today's new fic, part two
And here you are! Part one is here, in the previous post.
Title: Come Along And Find Me (Where I Can Go Home) [part two of two; part one here]
Rating: R
Warnings: fairly explicit but very nice first-time sex?
Word Count: 7,703 total; 3,072 [this part]
Disclaimers: boys are not mine; only doing this for fun; AU in that no one’s married; title and opening lines from Eve 6’s “At Least We’re Dreaming”.
Summary: the sequel to The One With The Mistletoe, finally. James gets to go back to work post-accident, Michael worries a lot, and then there is very tender first-time sex.
He stopped, reluctantly. Sat up again. James made a different, somewhat disappointed, sound, at the interruption; the glowing light splashed warmth across all the freckles, over the sheets, throughout the room, companionably. Even the air offered encouragement, humming with expectance.
Speaking of expectations, James had plainly remembered how to use words again, and was, naturally, busily employing them. “We’re not done, are we? Not that that wasn’t very good. Because it was. You are, I mean. Or-was that all right for you? Did I-was I not supposed to move? When you did that thing? Because I couldn’t really help it and-”
“You’re spectacular.”
“Really?”
“Very. And no, we’re not done. You did say you wanted-” In fact, James hadn’t technically said that. “Do you want more? Do you want me to…?” He let one finger drift around the base of all that achingly hard arousal, and then further back. Found that little crinkle of muscle, waiting for his touch.
He could hear James holding his breath. He was, too. “Yes? Or no? Or not yet?”
James swallowed, eyes enormous in the amber-shadowed room. Nodded. Then, as if needing to clarify, added, “Yes!” with impressive enthusiasm, and somehow that cracked the wound-up tension into giddy pieces, and they both started laughing, helplessly, stretched out across the disheveled sheets, all wrinkled up and laughing along with them.
“Definitely yes,” James managed to say, grinning, and Michael said, “Oh, thank god,” and James laughed again, bright and clear and silvery as the nighttime air.
“Um. Do you have-I mean, we’re very much going to need-”
“I know. And I think I do. Um…stay here.” He was fairly sure he still had lube, somewhere, in the depths of his suitcase. He’d unpacked everything else, for the most part, since at this point he’d more or less moved into James’s room-their room-but he hadn’t bothered to look for that, since he hadn’t expected to need it. Hadn’t wanted anyone else, except James, and he’d not been planning on sex with James, not yet, not until he was entirely sure that James was all right.
But James was all right, or nearly. And still smiling at him, even if a bit quizzically, since Michael had just left him on the bed in order to excavate the last remaining contents of his luggage.
He spotted the bottle, finally, sitting lazily at the bottom of the bag and clearly not comprehending its own vital importance. And still mostly full, a fact for which he’d be eternally grateful to every single deity ever, later; right now he had other priorities.
He tried to be as gentle as he could, with the first intrusion; James didn’t make a sound, but the eyes went larger than he’d ever seen them, blue and black like the collision of thunderstorms in the night. And for a second he just stopped, spellbound by that sight. Breathed again, finally, when James blinked, eyelashes sweeping down like clouds, and freeing him to move.
He slid that first adventurous finger a bit deeper. Glanced at the eyes. Tried something else.
“Oh god-”
“Ah. You like that?”
“Do that again!”
“That?”
Just a moan, this time. James had lost the ability to form words, apparently. Excellent.
He could feel the tightness relaxing, slowly, around him; more, then. James whispered his name, when the second curious finger joined the first. And then tried to arch his back and push up, against Michael’s hand.
“Don’t be impatient. I’m trying to make this good for you.”
“And I appreciate that, I do, I love you, but can it be good faster?”
He had to laugh. Again. Because James could always make him laugh, even when they were both naked and intimately exposed and about to be intimate, really, for the first time. He’d said spectacular, earlier; he’d been wrong. Because no words could be right, because there just weren’t sufficient adjectives in the universe for everything he felt, looking at James, at that second. The universe might have to invent some new ones.
