here, have the first half of something entirely new...

I just want you to know that I completely blame this on raffi and her exceedingly inspirational James/Michael comment!fic over here. And also this isn't finished; it's still very first-draft, and there's a second bit of this coming, when I get around to it. But I thought you all might appreciate it, after all of the Emotional Fic Things I've been posting (see: yesterday's installment of Porn + Hurt/Comfort).

So...have some fic in which there is shirtless Michael, a bizarre game of gay chicken, misunderstandings, and a lot of vodka. Tentative title and opening lines from The Kooks' "Sway."

Title: Always In the Right Places
Rating: um…PG-13 for making out, alcohol consumption, a couple of uses of the f-word?
Word Count (for now): 4,050

and take whatever you have to take, you know I love you
come however you have to come, and get it out and get it out
take it out on me, take it out on me
I'll give you all, I'll give you all...
'cause I need your sway, because you always pay for it
and I, and I, need your soul because you're always soulful
and I, and I, need your heart, because you're always in the right places
oh yes I will, I will give you all...

They’re standing in the studio, gazing at the set, which mostly consists of a bed and an inadequate purple sheet, and James is starting to wonder about the sanity of everyone involved, from the MTV Movie Awards producers who’ve suggested the skit, to the writers who thought it would be hysterical to poke fun at the tragic romance of First Class, to himself, for agreeing on behalf of both of them, when asked. Especially considering the instructions they’ve just been given.

“Did they just tell us to ‘play up the gay thing’?”

“I believe they did, yes.”

“They have seen that deleted scene with you in the dress…”

“Maybe that’s why.”

“So…are you…do you mind? Because if you don’t want to…” He has to ask. Michael is a good sport about almost everything, ever, from kidnapping helpless golf carts to dressing up in drag for a moment that won’t ever make it into the finished movie, but there has to be a line somewhere. And that line might be right here, involving a bed and James and, apparently, a gay thing.

He watches Michael, under the too-bright studio lights. Michael doesn’t ask whether James minds, which is a good thing, because James is a terrible liar and the only true answer to that question involves phrases like I’ve wanted to kiss you since the first time you smiled, so many teeth, so much passion for everything you love, and I can never figure out what color your eyes actually are, and I want to keep looking always, and I think I’m in love with you.

What Michael says is, “James, you’ve seen me in drag and I’ve held you in my arms on a beach while you’ve made yourself cry, so I’m pretty sure we can get into a bed together for one parody scene.”

It’s not exactly the enthusiastic response he shouldn’t’ve wanted—and there’s an odd undercurrent in Michael’s tone, like he really isn’t sure about whether he can bring himself to share a bed with James but will try his best to make it work—but it’s not a no.

“Okay, then. Um…” He tries for a grin. For a casual tone. “So, um, take me to bed and ravish me with your supervillain powers?” And flings his arms out, dramatically, a soap-opera invitation.

Michael stares at him, tries not to smile, gives up. “That’s your pick-up line, seriously? I feel insulted, James.”

“At least I didn’t call you groovy,” James says, and this time Michael doesn’t even bother holding back the laugh. Better, James thinks, and lets himself smile, too. At least he can still make Michael laugh.

The skit calls for them to pop up from under the covers, together, shirtless, and improvise something along the lines of ‘thank god we had sex instead of fighting’. Michael, who has absolutely no problems being shirtless, strips down to whistles of admiration from the crew, and grins, and blows kisses.

James stares, because, well, he’s being invited to appreciate the sight. And so is everyone else, anyway. He’s allowed. No one will notice, if his eyes are lingering a little too long on that flat stomach, the hollows of those hipbones.

While everyone is distracted by Michael, he peels off his own shirt and slides under the sheet and lies there watching all the smooth muscles, hopefully not in too obvious a position, and waits for Michael to finish accepting compliments and come over to the bed.

