place. Just you. Following orders.”

The answering agreement came out very close to a whimper, and Michael grinned, inwardly, and then brushed supple leather softly against offered hips, teasing, letting James think about what might be about to happen.

Heard the sounds of breathing, already uneven, speeding up. Decided that it was time to start.

James made a small sound, clearly shocked, at the first impact, the cleanly-outlined stripe across bare skin, but he didn’t say anything close to the word stop, and so Michael did it again, on the other side, matching lines like marks of possession, brands proclaiming James as his.

James started moaning softly, after an uncounted while, each breath a ragged whisper of pain and pleasure and sharp-edged sweetness, and the hips came up to meet every impact, continuous trembling motion, and he guessed that James wasn’t even aware of the motion, now. Just the unending waves of sensation.

“I love you,” Michael told him, quietly, awestruck and captivated, and then kept talking, small phrases and whispers of “so good, you’re so amazing, taking all this for me,” and “beautiful, James, so fucking beautiful,” and again, of course, “I love you,” and maybe the words registered somewhere in the aching brilliance, because he did hear a marginally louder moan in response.

Perfect, he thought. He could watch James forever like this, utterly his, shivering and incoherent and ecstatic, but not completely gone yet, not so far that he couldn’t still hear words, praises, commands.

Speaking of commands, he did have something in mind. A pause, then.

He waited for James, who was still quivering with the aftermath, to figure out that the collisions of leather and skin had stopped; blue eyes blinked at him from beneath sweat-streaked hair, lingeringly unfocused but slowly beginning to be curious.

“James?”

“…yes, sir?” That reply sounded like an effort, Michael thought. But James had still replied. And had been lucid enough to add the sir, which was a message in itself, because James did know exactly what that did to Michael, or more specifically Michael’s cock, which thought that stopping everything now and fucking James into the mattress would be a fantastic idea.

No. Not yet, anyway. Calm, he told himself. James needed this. Wanted this. Wanted Michael to be in charge, to take him over that glittering edge and let him fall apart under someone else’s control. Under Michael’s control.

He could do that. He wanted to do that, not just for James, although that was always true, he’d do anything James needed him to do, ever, but for himself, because James, lying there wide-eyed and trusting and so incredibly open to him in every possible way, was the most spectacular sight he’d ever seen.

So they should definitely get on with things. And then afterwards he could fuck James, exhausted and exhilarated, into the mattress.

He put one hand on the vibrator. “You enjoyed having this in, all day, didn’t you? Walking around, wearing it, on the set?”

James whispered his name, just once. Then breathed, barely audible, “Yes.”

“Tell me.”

“I—I did enjoy it. Knowing that I was—being yours, like that, in public, but no one else knowing, just you and me, and I wanted to—I needed you in me, that was why, this afternoon, I had to, I was so close all day, and when we were in the car I almost—right there—”

“You did?” He’d known James was desperate, needing relief enough to disobey the all-day order, but he hadn’t realized it’d been quite that intense. Also, what if he’d said no, when James had asked? Interested, he asked the question now.

“I…I would’ve gone back to my trailer and…um. I needed to, I couldn’t—so full, inside, all day, and it hurts, a little, being that—like that—for so long, and I think I would have had to…I’m sorry. Sir.”

“Don’t apologize,” Michael said, astonished, “you realize I’m picturing you doing that right now, and next time you’re doing that for me, in front of me, so I can watch, understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You said—did you say this was hurting you?”

“Not that much. I think just because I’m not used to it. And it was a long day.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.” The eyes were smiling at him, now, reassuringly convincing. Michael tried not to be too relieved. Also, James was a little too articulate, at this point; maybe he hadn’t been as thorough, earlier, as he’d thought.

“So…you asked me why not, about the handcuffs. I think you should get an answer. But first—” He tapped the end of the vibrator, firmly, and James gasped. “—I’m going to take this out. All right?”

“Yes…”

James gasped again, after the sudden removal, and shuddered all over, with what Michael guessed was more relief than he’d ever admit. That curve of pink muscle, between those spread legs, trembled, too, trying to tighten again with the reprieve but still exposed and loose and gleaming with lube and wetness from that afternoon. His own wetness, Michael thought, himself still inside James, slick and shining, and he almost exploded, from that thought, at that sight, right then, but grabbed onto self-control with all ten fingertips and adamantly refused to let go.

“Move your hands.”

“…what? Sorry.”

“Here, I mean.” One single spank, his hand against burning flesh, to show James what he meant. “I want you to hold yourself open for me. While you’re all stretched and waiting. As open as you can.”

“Oh, my god.”