He eased in a third finger, gently, opening James up wider around him. James started panting, softly, at that one, eyes shut.
“Still okay?”
“Yes…”
“Can you look at me?”
James licked his lips, and Michael wanted to kiss him. And then remembered, suddenly, astonished, that he could; and so he leaned over and tasted that glistening skin with his own tongue. James kissed back, welcoming the exploration, letting him discover every corner of that delicious mouth, and smiling, Michael realized. He could feel the happiness, in the curve of lips against his own. And then, as requested, James opened his eyes, blue like the endless night sky, beyond the window.
“I love you,” Michael said, quietly, to those eyes, and James smiled again. And then bit his lip, and looked away.
“What? What is it? Did I-”
“No, I’m fine, I just…” James hesitated; the eyes flickered up to his, and then away, over towards the closest harmless lamp. “You have done this, um, quite a lot, and I’m not-I haven’t-I’m sorry if it isn’t amazing. For you.”
“What?” At least the shock in his voice got James to stare at him. Good. “You-no. Just…no. You are amazing. And this is-it’s a first time for me, too, you know.”
“But you-”
“It’s the first time I’ve ever done this with you. And I love you so fucking much, and I want it to be perfect, and I never want to hurt you, and this, with you, this is already better than anything else ever has been. We could stop right now and it would still be better. And I love you. Clear?”
“Oh,” James breathed, almost inaudible, word highlighted by the gleam of warm lamplight over skin. “Yes. You-yes. I love you, too. All right. So…”
“So…more?”
“Please.”
“Okay. I-Wait!” He dove across the bed. Prayed that he still had at least one condom somewhere in that bag, too. Which indeed proved to be the case. Only two, though. Damn. Obviously he’d have to do some shopping. But that’d be enough, for now.
Surprise popped up to join the smile, when James realized what he was holding. “You-”
“I think it should be fine. As far as I know we should be fine. But I haven’t exactly-I mean, you know I’ve-I’ll go in and make sure. As soon as possible.” Tomorrow, if he could manage that. “Until then, though, is this okay? Just for now?”
“Of course. I trust you, though.”
“I know. But…just in case.”
“All right, then. And also I love you.”
“And I love you.”
He settled into position, carefully. Took a breath. Looked at James looking at him, eyes wide with eagerness and enthusiasm and want, under the gleaming golden light. Not reluctant. Not in pain.
So he pushed forward, and heard James gasp. But that was a sound of pleasure, he thought, not anything else, and when he moved again James moaned and moved with him. “That-you-Michael-”
“Good?”
“Yes-!”
He did try to be careful. Tried to make himself remember that it’d only been a week, that James, whatever he said, was still wounded, under the uncomplaining bandages that clung to smooth skin. But when James sighed, a brush of air against his shoulder, and slick muscles trembled and parted for him, he couldn’t stop himself from pushing deeper, harder, sinking into all that beckoning heat.
James whispered his name again, sounding astonished; he watched those lakewater eyes blink twice, eyelashes tangling together like long-legged and shadowy creatures under all the light, but they met his own, after.
“Still good?”
“Yes…can I have a second, though? Sorry. You’re kind of…large.”
“Of course. Anything.” He slid a hand between their bodies, and found reassuring evidence that, yes, James still wanted this. Wanted him.
James let out an involuntary noise, almost a whimper, at the touch. Interesting, Michael thought, and did it again, stroking a little more firmly this time, testing different speeds, angles, pressure. Memorizing all the movements that made James shiver, or gasp, or jerk those hips up in reply.
Abruptly he felt hands on his skin, too; James’s fingers, pressing into his hips, tugging him forward. Asking for more. He hadn’t even noticed the hands move.
“Are you-”
“If that question is what I think it is, I swear to god I’m going to hit you with a pillow.”
“Do you always have such violent tendencies during sex? I’d just like to know. For the future.”
“There’s not going to be much future if you don’t do something now.”
“Something like this?”
“Yes!”
“More?”
“Yes.”
