fic: loving days (belong together), chapters 9 & 10 of 15
Chapters 9 & 10; two-thirds done! Ah...be prepared for bad things happening to James? Also, some themes from the Continuation pop up, but there're reasons for that, first because I wanted to write a version of that situation in which James actually fought back and defended himself, and second because that gives us the other extreme--real (potential, unrealized) non-con, versus what was happening with Michael. So those're my caveats.
Title: Loving Days (Belong Together) (chapters 9 & 10 of 15) (chapter eight here) (chapter 7 here) (chapters 4-6 here) (chapters 1-3 here)
Rating: NC-17; see warnings
Word Count: 6,957 for this part
Warnings: fairly explicit sex; themes of previous (not in this installment) probable dub-con (James did say yes to Michael, but things’re far more painful and onesided than he was expecting; see summary for the prompt) but eventually happy endings, I swear! For chapter nine, some slight extra warnings: attempted non-con (someone else, not Michael, tries something with James, not successfully); protective Michael at last!
Disclaimers: boys are not mine; only doing this for entertainment; overall title, opening, and closing lines from the Yeah Yeah Yeahs’ “Poor Song”; section headers for this installment from "Modern Romance" and "Sweets" respectively.
Notes: more 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!
Summary: In this section, have some hurt!James and protective!Michael. About time.
Nine: this is no modern romance
James doesn’t know the name of the man who tries to drug him, and have sex with him, at the bar.
He knows who the man is, of course. One of the interviewers, from that afternoon. Blond hair. Plastic smile. Unnaturally white teeth. James hadn’t really liked him at the time, and so had made an extra effort to be polite, because he’d not wanted to be unfriendly. He’d been enthusiastic about the movie, and about Michael, and they’d all smiled and left happy with the footage, or he’d thought so, then.
He hadn’t enjoyed the hand on his shoulder, afterwards, or the way too-light eyes had studied him, sizing him up and saving the measurements for later, but he’d been professional, and Michael had been there too and whatever else they might be, now, they were, cautiously, friends. Michael’d looked at him protectively, and had done most of the talking. James had been grateful.
Michael’d ensconced himself at the other end of the bar, chatting with Zoe, after they’d finished for the day. He’d been drinking a single beer very slowly, and determinedly not looking at James except for when he clearly believed that James wasn’t looking back. James had been annoyed by the avoidance, and then hurt, and then annoyed with himself for being hurt. Michael was only doing what he’d promised to do. Staying away, especially in any situation involving late nights and alcohol. Giving James room. Being a friend.
It’s a warm night. Unseasonably so. The air is cloying and sticky, and clings to his skin. Like the knowledge that he’s just made a very poor decision.
He’d hung out with Kevin and Matthew for a while, unwinding from the demands of the day, pointedly ignoring Michael ignoring him, and had almost decided to leave and find his bed, but as he’d walked past the bar a semi-familiar voice had offered to buy him a drink. Michael had glanced up at the sound, and then noticed James noticing and snapped his head away, and so James had said “Yes” out of pure frustration.
He’d wanted to kick himself the second he realized who it was, but he’d already agreed, and he’d thought, one drink, between professionals, in a crowded hotel bar. No harm. Nothing more than temporary uncomfortable silence. Besides, he felt bad about the instinctive dislike, and he didn’t want to be rude.
Should’ve listened to those instincts. They’d been good ones.
He’d paused to check his phone, distracted by a text from his sister, mocking him about his latest answer to the standard superpowers question. Hadn’t been watching his drink. And he had been thirsty, and pondering the merits of giving up and getting very drunk in the hope that then his heart wouldn’t hurt quite so badly, and he’d finished more than half of the glass, and then he’d seen the smile.
So fucking stupid. He knows that these things happen. He’d just never thought they’d happen to him.
He slides off the bar stool, heart pounding, hopefully not audibly. Says, searching for casual, “Oh, sorry, it’s getting late-” It isn’t.
“-and I promised I’d call her back, I mean my sister, sorry, so I should-” He hasn’t promised Joy anything, hasn’t even answered the message.
“-anyway, thank you, I’ll, um, see you, yeah?” And he leaves the last third of that treacherous drink on the bar and takes a single step in the direction of the door, and a hand lands on his wrist.
“I don’t think you should be alone,” say the teeth, “not after what you’ve had to drink, tonight. I think I’ll walk you back to your room.”
James says, horrified, “No,” and then loses his balance when the hand jerks hard on his wrist, twisting it. He gasps in pain and the teeth say, cheerfully, “You don’t want to make a scene in here, do you? Anyway, no one’s going to care,” and when James looks around Michael’s got his back to them and Kevin and Matthew are laughing about something and none of the other patrons are noticing anything.
“You have such pretty eyes. But I’m sure you know that, with the way you look at everyone. The rest of them would be happy to take you home, too, but you said yes to me. Come on.” One more tug, and the unbalanced feeling isn’t merely from that; whatever was being hidden by the alcohol, it works perilously fast.
Michael hasn’t turned back to face him and the bar is growing dark, unless that’s his vision, and James is devastatingly alone. No, that’s not true. He’s almost alone, with one single, overwhelming, malevolent, exception.
He manages to stay upright, at least, though he’s not quite sure how or when they make it to the elevators. The ground tips, and lurches, under his feet. Like an earthquake, or something equally apocalyptic. He tries to touch the wall, something solid, and can’t reach anything other than the body next to his. When the arm goes around him, a parody of comfort, he can smell vodka, and sweat, and cheap cologne, and his stomach twists.
“Don’t worry, it’s not going to last that long. Long enough for us to have some fun, though. This floor. Out you go.”
As they stumble past blurred doors, one of them opens. The girl who pops out doesn’t look in their direction, just heads off toward the ice machine, but the grip on his arm relaxes somewhat, out of startlement or perhaps an unwillingness to be seen abducting a relatively famous actor in front of witnesses.
And James, not pausing to think and certain he’s only going to get one chance at this, pulls his arm away and hits back. With every bit of strength he has.
Through some benevolent deity’s good wishes, or only sheer luck, because he can’t aim at all at the moment, his fist connects solidly with a nose. Which crunches. And bleeds. And then that other body howls and staggers back and runs into the wall and falls to the floor.
James also yelps, because his hand hurts. Of course it does. He’s just punched someone in the face.
He blinks at his fingers for a second. There’s blood on them. The smudges whirl, eerily, in front of his eyes, flirting with the freckles.
He shakes his head, which doesn’t help. The idiot on the floor says something that’s probably meant to be “You broke my nose!” and James tries to talk, can’t, kicks him once-hard-and then runs back toward the elevator.
Or attempts to run. The adrenaline helps, but the floor is lurching under his feet. He hits the button and waits for the lift, even though every cell in his body is screaming at him to keep running. But he’ll never make it if he tries to take the stairs. And no one will come looking for him. He knows that, too.
He keeps his back to the wall, for support, for security, the knowledge that no one’s going to sneak up behind him from that direction at least. Stares down the hallway and watches, but the other man doesn’t come any closer, though when he sits up and groans James’s heart jumps and skitters inside his chest.
The elevator lets out a pleasant little ding! of arrival. He falls inside. Wants to say thank you, as it takes him away. He can’t quite talk yet, so he settles for patting the wall, as he leans against it. It curves back into his hand like an appreciative cat, or maybe that’s only his imagination.
He needs a few attempts to figure out which button means his floor. He’s fairly sure he gets the right one, eventually.
He doesn’t let himself collapse onto the floor, once it’s going up. He could. But if he does he might never get up again.
It is the right floor. And he holds himself together while walking down the hallway and around the corner, and while he fumbles for his card key with his left hand because his right is throbbing. He doesn’t cry or pass out or scream. Just slips his card in and out and pushes the door open and makes it all the way into the tiny sitting room before his legs give out and he lands on the carpet at the foot of the sofa, trembling everywhere.
He’s not crying, even now. He’s not sure why. He’s very, very cold, and he wants to turn up the heat, but he can’t seem to move.
His hand hurts. Quite a lot. Funny, that. Every other part of his body seems to be numb.
Shock, he self-diagnoses, distantly. Understandable, given the circumstances. Oh, and the drugs, of course.
If he could stand up, he could get to the thermostat. Or at least get himself a blanket. That would be a good idea. The problem is the practical application.
He could call someone. He probably should call someone. He probably shouldn’t be alone. And if he calls someone, that person can bring him a blanket.
He finds his mobile phone, where it’s been lazily nestled in his pocket the entire time, unaffected by the evening’s events. He hasn’t been thinking clearly enough to recall its presence, until this precise instant.
Michael, he thinks. He wants Michael. Which maybe isn’t logical, but he does want Michael, because Michael’s the person he’s always wanted more than anyone in the world and still wants now.