“Now, James.” He tried to make that an order, even though he was a tiny bit worried, at the lack of prompt obedience. But he did remember how easily James had taken on that role, all that unqualified command;  remembered the assurance in that voice, unquestionably dominant and expecting—and getting, all too willingly—submission. If that was what James wanted from him, from this, he could do that.

And maybe it was just that he’d never quite applied the terms to what they were doing, to their roles, to them, before, but that thought—James submitting to him, James being submissive for him, himself being dominant—that thought sent darkly suggestive sparks all the way through his body.

“James? You’re not going to make me ask again, are you?”

James might’ve heard the echo of all that in Michael’s voice, because he whispered, “No, sir,” and moved the hands, slowly. Spreading himself apart, tender and wet and vulnerable. As ordered.

He didn’t start there, though. Spent a few minutes going back to the glowing heat of that rounded backside, reinforcing the throbbing pleasure, listening with satisfaction as James’s breathing grew more rapid, rhythmic tiny pants in time with each impact. Watching James slip back towards wordlessness, caught in between punishing pain and absolute euphoria, or maybe they were the same thing, now.

And then he flicked leather in one particular direction, right there, where James was still opened up for him, stinging collision with delicate flesh.

James cried out, not even attempting to be quiet. Nearly a scream. Michael stopped, instantly. “James? Are you—can you hear me?”

James was trying to breathe; he could hear it. Shaky. Broken. But he couldn’t tell whether that was from hurt, or something else. And the hands had stayed in place.

“James? Tell me if you’re still all right. Or if you need me to stop. You can always just say stop, remember?”

“I—you—yes—”

“Yes what? Are you asking me to stop?” Maybe that had been too much. Too far. They could stop. They could stop everything, and he could just hold onto James for a minute, a lifetime, if James needed that.

“No—I mean I’m not asking—I mean I’m all right. I think.” James seemed to be getting air back, finally. Michael felt some of the concern fade from the room, folded up and tucked away by welcoming shadows, hidden by silent furniture and the gleam of the light, on the bedside table, splashing gold over freckled skin. Not too much, after all. Maybe.

James breathed in again, and added, “You—you don’t need to stop. That was—you can do it again. Not too many, though. Please.”

“Only if you’re sure. I don’t want to hurt you. Not ever.” Some deep-down piece of his heart might always be afraid of that, knowing what he did, now, about the how and the why behind that story, even if not all the details. He couldn’t hurt James. Not that kind of hurt, wounds without any pleasure intertwined to gild the ache and transmute pain into golden want.

But James looked at him, carefully, a little awkward because one cheek was pressed into the vivid sheets and tangled hair was falling into the oceanic eyes. Smiled. Offered, quietly, truthfully, “I’m sure.”

Michael met his eyes, said, “All right,” and did it a second time. Sensitive skin darkened, blood rising to the surface, afterwards; he heard another corresponding cry, caught up uncomplainingly by the sheets, and hesitated, unsure. Stop? Continue? Try something else?

He’d’ve sworn, after that second wordless sound, that James was beyond speech now, somewhere incoherent and distant and shimmering. But James could always, always surprise him, and this time was no exception, because exhausted midnight eyes peeked up at him, and there was that voice, usual brushed-velvet texture crumpled up and discordant with desire but inarguably still there.

 “It’s fine—I’m fine, really, I just can’t help—I can’t be quiet, for you, with this—” and then James paused, licked his lips, and, very deliberately, added, “Sorry, sir.”

“Oh, my god,” Michael said, because he couldn’t think of anything else, couldn’t think at all, “I love you,” and James smiled again, the expression, like the words, an unmistakable invitation. “Love you, too.”

“You—do you want me to—what should I—”

“Are you…asking me for advice? Seriously? Now?”

“Um…no, then. Just checking. You said once you’d be okay with being gagged…”

The eyes became huge, under all that sweat-darkened hair, blue almost swallowed up by black. “Yes. I would—yes.”

Michael waited, in case there might be anything else, conditions or second thoughts or last-minute hidden fears. James appeared to have forgotten the existence of other words, though. Just watched him, wide-eyed, while a cloud wandered past the moon and interrupted the light, briefly.

The moonbeams came back out and tumbled invitingly over sky-colored eyes and silver-washed freckles, after. All right, then.

He hadn’t actually bought anything specifically for that purpose—he’d explained to James after the first round of shopping, very logically, that he wanted James to be able to talk, to say no if something wasn’t working, that he wasn’t comfortable taking that ability away—but right now, in this moment, those reasons seemed less and less important.

Besides, James still technically had free hands; he spared a second to be relieved that he hadn’t used the handcuffs. James could always intervene, if necessary.

So why hadn’t he bought anything for that purpose, again?

He spotted something near the bottom of the box that would work, at least for now. Grabbed it. Dove back to the bed. James was still watching him, eyes all sapphire and onyx and electric as storms at sea.