“Okay.” When he inched forward again, James arched up against him, and breathed, “Michael,” and he spared a thought to be glad he’d found the condom, because he could feel James all around him, tight and wet and yielding to his penetration, and if he hadn’t had that thin barricade between himself and all that sensation, everything might’ve ended right then.
James tried to move with him, hips lifting to match his, and he wanted that, he did, so badly he thought he might explode with it, but he felt the rasp of fabric, a touch that wasn’t skin, across his stomach when they met, and he stopped. Set fingers, a bit sticky with all the lube, on the constellation of gilded freckles next to that lurking bandage. James went still, despite the lightness of the touch, eyes asking the question.
“I don’t want you to move. Even if you want to. I can’t-we probably shouldn’t be doing this anyway, you know. Not this soon.”
James very obviously wanted to argue-Michael could see it in his face, in the stubborn blueness of those eyes-but, after a second, just nodded.
“Fine. I love you.”
“I love you, too. Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me. Next time I’m going to have plans, for you.”
“I like the idea of you having plans. After you don’t have stitches holding your stomach together.”
“That’s not exactly the most seductive thing you could’ve said, right now.”
“Oh, sorry. Would you prefer I go back to doing things, instead?” He pulled back, almost all the way. Saw James open his mouth, all indignant impatience. Then slid back in, one swift thrust. Heard James gasp, breathless, with the speed of it.
“Better?”
“I-you-yes. You. Yes. More?”
Apparently he’d inadvertently discovered something that could make James forget how to talk. Michael hadn’t thought that that was possible, but instantly resolved, looking at those shining blue eyes, to try to do it again. As often as he could.
More. He left that hand on the curve of those hips, holding James in place, keeping him still, and moved, making them both quiver with it. James looked at the hand, and then up at him, and licked those lips one last time, and smiled, and the implications of that expression made the last rational pieces of his brain short-circuit. Thank god they had all those promised next times, for the future; he thought he might need to see that expression again, forever.
And that idea, James and forever and his, that was it, that was everything, except he had to make James come first, had to make it good, so he used the other hand, too, found all the hardness, slippery with need and desire, and heard the resulting tiny groan. “Please…”
“You,” Michael whispered back, “you, James, come for me,” and James gasped again and shuddered beneath him, wet heat pulsing out over his hand, their skin, the sparkling freckles.
And he had meant to move, finally, to let himself have his own release, but instead found himself just watching, awestruck, as James fell apart in ecstasy. For him.
Of their own volition, his hips pushed forward, deeper, and James gave a little desperate cry, and Michael found himself whispering again, little fragments, I love you and beautiful and so fucking perfect, and when he thrust one more time, hitting the spot that made James moan his name, almost a sob now, all the heat tightened around him, and then the world went white and electric and unendingly brilliant.
After several uncounted seconds, the thought occurred, vaguely, that he should move, because he was probably too heavy for James anyway, and even more so right now. He opened his eyes, with some effort, and realized that James was smiling at him, cheerfully exhausted.
“So…are you always the talkative one, during sex?”
“No, actually. Never. Only with you.” It was true. He hadn’t expected that; the words had just…been there.
“Really?”
“Really.” He paused, studying the oceanic eyes; James didn’t seem to be in pain, at all, but was almost certainly still feeling the lingering euphoric glow, and wouldn’t notice. He was feeling all of that too, but the spiky needles of concern were poking their way back in, as well, persistently, next to the contentment.
When he slid out, gingerly, James breathed in, a nearly unnoticeable hiss of air in the languid aftermath. Michael noticed, though. “Still all right?”
“Um…yes.”
“Are you lying to me?”
“No. Or not on purpose. Just…kind of sensitive. There. From you. Not anything else. I promise.”
“Are you sure?”
“Oh, god,” James said, “I really am going to have to hit you with a pillow,” and then reached out and pulled Michael back down beside him, into the stoic embrace of the much-abused sheets. “I’m wonderful. And you’re wonderful. And I love you.”