Besides, he doesn’t have to be logical. He’s been drugged and nearly-no, he’s not going to say that word, not even in his head-and he’s hit someone out of real anger for the first time in his life and he’s in pain and the walls are twirling loopily. Surely he can be allowed, now if ever, to have what he wants.
He pokes uncooperative fingers at the phone. Michael doesn’t pick up right away, and then he does. “James? What’s-I thought you left with-is everything all right?”
“I’m cold,” James says, because he is. “Can you come bring me a blanket?”
And there’s a musical shattering noise, as if Michael’s dropped something fragile on the other end; his voice says, to someone else, “Fuck-sorry, sorry about that, you can charge me for it later, I have to go-James? Are you there?”
“Probably. What was that?”
“I, um, I knocked over a bottle of-don’t worry about it, it’s not important. James, are you all right? You sound…what’s wrong?”
James ignores the second question, because he has no idea where to begin. “I think…I’m not all right. I’m scared. And cold. Did I tell you I was cold? Because I am.”
“Oh, god,” Michael whispers. “James, what happened? Where are you?”
“I’m…in my room. Or at least I hope it’s my room. The key worked, but the walls are kind of…unhappy.”
“The…walls are unhappy? James, you’re scaring me. And you-you said you were scared, too. Talk to me. Please.”
“Are you coming up here? Because I don’t want to be alone. I don’t think he would-I mean, not after I-I know it’s stupid but I keep thinking I hear him anyway.”
“After you what? And of course I am, I-fuck!”
“What?”
“James, I-I don’t know your room number. Or which floor. Not now. Kevin never told me, and neither did you.”
“Oh.” He has to think about it for a minute, but he did just let himself in, and so he’s relatively confident that the number he gives Michael is the right one.
“Okay,” Michael says, “okay, I’m on the way, all right? Keep talking to me. Tell me what happened. You’re alone, now, right? He’s not-he’s not there, anymore?”
“He never was. Not here. Not in my room, I mean. I’m not making a lot of sense, am I?”
“You-you’re doing fine. Just…go on. Please. He wasn’t in your room? But he was with you?”
“Earlier. He-I let him buy me a drink. In the bar. Stupid of me.”
“I know that, I saw that, that was why I-no, never mind. Why was that stupid?”
“Why you what?”
“What? Oh…um…why I was still in the bar. With the bottle of gin. Because you left with someone else and I couldn’t-why did you say you were being stupid, again?”
“Because I was. I knew I didn’t like him. But you were…not looking at me. And I wanted you to look at me, and you weren’t. Looking.” At which point James thinks, but manages not to say, fuck, because he’s just let that confession out into the night, across the connection.
When he blinks, the room fades and dissolves, water over wet paint, smearing all the objects into a single color-drenched haze. He blinks again, and they right themselves, for the most part.
Michael breathes in, over the phone, an involuntary collection of air. As if those words’ve hurt.
“Sorry,” James says, because Michael shouldn’t be hurt. “Not your fault. You didn’t know he was going to drug me.”
“What?!”
“Oh…that wasn’t how I meant to tell you, sorry…”
“James-oh, god, I’m sorry, I’m so-are you-of course you’re not all right-did he hurt you? How badly are you hurt?”
“I fought back,” James informs him, because it’s important that Michael knows this, but Michael obviously misunderstands, because there’s a choked-off noise, and then silence, and when Michael speaks again his voice sounds broken.
“Of course you did-I know you did, I know you wouldn’t let that happen-I’m almost there, I promise, and I’ll take care of you, we can get you to a hospital, or something, anything, whatever you need-”
“My hand hurts,” James says, and then realizes that’s not going to help much without any context. He means that that’s all, that he’s not hurt anywhere else, that Michael shouldn’t be interpreting his words the way that they seem to sound, but when he tries to make that sentence make sense in his head he has to give up for a while.
He stares at the sofa. It more than likely isn’t slowly rippling up and down, in reality, but that knowledge doesn’t precisely help. Drugs, he thinks again. From all the evidence, extremely effective ones. At least he’d not finished the drink.
For the first time, he wonders how fast he’d’ve been unconscious, if he had. Might’ve been an improvement, versus the sight of the nauseatingly unstable furniture.
He can barely hold the phone, now. He can hear Michael’s voice, on the other end, but the words aren’t quite cohering, in his head.
He does know the second Michael reaches the door. The handle rattles, uselessly noisy. “James?”
When he tries to answer, it’s not loud enough. Michael sounds frantic. So do the accompanying thumps on the wood. “James! James, say something!”
His unassisted voice isn’t going to work. He picks up the phone again, on the second try. “Michael?”
“Oh thank god-James, where are you? Can you-it’s me, at your door, can you let me in-”
“Um…I’m on the floor. Next to a very disconcerting sofa. And I know that’s you, I just can’t quite…stand up.”
There’s an appalled silence, and then Michael breathes “Oh, fuck,” into the phone, and then, “James, please. I can’t-I can’t come in and help you, unless you let me in, all right? You asked me to come, remember?”
“Of course I remember.” As if he’d forget. “You got here very fast, too. Thank you.”
“I-no, I didn’t-James, listen, I think I should call someone-the police, or-”
“No.”
“James-”
“No. I don’t want-I don’t want to have to-I can’t. No.”
“Fuck,” Michael says again, and then says several more words, not all of which are English but most of which are profane. “Okay. All right. I’m not calling anyone, or not yet, but you need to-I need you to stand up, to open the door, okay? Can you stand up?”
James eyes the sofa, from his position on the floor. It calms down, as he fixes it with his gaze. Holds out a supposedly trustworthy arm, in support. “Possibly yes? Also I don’t think the door appreciates some of your suggestions. It’s looking very unfriendly from here.”
“James…”
“Sorry. Joke. Not a good one. Yes, I can stand up. I am.”
“All right. Good. That’s…good. Can you walk over here? To the door?”
“Um…hang on.” This might prove a bit more difficult, since he can’t really feel his feet, but there’s a very nicely cooperative wall beside him. Between the two of them, plus Michael’s worried voice, they make it work.
“Are you here? Keep talking to me. Please.”
“I…think so, yes. Why are the doorknobs made out of metal? This one feels cold. I don’t think it likes me.”
“Jesus,” Michael says, voice shaking. “James…oh, god. I’m sorry, I’m sorry it’s cold, but I need you to turn it, okay? Just this one last thing. You can do this.”
“Okay,” he says, in response, and pushes on the door handle, and then backs up a few steps in case Michael comes flying through it, and then loses his balance because backing up is currently a tricky proposition, and ends up in more or less the same spot of floor where he’d started.
Michael doesn’t shove the door open, no doubt aware that James might be directly on the other side. But he does make it across the room so quickly that James doesn’t even see him move.
Familiar hands reach for him; those long fingers, warm when they touch his chilled skin, find his face. Lift his chin, a little too roughly, out of concern. “James? Look at me. Can you look at me?”
He tries. Shuts his eyes. Tries again.
“Focus, James. I’m right here, I-can you-oh, god, your eyes, you look-what did he give you? Do you know?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t finish it, though. I…guessed. When he smiled.”
Michael curses in at least two languages. Holds him more tightly. “James, are you…oh, no, wait, should I-should I be touching you? Are you-how badly are you…hurt?”
“I’m not.” But the hand he sets on Michael’s arm in an attempt at reassurance is the bloodied one, and he only registers the mistake when Michael’s face goes white.
Michael lifts the hand, exquisitely gently, cradling it in his. Turns it, studying the emerging bruises, the drying spots of red. Swallows, and the muscles bunch, along his jaw.
“It’s fine,” James says, and Michael closes his eyes, as if his heart is breaking. Opens them again.
“It’s not fine. You’re not fine. Please-please tell me how bad it is. I can-I don’t know what I can do, if I can help you at all, I know I’m not the right person for-but I’ll do anything, James, I’ll be here for you, I swear. Whatever you need from me, that might be-whatever you need.”
“It’s not,” James says again, very carefully, because he’s afraid he’s going to cry at last, and he lets himself lean into the protective circle of Michael’s arms, as they close around him, “it’s not what-it’s not as bad as you think. I promise. He didn’t-it didn’t-I’m all right. Or at least I’m not…I’m not hurt like that.”
“But you-your hand, you’re bleeding-”
“Yes. And I’m kind of…very cold. But that-the hand-that’s not from…what you’re thinking. I might’ve…broken his nose.”
“You…what?”
“At least I think I did. I’ve never hit anyone-in real life, I mean-before. It hurts, to hit people.” He looks up, at Michael. Blinks again. “Are you…you’re crying. Why’re you crying?”
“James,” Michael says, shakily, and stops, swallows, shakes his head. “You’re incredible. You don’t know-oh-oh, you’re looking at me. Your eyes look better. Not good, but more…focused. Are you…”
“I think it’s wearing off. Or starting to. There’s only one of you staring at me now. I could probably stand up, if you want to get off the floor.”