The eyes blinked once, startled, when Michael offered black silk for their inspection. “I know you remember I bought this. And we never really used it.” Because James hadn’t been comfortable being blindfolded and unable to see. Of course not.

But they could use it now.

“Okay with this?” He did have to make sure. Always would.

“Yes. Please.” More than okay, from that tone. “Okay,” Michael said back, and then remembered that he was supposed to be in charge. Orders. Not questions. An order, then.

“You—I’m going to put this on you now. Because you need this. Because you can’t be quiet on your own. Not very obedient of you, you know.” James moaned, at that, sound abruptly muted by fabric. Shut his eyes, while Michael finished securing the knot in place, black against the tumble of unruly hair.

“And then…you did ask me for more. And I think we both can agree that you haven’t been sufficiently chastised, yet. For this afternoon. And just now. So…more. Until I decide you’ve had enough. Mine, James. You know that.”

James tried to say something that might’ve been his name, or a please, or just a whimper of need. Didn’t matter; the black silk in his mouth gathered up all the sounds and hid them away, anyway. And Michael very definitely noticed the way that James shivered, everywhere, at that realization.

“You like this, don’t you? All mine. Even this. Or maybe you like having something in your mouth, too, filling you up that way, while I punish you?”

The sound that James made then, eyes squeezing shut, hips actually jerking forward into the bed, was one Michael had never, ever heard before. He knew he’d never forget it.

So he did the only thing he could do, and picked up the strap again, and let it snap forward to meet achingly swollen pinkness, and watched James fall apart for him, muffled noises and heat and quivering hips, helplessly compelled into movement by each new impact.

He whispered, softly, “I love you,” in case James could still hear him, words that might fall along with him into that kaleidoscopic space, one more sensation to collide with the rest, anguish and ecstasy and desire exploding like fireworks, burning and beautiful.

His own cock throbbed with need, with the craving to bury himself in all that superheated redness and let go. Not just his cock, he thought. His entire body, his skin and bones and heart, pulsed with it.

Two more. They could both last that long. He hoped.

Under all the abuse, that stretched ring of muscle had grown dark, visibly aching; James flinched, small spasms, obviously unknowingly, with each bright new burst of painful pleasure, and the last secretive remnants of slickness from that afternoon, lube and come and stickiness, glistened with each contraction.

One more, and he made that one just a little harder, and James rocked his hips into the bed, mindlessly seeking even more stimulation, begging soundlessly for that final catalyzing spark, and Michael whispered, “Good, we’re done, you’re incredible, so good for me,” and touched both wrists, lightly, letting James know that he could move the hands.

“I’m going to fuck you now. Like this. With you still gagged. And then you can come. When I say you can.” Always the rule, of course, but James might need the reminder, this time.

He got a very slight nod—good, James was still there, or there enough, anyway—and then slid himself into place, pausing frantically to find extra lube because he knew that this would probably hurt regardless, and pushed forward, feeling all that heat around his cock, sensitized skin and muscle yielding so easily, too easily, to the invasion, still spread open for him to claim.

James moaned again. Moved, everywhere, entire body quaking under his, uncoordinated and incoherent and still trying to lift those hips to welcome the penetration. Asking for more, because at this point James couldn’t do anything other than ask for more.

More, Michael thought, aware that he himself was only going to last another second or two, with all that dizzying heat and need around him. He moved, too, harder, faster, and that was it, too close already, and he was coming, filling James up with it, incandescent as a flash of lightning, bursting through both of them.

James’s breathing was coming in small sobbing cries, and he grabbed both of those hands and used his own fingers to pin slim wrists to the bed above that spill of dark hair and demanded, “Now, James,” and James made another sound he’d never heard before, drawn out and uncontrolled and shuddering through both of them, and every muscle went rigid, that perfect ass clenching around Michael’s cock, and then James collapsed beneath his weight, into the sheets, unmoving except for final persistent tremors.

He left his fingers curled around those slender wrists for a minute, after. Just lay there running his thumbs across shivering freckles, luminous skin and fragile bones and thrumming heartbeat, keeping time under his touch. James didn’t stir at all, other than the gradually fading aftershocks that washed up over them both like the ebbing of a tide.

When he took the hands away, and sat up, carefully, James quivered all over, but stayed motionless, otherwise. Except for the aftershocks.

Michael untied the knot of silk, watching his own fingers tug at slippery fabric, and James parted those gorgeous lips and let him ease damp material away, and sighed, but didn’t say anything. Just slid his tongue across dry skin, once, briefly.

Michael lay back down next to him. Tried to see the eyes, but they were closed. Put an arm around him, cautiously. “James?”

