XMFC RPF; Of Montreal (James/Michael, PG)
Author: 
significantowl
Pairing: James/Michael
Rating: PG
Word Count: ~2600
Disclaimer: Not true. Fictional characterizations and situations. No invasion of privacy intended.
Summary: In which the name of the bar is Sharx, James and Michael are in a secret relationship, and it's best to be careful when you play pool with Nicholas Hoult.
Author's Notes:Written for the
mcfassy Tuesday Creative Chat, and inspired by the images in this post and shayzgirl's additional prompt of "secret boyfriends." Many thanks to capricornucopia for playing both beta and muse! ♥
Of Montreal
bysignificantowl
Sometimes it was a little bit thrilling, having something to hide. James didn't mind a secret every now and then, especially not one that felt like this, a firefly held in cupped hands, its light a sweet, private glow. Made all the sweeter because it was his to hold, and keep safe: his, Michael's, and no-one else's.
It made him do silly things sometimes, and he didn't mind that either. Like losing his train of thought while talking to Nick, whole sentences careening out of his grasp, all because he'd caught sight of Michael from across the road. When Michael had turned round and spotted James, his smile had gone from that of a man generally pleased with life to something fiercely, unguardedly delighted, and James had forgotten how to breathe for an instant, much less form words.
"Gettin' old, man, forgot what I was saying," was the best James could do. And then, to muddy the issue - and perhaps he was channeling his grandad a bit - "Have I had a go at you about the flip-flops yet? You know what'll happen if you step on a nail, yeah?"
"I'll swear up a storm, you'll ring an ambulance," Nick said, proceeding to cross against the light. He appeared as eager as James to get to the bar, although James assumed Nick was just in a hurry to get started on his first pint.
By the time James reached Michael's side, Michael’s smile was softer, but no less warm. "And there's the man himself," Michael murmured, stubbing his cigarette out. "Shall we?"
Michael could be a true gentleman when he wanted to be, and he was one now, stepping back to let James through the door first. James could be one as well, but - also like Michael - he could equally be the sort of gentlemen who copped a feel when he wanted to, and Michael looked so comfortable in his tee and camo shorts that James couldn't resist it now. He brushed his fingers along Michael's thigh as he passed by, a tiny movement, casual enough to seem accidental to any watching eyes.
Beyond the door was a short flight of stairs, which they went down with Nick in front of James, and Michael close behind. Then they were in the sports bar itself, a cavernous but sleekly outfitted basement space with big screen televisions, bowling lanes, and dozens of billiard tables under cool blue and white ambient light. Behind the mile-long bar, an alluring army of liquor bottles waited, ready to be pressed into action.
When they bellied up, it was Michael who got the attention of the bartender first. "Bonjour, hello. A Manhattan, please - no, with the Old Pulteney there, not the rye, and splash in some Maraschino juice along with the cherry if you will - and a vodka martini for me. Merci."
"How'd you know I wanted a cocktail instead of whisky and soda?" James asked, blinking his astonishment. "I'm not sure I even knew."
"No oranges on the snack trolley the past two days," Michael said promptly. "You've been overdue for something sweet, but you've also been overdue for a whisky. So...." He spread his hands.
"You're a clever man, Mr. Fassbender," James said, sliding his fingers through the cool stem of the glass the bartender pushed his way. A slow sip let the sweetness of the vermouth and the cherry and the smokiness of the whisky linger pleasantly on his tongue. He tipped the glass at Michael. "Clever indeed."
"Ah...." That was Nick, and James twisted away from Michael to look over at him inquiringly. "I was going to ask if you guys wanted to split a pitcher of lager? Happy hour special? But I'll just -" Find someone else to ask, James supposed, from the way he hooked a thumb over his shoulder.
"Ask me later," James called to Nick's retreating back. "I won't be drinking these all night."
"You won't?" Michael looked hurt, but theatrically so; his pout was exaggerated enough to make James laugh out loud.
"No, delightful as they are," James took another sip to prove that point, then another because it made his mouth happy, "I intend to walk out of here under my own power tonight, thank you very much. Also I have to beat Nick at billiards later. There may be a small wager on it."
"Money?"
"Nah, nothing so pedestrian as that. Somebody has to put Jennifer's... shoes, I think we decided on shoes, in the freezer. On the catering van."
"Madman." Michael rubbed his face, smile escaping through his fingers. "You ridiculous madman."
As far as keeping their secret went, splitting up for a while tonight wasn't a bad idea. James wished he could give himself credit for thinking of that earlier, but there hadn't been any strategy involved when he'd been making plans with Nick, just silliness, plain and simple. He and Michael did make an effort on occasion to seem as if they weren't living in each other's pockets; when they failed, James reminded himself that they'd been thick as thieves from the very beginning, before hearts - or any other body parts - had fully come into the equation, and that made them well suited to hiding in plain sight.
Placing his drink on the bar, Michael stretched his arms over his chest one after the other, tugging on his triceps in a way that was totally distracting and probably a calculated retaliation for the feel James had copped earlier. “If you’re going to be beating Hoult later,” he said, “time for some practise, eh?”