It’s not that James exactly minds being shirtless, himself. He’s not hiding, or anything. He’s just not anything spectacular, and he knows it. James taking off his shirt doesn’t prompt cheers and fluttering eyelashes, never has, and that’s fine. He has other talents; he’s a good actor, he knows that, he puts his heart into his performances, every single time. He doesn’t need anyone, and he especially does not need Michael, to look at him the way that the camerawoman is looking at Michael now.

It’s the sort of look that suggests she wants to eat him for breakfast. Or remove his pants, too, and then eat him for breakfast. James can sympathize.

Michael glances around, and then frowns, a little, when he spots James, in bed and under the sheet. Of course he does; he’s probably thinking about James being half-naked and, importantly, about to be very close to him. “James, you—”

“Come on,” James says, because he doesn’t want to hear the end of that sentence, “the fate of the world depends on whether we wake up in bed together, you know, don’t keep me waiting or I’ll have to control you with my awesome telepathic powers,” and Michael shakes his head, still looking worried, but comes over and sits down beside him.

“Awesome telepathic powers aren’t real, you know.”

“Have you met my grandmother? Because she could tell when I was thinking about stealing cookies out of the cupboard, before I’d even decided I wanted one.”

“You stole your grandmother’s cookies?”

“I was very young and I had a secret passion for anything with chocolate chips. Or anything with sugar. Or anything bad for me.”

“So not much different from now, then.”

“I’d say that’s not true, but it is.” Except that these days, in the category of things that he shouldn’t be craving, he also has to include Michael smiling at him. Right up there with peanut-butter brownies, really. No, even better.

The worried look in those springtime-pale eyes has faded, a little; James mentally pats himself on the back. He’s got Michael to relax, again. Good. They can get through this.

“All right,” the director says, from behind the camera, “Michael, you actually need to get in the damn bed, and I know we’re all enjoying the view but we don’t have all day,” and Michael grins and deliberately stretches, getting up, before sliding under the sheet.

“Show-off,” James says, because it’s true, and because he adores Michael like this, all playful and utterly pleased with himself.

“Well, I saw you looking,” Michael says, and he’s teasing, of course he’s teasing, he has to be, if he’d honestly seen James looking he probably would’ve jumped out of the bed by now and run away, and it’s a very good thing that telepathic powers aren’t real, because that means there’s no possible way that Michael can hear all the mental panic going on over in his co-star’s head.

James is saved from having to answer by shouts of, appropriately, “Action!” and the cameras start rolling.

They toss down the sheet and sit up simultaneously, perfect timing, as always when they’re working together, and Michael looks at him and smiles, all satisfied and mock-seductive, and James says, “I’m so glad we’ve given in to our secret passion for each other, Erik, can you imagine what would’ve happened, otherwise,” and Michael looks like he wants to laugh, but goes with, “Oh, Charles, I’m so sorry I’ve been too busy being evil to see how much you cared for me!”

“Erik,” James says, “please never leave me again,” and bats his eyelashes, which he would never do in real life ever but is completely worth it for the look on Michael’s face.

“Charles,” Michael proclaims, loudly, “I love you!” and, all right, they’re carrying this further, that’s a challenge, so James has to accept. Obviously.

“I love you as well! I know what you’re thinking, Erik, because I am the world’s greatest telepath, and yes! Yes, you can kiss me again!”

Michael mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously blasphemous, and James isn’t sure whether to be pleased that apparently he’s won the bizarre game of shirtless gay chicken, or to let his heart break, just a little, at the confirmation that Michael truly doesn’t want to kiss him, ever.

At which point Michael lunges over and presses warm lips to his, and every rational brain cell in James’s head short-circuits.

Michael’s lips are firm against his, but gentler than he’d thought they’d be; he’d always imagined that Michael would be a demanding kisser, the kind of person who’d go after and take what he wanted, purposefully, and James in fact has had many vivid late-night fantasies about letting Michael take whatever he might want, ever, in this regard. But.