James shook his head, sending all the hair into tired motion, and then reached out blindly and found Michael beside him and clung, still trembling everywhere. Mentally, Michael shook his own head, too, and then just held him, rubbing hands along that muscled back, attempting to surround James with warmth and comfort and himself, his own heartbeat, his voice.

“Okay. You don’t have to talk. Well, eventually. You know I want you to talk to me. Always.” He did feel a small nod at that, where the exuberant hair had settled down against his chest. Heard an indrawn breath that was still too uneven for his liking.

“Shh. It’s okay. You’re okay. You don’t have to talk yet, all right? When you can. Just relax. I’m here. You know I’m here. I love you.”

James nodded again. Tipped his head up, after a second, and pressed a tiny kiss to the side of Michael’s throat.

“Okay,” Michael said again, and, in return, touched his own lips to the top of that fluffy-haired head, and James burrowed more closely into his arms, and shivered, one more time, resurfacing. “Michael…”

“Yes?”

“Love you.”

“I know. Are you all right?”

“I…think so. That was—I don’t know. I’ve never—I feel—I love you. Did I say that already? Because I do.”

“You did. I love you, too. You don’t have to explain. I watched you. You looked—that was what you wanted, wasn’t it?” Did I give you what you needed, he meant to ask. Was that far enough, deep enough, to tell you without question that I want you, that I want to do this for you, that I want to give you this. That I love you.

And don’t let me have hurt you. Ever. Please.

“It was—everything I would’ve wanted if I’d known how to ask you for that.” James looked at him, then, eyes glinting up in Michael’s direction like worn-out sapphires, but also, underneath the exhaustion, a kind of lingering astonished joy, radiating delight and serenity. Through the window, the distant half-moonlight crept back in to nestle among beckoning lamplight and discarded pillows, on the floor.

“And I didn’t hurt you.” Still a question. Those unfairly long eyelashes shone a little too brightly, in the cozy amber glow of the room.

“I think…” James stretched out arms and legs, testing. Breathed in again. “You won’t believe me if I say no, will you?”

“Not after that answer, no.”

“Then…a little. More now that I’m thinking about it. But not—I mean, I would have stopped you. If I’d not been enjoying, um. Everything.”

“Would you? I mean…I was watching you. At the end. You couldn’t—you weren’t exactly—”

“Thinking clearly?”

“Thinking at all. Were you?”

“Um…no. But I needed that. And I did—I do still know what you’re doing. Even then. I know you’re there. And I did notice you left my hands free; if it’d hurt too much, I would’ve used them. I promise.” The expressive sweep of oceans, in those eyes, stayed calm, truthful, undisturbed; Michael leaned over to kiss him again, on the lips this time, for that.

“And I could hear you, by the way, when you were talking to me. I like that, too. Even if I can’t answer.”

“Then I’ll always talk to you. But seriously, even at the end? When I—” He traced fingertips across one wrist, asking; James swallowed. “You—you would have let go, though. If I had—if I ever really tried to get away. You would let me.”

“Of course I fucking would!”

“I know. That’s why. Why it’s all right, I mean.” James turned his hand slightly. Caught Michael’s concerned fingers in his own. “I trust you.”

“You—” Michael kissed him again, now that James was focusing on him, here and safe and happy; James kissed back, firmly, as if trying to remove all doubt. And then shifted positions again, made a face, and then tried to pretend he hadn’t.

“Are you sure you’re not in pain?”

“Am I—No. Not exactly…”

“What, then?”

“Nothing…”

“You can’t make that face and then say nothing.”

“You don’t want to—”

“Tell me.”

“Um. Sort of…messy. There. Me. You. I can feel—you. And you from earlier. I told you you didn’t want to know.”

“Can I see?”

“Can you—oh. Oh, no, come on, you don’t want to…”

“Yes.” He sat up, and eased James over onto his stomach, across the rainbow-colored sheets. James tried to resist, gave up, and then grabbed the nearest vibrant pillow and pulled it over his head.

“Really?”

“I’m shy,” James muttered from beneath the pillow. “You never noticed?”

“You are not.”

“About this I am.”

“You’re gorgeous.”

“You’re insane.”

“Are you going to come out from under there?”

“Not anytime soon.”

“All right.” He touched burning lines, gently, his own fingers against the bruised heat of that skin. Eased the twin reddened curves apart. Stared, fascinated.

Messy, yes. But beautiful, too. Wet and shining and exposed and all his, every inch, every memento of each sensation, throughout the day. Mesmerizing.

“Are you sure you need to hide for this?”

“Yes,” James said, but moved enough so that Michael could see one blue eye, peeking at him around the corner of the vivid pillowcase. Some sort of compromise, at least.