“Don’t. Don’t rush things. I can pick you up, if you want to move.”
“Oh, no, you don’t have to-oh-okay, maybe you do, sorry-”
“James-! Look at me, come on, you can, you can, please look at me! You-I’ve got you, I’m going to put you in bed, okay? And you’re going to let me put you in bed. And don’t apologize!”
“Sorry…”
“Stop that.” But Michael’s hands are reassuring, easing him down into the pillows, testing his pulse, checking him for other injuries. He can feel the concern, can see it in those eyes. It wraps around him, and comforts him, even more than the kindly bed.
“He said it wouldn’t last all that long. Just long enough to…have some fun.”
Michael mutters something very obscene, at that.
“I didn’t know you knew that word.”
“I didn’t know you knew that word. Feeling any better, yet? Warmer?”
“Maybe a little. Tired…”
“I know. I know you are. I’m sorry. But I think-I don’t think you should go to sleep yet. Not while your eyes look-stay awake and talk to me for a minute. Please.”
“Um…all right. You were drinking gin? In the bar?”
“Well…I was sitting next to the bottle of gin, in the bar. I wasn’t-I’m not drunk. If you were trying to ask about that.”
“No. I know you’re not. You answered, when I called.”
“Of course I answered. I’ll always answer when you call. I-James? Eyes open! Please!”
“Oh, very forceful of you, impressive…”
“It’s only impressive if you listen. What about now? Better?”
“Kind of thirsty…”
“Okay. Don’t move. I’ll be right back. And stay awake!”
The water helps. It’s not too cold, and soothingly comprehensible, and clean, when he swallows. “More?” Michael moves the cup, so he can answer; James nods, and lets Michael bring it back to his lips. “Thank you.”
“Don’t say-um, just tell me when you want more, okay?” Michael sets fingers on his arm, gently. “Can I clean this up? I mean your hand. I-you-I do need to know how bad this is. Does this hurt?”
“Um…no. But I’m probably not a good judge of that right now, considering…”
“…fuck. All right. Can you move your fingers, at least? Wiggle them for me?”
“Like that? Also, ow, okay, that does hurt. But I don’t think I’ve broken anything. They still move, see?”
“…did you just draw a happy face on my arm?”
“Yes?”
“James.”
“I thought you needed to smile. Because you’re taking care of me. And I appreciate that. Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me, either. You shouldn’t have to-that should never be a-of course I’ll take care of you!”
“I can’t apologize, I can’t say thank you…am I allowed to tell you you’re being a good nurse? Because you are. You know, if you ever need a secondary profession…”
“Are you sure those drugs’re wearing off? Because-”
“No, that was just a normal sentence, sorry. Trying to make you not cry. Is it working?”
“Sort of…Do you have a first-aid kit, or anything? We should at least…do you have ice, in here? I could go-oh, no, never mind, that was a stupid idea, I’m not leaving you. Not even for a minute.”
“You can. If you think we need things. Just…come back, all right?”
“James-”
“Quickly, maybe?” He tries for a confident expression. He’s one hundred percent sure it isn’t working, but Michael sighs, giving in. “Not because I want to, or because I’m convinced you’ll be all right, but you need something, for that. I’ll be right back, okay?”
James nods. Michael scrutinizes him for a few more seconds, neither of them moving from the bed.
“I’ll have my phone. If you need anything, or even if you just want to talk, call me. Please.”
“In the next five minutes? I’ll be fine. But…”
“I know. I’ll hurry.” Michael squeezes his other, uninjured, hand, briefly. Gets to his feet.
“Wait!”
“What-is something wrong, what do you-”
“No, it’s not that, sorry.” Those pale eyes seem skeptical; James says, as firmly as he can, “I’m all right, I am, I only wanted to say, you should take my room key. So you can get back in.”
“…oh. Thank you.” Their fingers meet, over plastic. It shouldn’t be a life-altering moment, but it feels like one anyway. Room keys and promises and trust: those are all real.
Michael comes back in precisely ten minutes and seventeen seconds. James is trying not to watch the clock, and succeeds for the first four minutes, and then can’t resist. As the seconds tick by, he starts hearing the silence more loudly, as it expands into every corner of the room.
It’s oppressive. Heavy. Like a hand on his wrist, on his shoulder, vise-tight and cruel.
The curtains are closed, shrouds over the window, and he can’t see anything except the walls and the lamplight and the memories, and he can’t hear his own heartbeat, all the noise muffled by the ironclad knowledge that he’s alone.
The time skips ahead again and the door clatters in its frame and James flinches and almost falls off the bed and then can’t make any of his muscles obey his commands.
The bedroom door is at the wrong angle; he can’t see the person advancing into the suite. He knows it’s Michael, it has to be, who else would have his room key? But knowing that isn’t the same as believing it, not until Michael steps into view around the corner. “James? I know that took longer than I-James!”
Everything goes flying onto the closest surface, ice and what might be bandages and that room key, and Michael dives onto the bed and puts both hands on his shoulders, urgently. “James, it’s me, it’s only me, I’m here, I’m so sorry-did something happen? Did he-are you-look at me, James, please!”
“Michael,” James says, because Michael is here, has come back, and those hands are real and so he doesn’t have to be alone. And then all the tension breaks like discarded glass, and he collapses into tears.
“Oh, god,” Michael says, and holds him, and James lets himself be held. The tears empty themselves out eventually, leaving dry lakebeds behind, drained and abandoned.
He murmurs, once he can talk past the scratching lines of salt, “Thank you,” and Michael breathes out, one hand cradling James’s head against his shoulder, soothingly present. “I’m so sorry. I knew that was taking too long, but I ran into one of the hotel staff, and she asked what I needed-I asked her for a first-aid kit, I thought-but you aren’t all right, are you, I should never have left. Did something else happen, or-”
“No. It’s only-I was-it was too quiet, and I couldn’t breathe, for a minute, I just-can you open the curtains? Please?”
“You couldn’t breathe? James-” Michael’s fingers coax his head up, and their eyes meet. “I can, about the curtains, but first I want you to sit up. Deep breaths. Please. I’m here, and you’re here, and you’re safe. I said I’d take care of you, remember? You called me for help. And I will. Help. For as long as you want me here.”
James nods again, looking into apprehensive eyes; Michael bites his lip, and finds a pulse, with one undemanding fingertip. “I don’t like how fast your heart’s beating. Are you sure I can’t call someone to look at you?”
“Publicity,” James protests, and Michael shakes his head, agreement and argument all in one. “If this gets any worse…”
“If it does, then you can. But I don’t want-I just want to stay here. With you. Window?”
“Oh-sorry. I have to let go of you, for a minute, if you want me to do that. Is that all right?”
“Yes. I can still see you from here.”
“All right.” Michael relinquishes him into the embrace of the bed, with some reluctance, and then gets up; the starlight, released from captivity, glitters in and makes itself at home. It’s not all that brilliant, competing for space with all the city shine, but the world is wide and bright and the walls aren’t closing in as badly anymore.
And Michael’s here. Really here, for him. Offering help, unconditionally, unhesitatingly. Michael has helped, already. That’s as true as the comfort of the open window, the ache in his hand, the caring plushness of the bed.
He wanted Michael, and called Michael, and Michael came.
“…why’re you smiling?”
“Am I?”
“A little. Um, this might sting, sorry.”
James doesn’t let himself say ouch, even though it does. “That’s not that bad.”
“No, it’s not. Oh-you meant me cleaning this. Good, then. But this isn’t that bad, either; I think you mostly just bruised it. And the scraped knuckles. What’re these from? On your wrist?”
“Um…in the bar. I tried to leave. He twisted my arm. Literally.”
Michael’s hands falter, then go back to pressing fresh cloth over bloodied skin. “I’m so sorry. I was-I thought you’d want space. Time. And I was trying to give you that-”
“I never knew you were secretly a Time Lord.”
“Do you have to make Doctor Who jokes? Now?”
“Yes. Oh…that’s cold.”
“That’s ice. It’s supposed to be cold. You can make Doctor Who jokes if you want, then. I won’t get any of them, but that’s okay.”
“You’ve no appreciation for the finer things in life,” James says, as loftily as he can from his current position, and Michael looks up from bandages for a second and answers, quietly, “I do now,” and James finds himself unable to say anything at all, no attempts at teasing or comforting humor, in the face of that unadorned honesty.
Michael offers him water again and fishes the extra blanket out of the closet and drapes it over his shoulders when he shivers, and sits back down beside him, rubbing his back in careful circles, no pressure, only encouraging rhythm and repetition. The world is still silent, but it’s a warmer kind of silence, now. The stars and the sheets and the placid furniture hum with it.
He remembers that very first night, another hotel bar, another aftermath, other bruises. Himself finding that extra blanket, in the closet. Putting blankets over Michael, in bed, and choosing to stay.
