:D
Yet another ficlet. Don't I have anything else to do?
No. No, I don't, and won't until my summer classes start on May 8.
Michael put on a Best of the Bee Gees cd.
He washed the breakfast dishes, which were crusted with egg and the remnants of buttered toast. Cool water running over his hands, rainbow bubbles washed away to crash and burst in the sink. He dried his hands and changed the cd, Janis Joplin. He stared at the cd player for a moment, rifled through the stack and put on Beethoven. Contemplated. Shuffled the cd to the Ninth and cranked the music UP.
Head down, he walked through the kitchen doorway a half-dozen times, pondering the tiny burn marks on the floor. Squatted and dug at one with his fingernail. Little rosettes in sepia tones, burnt into the floor, so there was no point scrubbing it. Lingering smell of ozone and lavender.
Michael knew he ought to be thinking something manlier than oh dear, but he wasn't sure what.
Maybe he ought to scrub the floor anyways. He was sitting beside the undersink cupboard and rooting around in it for something to scrub with when Paul came home; familiar jingle of keys, clattering and shuffle-thumps of shoe removal.
"Who wants donuts?" Paul called. Michael winced. An agitation of strings and woodwinds. Footsteps. Michael wanted to throw something at the doorway to make sure it was safe, to make sure Paul wouldn't disappear as not-Michael must have seen Perseis disappear. But perhaps the spell was gone, or the music wrapped itself around Paul to keep him safe, but the dear slim figure in a knee-length denim skirt didn't disappear, wasn't stolen away. Feet on the floor, a box of donuts laid on the counter and Paul, kneeling beside him and touching his face.
"--you okay? Michael?"
Michael shook his head no, then nodded yes, then gave up and dragged Paul into his lap, into a protective embrace. Paul settled willingly into the hug, but twisted in an attempt to watch Michael's expression. He rested his cheek against Paul's shoulder and wondered what his face had said.
"What happened did something happen to Robbie? To Pete?"
Michael shook his head. He was worrying Paul. Nothing should ever worry Paul; he tried to speak but his throat had closed tight, so he just let out a little sigh and shook his head again.
"Nothing's happened to anybody," Paul said dubiously. Michael shook his head no; everyone was fine. Except possibly Michael, but he couldn't think well enough to say. The muscles in Paul's back flexed as he tried to pry Michael away, doubtless wanting eye contact and any information he could glean from it. Michael squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, then gave in, leaned back a bit, and meeting Paul's gaze was far harder than it should have been.
Serious Paul, sprawled sideways in Michael's lap, faint worry-lines above his brows and at the corners of his eyes. Familiar, the smell of wind in his hair, the deoderant he'd stolen from Michael when he couldn't remember where he'd put his own, the apple he'd eaten at some point. Michael ran his hands down Paul's arms and tangled their fingers and tried to find something to say.
"Something happened," Paul said. Michael nodded. "But you can't talk about it for some reason." Michael nodded again. "Won't, or not able to?" Michael shook his head and shut his eyes, hopefully before Paul saw the glimmer there. A ruffle of breath on his cheek, and Paul leaned his forehead against Michael's. "But you'll tell me."
Michael nodded and wished his face would obey him. Paul wriggled a little, crowding closer, until his side was pressed to Michael's chest and his arm draped 'round the back of Michael's neck. Paul laid a hand against Michael's cheek, breathed "Alright then," against his mouth, and kissed him. Michael shivered all over, like water just before the boiling-point, like stepping out into the rain. Mm. Paul tasted like apples, and Michael couldn't remember the last kiss he'd had that was so serious and gentle, and when Paul finally lifted away it was to a different song, in the living room, a crescendo of violins and voices.
No. No, I don't, and won't until my summer classes start on May 8.
Michael put on a Best of the Bee Gees cd.
He washed the breakfast dishes, which were crusted with egg and the remnants of buttered toast. Cool water running over his hands, rainbow bubbles washed away to crash and burst in the sink. He dried his hands and changed the cd, Janis Joplin. He stared at the cd player for a moment, rifled through the stack and put on Beethoven. Contemplated. Shuffled the cd to the Ninth and cranked the music UP.
Head down, he walked through the kitchen doorway a half-dozen times, pondering the tiny burn marks on the floor. Squatted and dug at one with his fingernail. Little rosettes in sepia tones, burnt into the floor, so there was no point scrubbing it. Lingering smell of ozone and lavender.
Michael knew he ought to be thinking something manlier than oh dear, but he wasn't sure what.
Maybe he ought to scrub the floor anyways. He was sitting beside the undersink cupboard and rooting around in it for something to scrub with when Paul came home; familiar jingle of keys, clattering and shuffle-thumps of shoe removal.
"Who wants donuts?" Paul called. Michael winced. An agitation of strings and woodwinds. Footsteps. Michael wanted to throw something at the doorway to make sure it was safe, to make sure Paul wouldn't disappear as not-Michael must have seen Perseis disappear. But perhaps the spell was gone, or the music wrapped itself around Paul to keep him safe, but the dear slim figure in a knee-length denim skirt didn't disappear, wasn't stolen away. Feet on the floor, a box of donuts laid on the counter and Paul, kneeling beside him and touching his face.
"--you okay? Michael?"
Michael shook his head no, then nodded yes, then gave up and dragged Paul into his lap, into a protective embrace. Paul settled willingly into the hug, but twisted in an attempt to watch Michael's expression. He rested his cheek against Paul's shoulder and wondered what his face had said.
"What happened did something happen to Robbie? To Pete?"
Michael shook his head. He was worrying Paul. Nothing should ever worry Paul; he tried to speak but his throat had closed tight, so he just let out a little sigh and shook his head again.
"Nothing's happened to anybody," Paul said dubiously. Michael shook his head no; everyone was fine. Except possibly Michael, but he couldn't think well enough to say. The muscles in Paul's back flexed as he tried to pry Michael away, doubtless wanting eye contact and any information he could glean from it. Michael squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, then gave in, leaned back a bit, and meeting Paul's gaze was far harder than it should have been.
Serious Paul, sprawled sideways in Michael's lap, faint worry-lines above his brows and at the corners of his eyes. Familiar, the smell of wind in his hair, the deoderant he'd stolen from Michael when he couldn't remember where he'd put his own, the apple he'd eaten at some point. Michael ran his hands down Paul's arms and tangled their fingers and tried to find something to say.
"Something happened," Paul said. Michael nodded. "But you can't talk about it for some reason." Michael nodded again. "Won't, or not able to?" Michael shook his head and shut his eyes, hopefully before Paul saw the glimmer there. A ruffle of breath on his cheek, and Paul leaned his forehead against Michael's. "But you'll tell me."
Michael nodded and wished his face would obey him. Paul wriggled a little, crowding closer, until his side was pressed to Michael's chest and his arm draped 'round the back of Michael's neck. Paul laid a hand against Michael's cheek, breathed "Alright then," against his mouth, and kissed him. Michael shivered all over, like water just before the boiling-point, like stepping out into the rain. Mm. Paul tasted like apples, and Michael couldn't remember the last kiss he'd had that was so serious and gentle, and when Paul finally lifted away it was to a different song, in the living room, a crescendo of violins and voices.