He went back to indulging his curiosity, given that response. Tested a light brush of a single adventurous fingertip, over that opening. James shut the only visible eye again, but didn’t object, so Michael took that as tacit permission. Touched a little less gingerly, the next time. Pressed one finger into all the messiness, himself and lube and all the intimate remnants of possession. James twitched, nearly unnoticeable. But Michael was paying attention.

“Does that hurt?”

“I—don’t know. Yes. Some. Not that much.”

“Hmm.” He worked the finger in deeper, encountering no resistance. Just slippery, yielding openness. “Not that much, you said?”

“Yes…why?”

“All right. Tell me if this hurts. As soon as anything hurts.”

“What—no.” James emerged from under the pillow in order to stare at him, in shock. “No. Seriously. I can’t—”

“I think you can.”

“I can’t—”

“You’re not in charge, James. Remember?”

That earned a single incredulous inhale, and then the eyes closed again, as if James, giving in, couldn’t keep them open anymore, and Michael felt him relax, finally, physical acceptance of the command. Incredible. So damn incredible.

He explored as gently as he could, knowing that it probably did hurt, more than James was admitting to him. But James needed to be encouraged, needed to be reminded, needed to be told and shown in every single unmistakable way how much Michael wanted him, always. How much Michael loved him.

He ventured a little further. Found the spot, that spot, that made James whisper his name, involuntarily, a rush of escaping sound.

He whispered back, “Look at me,” and James turned his head, and Michael lifted his free hand and traced fingers across the closest cheek, down to parted lips, and James opened his mouth and allowed that last invasion, too.

“I love you,” Michael told him, and James shivered, and shut his eyes, wet eyelashes clinging together in protective huddles, hiding all the blue from view momentarily. Then opened them again, shimmering with brightness that plunged all the way into Michael’s chest and stayed there, warm against his heart.

“All right,” he said softly, “now,” and flicked his finger across that throbbing spot one more time, definitively, and James didn’t even make a sound, against his hand, just shuddered all over, one final orgasm, white-hot and scorching and dry as a desert thunderstorm.

The world held its breath, for a crystalline and soundless minute, too. For them.

After an endless while, Michael started to wonder whether the quiet had gone on just a little too long. He moved the fingers, the ones that had been filling up and silencing that usually-so-mobile mouth. “James?”

No answer. James was breathing; he could feel the in and out of air against his hand, but…

He withdrew the other hand, also, as gingerly as he could. Felt the corresponding flinch, which made him snap his gaze back to closed blue eyes, but they didn’t open. Inadvertent, he thought, concern beginning to edge out the contentment, uneasily. Not voluntary. Just muscles protesting the scrape of any extra friction.

“James? Are you all right?”

Nothing; and now the concern was rapidly progressing toward concrete fear. “James, seriously. Not funny. You know I need you to talk to me, come on…”

He touched that damp cheek again, hesitantly. Brushed back an escaping tendril of dark hair, where it threatened to land over one shut eye. “James, please.”

And this time, finally, miraculously, he heard James breathe in, a real audible inhale, awake and responding to his voice. No words, not yet, but that was fine, he didn’t need words, he could wait for words and just listen to James breathing, for now, forever.

Outside, a faraway cloud, understanding the need for privacy, blocked out the distant curiosity of the moon. Inside, the glow of artificial light fell, smoothly, over bare skin and colorful sheets. And James sighed, and blinked, and looked up at him.

“So…that’s never happened before…”

“Oh thank god, fuck, thank you, James, are you all right?”

“I…honestly, I’m not sure. Yes, I think. I just—I don’t know what that was.”

“That was you practically unconscious, James!”

“Oh…no, I was—”

“Yes, you were! I was fucking terrified, you know. You didn’t—that was too much. You can’t tell me it wasn’t. Not after that.”

“No. I mean…I’m fine. Now. And I could—I heard you say please, I think. And my name. You were talking to me—”

“Of course I was!” James hadn’t heard anything before that? The fear wasn’t all past tense, even now.

“Thank you. Not only for that, I mean. But for that too.” James stopped to breathe, again. Michael, on the other hand,  had forgotten how, just waiting for that voice to keep saying things, so that he could listen.

“And…you might be right…but not because of anything specific you did. Any other time I think that last part would’ve been amazing. It was amazing. But it was just…the entire day. Today. Everything. Sort of…overwhelming. And I felt—I feel…”

“Overwhelmed?”

“Well…yes. I’m sorry.”

“What?! You—no, you shouldn’t—I’m sorry I pushed you, are you—”

“I’m all right. I swear. I just…” James tried to move. Judging from his expression, and the trailing off of the sentence, movement’d been a very bad idea. Michael found himself abruptly shaking with the effort not to demand future promises, current explanations, reasons why James hadn’t stopped him. Or maybe that was the need for tears, delayed reaction to the stomach-churning panic and the whirl of relief that had left his chest aching. Or something else altogether.