"Oh, have you got some moves to teach me, then? Are you some sort of pool hustler? Some sort of -" the more obvious the joke, the more James had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep a straight face - "pool shark?"
Michael grinned slowly, baring tooth after tooth like the world's most predatory strip-tease act. "Oh, I'll show you moves, all right," he said, and it was all James could do not to lean up and claim that mouth in a kiss.
James wasn't a terrible billiards player by any means, but he was certainly willing to spend an hour or so watching Michael lean over a table, slim waist and broad shoulders on display, muscles in his back and arms coiling just before the sudden sharp burst of contained power that sent the balls flying exactly where he wanted them.... Yes, James could do that for as long as it took.
He was also willing to lose, badly, and say things like, “You know, maybe I’m not getting this?” while regarding Michael with one of his most innocent, helplessly confused expressions. Holding that expression without cracking became a feat when Michael adopted a sincere one of his own, and asked, "Is there some way I can better be of service?"
Peripheral vision told James no-one was paying them the slightest bit of attention. Nick had joined up with Hugh and some of the guys from the crew, and they were hanging out at a table near the bar, their backs to the billiards area. There were a few other customers playing pool, people James didn't know, but they were several tables away and wrapped up in their own game. So it felt safe to make a show of eyeing the table thoughtfully, then turn that look on Michael. "Well... I may be a hands-on learner."
"Oh, really?"
Michael was already moving in closer, slow and purposeful, a grin spreading across his face. James shrugged, and his shoulder met Michael's solid chest. "Only one way to find out."
If they weren't keeping their relationship under wraps, this would still feel very, very nice indeed: Michael pressed along his back, arms bracketing James' shoulders, hands over James' on the pool cue, whole body enfolding James, keeping him as tight and warm and close as he would in bed. But with every second precious and borrowed, this was as far from nice as a summer day from the surface of the sun; it was sizzling, electric.
"Think you can move with me?" Michael's breath tickled James' ear; James choked on one of his own.
"Oh, I'm reasonably sure I can manage that. After all -" a tiny shift of his hips to demonstrate, and to give Michael a reason to choke in return - "I've had experience in the area."
They broke the rack together, pulling farther back into the swing than James might have done normally, keeping steady on the follow through and hitting the cue ball just below centre, textbook-perfect. A high-five afterwards seemed only appropriate, and James curled his hand around Michael's just a little, drawing it out, making Michael's eyes go soft.
James could only bear to lose so many times. The next game he played to win, and win he did, although it was a damn near thing. His victory celebration included pumping the air and yelling, "Hoult, are you ready for this?"; it had the intended result, because Nick joined them just as James was racking up the balls, a pitcher of lager in one hand and three glass mugs clinking in the other. James took a mug and Nick poured, topping off with just the right amount of foam - James was mildly impressed, to see that kind of finesse in one so young.
Michael, on the other hand, declined a mug. "I'll leave you gentlemen to it," he said, lifting a hand in farewell. Since part of keeping a secret meant not appearing too invested, James bit back questions most partners could ask, like What are you going to do? Are you going to come back over here when you're done? Or do you want me to come find you? Instead, he echoed Michael's gesture, then got down to business with Nick.
Nick was no terrible billiards player himself, it turned out, but James had ten years' experience on him, and the practise rounds with Michael hadn't hurt either. But the further behind Nick got, the wilder his playing became, and that was the source of the trouble in the end. When there were five stripes left to James' two solids, Nick hit too hard and too low, sending two balls flying off the table. One landed harmlessly on the floor; the other slammed into James' hand, the one holding his mug, in an explosion of pain and breaking glass.
"Fuck." James was a champion swearer more often than not, but when it came to pain he tended to be succinct. Moving his fingers hurt like fire, but he was able to do it at least, and he uncurled them from what remained of the mug and put it down on the corner of the billiards table.
Nick was already at his side, pool cue clattering to the floor. "Shit. You're bleeding. We need to -" He grabbed the hem of James' t-shirt and wrapped it around James' hand. "Somebody get Fassbender over here!" he yelled, loud enough to make James flinch. "Fassbender! Somebody go get him!"
"That's - there's no need for that," James managed to protest. He was feeling light-headed, but from the sudden shock of the injury, he thought, not from anything worse. He really wasn't bleeding that badly. It hadn't even soaked through his t-shirt yet.
"James. Yes, there is." Nick's voice was steady and certain, and James shook his head, trying to bring his worried face into focus. "But I'll tell people it's because he's good at first aid, okay?"
Oh, James thought, in the second before Michael was in front of him, shouldering Nick out of the way. Oh, he knows.
"What the fuck, Hoult," Michael said, hissing as he pulled back James' makeshift t-shirt bandage. "Okay, James, sit down. You've gone completely white, sit down. Hold your hand up - no, higher than your heart. Good. Nicholas. What the fuck."