He can tell, without asking, that Michael’s remembering the same thing. The hand on his back slows, uncertain, and fingers linger in place behind one shoulder blade.
“Why did you-why did you call me? I mean…me, James. Not that I’m not-I’m glad you did, I’m so fucking glad you did, you can always call me, but why…?”
“I know what you mean. Um, three reasons. I think.” He shivers again; Michael notices.
“What’s wrong?”
“My hands are cold. And my feet…”
Michael shakes his head, and James doesn’t know what that means, but then Michael’s off the bed and in motion again, and then back. With socks. And a mismatched set of James’s fingerless gloves, one blue, one grey.
He slides them onto James’s hands, fingers astonishingly tender. Almost reverent, when easing fabric over new bandages, where wool catches and tugs. “Sorry.”
“It’s fine. It’s much better, actually. Thank you.” He gazes at his nonmatching hands, after. Not perfect, but they don’t have to be. Definitely an improvement.
“Here,” Michael says, and wraps his own hands around the uncovered tips of James’s fingers, rubbing softly, the friction of skin against skin. “Does this help, too?”
“Yes.”
“You said…you had reasons. Do you want-I want you to keep talking to me, but if you don’t want to answer that-”
“No, I can. The first one…I thought you might…understand. Not like that! Don’t look at me like that. Please. I meant…” He squeezes Michael’s hands, in his, with as much strength as he can summon. After a second, Michael squeezes back. “I meant…we both know how… unfair the world can be. How sometimes people can…get hurt. And the way that something can make sense-but not make any sense-at the same time. Does that…”
“…make sense?”
“Well…yes.”
“I think so. Yes. But…I’m sorry again. For that. Not sorry if that got you to call me, of course not, I’m just-thankful, so fucking thankful, you would-but I’m sorry you had to know that-those things, about the unfairness, about getting hurt. You know those things because of me. So I’m still sorry.” Thumbs skim softly over the back of his fingers; there’s sincerity, and regret, and truth, in the touch.
So James says, quietly, “I did forgive you, you know. A long time ago,” and sees Michael smile, and then blink, rapidly, and then smile again.
“I know. Because you’re amazing.”
“I am not. The second reason…well, that’s related, really. It’s just…”
“You are so. What?”
“You…even when you were…when we were…you weren’t trying to hurt me.”
“I-”
“No, you weren’t. You did hurt me, sometimes. But you didn’t want to. Not like-you only never thought about it. And I could’ve said no. I had chances to say no. I could have punched you in the face. Or other places. If I’d wanted to. You never…took away my choice. Not like this. Not like tonight.”
“James,” Michael whispers, and the heat of it settles into his hair, tangling with the disheveled waves. “I’m so sorry. I’m sorry this happened, I’m sorry you-I can’t even imagine-what you just said. You should never have to feel that way. Not ever. If I could make this go away, somehow, if I could-I can’t, can I? I can’t fix this. But. You-please tell me what you want me to do. Anything that you want me to do. I’ll do it.”
“You…” He’s not quite sure what he’s asking for. He just needs to know. That someone will be here, will keep him safe-will care enough to keep him safe-if he lets himself fall into the waiting arms of sleep. “Will you stay? I feel…you would…if anyone…you could be here, right? If anyone tried to-would you stay? With me? Please?”
Michael doesn’t answer immediately, and when he does he sounds as if someone’s kicked him in the chest, cracking bone and wounding flesh, someplace inside. “I…of course I’ll stay. I would even if you hadn’t asked, James, I-that wasn’t even-I didn’t think you’d need to-but of course yes. I’m not leaving you alone. I can be here for you. I will. I promise.”
“I believe you,” James says, because he does, and Michael inhales, not quite a gasp, and the hands tighten around his. “You…mean that. You trust me.”
“Well, yes.” He yawns, somewhat inadvertently, as punctuation; Michael nearly laughs, or possibly that’s a sob. “Am I allowed to sleep, now? Maybe?"
“Um…look at me for a minute? So I can see your eyes?...You do look better. Okay. Yes. I’m pretty sure you’re not going to collapse in your sleep, or anything.”
“Can you actually collapse in your sleep? I mean, technically, isn’t that impossible?”
“You know what I mean!”
“Yes, I do…”
“James? Are you awake?”
“Not for much longer…”
“You said there were three reasons. That you called me. What was the other one?”
“Oh.” James yawns again. The adrenaline and fright have given way to all-encompassing exhaustion, now, and he doesn’t have the energy to be anything other than truthful. “That’s the easy one, I thought you would’ve guessed…I wanted you. Want you. Simple. I’d very definitely like to go to sleep, now, if you think that’s okay…”
“James,” Michael breathes, gazing at him; James barely has time to register the astounded expression before the tiredness decides he’s put it off long enough, and drags him into the dark.
Ten: if we meet again/ meet and meet and meet and meet again
Michael sits there on the luxurious hotel bed, propped up by considerate pillows, all night. Leaves his hands wrapped around those short and chilly fingertips. James’d said that was helping, and so Michael’s willing to sit in that spot and hold those hands for as long as James might ever need him to.
He watches dark eyelashes, long and fragile, where they rest over pale skin and tiny confetti-showers of freckles. James doesn’t move at all, in his sleep. Michael doesn’t know if that’s normal for him, or if that’s some residual effect of the drugs, or if even unawake James is now afraid to draw perilous attention to himself.
He ought to know whether that’s normal. He’s spent the night with James, shared a bed. But he’d always tried not to care, then. Had clung to his senseless denial, when he should’ve been cherishing every one of those seconds. He’ll never get to have them again.
Maybe none of those nights had been normal sleep in any case, because James had been in pain and more than likely afraid, then, too.
He’s only here, now, because James has inexplicably chosen him to call, because James is scared and hurt and not thinking straight. James, sober and safe and happy, would never have wanted him, and shouldn’t. He swallows, against the ache in his throat, in his chest.
James, sleepy and truthful, had said the opposite. Said that he wanted-wants-Michael.
He looks at those quiescent fingertips, in his. He wants to believe that. Every atom of his body yearns to believe that. But he can’t. Not now.
James, under all the fiercely protective layers of blankets and pillows, hasn’t changed positions in the slightest. Not even the hair quivers. But he’s breathing evenly, and his face is less horribly pale. Michael pictures that expression in blue eyes, when he closes his own. The blankness of fear, when he’d come back into the room to find James frozen in the bed, not seeing him.
He’d talked James into seeing him, though. Had said or done the right thing, or something close to the right thing, somehow. James had been smiling again, cautiously, by the end. Bandaged and blanket-wrapped and managing to make science-fiction jokes at Michael’s expense.
The night’d been warm, before. Objectively, it still probably is. But James had been cold, earlier, and frightened and wounded, and so Michael finds himself cold, too, inside and out. Some of that’s rage; he wants to find the person who’s dared to hurt James, and commit acts of homicidal and retributive violence. Some of that’s the terrifying realization that, as bad as this is, it could have been much worse.
James could’ve finished the drink, in the bar. Not been able to fight back. Not had the ability to call for help. None of that’s true, but it all might have been.
Some of the coldness is the thought that, no matter what James tries to say, the difference between himself and that person is only a matter of degree. They’ve both hurt James. And this is the result. James injured and scared and having to ask, not trusting that Michael will care enough to stay.
The lights are all still on, in the bedroom. He hadn’t asked whether James wanted them off, and now he can’t. He wants them on, though; he can see James more clearly, in the compassionate golden glow.
It all could’ve been so much worse. And every one of his previous idiotic fears, about sexuality and himself and identifications and labels, evaporates into nothingness, faced with this reality.
He could have lost James. Permanently. Forever.
He tightens his grip on those hands a little more. They don’t react, but they’re here, and tangible, in his. Such a different shape from his own: shorter fingers, a bit broader, ready to jump into motion before they’re asked.
There’s one solitary freckle visible on James’s left index finger, not covered up by the gloves. It winks at him, optimistically.
He says to it, and to James, “I love you, you know,” and of course James can’t hear him, because James is asleep, lost in shock and aftermath and the lingering effects of the drugs. But maybe the universe can hear him. Maybe it’ll understand, somehow. The words are too late and too small and ineffective, not going to change anything, and James will never say them back, not to him, but he needs to speak them aloud, one time. To offer them up, a true piece of the world.
“I’ve always loved you,” he says, and that’s the second time he’s said those words out loud. “And I always will. And I’m sorry.”
The syllables hang in the air, lazily, and keep him company. The room gets a tiny bit warmer, unless that’s only his imagination. Or all the blankets, piled up over James and, correspondingly, Michael’s own feet, on the bed.
Beds, he thinks. This is the first time they’ve ever really shared a bed. And then he has to bite into his lip, because James has been trying so bravely not to make him cry, and he can’t give in now even though James has gone to sleep. It’d feel like a betrayal of all that courage.
