new fic: loving days (belong together), chapter 7 of 15
Chapter eight should also be up tonight, but it got too long to post them together, so...
Title: Loving Days (Belong Together) (chapter 7 of 15) (chapters 4-6 here) (chapters 1-3 here)
Rating: NC-17; see warnings
Word Count: 4,075 for this part
Warnings: fairly explicit sex; probable dubcon (James does say yes, but things’re far more painful and onesided than he’s expecting; see summary for the prompt) but eventually happy endings, I swear!
Disclaimers: boys are not mine; only doing this for entertainment; overall title, opening, and closing lines from the Yeah Yeah Yeahs’ “Poor Song”; section header for this installment from "Gold Lion"
Summary/Notes: the first parts of a fill for prompt #37 from the Spring McFassy Fest: Rewatched the "not a tender lover" interview and now I'm craving some Mean&Nasty!Fassy. Like doesn't bother with enough(or any) prep; doesn't offer a reach around; pulls out, washes the blood off his dick and is gone type deals. I did ask whether I could give them a happy ending, and was told yes, so please don’t worry! There’re fifteen chapters, or there will be, for a reason!
Seven: our hands out of control/ outside, inside/ this is the moon without a tide/ we’ll build a fire in your eyes
Of course there’s no such thing as an ending, for them.
He hasn’t seen Michael in months. Isn’t prepared for the shivery hot feeling that wells up, from somewhere in the vicinity of his heart, when he does. It leaves him unbalanced. Weightless. And for a second all he can remember is that warmth, surrounding him, in him, everywhere.
They’re standing outside, not yet having made it into the lobby of the hotel that’s going to be home for the next weeks of interviews and photo shoots and press conferences, and the clouds part and sunlight tumbles down over them both, because the universe has no subtlety whatsoever, and James forgets to close the car door behind him, after he gets out and his eyes land on Michael, who’s already there.
He remembers pain, too, but not only his own. In Michael’s eyes and hands and cock, when he moves inside James as if the world’s disintegrating around them.
Appropriate, he thinks. He’s not felt like he’s made it back to solid ground even now, after so long.
Michael has horrible blond hair at the moment and has put on an almost unnoticeable bit of weight, mostly muscle, and when he says hello to Kevin those uncategorizable eyes brighten cheerfully, defying the chill of the afternoon, and he grins. James finds himself grinning too, caught up in the expression, the exuberance, all the teeth. As always, every time.
Michael turns around, when Kevin waves in James’s direction. Spots him. And the smile wavers, for a split second.
James keeps his own firmly fixed in place, and tips his head to the side as if thoroughly scrutinizing the new look, and offers, “So it’s good to see you, but you could’ve left the evil hair dye at home, I think you’re frightening the children,” and Michael starts laughing and slides an arm around his shoulders without either of them thinking about it. The weight feels like the return of stability to the world.
“I hope someday you’ll have to go blond. For a role. Any role. And I’ll be there to point. And laugh. Also, it’s a publicity event, what children?”
“My hair doesn’t find you very amusing. And, all right, maybe not children, but you’re definitely frightening me. Congratulations, by the way. I hear you’re pretty much everything amazing, these days.”
Michael actually blushes. James falls in love all over again. Just like that, two minutes and one warm arm and laughter in the air.
“I’m not going to say it’s not been fun…”
“Of course it’s fun! And you deserve the fun. And the fame. What’s it like, being famous?” He widens his eyes at Michael, breathlessly, and Michael cracks up, and James grins. The air is cold, but the sunlight is warm, soaking through the weight of his jacket, and he’s made Michael laugh, and the world is, in that instant, exactly the way it should always and forever be.
Jennifer comes bouncing over, skids to a stop, stares at Michael’s hair. “Oh my god!”
“See,” James says, with happy conviction, “you are frightening the children!” And Michael groans. And leaves his arm around James’s shoulders nevertheless, all afternoon.
Despite this promising start, the next few days prove to be nothing but frustrating.
It’s not the interviews, or maybe it is, in a way. They have too many individual interviews. Too much time spent apart, in interchangeable hotel rooms and conference halls. Even when they have group interviews, he never seems to end up next to Michael. There’s a distance between them. And that vertiginous feeling, the ground not thoroughly secure, returns.