But Michael kisses him softly, almost reverently, like he can’t quite believe he’s allowed the action, asking, not insisting, tongue slipping out to explore the slightest curve of his bottom lip, slowly enough that James wonders whether Michael’s trying to discover every last atom of skin. It’s excruciatingly beautiful, drawn out and tender and enough to make James shiver, inadvertently, everywhere.

He parts his lips a little more. An invitation. He can’t help it.

Michael groans, into his mouth, and the kiss gets a bit deeper. He’s tasting chapstick and a tiny hint of nicotine and the bittersweet flavor of coffee, black and strong because that’s how Michael likes coffee, unlike James, who refuses to touch the stuff until it contains enough sugar to technically be called syrup.

He loves the taste of black coffee, he decides on the spot.

Dimly, he realizes that no one’s saying anything, no yells of “Cut!” or “Start over!” or “Stop making out with each other in the middle of the set, we can’t air this!” Just sheer silence.

Except for Michael whispering, very quietly, little phrases, broken words into the kiss, so beautiful, oh god, I never—

Never. No. Of course not. Because Michael doesn’t want him. They’re acting. Badly, true—on purpose—but still. Erik wanting Charles. Not Michael wanting him.

Michael is a damn good actor.

And James must be some sort of masochist, because even knowing that it isn’t real, he wants more. He wants this. And he’s not selfless enough to stop, not so soon, not now, not when this might be his only chance to find out how Michael’s bare skin feels against his hands.

He lets himself fall back onto the bed. Pulls Michael down on top of him. They both gasp, in unison; James knows exactly why he himself is making that sound, of course, but he’s less sure about Michael. Surprise? Dismay? Something else?

He shuts his eyes because the sensations are incredible, Michael running long fingers across his chest, now, down to his stomach. The fingers leave lingering trails of heat, lines that must be visible, have to be, because they’re going to be burned into his skin forever.

He keeps his eyes shut because he can’t look at Michael’s face, because of course he isn’t acting, not anymore, and of course Michael is.

Michael’s gone back to kissing him, lips drifting away from his mouth and along his chin, his throat, the curve of skin between neck and collarbone, streaks of fire like shooting stars. And he moans, because he can’t stay quiet, because he can’t help feeling beautiful, feeling wanted, even though he knows it’s not true.

He slides hands along Michael’s back, over all the smooth planes of muscles, learning every bit of him, memories to cling to later in the cold, and Michael gasps again, and then whispers something that sounds like “oh, fuck,” and then, “James.”

What?

They both freeze, for just a split second; but they’re both professionals and no one’s said “Cut,” not yet, so James moans again, more loudly, covering up the sudden tense silence with artificial noise. Michael’s stopped moving, against him; that’s not good, James thinks. Michael is a good actor, and of course everyone makes mistakes, stupid little slips, the wrong word, the wrong name, it happens all the time. Doesn’t mean anything. They can move on. Continue. As you were.

Except for how apparently this particular wrong name, saying James’s name in bed, has proven to be so horrifying that Michael can’t continue.

Maybe James should be proud of that. He’s terrifying enough to get Michael Fassbender to panic and break character. How exceptional.

Maybe he shouldn’t’ve agreed to this in the first place. Michael obviously’d been reluctant, and clearly with some sort of good reason, and James should have listened, should have said no to the stupid skit. He hates saying no to people, wants to make people happy if he can, because people should be happy if he can possibly get them to be, but Michael isn’t happy right now and James should have paid more attention to that little fact, starting from the minute this idea’d first been proposed.

Selfish, he thinks. Stupid, and selfish. Michael’s his friend. And James has always, always tried to be a good person, to think about what other people might need or want, but this time, this one time, he’d let himself want more. And now he’s hurt Michael, somehow.

He’s not a good person, after all. A good person would know what to say, or do, to make everything all right. To fix whatever he’s done wrong.

At this point someone does say “Cut!” too loudly for all the newfound silence.

Neither of them moves, for a second. James is a little afraid that he’s going to cry, and that’s just…pathetic. Which he already knows, about himself, thank you.