“I love you, too.” He wrapped both arms around James, who curled up more closely against him, and put his head on Michael’s shoulder. That couldn’t be very restful; he knew there wasn’t exactly much in the way of pillowy comfort, there. But James didn’t seem to care.
He could feel the quiet thunder of that heartbeat, matching his own; could feel the scrape of one short and muscular leg, finding its way between his, twining them together. He traced fingers along James’s back, in the lamplight; he couldn’t quite see all the freckles, but he knew they were there. And he’d have a lifetime to learn their locations.
He wanted to touch other places, that lurking scrap of fabric that sat there proclaiming a reminder of wounded flesh, or the frail skin over that left temple, so easily bruised. But he was afraid that James, despite all the words, had to be more than only tired, now, and he couldn’t bring himself to do anything that could lead to the smallest bit of pain. That luxurious voice hadn’t ventured any words in a while, and the eyes were closed, long eyelashes nestling themselves down over pale skin; and Michael caught himself listening to each steady breath, waiting for the next one, and the one after that.
Overreacting, he knew. But he still couldn’t make himself stop.
But James evidently hadn’t been joking, earlier, about the telepathic powers, because, without opening his eyes, he picked up Michael’s hand, and brought it up next to his face. Kissed each finger, an openmouthed tiny breath of air, and then turned his head enough to let Michael hold him, exactly where he’d been wanting to, trying to cover up the memory of too-vivid injuries with his own hand.
“Mmm. You feel all…comfortable.”
“You-is this-you don’t have a headache, do you? Or anything?”
“No. I just wanted you to touch me. Is that okay?”
“Of course.” Individual strands of gleeful hair had wound themselves around his fingers, now, holding them in place with shades of copper and oak. And Michael never wanted to move again.
“You know, I think I’m not sorry about the mistletoe, after all. Considering the result.”
“I think I love you and your unnatural obsession with the mistletoe.”
“It’s not unnatural! It’s Christmas! Well, almost. In a week.”
“And a day.”
“And a day. And I do still need to figure out what you want.”
“I thought I just showed you.”
“Besides that! You can have that anyway. You can have me always. But-”
“All right, then. I want you. I want you to spend Christmas with me.”
“Of course I-”
“Every Christmas.”
“I-are you saying-what are you asking? Exactly?”
“I…think I’m asking you to marry me.”
“You think?” James was half-laughing, he thought, and half something else that he couldn’t decipher. Pure shock? Excitement? Displeasure at the phrasing? He honestly didn’t know. But he did know that he meant it. Had known, as soon as he said the words. Knew it the way he’d never known anything else: truth like the deepest golden center of the world.
“Yes. I am. I’m asking you, James McAvoy, to marry me. Right now. Because you like mistletoe, and coffee, and holidays. Because you forget your chapstick every single morning, and because you’re my best friend, the person I want to spend every Christmas with, and every day, and you make me happy, all the time. And I could have fucking lost you once already, and I can’t lose you. Not ever. Because I do want you, forever. Because I love you. And I’ll carry around extra chapstick for the rest of our lives, I promise, and I’ll try to make you happy, too, and I know this probably isn’t how you want to be asked, and it’s too soon to ask you anyway, and we’re both naked and I don’t even have a ring for you, I’m sorry, I should’ve-you don’t have to answer yet, I can wait, just tell me you might think about it, maybe, sometime-”
“Yes.”
“…what?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“Seriously, twice wasn’t enough?” James was definitely laughing, now. “Yes. Completely yes. Because of the chapstick. And the way you’re looking at me.”
“You will?”
“Yes! I love you, always, and yes, I’ll marry you. Tomorrow, if you want. Or whenever you want. Do you want me to keep saying it? Or can I kiss you instead?”
He was starting to believe it, now. James had said yes. That yes was real. Incredible, unfathomable, exhilarating, and real. So he answered that last question, with the only conceivable reply. And kissed James one more time, in the middle of all the renewed laughter, in the echo of both of their voices, saying yes.