When they do those group interviews, or joint interviews, he catches Michael looking at him, sideways, sometimes. Unpredictable odd flickers of emotion. Surprise. Affection. Longing.
Perhaps that last one is only in James’s own head. Michael seems to be afraid to spend time alone with him, judging from how quickly all that blond hair vanishes after the sessions. It’s impossible to reconcile those rapid retreats, James concludes, with the wistful expressions.
He inquires, once or twice, whether Michael would like to grab dinner, or lunch, or one of the meals they might actually have time for. Michael looks terrified, and visibly pulls excuses out of thin air each time, and departs.
James thinks, in the secluded darkness of his own room, that he understands. He’d pushed too far, that last time, after all. Had shown Michael his own desire, in that bedroom, that last night. Unprompted. Unrequested. He knows he’s scared Michael, with that possibility. And maybe he shouldn’t’ve left the way he had, but he’d wanted to keep the memory of Michael’s voice saying you could sleep here, and not get out or why are you here or this can’t mean anything, any of the words Michael’s said before and might’ve said again in the morning.
Selfish, of course, but he’s not sure he could’ve survived hearing those words one more time. And he does understand the fear. It’s not as if he’s ever been in love with a man before, either. He’s only more used to it, having been wanting Michael for so damn long.
After understanding for a while, he gets angry about it anyway.
Michael’d been wanting him, taking pleasure, finding relief, all those months. It’s only fair that James had done the same, one time at least. It’s what they should’ve been doing all along. And if Michael can’t see past his own doubts and recognize that, then, James decides, rolling over and thumping his long-suffering pillow for good measure, Michael is an ass.
This realization does nothing to change the fact that James is in love with said ass. For that matter, he’s potentially in love with Michael’s actual ass, as well. It’s very attractive, especially in tight jeans.
At least the pillows never care, when he flings them across the room in the dark. He apologizes afterwards, and puts them back on the bed, and feels vaguely guilty. Not their fault. They’re made of feathers, and can’t help him with the heartache.
The fourth day of the first week, as Michael continues to avoid him as much as humanly possible, all the irritation and pining and annoyance comes to a head, and leaps out of his mouth, while he’s talking.
Unfortunately, said talking occurs in the midst of an interview. Live. On camera.
It’s the last of the day, and he’s the last one except for Kevin to go, everyone else finished and relaxing in another room and gleefully watching each other on the helpfully-provided monitors. Michael’d been charmingly intelligent and endearingly awkward, of course, as ever; James had hoped his own expression hadn’t been too idiotically fond, as the footage played.
He’d smiled at Michael, after, and Michael’d grinned back, and then very obviously realized that he was letting himself be too comfortable around James, and had diverted his own path across the room in order to go find Zoe. And James had felt the sparks of exasperation under his skin, like firecrackers igniting. They’re still burning, now.
This interviewer is rather young and enthusiastic and obviously thrilled to be there, and James answers every question as thoughtfully and interestingly as he can, and it’s easy, he does like seeing other people get excited, and the boy’s eyes light up when James makes jokes, and so he does what he can.
He’s decidedly hungry, because it’s been hours since he’s had any kind of food, and the artificial lights’re unforgiving, and that pent-up emotion’s crackling in his veins, and the final question gets asked, and he’s not responsible for what happens next.
The prompt’s a silly one. Something about what everyone most wants to know, what question people want to ask him, about the film.
He knows with complete certainty what’ll happen if he says the words on the tip of his tongue. Can envision it all.
So he says them. Out loud.
The interviewer starts laughing, taking the response as humor, the way everyone else bar one is going to take it. “And how many times did you two have sex, then?”
“Oh…four.” He has no clue why that number pops into his head; for some reason he’d not been expecting to have to give an actual count. Four sounds good. Might’ve been five, or ten, or twenty, which would likely be more accurate, but no, his brain’s gone with four.
“And what’s that like, then? Very tender?”
“Tender?” He’s not asking for the definition. He can’t not repeat the word, though. It’s so alien to what they’ve been doing that it makes no sense at all.
“You know, a little kiss on the neck, some cuddles afterward, maybe some spooning…”
“No,” James says, and now he’s being wholly honest, and it’s at once perfectly safe and wildly reckless, and he doesn’t give a damn. “No, I’m left to take care of myself, after.”