So he stays awake all night, feet buried under the mound of affectionate blankets, guarding James’s unmoving form. Warming those fingertips in his.
Title: Loving Days (Belong Together) (chapters 9 & 10 of 15) (chapter eight here) (chapter 7 here) (chapters 4-6 here) (chapters 1-3 here)
Rating: NC-17; see warnings
Word Count: 6,957 for this part
Warnings: fairly explicit sex; themes of previous (not in this installment) probable dub-con (James did say yes to Michael, but things’re far more painful and onesided than he was expecting; see summary for the prompt) but eventually happy endings, I swear! For chapter nine, some slight extra warnings: attempted non-con (someone else, not Michael, tries something with James, not successfully); protective Michael at last!
Disclaimers: boys are not mine; only doing this for entertainment; overall title, opening, and closing lines from the Yeah Yeah Yeahs’ “Poor Song”; section headers for this installment from "Modern Romance" and "Sweets" respectively.
Notes: more 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!
Summary: In this section, have some hurt!James and protective!Michael. About time.
Nine: this is no modern romance
James doesn’t know the name of the man who tries to drug him, and have sex with him, at the bar.
He knows who the man is, of course. One of the interviewers, from that afternoon. Blond hair. Plastic smile. Unnaturally white teeth. James hadn’t really liked him at the time, and so had made an extra effort to be polite, because he’d not wanted to be unfriendly. He’d been enthusiastic about the movie, and about Michael, and they’d all smiled and left happy with the footage, or he’d thought so, then.
He hadn’t enjoyed the hand on his shoulder, afterwards, or the way too-light eyes had studied him, sizing him up and saving the measurements for later, but he’d been professional, and Michael had been there too and whatever else they might be, now, they were, cautiously, friends. Michael’d looked at him protectively, and had done most of the talking. James had been grateful.
Michael’d ensconced himself at the other end of the bar, chatting with Zoe, after they’d finished for the day. He’d been drinking a single beer very slowly, and determinedly not looking at James except for when he clearly believed that James wasn’t looking back. James had been annoyed by the avoidance, and then hurt, and then annoyed with himself for being hurt. Michael was only doing what he’d promised to do. Staying away, especially in any situation involving late nights and alcohol. Giving James room. Being a friend.
It’s a warm night. Unseasonably so. The air is cloying and sticky, and clings to his skin. Like the knowledge that he’s just made a very poor decision.
He’d hung out with Kevin and Matthew for a while, unwinding from the demands of the day, pointedly ignoring Michael ignoring him, and had almost decided to leave and find his bed, but as he’d walked past the bar a semi-familiar voice had offered to buy him a drink. Michael had glanced up at the sound, and then noticed James noticing and snapped his head away, and so James had said “Yes” out of pure frustration.
He’d wanted to kick himself the second he realized who it was, but he’d already agreed, and he’d thought, one drink, between professionals, in a crowded hotel bar. No harm. Nothing more than temporary uncomfortable silence. Besides, he felt bad about the instinctive dislike, and he didn’t want to be rude.
Should’ve listened to those instincts. They’d been good ones.
He’d paused to check his phone, distracted by a text from his sister, mocking him about his latest answer to the standard superpowers question. Hadn’t been watching his drink. And he had been thirsty, and pondering the merits of giving up and getting very drunk in the hope that then his heart wouldn’t hurt quite so badly, and he’d finished more than half of the glass, and then he’d seen the smile.
So fucking stupid. He knows that these things happen. He’d just never thought they’d happen to him.
He slides off the bar stool, heart pounding, hopefully not audibly. Says, searching for casual, “Oh, sorry, it’s getting late-” It isn’t.
“-and I promised I’d call her back, I mean my sister, sorry, so I should-” He hasn’t promised Joy anything, hasn’t even answered the message.
“-anyway, thank you, I’ll, um, see you, yeah?” And he leaves the last third of that treacherous drink on the bar and takes a single step in the direction of the door, and a hand lands on his wrist.
“I don’t think you should be alone,” say the teeth, “not after what you’ve had to drink, tonight. I think I’ll walk you back to your room.”
James says, horrified, “No,” and then loses his balance when the hand jerks hard on his wrist, twisting it. He gasps in pain and the teeth say, cheerfully, “You don’t want to make a scene in here, do you? Anyway, no one’s going to care,” and when James looks around Michael’s got his back to them and Kevin and Matthew are laughing about something and none of the other patrons are noticing anything.
“You have such pretty eyes. But I’m sure you know that, with the way you look at everyone. The rest of them would be happy to take you home, too, but you said yes to me. Come on.” One more tug, and the unbalanced feeling isn’t merely from that; whatever was being hidden by the alcohol, it works perilously fast.
Michael hasn’t turned back to face him and the bar is growing dark, unless that’s his vision, and James is devastatingly alone. No, that’s not true. He’s almost alone, with one single, overwhelming, malevolent, exception.
He manages to stay upright, at least, though he’s not quite sure how or when they make it to the elevators. The ground tips, and lurches, under his feet. Like an earthquake, or something equally apocalyptic. He tries to touch the wall, something solid, and can’t reach anything other than the body next to his. When the arm goes around him, a parody of comfort, he can smell vodka, and sweat, and cheap cologne, and his stomach twists.
“Don’t worry, it’s not going to last that long. Long enough for us to have some fun, though. This floor. Out you go.”
As they stumble past blurred doors, one of them opens. The girl who pops out doesn’t look in their direction, just heads off toward the ice machine, but the grip on his arm relaxes somewhat, out of startlement or perhaps an unwillingness to be seen abducting a relatively famous actor in front of witnesses.
And James, not pausing to think and certain he’s only going to get one chance at this, pulls his arm away and hits back. With every bit of strength he has.
Through some benevolent deity’s good wishes, or only sheer luck, because he can’t aim at all at the moment, his fist connects solidly with a nose. Which crunches. And bleeds. And then that other body howls and staggers back and runs into the wall and falls to the floor.
James also yelps, because his hand hurts. Of course it does. He’s just punched someone in the face.
He blinks at his fingers for a second. There’s blood on them. The smudges whirl, eerily, in front of his eyes, flirting with the freckles.
He shakes his head, which doesn’t help. The idiot on the floor says something that’s probably meant to be “You broke my nose!” and James tries to talk, can’t, kicks him once-hard-and then runs back toward the elevator.
Or attempts to run. The adrenaline helps, but the floor is lurching under his feet. He hits the button and waits for the lift, even though every cell in his body is screaming at him to keep running. But he’ll never make it if he tries to take the stairs. And no one will come looking for him. He knows that, too.
He keeps his back to the wall, for support, for security, the knowledge that no one’s going to sneak up behind him from that direction at least. Stares down the hallway and watches, but the other man doesn’t come any closer, though when he sits up and groans James’s heart jumps and skitters inside his chest.
The elevator lets out a pleasant little ding! of arrival. He falls inside. Wants to say thank you, as it takes him away. He can’t quite talk yet, so he settles for patting the wall, as he leans against it. It curves back into his hand like an appreciative cat, or maybe that’s only his imagination.
He needs a few attempts to figure out which button means his floor. He’s fairly sure he gets the right one, eventually.
He doesn’t let himself collapse onto the floor, once it’s going up. He could. But if he does he might never get up again.
It is the right floor. And he holds himself together while walking down the hallway and around the corner, and while he fumbles for his card key with his left hand because his right is throbbing. He doesn’t cry or pass out or scream. Just slips his card in and out and pushes the door open and makes it all the way into the tiny sitting room before his legs give out and he lands on the carpet at the foot of the sofa, trembling everywhere.
He’s not crying, even now. He’s not sure why. He’s very, very cold, and he wants to turn up the heat, but he can’t seem to move.
His hand hurts. Quite a lot. Funny, that. Every other part of his body seems to be numb.
Shock, he self-diagnoses, distantly. Understandable, given the circumstances. Oh, and the drugs, of course.
If he could stand up, he could get to the thermostat. Or at least get himself a blanket. That would be a good idea. The problem is the practical application.
He could call someone. He probably should call someone. He probably shouldn’t be alone. And if he calls someone, that person can bring him a blanket.
He finds his mobile phone, where it’s been lazily nestled in his pocket the entire time, unaffected by the evening’s events. He hasn’t been thinking clearly enough to recall its presence, until this precise instant.
Michael, he thinks. He wants Michael. Which maybe isn’t logical, but he does want Michael, because Michael’s the person he’s always wanted more than anyone in the world and still wants now.
Besides, he doesn’t have to be logical. He’s been drugged and nearly-no, he’s not going to say that word, not even in his head-and he’s hit someone out of real anger for the first time in his life and he’s in pain and the walls are twirling loopily. Surely he can be allowed, now if ever, to have what he wants.