Michael sits up, carefully. Says, “James?” and that faded-Irish voice, blended echoes of everything Michael’s been and done and seen, catches on his name.

James breathes in and out and doesn’t cry and doesn’t know what Michael wants, or needs, to hear from him. “Well. Think we, um, got it?”

“…what?”

“The—what was it?—the gay thing? That they wanted us to play up? And I didn’t even have to call you groovy. Not that you’re not groovy. I can call you groovy if you want.”

Michael stares at him.

“Um, are you all right? I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you wanted me to use the bad pick-up lines, I can if you think it’ll be funny, if we need to do this again…”

“Nope, we’re good!” someone calls at them, from behind the camera. “You two can go!”

“Oh. Okay, then. So…” Michael still isn’t talking and is still staring at him with an unreadable look in those wintergreen eyes and James tries, desperately, to think of any words that might make those eyes thaw and smile again.

“So, um…I know in this situation I should probably offer to buy you a drink, or maybe that should’ve happened before the shirtless bed thing, but it’s only eleven in the morning, so, um, we were talking about cookies earlier, and I’m fairly sure we can find a bakery around here, can I buy you pastries instead?” Maybe he can apologize via fresh-baked scones.

Michael blinks. Well, at least it’s a reaction.

“Or at least coffee?”

“James,” Michael says, flatly, “I am going to go find the closest bar, and consume my body weight in alcohol, and then, most likely, go back to the hotel and pass out in my clothes. Okay?”

“Oh. Um…do you want company?” It hurts, quick and brutal as a knife to the chest: Michael’d hated that scene, that situation, with him, that much. But James is a good friend and if Michael is planning to end up completely plastered, someone has to be there to take care of him.

“Do I…you think you can keep up?”

“I probably weigh more than you do,” James points out, because it’s true. Michael is taller than he is, and in better shape, but they’re built along rather different lines, physically speaking. As has been demonstrated, all too recently.

“Fine,” Michael says. “But I’m not going to be responsible when you start thinking that public karaoke is a brilliant idea.”

“That only happened once!” James protests. And he barely even remembers it. And besides, who can resist a good Bon Jovi song? Also, if Michael is recalling that, teasing him about it, they’re edging back towards fine, right? Maybe?

“Put your shirt back on,” Michael mutters, “and I’ll meet you outside,” and gets up, and walks away.

James sits there and watches him go, and bites his lip, hard enough that he tastes blood, after, but the pain does what he needs it to do: he still doesn’t cry.

It’s much later in the day. Well, evening, by now. Still not technically that late—James tries to read his watch, can’t, and gives up, but he’s pretty sure it was hovering around eight pm the last time he’d checked—but considering that they’ve been trying since this morning to obliterate every last brain cell by means of alcohol, it’s been an impressive number of hours.

Of course it isn’t brain cells that Michael’s trying to kill, he thinks, watching Michael toss the metal shaker into the air, over the kitchenette sink. It’s memories. The sensation of James’s lips under his. James’s hands on his skin. Because Michael doesn’t want to know those things.

They’ve ended up back in Michael’s hotel suite, mostly because after the third bar James had tried to put his foot down and at least get them back someplace where, if Michael does collapse into a drunken stupor, James can try to take care of him. Not that James himself is much better off.

He’d attempted to surreptitiously nurse one drink very slowly, watching Michael down multiple glasses of gin in quick succession and wincing each time, and he’d been hoping that Michael wouldn’t notice but Michael had, and then had proceeded to order drinks for him, and observe, sarcastically, “You said you would keep up,” and James had finished all the damn drinks in the hope that they’d make the renewed stab wounds in his heart disappear.

Hadn’t worked. Now he just felt heartbroken and vaguely nauseated. Terrific.

He’d talked Michael into returning to the hotel, eventually, though they’d had to compromise; Michael’d said “You know I used to be a bartender, I’m very good at this, I’m very good at things, you should know that,” and James had tried not to laugh, through all the pain, and said, “Yes, I know, you’ve told me, come on,” and Michael had demanded that they stop at a store and buy vodka and assorted accompaniments so that he could provide a demonstration of his talents, back in the room.