Instead he just put both arms around James and held him, because he needed to feel that heartbeat next to his own, those long legs tangled up with his, that sturdy weight leaning into him, on the tired hotel bed. Said, because it was the only thing he could say, apology and assurance and inarguable truth, “I love you.”

“And I love you.” That normally melodic voice sounded slightly tattered, ragged around the edges with exhaustion and emotion, but absolutely certain, regardless. Beyond any doubt.

The words floated out into the quiet room, and stayed there, keeping the watchful furniture company in the night.

James added, thoughtfully, into his shoulder, “It’s sort of a…tingly feeling.”

“Tingly?”

“Mmm. Like everything’s…lit up. Like if you touch me one more time, anywhere, I might explode. Or cry. Or maybe have another orgasm. And I couldn’t tell you which one of those is most likely, right now. But…I am fine. More or less.” James shifted position, in his arms, just enough to tip that head up and meet Michael’s eyes with his own. “Are you all right?”

“Still terrified, sorry.” And now kind of afraid to move his hands, or any other body part, even though he wanted to pull James closer, as close as possible.

But maybe James read that in his face, because, very slowly, arms crept around him, too, holding him in return. “Better?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.”

“I still shouldn’t’ve—I should have listened. You did say no.”

“I did?”

“You don’t remember?”

“Oh…right. Yes. I did. But I didn’t tell you to stop, did I?”

“That’s not the same thing?”

“Um…no. If I’d wanted you to stop, I would have said so. I didn’t.”

“You—we might have to talk about this.”

“Now? I’ve only just remembered that I can talk.”

“Still not funny.”

“Um…still?”

“I knew you weren’t awake. I think this is probably important, yes.”

“Oh…all right, then. I said no because I was very tired and a little bit in pain and I didn’t think I could take more, not because I wanted you to stop. Two different ideas. But you told me I could, and you were right—”

“We can argue about that one later. Go on.”

“Um, that was about it, I think. I said no, and I didn’t say stop, because I didn’t think it would work, but I was willing to be convinced if you wanted to try. I do see why that’s a problem, though. I’m sorry. And I’ll try not to say no unless I mean it. All right?”

“Better. Yes. Thank you.”

“No, don’t. You’ve not—I have more experience with this than you do. I should know better. So, yes, sorry.”

“You don’t have to—”

“Wait. I do want to tell you something, and maybe it’ll help. When you—back when we first started this, you said you’d done research. And I—so we probably both know what a safeword is, and—”

“You—you think we need to—” He had hurt James. Had made James feel unsafe, or afraid, somehow. His chest felt numb, suddenly. The half-moon, beyond the window, hid itself behind a cloud again, leaving the artificial light, from the bedside lamp, on its own. It wasn’t enough.

“No! You asked me to talk; would you quit interrupting…?”

“Sorry. I’m sorry. For this one too. But you—I just…”

“I know. I love you, too.” James kept looking at him, steadily; that familiarly alluring Scottish accent burnished every word with the ring of truth, beneath the placid haloes of the lamplight. “I was trying to say, we’ve never needed that. Not between us. Didn’t you ever wonder why I never asked for one, though? Considering, um. What happened to me.”

Michael’d had an answer, or at least a reply, on the tip of his tongue, but those last four words knocked every other thought out of his brain.

He could number on exactly two fingers the amount of times that James had brought up that subject voluntarily, unprompted by questions or actions, and the first time didn’t count, because he hadn’t known anything then and James had needed to make sure. Can I add something to your list? No knives, in the bedroom. No sharp objects. He’d stared at James, silhouetted against the rain, and said what the fuck, no, of course not, why would you even ASK—? And James had told him.

And he should answer James now, but the truth was he couldn’t think of any words. He hadn’t wondered, not really. He’d just assumed they were fine. That everything was working. That James knew that Michael would stop, of course, if he asked, if he needed that, at the first sign or hint or suggestion of anything uncomfortable. Did James not know that?

James had said the word trust, earlier. He trusted Michael not to hurt him. But maybe that meant something different from what Michael’d always thought. Maybe James couldn’t define trust the same way, anymore.

James looked at him, through all the troubled silence. Sighed. Shook his head. “And now I’ve made you worry about me, haven’t I? More, I mean.”

“You—”

“You need to stop that,” James said, and then put one hand into Michael’s hair and kissed him, decisively, lips firm and convincing. “I’m not going to say I’m fine. I think we both know, after last week, that’s not exactly true. But—”

“James—”

“What I am is closer to fine than I ever have been. And I can talk about it without—we don’t need to tiptoe. And I won’t break into pieces if the subject comes up. And whatever you’re thinking, wearing that expression, is probably wrong; what I’m trying—badly—to tell you is that that, all of that, that’s because of you. I never asked you about safewords and escape routes because I never needed to. If I said the word stop, you would stop. I know that. I believe that. That’s what I mean when I say I trust you. I can trust you. With everything. And you gave me that. You give me that every day.”