He pokes uncooperative fingers at the phone. Michael doesn’t pick up right away, and then he does. “James? What’s-I thought you left with-is everything all right?”
“I’m cold,” James says, because he is. “Can you come bring me a blanket?”
And there’s a musical shattering noise, as if Michael’s dropped something fragile on the other end; his voice says, to someone else, “Fuck-sorry, sorry about that, you can charge me for it later, I have to go-James? Are you there?”
“Probably. What was that?”
“I, um, I knocked over a bottle of-don’t worry about it, it’s not important. James, are you all right? You sound…what’s wrong?”
James ignores the second question, because he has no idea where to begin. “I think…I’m not all right. I’m scared. And cold. Did I tell you I was cold? Because I am.”
“Oh, god,” Michael whispers. “James, what happened? Where are you?”
“I’m…in my room. Or at least I hope it’s my room. The key worked, but the walls are kind of…unhappy.”
“The…walls are unhappy? James, you’re scaring me. And you-you said you were scared, too. Talk to me. Please.”
“Are you coming up here? Because I don’t want to be alone. I don’t think he would-I mean, not after I-I know it’s stupid but I keep thinking I hear him anyway.”
“After you what? And of course I am, I-fuck!”
“What?”
“James, I-I don’t know your room number. Or which floor. Not now. Kevin never told me, and neither did you.”
“Oh.” He has to think about it for a minute, but he did just let himself in, and so he’s relatively confident that the number he gives Michael is the right one.
“Okay,” Michael says, “okay, I’m on the way, all right? Keep talking to me. Tell me what happened. You’re alone, now, right? He’s not-he’s not there, anymore?”
“He never was. Not here. Not in my room, I mean. I’m not making a lot of sense, am I?”
“You-you’re doing fine. Just…go on. Please. He wasn’t in your room? But he was with you?”
“Earlier. He-I let him buy me a drink. In the bar. Stupid of me.”
“I know that, I saw that, that was why I-no, never mind. Why was that stupid?”
“Why you what?”
“What? Oh…um…why I was still in the bar. With the bottle of gin. Because you left with someone else and I couldn’t-why did you say you were being stupid, again?”
“Because I was. I knew I didn’t like him. But you were…not looking at me. And I wanted you to look at me, and you weren’t. Looking.” At which point James thinks, but manages not to say, fuck, because he’s just let that confession out into the night, across the connection.
When he blinks, the room fades and dissolves, water over wet paint, smearing all the objects into a single color-drenched haze. He blinks again, and they right themselves, for the most part.
Michael breathes in, over the phone, an involuntary collection of air. As if those words’ve hurt.
“Sorry,” James says, because Michael shouldn’t be hurt. “Not your fault. You didn’t know he was going to drug me.”
“What?!”
“Oh…that wasn’t how I meant to tell you, sorry…”
“James-oh, god, I’m sorry, I’m so-are you-of course you’re not all right-did he hurt you? How badly are you hurt?”
“I fought back,” James informs him, because it’s important that Michael knows this, but Michael obviously misunderstands, because there’s a choked-off noise, and then silence, and when Michael speaks again his voice sounds broken.
“Of course you did-I know you did, I know you wouldn’t let that happen-I’m almost there, I promise, and I’ll take care of you, we can get you to a hospital, or something, anything, whatever you need-”
“My hand hurts,” James says, and then realizes that’s not going to help much without any context. He means that that’s all, that he’s not hurt anywhere else, that Michael shouldn’t be interpreting his words the way that they seem to sound, but when he tries to make that sentence make sense in his head he has to give up for a while.
He stares at the sofa. It more than likely isn’t slowly rippling up and down, in reality, but that knowledge doesn’t precisely help. Drugs, he thinks again. From all the evidence, extremely effective ones. At least he’d not finished the drink.
For the first time, he wonders how fast he’d’ve been unconscious, if he had. Might’ve been an improvement, versus the sight of the nauseatingly unstable furniture.
He can barely hold the phone, now. He can hear Michael’s voice, on the other end, but the words aren’t quite cohering, in his head.
He does know the second Michael reaches the door. The handle rattles, uselessly noisy. “James?”
When he tries to answer, it’s not loud enough. Michael sounds frantic. So do the accompanying thumps on the wood. “James! James, say something!”
His unassisted voice isn’t going to work. He picks up the phone again, on the second try. “Michael?”
“Oh thank god-James, where are you? Can you-it’s me, at your door, can you let me in-”
“Um…I’m on the floor. Next to a very disconcerting sofa. And I know that’s you, I just can’t quite…stand up.”
There’s an appalled silence, and then Michael breathes “Oh, fuck,” into the phone, and then, “James, please. I can’t-I can’t come in and help you, unless you let me in, all right? You asked me to come, remember?”
“Of course I remember.” As if he’d forget. “You got here very fast, too. Thank you.”
“I-no, I didn’t-James, listen, I think I should call someone-the police, or-”
“No.”
“James-”
“No. I don’t want-I don’t want to have to-I can’t. No.”
“Fuck,” Michael says again, and then says several more words, not all of which are English but most of which are profane. “Okay. All right. I’m not calling anyone, or not yet, but you need to-I need you to stand up, to open the door, okay? Can you stand up?”
James eyes the sofa, from his position on the floor. It calms down, as he fixes it with his gaze. Holds out a supposedly trustworthy arm, in support. “Possibly yes? Also I don’t think the door appreciates some of your suggestions. It’s looking very unfriendly from here.”
“James…”
“Sorry. Joke. Not a good one. Yes, I can stand up. I am.”
“All right. Good. That’s…good. Can you walk over here? To the door?”
“Um…hang on.” This might prove a bit more difficult, since he can’t really feel his feet, but there’s a very nicely cooperative wall beside him. Between the two of them, plus Michael’s worried voice, they make it work.
“Are you here? Keep talking to me. Please.”
“I…think so, yes. Why are the doorknobs made out of metal? This one feels cold. I don’t think it likes me.”
“Jesus,” Michael says, voice shaking. “James…oh, god. I’m sorry, I’m sorry it’s cold, but I need you to turn it, okay? Just this one last thing. You can do this.”
“Okay,” he says, in response, and pushes on the door handle, and then backs up a few steps in case Michael comes flying through it, and then loses his balance because backing up is currently a tricky proposition, and ends up in more or less the same spot of floor where he’d started.
Michael doesn’t shove the door open, no doubt aware that James might be directly on the other side. But he does make it across the room so quickly that James doesn’t even see him move.
Familiar hands reach for him; those long fingers, warm when they touch his chilled skin, find his face. Lift his chin, a little too roughly, out of concern. “James? Look at me. Can you look at me?”
He tries. Shuts his eyes. Tries again.
“Focus, James. I’m right here, I-can you-oh, god, your eyes, you look-what did he give you? Do you know?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t finish it, though. I…guessed. When he smiled.”
Michael curses in at least two languages. Holds him more tightly. “James, are you…oh, no, wait, should I-should I be touching you? Are you-how badly are you…hurt?”
“I’m not.” But the hand he sets on Michael’s arm in an attempt at reassurance is the bloodied one, and he only registers the mistake when Michael’s face goes white.
Michael lifts the hand, exquisitely gently, cradling it in his. Turns it, studying the emerging bruises, the drying spots of red. Swallows, and the muscles bunch, along his jaw.
“It’s fine,” James says, and Michael closes his eyes, as if his heart is breaking. Opens them again.
“It’s not fine. You’re not fine. Please-please tell me how bad it is. I can-I don’t know what I can do, if I can help you at all, I know I’m not the right person for-but I’ll do anything, James, I’ll be here for you, I swear. Whatever you need from me, that might be-whatever you need.”
“It’s not,” James says again, very carefully, because he’s afraid he’s going to cry at last, and he lets himself lean into the protective circle of Michael’s arms, as they close around him, “it’s not what-it’s not as bad as you think. I promise. He didn’t-it didn’t-I’m all right. Or at least I’m not…I’m not hurt like that.”
“But you-your hand, you’re bleeding-”
“Yes. And I’m kind of…very cold. But that-the hand-that’s not from…what you’re thinking. I might’ve…broken his nose.”
“You…what?”
“At least I think I did. I’ve never hit anyone-in real life, I mean-before. It hurts, to hit people.” He looks up, at Michael. Blinks again. “Are you…you’re crying. Why’re you crying?”
“James,” Michael says, shakily, and stops, swallows, shakes his head. “You’re incredible. You don’t know-oh-oh, you’re looking at me. Your eyes look better. Not good, but more…focused. Are you…”
“I think it’s wearing off. Or starting to. There’s only one of you staring at me now. I could probably stand up, if you want to get off the floor.”
“Don’t. Don’t rush things. I can pick you up, if you want to move.”
