When he gets close, Grant can see the circles under Micke's eyes, dark bruises that look painful. "You should be asleep," Grant tells him, swaying gently on the swing.
"So should you," Micke replies. "You've work in five hours."
Grant shrugs.
Micke comes around behind him and gives him a steady push. "Do not forget to pump your legs," he says jocularly.
"I am not doing this," Grant replies, even as he draws his legs in to keep the swinging motion going. He's heavy enough that the swingset protests with every swing back and forth, but the way his stomach drops out and the way he feels like he's flying when he soars upwards toward the tree branches drown everything else out. Micke laughs and gives him another firm push when he swings in close.
"I don't think I've been on a swingset in years," Grant says breathlessly.
Micke catches the swings chains, towing Grant back to him.
"What is it?" Grant asks, looking over his shoulder to meet Micke's eye.
Micke smiles and leans down to kiss him. Grant's expecting a playful peck, but the kiss that Micke sweeps him up into is filthy and leaves him clutching white knuckled at the chains in his grip. When he pulls away, Grant is breathless and his lips are swollen.
"What was that for?"
"You should not let them get to you," Micke replies, straitening up. "I do not want to meet your family if they cannot be good to you."
"I just..." Grant breaks off and leans his head back against Micke's hip. "Want them to love me."
Micke's hand comes up closes around his, thumb rubbing circles on the back. There is nothing to be said that makes this better, nothing to be done except swing on the swing or lie flat on his floor with Elliott Smith on. It sucks and it isn't fair, and it doesn't make sense to him why life has to be so fucking hard for no reason.
"Let's go back home," Grant says, a feeling of calm finally settling over him. He can't change it, he can only figure out a way to not let it hurt him.
"I have drunk so much Red Bull, I shall never sleep again," Micke replies very seriously.
Grant laughs. "We'll make you an omelet, I'll suck your dick, and you'll be out like a light."
Micke grins down at him. "I like this plan."
"You think you are such a master manipulator," Grant says, purposefully swinging himself into Micke.
"It worked!"
"Only because I saw that coming from a mile away."
I've recently re-read Grant/Micke's fic, and it's kind of ridiculous how much I love this universe, considering I have never watched any of the two movies.
Still! <3<3<3
This is awesome! And I love how you write Micke, the language you chose for him, because it's only natural he'd sound a little differently, while still correct. As a foreigner myself, it fills my heart with glee.
When he gets close, Grant can see the circles under Micke's eyes, dark bruises that look painful. "You should be asleep," Grant tells him, swaying gently on the swing.
"So should you," Micke replies. "You've work in five hours."
Grant shrugs.
Micke comes around behind him and gives him a steady push. "Do not forget to pump your legs," he says jocularly.
"I am not doing this," Grant replies, even as he draws his legs in to keep the swinging motion going. He's heavy enough that the swingset protests with every swing back and forth, but the way his stomach drops out and the way he feels like he's flying when he soars upwards toward the tree branches drown everything else out. Micke laughs and gives him another firm push when he swings in close.
"I don't think I've been on a swingset in years," Grant says breathlessly.
Micke catches the swings chains, towing Grant back to him.
"What is it?" Grant asks, looking over his shoulder to meet Micke's eye.
Micke smiles and leans down to kiss him. Grant's expecting a playful peck, but the kiss that Micke sweeps him up into is filthy and leaves him clutching white knuckled at the chains in his grip. When he pulls away, Grant is breathless and his lips are swollen.
"What was that for?"
"You should not let them get to you," Micke replies, straitening up. "I do not want to meet your family if they cannot be good to you."
"I just..." Grant breaks off and leans his head back against Micke's hip. "Want them to love me."
Micke's hand comes up closes around his, thumb rubbing circles on the back. There is nothing to be said that makes this better, nothing to be done except swing on the swing or lie flat on his floor with Elliott Smith on. It sucks and it isn't fair, and it doesn't make sense to him why life has to be so fucking hard for no reason.
"Let's go back home," Grant says, a feeling of calm finally settling over him. He can't change it, he can only figure out a way to not let it hurt him.
"I have drunk so much Red Bull, I shall never sleep again," Micke replies very seriously.
Grant laughs. "We'll make you an omelet, I'll suck your dick, and you'll be out like a light."
Micke grins down at him. "I like this plan."
"You think you are such a master manipulator," Grant says, purposefully swinging himself into Micke.
"It worked!"
"Only because I saw that coming from a mile away."
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This was sweet and like Micke, a little dirty.
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I love that I can rely on this 'verse to provide sadness that is always cheered by a certain surprisingly perceptive Swede.
These two... I love them together. Which is 100% down to your talents.
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Still! <3<3<3
This is awesome! And I love how you write Micke, the language you chose for him, because it's only natural he'd sound a little differently, while still correct. As a foreigner myself, it fills my heart with glee.
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