Michael stared at him, voiceless. Captivated. Completely knocked over, even though they were still lying flat on the disheveled bed and hadn’t moved.

James smiled at him, and then gave a kind of complicated eyebrow shrug, as if embarrassed by all the honesty in the face of Michael’s dumbfounded inability to respond. “Anyway, I just wanted to tell you that. So you don’t have to worry. At least not so much. Um, I sort of feel sticky, now. Do you think we can shower, maybe?”

“I think,” Michael said, “I think I’m in fucking awe of you.”

“What?”

“You’re amazing. And you amaze me. And you—you’re the strongest person I’ve ever met and you say you’ll let me help you anyway and you tell me I can help and I’m so fucking honored that you let me try. Even when I get things wrong. You said that I—that you trust me, every day. You always can. I’ll be here every day. Every night. Every fucking minute, James. I love you.”

“I love you, too,” James whispered back, wide-eyed and no longer at all embarrassed, and then kissed him again, laughing, or maybe crying, or maybe that was both of them. Perfect, either way.

In the middle of all the kissing, Michael attempted to mentally review his sentences, trying to figure out just what he’d said that had made those blue eyes glow like that. He wasn’t quite sure which words had been the magically right ones, but he did start to regret certain less-than-sophisticated vocabulary choices.

“Um…sorry about all the…fucking.”

At which James cracked up. “What?”

“I meant the profanity!”

“Oh, good, because I was about to be really worried—”

“You know what I was trying to say!”

“No, sorry, you might have to, um, fucking say it again…”

Michael let out a growl of mostly-mock annoyance, told him, “I fucking love you,” and then pulled James back into his arms while they were both still laughing.

“I love you fucking me,” James retorted, and stuck his toes under Michael’s bare calves.

“I—” He’d started to answer, but switched questions mid-sentence. “Are you cold?” Stupid comment; he knew how sensitive James was to temperature changes, and those feet, against his legs, felt like ice-cubes.

Or maybe not that stupid, because James sounded surprised by the observation. “I…am, actually. I hadn’t even noticed.”

Of course not. James hadn’t exactly been noticing anything. Michael, on the other hand, needed to take care of him, in those moments, all those moments, always.

“Shower?”

“Yes—”

“No, wait. I don’t think—I don’t want you to try to stand up.”

“Oh, come on, you know I’m fine—”

“Just…wait here for a minute, okay?”

“Why?”

“I’ll be right back. But get under these first.”

James muttered something undecipherable under his breath, but settled down into the pillows and let Michael stack blankets on top of him.

“Did you just tell me I’d make a good nurse?”

“I think there were a few more uncomplimentary adjectives involved…”

“I love you, too.”

He hopped off the bed, and headed for the bathroom. Heard, from the depths of the blankets, just before he made it through the door, “You’re my fucking favorite nurse,” and then laughed so hard he had to lean against the wall for support.

Amazing. Honestly. How had he ever deserved to be this lucky?

The cavernous bathroom didn’t offer any answers to that question, but it did provide some suggestions. As if making up for the profusion of color in the bedroom, the tile and walls and fixtures gleamed back at him in stark white; helpfully, the giant bathtub, separate from the shower and gleefully occupying the entire far corner, presented itself as an alternative.

It was a nice bathtub, he decided. And not just because it looked opulent and lake-deep and luxurious. He could picture James in that bathtub, mahogany hair and sparkling freckles against all the whiteness. Found himself persuaded by the image. Plus, James wouldn’t have to stand up.

He played with various knobs for a minute. Contemplated pouring some of the suggestively labeled bottles, next to the sink, into the water, and then decided that James, who despite all the laughter had to be both sore and exhausted, might not be in the mood for experiments with such ingredients as “Purple Bath Fizz!”

Maybe tomorrow, though. James would probably appreciate all of those things, including the excited exclamation point. Or would at least laugh again.

He let the bathtub fill itself, lazily, steam drifting up to heat the air, too. An invitation, he thought. And a drop of water splashed up onto his hand like it’d just been waiting for him to come to the same conclusion.

Speaking of inviting things, he hadn’t heard any sounds from the bed in quite a while.

He spun around and raced back into the other room, where the air now felt a lot colder after the coaxing warmth of the bathroom, and then stopped mid-step beside the bed, and the waiting inquiry fell off his tongue and vanished somewhere into the chilly night.