“Oh, no, you don’t have to-oh-okay, maybe you do, sorry-”
“James-! Look at me, come on, you can, you can, please look at me! You-I’ve got you, I’m going to put you in bed, okay? And you’re going to let me put you in bed. And don’t apologize!”
“Sorry…”
“Stop that.” But Michael’s hands are reassuring, easing him down into the pillows, testing his pulse, checking him for other injuries. He can feel the concern, can see it in those eyes. It wraps around him, and comforts him, even more than the kindly bed.
“He said it wouldn’t last all that long. Just long enough to…have some fun.”
Michael mutters something very obscene, at that.
“I didn’t know you knew that word.”
“I didn’t know you knew that word. Feeling any better, yet? Warmer?”
“Maybe a little. Tired…”
“I know. I know you are. I’m sorry. But I think-I don’t think you should go to sleep yet. Not while your eyes look-stay awake and talk to me for a minute. Please.”
“Um…all right. You were drinking gin? In the bar?”
“Well…I was sitting next to the bottle of gin, in the bar. I wasn’t-I’m not drunk. If you were trying to ask about that.”
“No. I know you’re not. You answered, when I called.”
“Of course I answered. I’ll always answer when you call. I-James? Eyes open! Please!”
“Oh, very forceful of you, impressive…”
“It’s only impressive if you listen. What about now? Better?”
“Kind of thirsty…”
“Okay. Don’t move. I’ll be right back. And stay awake!”
The water helps. It’s not too cold, and soothingly comprehensible, and clean, when he swallows. “More?” Michael moves the cup, so he can answer; James nods, and lets Michael bring it back to his lips. “Thank you.”
“Don’t say-um, just tell me when you want more, okay?” Michael sets fingers on his arm, gently. “Can I clean this up? I mean your hand. I-you-I do need to know how bad this is. Does this hurt?”
“Um…no. But I’m probably not a good judge of that right now, considering…”
“…fuck. All right. Can you move your fingers, at least? Wiggle them for me?”
“Like that? Also, ow, okay, that does hurt. But I don’t think I’ve broken anything. They still move, see?”
“…did you just draw a happy face on my arm?”
“Yes?”
“James.”
“I thought you needed to smile. Because you’re taking care of me. And I appreciate that. Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me, either. You shouldn’t have to-that should never be a-of course I’ll take care of you!”
“I can’t apologize, I can’t say thank you…am I allowed to tell you you’re being a good nurse? Because you are. You know, if you ever need a secondary profession…”
“Are you sure those drugs’re wearing off? Because-”
“No, that was just a normal sentence, sorry. Trying to make you not cry. Is it working?”
“Sort of…Do you have a first-aid kit, or anything? We should at least…do you have ice, in here? I could go-oh, no, never mind, that was a stupid idea, I’m not leaving you. Not even for a minute.”
“You can. If you think we need things. Just…come back, all right?”
“James-”
“Quickly, maybe?” He tries for a confident expression. He’s one hundred percent sure it isn’t working, but Michael sighs, giving in. “Not because I want to, or because I’m convinced you’ll be all right, but you need something, for that. I’ll be right back, okay?”
James nods. Michael scrutinizes him for a few more seconds, neither of them moving from the bed.
“I’ll have my phone. If you need anything, or even if you just want to talk, call me. Please.”
“In the next five minutes? I’ll be fine. But…”
“I know. I’ll hurry.” Michael squeezes his other, uninjured, hand, briefly. Gets to his feet.
“Wait!”
“What-is something wrong, what do you-”
“No, it’s not that, sorry.” Those pale eyes seem skeptical; James says, as firmly as he can, “I’m all right, I am, I only wanted to say, you should take my room key. So you can get back in.”
“…oh. Thank you.” Their fingers meet, over plastic. It shouldn’t be a life-altering moment, but it feels like one anyway. Room keys and promises and trust: those are all real.
Michael comes back in precisely ten minutes and seventeen seconds. James is trying not to watch the clock, and succeeds for the first four minutes, and then can’t resist. As the seconds tick by, he starts hearing the silence more loudly, as it expands into every corner of the room.
It’s oppressive. Heavy. Like a hand on his wrist, on his shoulder, vise-tight and cruel.
The curtains are closed, shrouds over the window, and he can’t see anything except the walls and the lamplight and the memories, and he can’t hear his own heartbeat, all the noise muffled by the ironclad knowledge that he’s alone.
The time skips ahead again and the door clatters in its frame and James flinches and almost falls off the bed and then can’t make any of his muscles obey his commands.
The bedroom door is at the wrong angle; he can’t see the person advancing into the suite. He knows it’s Michael, it has to be, who else would have his room key? But knowing that isn’t the same as believing it, not until Michael steps into view around the corner. “James? I know that took longer than I-James!”
Everything goes flying onto the closest surface, ice and what might be bandages and that room key, and Michael dives onto the bed and puts both hands on his shoulders, urgently. “James, it’s me, it’s only me, I’m here, I’m so sorry-did something happen? Did he-are you-look at me, James, please!”
“Michael,” James says, because Michael is here, has come back, and those hands are real and so he doesn’t have to be alone. And then all the tension breaks like discarded glass, and he collapses into tears.
“Oh, god,” Michael says, and holds him, and James lets himself be held. The tears empty themselves out eventually, leaving dry lakebeds behind, drained and abandoned.
He murmurs, once he can talk past the scratching lines of salt, “Thank you,” and Michael breathes out, one hand cradling James’s head against his shoulder, soothingly present. “I’m so sorry. I knew that was taking too long, but I ran into one of the hotel staff, and she asked what I needed-I asked her for a first-aid kit, I thought-but you aren’t all right, are you, I should never have left. Did something else happen, or-”
“No. It’s only-I was-it was too quiet, and I couldn’t breathe, for a minute, I just-can you open the curtains? Please?”
“You couldn’t breathe? James-” Michael’s fingers coax his head up, and their eyes meet. “I can, about the curtains, but first I want you to sit up. Deep breaths. Please. I’m here, and you’re here, and you’re safe. I said I’d take care of you, remember? You called me for help. And I will. Help. For as long as you want me here.”
James nods again, looking into apprehensive eyes; Michael bites his lip, and finds a pulse, with one undemanding fingertip. “I don’t like how fast your heart’s beating. Are you sure I can’t call someone to look at you?”
“Publicity,” James protests, and Michael shakes his head, agreement and argument all in one. “If this gets any worse…”
“If it does, then you can. But I don’t want-I just want to stay here. With you. Window?”
“Oh-sorry. I have to let go of you, for a minute, if you want me to do that. Is that all right?”
“Yes. I can still see you from here.”
“All right.” Michael relinquishes him into the embrace of the bed, with some reluctance, and then gets up; the starlight, released from captivity, glitters in and makes itself at home. It’s not all that brilliant, competing for space with all the city shine, but the world is wide and bright and the walls aren’t closing in as badly anymore.
And Michael’s here. Really here, for him. Offering help, unconditionally, unhesitatingly. Michael has helped, already. That’s as true as the comfort of the open window, the ache in his hand, the caring plushness of the bed.
He wanted Michael, and called Michael, and Michael came.
“…why’re you smiling?”
“Am I?”
“A little. Um, this might sting, sorry.”
James doesn’t let himself say ouch, even though it does. “That’s not that bad.”
“No, it’s not. Oh-you meant me cleaning this. Good, then. But this isn’t that bad, either; I think you mostly just bruised it. And the scraped knuckles. What’re these from? On your wrist?”
“Um…in the bar. I tried to leave. He twisted my arm. Literally.”
Michael’s hands falter, then go back to pressing fresh cloth over bloodied skin. “I’m so sorry. I was-I thought you’d want space. Time. And I was trying to give you that-”
“I never knew you were secretly a Time Lord.”
“Do you have to make Doctor Who jokes? Now?”
“Yes. Oh…that’s cold.”
“That’s ice. It’s supposed to be cold. You can make Doctor Who jokes if you want, then. I won’t get any of them, but that’s okay.”
“You’ve no appreciation for the finer things in life,” James says, as loftily as he can from his current position, and Michael looks up from bandages for a second and answers, quietly, “I do now,” and James finds himself unable to say anything at all, no attempts at teasing or comforting humor, in the face of that unadorned honesty.
Michael offers him water again and fishes the extra blanket out of the closet and drapes it over his shoulders when he shivers, and sits back down beside him, rubbing his back in careful circles, no pressure, only encouraging rhythm and repetition. The world is still silent, but it’s a warmer kind of silence, now. The stars and the sheets and the placid furniture hum with it.
He remembers that very first night, another hotel bar, another aftermath, other bruises. Himself finding that extra blanket, in the closet. Putting blankets over Michael, in bed, and choosing to stay.
He can tell, without asking, that Michael’s remembering the same thing. The hand on his back slows, uncertain, and fingers linger in place behind one shoulder blade.