“Well,” says the interviewer, still laughing, “you heard it here first: Michael Fassbender isn’t perfect after all, in bed. And on that note…”
On that note, they finish. James stands up. Shakes the boy’s hand. Starts counting, in his head.
It takes five minutes and thirty-seven seconds for Michael to find him. And two minutes of that has to be eaten up by the sprint from the monitors backstage to the interview room to the spot beside the elevators where James is standing, wondering whether he has the time or the inclination to acquire a very belated dinner, or if he should go right up to his room and wait.
He’s not really hungry. That’s not a craving for food, twisting his stomach into knots.
When Michael’s hand lands on his shoulder, it’s almost a relief. The fizzing swirls of anticipation, of fear, of desire, focus and solidify into that single point of contact. Real.
“Four,” Michael hisses. “James, you-you-what the fuck?”
“It’s not as if I told him it was true!”
“You knew I was watching!”
“Of course.”
Michael stares down into his eyes. Leaves the hand where it is, on his shoulder. Elevator doors open. Close. Groups of bodies meander past, dressed for the night. Nothing matters except the two of them.
“You did know I was watching.”
“I said.”
“…fuck.” Might be rage. Or dawning comprehension. Or any one of a thousand other emotions; James can’t be sure, because he’s currently too busy realizing the enormity of what he’s done.
“Your room,” Michael whispers. “Now.”
They barely make it to the bed. Michael appears completely ready to ruin James’s clothing and possibly also the couch before they get there, but James likes his bed. It’s luxuriously plush, like furniture out of a fairytale. He suspects he might need the softness.
The haste, the roughness, the lack of preparation, those are all the same, as if they’ve never stopped, as if they’ve not spent months apart, but there’s something different, too, this time. In the way Michael puts a hand on his hip, when James starts to lean over the bed, and turns him, carefully, until they’re facing each other. In the lightness of touches, no teeth, no nails, no marks to redden his skin in the wake of the deed.
In the pause, after Michael plunges into him, when James can’t help the small cry as his body, not used to the invasion anymore, gives way.
“James,” Michael breathes. His name quivers in the coolness of the evening, the heat of the sheets, and long fingers trail over his cheek, questioning.
James swallows. Looks up. Tries to smile. Michael’s eyebrows draw together, over those pale eyes. One fingertip finds the corner of James’s eyelashes, and James turns his head but can’t hide the dampness fast enough.
Michael brings thumb and finger together, as if testing, curious, wondering whether those tears are real. “You…does this hurt you? When I…”
“Um…maybe? A little?” He could say yes, but Michael’s never asked, before. If Michael’s asking now, the uncushioned truth might be too harsh to hear, in this raw and breakable moment. But he’s not going to lie, either.
“You-” The next words come out somewhere between an order and a plea. “What you did-that last time-I want to watch you. Again.” And, when James doesn’t move right away, pinned in place by all the emotions-yes and no and you remember that? and you want me to enjoy this?-Michael adds, as if the word’s being forced out from someplace deep inside, “Please.”
James licks his lips. Only registers that he’s making the nervous gesture when Michael’s eyes track the sweep of his tongue. Stops.
Then he moves his hand.
He can’t look at Michael. He tries. The intensity of that gaze, narrowed on his strokes and caresses and rhythms, is too much. He thinks about Michael, instead. About the laugh, about the unabashedly toothy grin, about the passion and dedication, and the strength, physical and mental, everything that’s made Michael who he is, everything that the rest of the world is only now beginning to see.
The pain doesn’t go away, but it gets more bearable, mingled with sweetness, and he can hear himself breathing faster, or possibly that’s Michael, or both of them, in unison.
Michael doesn’t push or force anything or alter positions, inside him. Only watches. When James shifts his hand, finding a better position, and his cock slides through his fingers, wetness building at the tip, Michael breathes in, raggedly, and tenses all over.
Those kaleidoscopic eyes are fixed on his movements, so James does venture a glance up, at that. Sees Michael, looking at him.
He tries moving his hips, experimentally; the flash of agony suggests that that’s not a good idea, with that iron length buried so deeply in him, but the sensation fades, especially when Michael gasps again, and then whispers his name.
And that’s so close, so much like all those fantasies he no longer believes in, and he’s right on that edge, and so he whispers “Michael” right back, and then comes, release like waves through his entire body, under the gaze of those awestruck eyes.