James had fallen asleep, nestled securely beneath every blanket and clean sheet within reach, cuddling the nearest multicolored pillow as if for sanctuary. His hair sprawled out in every conceivable direction, and he was breathing evenly, and he looked absurdly young and very defenseless and too small for the broad expanse of the king-sized mattress.

Michael stood there watching him sleep, and felt his own heart ache at the sight, with the fierce desire to keep James warm and safe and comfortable, forever.

James sighed in his sleep, and cuddled the pillow more closely, and Michael remembered abruptly that he’d left the water running, and bolted for the bathroom.

Fortunately, nothing had overflowed yet, though if he’d spent much longer being entranced by closed eyes and that fortunate pillow, he might’ve caused a minor flood. He flipped off the tap, checked the temperature—he wanted James to be warm, after all, not scalded—and then sprinted back into the bedroom, in case James had awakened, alone, in the seconds he’d been gone.

Not yet, though. So Michael sat down on the edge of the bed, carefully, and hesitated, undecided. Wake James up? Disturb all that worn-out contentment? James probably needed the rest.

But James sighed again, and opened wide blue eyes, weary as the beat of ocean waves against the shore. Yawned. Smiled, heartbreakingly beautiful, when he realized Michael was sitting beside him. “Love you.”

“And I love you. Are you awake? Can we go clean you up?”

“Yes, and yes. But…either I’m more tired than I thought, or you turned off the shower, because I can’t hear it running. Why—”

“Um…bathtub.” He’d meant to have a more clever response, but he kept getting lost in those ocean-water eyes, every time James gave another sleepy blink.

“Really? I haven’t had a bath in ages—I mean an actual bath, not a shower, and I know you know what I mean, so you can stop laughing. Years, anyway. Since…I don’t know, before I could walk.”

“Appropriate, then. I’m fairly sure you can’t walk now.”

“That’s not—” James stopped talking in order to give him a reproachful look, as Michael tugged off all the layers of the blanket cocoon. “It was warm under there, you know.”

“I know.” He put one arm under long legs, and one around compactly muscular shoulders, and scooped James off the bed. He’d expected a protest, but James was evidently either too tired, or too surprised at being picked up, to say anything. Just blinked at him again, round-eyed, and then put his head on Michael’s shoulder.

In the bathtub, hot water leapt up eagerly to caress tender flesh; James flinched. Michael winced, too, in guilty sympathy. Tried not to imagine the sensation.

James wiggled around, submerged acres of golden freckles, shut his eyes again. Tipped his head back, letting the water wander up towards his face.

“Hey.” Michael reached out to cup his cheek, making ripples in the hot water. “Stay up here. I want you to relax, not drown.”

A smile; James turned his head just enough to kiss Michael’s hand, eyes still closed. Michael sat there on the side of the tub and gazed at him, surrounded by drifting steam and white tile and tranquility.

After a while, he scooped up water in his free hand, and splashed it across dark hair, rinsing away sweat and fatigue and soreness. James made an amused noise, through trickling droplets, and didn’t move away.

“You could join me.”

“I don’t think we both fit.”

“We can figure it out.”

He still almost said no—he’d be happy to sit there on the not-unfriendly tile and take care of James for the rest of the night—but James sat up, and fixed him with that expectant blue gaze. And the no turned itself around and became, “All right.”

They really didn’t fit, at least not easily. But eventually he ended up leaning against the back of the tub, with James curled up between his legs, head resting against his chest. The water threatened to overflow, but didn’t follow through.

“Comfortable?”

“Yes?”

“Good.”

“Are you?”

“Very.” Technically, physically, this wasn’t true, as his knees were being slowly crushed into the sides of the tub, but in all the important ways, it was entirely accurate. Eventually they’d need to get out and have a real shower, with soap and actual scrubbing and cleanliness, but for now, the water was warm and the steam hung in the air like familiar company and James felt reassuringly solid in his arms.

When he rested one cheek on the top of James’s head, wet hair stuck to his face, happily. The overhead lights and the whiteness of the bathroom picked out all the auburn highlights, considerately, and made each strand glow more vividly than usual, banked embers under all the darkness of the water.

Tomorrow they could sleep in. And he could keep James in bed, all day, not for sex—sex wasn’t going to be an option, not for several days, until he was convinced that James was really truly all right—but just lying there beside him, wrapped up in blankets and warm arms, reading through next week’s script changes or arguing about character motivations or watching Die Hard because obviously he needed to educate James about the relative merits of classic action heroes. And the day after that they could go back to work, long hours and night shoots and everything else that Matthew had planned, and those days would be perfect, too.

The hair left cheerfully damp tracks along his face, as James tilted his head back, eying Michael’s expression. “You’re smiling.”

“So are you.”

“I’m happy.”

“So am I.”