“Why did you-why did you call me? I mean…me, James. Not that I’m not-I’m glad you did, I’m so fucking glad you did, you can always call me, but why…?”
“I know what you mean. Um, three reasons. I think.” He shivers again; Michael notices.
“What’s wrong?”
“My hands are cold. And my feet…”
Michael shakes his head, and James doesn’t know what that means, but then Michael’s off the bed and in motion again, and then back. With socks. And a mismatched set of James’s fingerless gloves, one blue, one grey.
He slides them onto James’s hands, fingers astonishingly tender. Almost reverent, when easing fabric over new bandages, where wool catches and tugs. “Sorry.”
“It’s fine. It’s much better, actually. Thank you.” He gazes at his nonmatching hands, after. Not perfect, but they don’t have to be. Definitely an improvement.
“Here,” Michael says, and wraps his own hands around the uncovered tips of James’s fingers, rubbing softly, the friction of skin against skin. “Does this help, too?”
“Yes.”
“You said…you had reasons. Do you want-I want you to keep talking to me, but if you don’t want to answer that-”
“No, I can. The first one…I thought you might…understand. Not like that! Don’t look at me like that. Please. I meant…” He squeezes Michael’s hands, in his, with as much strength as he can summon. After a second, Michael squeezes back. “I meant…we both know how… unfair the world can be. How sometimes people can…get hurt. And the way that something can make sense-but not make any sense-at the same time. Does that…”
“…make sense?”
“Well…yes.”
“I think so. Yes. But…I’m sorry again. For that. Not sorry if that got you to call me, of course not, I’m just-thankful, so fucking thankful, you would-but I’m sorry you had to know that-those things, about the unfairness, about getting hurt. You know those things because of me. So I’m still sorry.” Thumbs skim softly over the back of his fingers; there’s sincerity, and regret, and truth, in the touch.
So James says, quietly, “I did forgive you, you know. A long time ago,” and sees Michael smile, and then blink, rapidly, and then smile again.
“I know. Because you’re amazing.”
“I am not. The second reason…well, that’s related, really. It’s just…”
“You are so. What?”
“You…even when you were…when we were…you weren’t trying to hurt me.”
“I-”
“No, you weren’t. You did hurt me, sometimes. But you didn’t want to. Not like-you only never thought about it. And I could’ve said no. I had chances to say no. I could have punched you in the face. Or other places. If I’d wanted to. You never…took away my choice. Not like this. Not like tonight.”
“James,” Michael whispers, and the heat of it settles into his hair, tangling with the disheveled waves. “I’m so sorry. I’m sorry this happened, I’m sorry you-I can’t even imagine-what you just said. You should never have to feel that way. Not ever. If I could make this go away, somehow, if I could-I can’t, can I? I can’t fix this. But. You-please tell me what you want me to do. Anything that you want me to do. I’ll do it.”
“You…” He’s not quite sure what he’s asking for. He just needs to know. That someone will be here, will keep him safe-will care enough to keep him safe-if he lets himself fall into the waiting arms of sleep. “Will you stay? I feel…you would…if anyone…you could be here, right? If anyone tried to-would you stay? With me? Please?”
Michael doesn’t answer immediately, and when he does he sounds as if someone’s kicked him in the chest, cracking bone and wounding flesh, someplace inside. “I…of course I’ll stay. I would even if you hadn’t asked, James, I-that wasn’t even-I didn’t think you’d need to-but of course yes. I’m not leaving you alone. I can be here for you. I will. I promise.”
“I believe you,” James says, because he does, and Michael inhales, not quite a gasp, and the hands tighten around his. “You…mean that. You trust me.”
“Well, yes.” He yawns, somewhat inadvertently, as punctuation; Michael nearly laughs, or possibly that’s a sob. “Am I allowed to sleep, now? Maybe?"
“Um…look at me for a minute? So I can see your eyes?...You do look better. Okay. Yes. I’m pretty sure you’re not going to collapse in your sleep, or anything.”
“Can you actually collapse in your sleep? I mean, technically, isn’t that impossible?”
“You know what I mean!”
“Yes, I do…”
“James? Are you awake?”
“Not for much longer…”
“You said there were three reasons. That you called me. What was the other one?”
“Oh.” James yawns again. The adrenaline and fright have given way to all-encompassing exhaustion, now, and he doesn’t have the energy to be anything other than truthful. “That’s the easy one, I thought you would’ve guessed…I wanted you. Want you. Simple. I’d very definitely like to go to sleep, now, if you think that’s okay…”
“James,” Michael breathes, gazing at him; James barely has time to register the astounded expression before the tiredness decides he’s put it off long enough, and drags him into the dark.
Ten: if we meet again/ meet and meet and meet and meet again
Michael sits there on the luxurious hotel bed, propped up by considerate pillows, all night. Leaves his hands wrapped around those short and chilly fingertips. James’d said that was helping, and so Michael’s willing to sit in that spot and hold those hands for as long as James might ever need him to.
He watches dark eyelashes, long and fragile, where they rest over pale skin and tiny confetti-showers of freckles. James doesn’t move at all, in his sleep. Michael doesn’t know if that’s normal for him, or if that’s some residual effect of the drugs, or if even unawake James is now afraid to draw perilous attention to himself.
He ought to know whether that’s normal. He’s spent the night with James, shared a bed. But he’d always tried not to care, then. Had clung to his senseless denial, when he should’ve been cherishing every one of those seconds. He’ll never get to have them again.
Maybe none of those nights had been normal sleep in any case, because James had been in pain and more than likely afraid, then, too.
He’s only here, now, because James has inexplicably chosen him to call, because James is scared and hurt and not thinking straight. James, sober and safe and happy, would never have wanted him, and shouldn’t. He swallows, against the ache in his throat, in his chest.
James, sleepy and truthful, had said the opposite. Said that he wanted-wants-Michael.
He looks at those quiescent fingertips, in his. He wants to believe that. Every atom of his body yearns to believe that. But he can’t. Not now.
James, under all the fiercely protective layers of blankets and pillows, hasn’t changed positions in the slightest. Not even the hair quivers. But he’s breathing evenly, and his face is less horribly pale. Michael pictures that expression in blue eyes, when he closes his own. The blankness of fear, when he’d come back into the room to find James frozen in the bed, not seeing him.
He’d talked James into seeing him, though. Had said or done the right thing, or something close to the right thing, somehow. James had been smiling again, cautiously, by the end. Bandaged and blanket-wrapped and managing to make science-fiction jokes at Michael’s expense.
The night’d been warm, before. Objectively, it still probably is. But James had been cold, earlier, and frightened and wounded, and so Michael finds himself cold, too, inside and out. Some of that’s rage; he wants to find the person who’s dared to hurt James, and commit acts of homicidal and retributive violence. Some of that’s the terrifying realization that, as bad as this is, it could have been much worse.
James could’ve finished the drink, in the bar. Not been able to fight back. Not had the ability to call for help. None of that’s true, but it all might have been.
Some of the coldness is the thought that, no matter what James tries to say, the difference between himself and that person is only a matter of degree. They’ve both hurt James. And this is the result. James injured and scared and having to ask, not trusting that Michael will care enough to stay.
The lights are all still on, in the bedroom. He hadn’t asked whether James wanted them off, and now he can’t. He wants them on, though; he can see James more clearly, in the compassionate golden glow.
It all could’ve been so much worse. And every one of his previous idiotic fears, about sexuality and himself and identifications and labels, evaporates into nothingness, faced with this reality.
He could have lost James. Permanently. Forever.
He tightens his grip on those hands a little more. They don’t react, but they’re here, and tangible, in his. Such a different shape from his own: shorter fingers, a bit broader, ready to jump into motion before they’re asked.
There’s one solitary freckle visible on James’s left index finger, not covered up by the gloves. It winks at him, optimistically.
He says to it, and to James, “I love you, you know,” and of course James can’t hear him, because James is asleep, lost in shock and aftermath and the lingering effects of the drugs. But maybe the universe can hear him. Maybe it’ll understand, somehow. The words are too late and too small and ineffective, not going to change anything, and James will never say them back, not to him, but he needs to speak them aloud, one time. To offer them up, a true piece of the world.
“I’ve always loved you,” he says, and that’s the second time he’s said those words out loud. “And I always will. And I’m sorry.”
The syllables hang in the air, lazily, and keep him company. The room gets a tiny bit warmer, unless that’s only his imagination. Or all the blankets, piled up over James and, correspondingly, Michael’s own feet, on the bed.
Beds, he thinks. This is the first time they’ve ever really shared a bed. And then he has to bite into his lip, because James has been trying so bravely not to make him cry, and he can’t give in now even though James has gone to sleep. It’d feel like a betrayal of all that courage.
So he stays awake all night, feet buried under the mound of affectionate blankets, guarding James’s unmoving form. Warming those fingertips in his.