They remain caught in that brightness for one or two heartbeats, and then Michael groans something that sounds like “oh, fuck, James,” and then thrusts into him, unreserved now and with shocking force, in and out and in again, and James can’t think anymore, lost in the collision of ebbing euphoria and suddenly renewed hurt, the intimacy of what he’s just offered and the fear of all the potential repercussions, lying in wait for later.
Michael’s talking again, a rush of words, James and I need to, I have to, now, and he feels the heat erupt inside him, washing through his body. He’s already lightheaded, and the continuing inundation knocks away what balance he has left. He can hear himself panting, though, so he clings to that sound as if it might save him.
Michael slips out of him. Sits up. James can’t move. Can’t even pull his legs back together, or open his eyes.
“James,” Michael says, and there’s an odd note in his voice, “say something. Please.”
Words are complicated creatures. They scuttle away and hide, when he tries to reach for them.
“James,” Michael repeats, and the unfamiliar note is stronger, now, and it might be concern, and Michael shouldn’t be concerned. Michael doesn’t want to be concerned, not about him.
So he opens his eyes and folds clumsy legs back together, hiding the bruised space and slickness from sight, and says, “I’m here, sorry, what did you need?”
“You-” Michael stops. Looks away, at the new wrinkles in the once-clean sheet. “I don’t understand you.”
James doesn’t have a good answer for that. Not as if he understands himself, these days. So he goes with, “Was that what you wanted? Me, I mean? Was that…good?” because he never has asked, not really, and he does want to know.
“Was that-James, you-yes, it was, but-”
“Then we’re good.”
Michael stares at him for a while. Shakes his head. “Do you want…we should…do you want the bathroom first, this time?”
“Ah…no.” He’s fairly sure he’s bleeding, now; the wetness stings, between his legs. If he gets up first, with Michael sitting on the bed, he won’t be able to hide that fact. If Michael’s not looking, he can grab the tissues.
“…all right.” Michael gets up. After a pause, the water grumbles into existence. James sits up, silently thanks the room for agreeing to not spin, and lunges for the tissue box.
By the time Michael comes back, the tissues are back in place, and the sheets have survived unscathed, and his legs are mostly not wobbly, and so he can stand under the shower, and take deep breaths, and think about what he’s done, what they’ve done, what Michael asked him to do, and what that might mean.
“Four,” Michael says again, when he emerges.
Michael’s sitting naked on the bed, one arm resting on pulled-up knees. The other hand is toying with James’s favorite pillow, the most companionably squashable one. It doesn’t seem to mind being touched by Michael. Of course not; it knows all of James’s feelings on that subject, too.
“I…honestly, I don’t know. I might’ve panicked. I’m sorry.”
“You could’ve said anything.” Michael fiddles with the corner of the pillowcase. It bends, flexibly, around those fingers. “Four. Seriously. And…not tender?”
“Well, you’re not.”
“You-you never said you wanted-I don’t know what you-oh, fuck. Never mind. Tell the interviewers whatever the hell you want, and I’ll be there afterwards, like you knew I would, this time. You did know that. You meant everything you did.”
“I-maybe. Yes. But so did you, just now. When you asked me to-to do that, so you could watch. You wanted me to. You want me to want you. And you don’t want to admit it.”
“…fuck you,” Michael bites out, after a second, and James snaps back, “You just did that, and you enjoyed it,” and Michael opens his mouth and then doesn’t appear to have any arguments left.
“And you made me enjoy it too,” James says, “you made me enjoy myself, for you, and I did.”
“Shut the hell up, James,” Michael says, wearily, dangerously, and throws the pillow at him, one abrupt explosive motion, “and come back to bed.”
James ducks, not successfully because he can’t move fast enough. “What?”
“Was that not clear?” Michael slides down into the sheets. Waves a hand. “There was mention of cuddling, right? Spooning, afterwards?”
“What,” James says, even though he knows and he knows why and he can feel his previous hope burning away into ashes and despair, “what’re you doing?”
“I’m spending the night. Didn’t you ask me for that, once?”
“No.” They both hear that one for the lie it is. He doesn’t even know why he’s bothered to say it.