Such a bad idea. Both of them. Here. In Michael’s hotel room. With all the vodka. And he’d been trying to be the responsible one.

He finishes his drink, mostly because it’s there and he can’t think of anything else to do.

It’s a nice hotel. They’ve got suites, even. Full refrigerators, sinks, an oven, glassware, most of which is currently in use or sitting around the bar, because Michael keeps making new variations of martini with slight differences that he insists are profound and that James can’t even taste, and apparently they can’t reuse glasses, because that would contaminate the new drink with the remains of the older one, or something, a statement which hadn’t made much sense when Michael’d proclaimed it, and much less in James’s very intoxicated brain.

“Oh,” Michael says, “more, you should…have more,” and starts looking for a new glass.

“I should not have more,” James says, truthfully. He should leave. And fall into bed. He’s already going to despise himself in the morning. But Michael needs him. Needs the company.

“You should. Because I’m very drunk.”

“Yes, you are.” Inarguably true. Michael, when flushed with alcohol and the glow of intoxication, looks at everything much more intently, as if trying to memorize the world around him in case it changes, and sounds plaintively imploring when he wants James to do things, and James can’t resist.

“I am, but you aren’t. Not that drunk.”

“Yes I am. Are we…have we been drinking vodka out of whiskey glasses? Because that’s…the opposite of a good idea.”

“Well,” Michael says, logically, “we ran out of martini glasses,” and James thumps his head against the bar.

“I hate you.”

“You hate me?” Michael sets down the still-full shaker, and studies him, and that voice goes very small with the next word. “Seriously?”

“No! Of course not. Never.” James frowns at him. “What, you didn’t think I meant that, did you? I just meant I’m going to have the worst hangover in the universe and I think I have gin in my hair.”

“That’s because you have a lot of hair. Too much hair. All the hair.”

“All…the hair?”

“It gets in your eyes sometimes. And in your mouth. Like with the gin. And I want to touch it.”

“What?”

“To help,” Michael explains, earnestly, and James’s heart does a little somersault, in his chest. Stupid heart, wanting to dance even with all the omnipresent knife wounds. “Sometimes I want to just reach over and…” He makes a vague gesture in the direction of James’s face, not quite connecting, miming the action, brushing hair away. “You have a lot of hair.”

“All the hair,” James agrees, because it’s true. “And you can. Y’know. If you ever feel like…” He copies Michael’s gesture, which gets a smile. Michael wants to touch him, and even if it’s only just to help, Michael being friendly, James will take what he can get.

“Okay,” Michael says. “Also, here.”

“What’s in this one?”

“Um…mostly vodka. The lemon vodka. You liked that one.”

“I did? Okay.” He takes a sip. Coughs. “Fuck!”

“Maybe a lot of vodka.”

“Maybe I do hate you. Where’s yours?”

“We’re sharing. I’m out of…you know. Cups. Glasses. I could try using a cereal bowl.”

“We are not drinking vodka out of cereal bowls.” He doesn’t mind sharing. He imagines that he can taste the presence of Michael’s lips, when he takes another drink. “I like your hair, too. In case you were wondering.”

“You do?”

“Of course I do. And your eyes. And your…everything. You’re all… perfect.”

“What?”

“Oh, I know you know you are. Come on, they all tell you so. The world. The world thinks you’re gorgeous and attractive and…perfect.”

“The world thinks I’m perfect?”

“Yes! Exactly.”

“James,” Michael says, and he might be laughing, “what—”

“You should know that by now,” James says, and tries to emphasize his point with a scowl, but he’s pretty sure, from the expression on Michael’s face, that he’s not succeeding. “You do know you’re unbelievably good-looking. Everyone thinks so.”

“Oh, that. I mean, I know. I know that. But that's the problem.”