“You want me to stay,” Michael says, and James can’t read that tone, or the suddenly guarded eyes. “You want me to stay, to wake you up and fuck you into the mattress in the morning, and then you can tell all the interviewers about our sex life, and about how heartless and inconsiderate I am with you-”
“You are.” That one’s not a lie. His voice is shaking. Might be from anger, or heartbreak, or desire. Or all three. “Get out.”
“What-”
“I said. Leave.”
“If you want,” Michael concedes, after a single eyeblink, and swings himself off the bed and finds his clothes and throws them on with jerkily abrupt motions. But he glances over at James, once or twice, when he’s half-hidden by his shirt, while he’s supposedly fastening his jeans, and there’re brief flickers of trepidation among all the ire.
James doesn’t say anything in response, and Michael walks out of the bedroom and all the way to the door and puts a hand on the knob, and then halts, as if he’s only now understood that James isn’t going to stop him, isn’t going to call him back or refuse to let him go.
When Michael turns around, those eyes are shocked. Desolate. Formerly splashing waters trapped by winter ice.
“James…?”
The word drifts out into the unsettled night, searching for a safe harbor. James swallows. Hard. Looks at Michael’s eyes again. Holds out a life preserver. “You can stay.”
Michael bites his lip. Lifts his hand away from the doorknob, slowly, questioningly. James nods, once. He means it. Through everything, despite everything, he does mean it.
The night is very cool and calm around them, no commentary, no intervention, no assistance at all. If they’re going to be safe, they’ll have to rescue each other.
Michael walks, step by step, back over to the bed, and looks at James, who says, “I kind of get cold at night, so I usually sleep with, um, clothes on, but you can…I know you don’t, so whatever you want, really,” and Michael almost smiles in response, and unbuttons his shirt again, eyes never leaving James’s face.
James keeps his own gaze absolutely steady, encouragement or support or confirmation. Whatever Michael needs.
Michael strips off his shirt and jeans and sleeps in boxer-briefs, that first night, and James doesn’t sleep at all, because he’s thinking about far too many things. He’s hurting again, and he was right about the blood, though thankfully not much this time, and he’s not sure how to handle that particular consequence with Michael in the room. He’s not sure how to handle having Michael in the room at all.
If he says something, does something, wrong, even in his sleep, he might frighten Michael away. And he knows, instinctively, unquestionably, that that would be the end of whatever it is they’ve begun to rebuild.
So he stays awake, through all the long hours of the unspeaking night. And he smiles, when Michael wakes up in his bed looking surprised, and then says, “Wait, I’ll be right back,” and slides out from under the sheets and runs to the bathroom, because he recognizes the look in those eyes, and he needs to make sure there’s no visible evidence of any injuries from the night before.
He thinks he manages the concealment fairly well. At least Michael doesn’t seem to observe anything wrong, when long arms reach for him and pull him back into bed, when Michael fucks him as if trying to believe that James is still there, that James can be touched, that everything is real, as the sun comes up, outside.
He thinks about trying to touch himself, trying to reach for that moment of ecstasy again, but he doubts that it’d be enough, as the rest of him is busy being overwhelmed by renewed tearing and stretching and pain. And he’s afraid that that’d be asking too much, right now. Too soon.
Michael slips out of him and vanishes into the bathroom, after, and James starts to sit up and the room, inconsiderately, tilts and sways around him, and he stops moving and shuts his eyes. Some indeterminate time passes, while he’s not paying attention.
Michael comes back. James knows this because the air changes, even before the bed dips, as Michael sits down beside him. “James?”
He opens his eyes. Michael’s frowning, a little. “James, are you…did you…you did want to, right? You wanted me to…”
He can’t truthfully say no, and he can’t quite answer yes, so he says “I asked you to stay, didn’t I?” and some of the troubled lines smooth themselves out, but not all. He adds, because it’s not untrue and no doubt a contributing factor to all the dizziness, “I’m fine, I’m only kind of hungry, I didn’t eat anything last night, and you know how much I like food. I could like food quite a lot, right now.” He even sounds like himself. Amazing.
“I can make you coffee,” Michael offers, gingerly, after a second, “if you want.” And James finds himself smiling, in return, through the frosty early-morning air.
And so those things, unspoken words and half-truths and shared beds and morning coffee, fall into place. Become the pieces of the next few days, as the interviews go on.