"I -"
"Go find out where the nearest hospital is, and call us a taxi. Go!"
"That's good." James waved Nick away with his uninjured hand. "He shouldn't be over here with all the glass anyway. He's wearing flip-flops."
"Oh Jesus Christ," Michael said, shaking his head as he cupped a hand around James' elbow, lending support to James' raised arm. Beyond Michael, across the room, James could see Nick heading for the bartender, waving Hugh and some of the others back on the way. Giving them space. Still, all the fuss made him wince.
"It's really not that bad. Maybe we don't need to -"
"That gash below your thumb is going to need stitches," Michael interrupted, matter-of-fact. "I fell off nearly everything a kid could climb on, growing up, and I can tell you that's going to be at least two stitches. And they'll make certain you haven't damaged any bones or tendons, and they'll give you drugs, which you'll thank me for in the middle of the night when your hand hurts like hell and you can't sleep."
"Nick knows."
Michael's fingers tightened. "Because you - did you ask him to get me?" So many layers in Michael's tone, but below the surprise and the ever-present worry, there was something that might have been gratitude, or hope. James wished he could say he'd called out for Michael; in the way Michael wasn't quite meeting his eyes, he knew just how much Michael would have liked to hear it.
"He already knew," James had to say instead. "That was his immediate reaction, to shout for you."
"Don't worry," Michael said. His other hand gripped James' knee, low, where no-one could see. "If he knows, it's because you're friends, and he pays more attention than we gave him credit for. But that also means he knows what's important to you. He won't tell."
"I know. I'm not worried about that. Michael -" His voice was unsteady. It was the pain, yes, James was sort of shaky all over, but more than that, he was consumed by the need to make sure Michael understood. Some conversations were too important to have only once, and it had been a long time now since the beginning. It was time to say this again. "The more something matters, the more I don't want it to be everyone's property. The more I want it to be just for me. For us. That's why. You know that, right?"
"Hey," Michael said softly. He slipped his arm around James' waist, coaxing him to his feet. James fought a fresh rush of dizziness to focus on Michael, because when Michael was quiet he was at his most earnest, his most desperate to be heard. "James. This mattering to you... that's everything I need. Everything. Got it?"
"Got it," James said. Michael squeezed his hip in perfect punctuation, and they began walking slowly towards the door. James concentrated on moving his feet one after the other, and left the business of navigation to Michael.
"Oh well," James said, remembering. "Wrong about that, I suppose."
"James?"
"No, it's only - I said I was going to walk out of here under my own power, tonight. And I'm just so glad I don't have to." He paused. "And glad I'm not ringing an ambulance for Nick, come to that."
"You may still have to, when I'm done with him," Michael grumbled, and he pulled James a little closer. "I suppose I was wrong about something myself. I said I didn't need anything else, but there was one thing... and look. I have that, too."
James squinted up at him. "Have pity. I'm only suffering blood loss here."
"I really, really needed to hug you," Michael said, pressing his cheek very quickly against the top of James' head, "and I am."
"You're so warm," James murmured, knowing it sounded like a non sequitur and not caring. He leaned against Michael's shoulder, basking, letting it spread through him from head to toe: not a glow, not a sizzle, and far better than any secret. This was Michael himself, the steady, comfortable heat of a hearth-fire that showed no signs of going out.
significantowlPairing: James/Michael
Rating: PG
Word Count: ~2600
Disclaimer: Not true. Fictional characterizations and situations. No invasion of privacy intended.
Summary: In which the name of the bar is Sharx, James and Michael are in a secret relationship, and it's best to be careful when you play pool with Nicholas Hoult.
Author's Notes:Written for the
mcfassy Tuesday Creative Chat, and inspired by the images in this post and shayzgirl's additional prompt of "secret boyfriends." Many thanks to capricornucopia for playing both beta and muse! ♥Of Montreal
by
significantowlSometimes it was a little bit thrilling, having something to hide. James didn't mind a secret every now and then, especially not one that felt like this, a firefly held in cupped hands, its light a sweet, private glow. Made all the sweeter because it was his to hold, and keep safe: his, Michael's, and no-one else's.
It made him do silly things sometimes, and he didn't mind that either. Like losing his train of thought while talking to Nick, whole sentences careening out of his grasp, all because he'd caught sight of Michael from across the road. When Michael had turned round and spotted James, his smile had gone from that of a man generally pleased with life to something fiercely, unguardedly delighted, and James had forgotten how to breathe for an instant, much less form words.
"Gettin' old, man, forgot what I was saying," was the best James could do. And then, to muddy the issue - and perhaps he was channeling his grandad a bit - "Have I had a go at you about the flip-flops yet? You know what'll happen if you step on a nail, yeah?"
"I'll swear up a storm, you'll ring an ambulance," Nick said, proceeding to cross against the light. He appeared as eager as James to get to the bar, although James assumed Nick was just in a hurry to get started on his first pint.
By the time James reached Michael's side, Michael’s smile was softer, but no less warm. "And there's the man himself," Michael murmured, stubbing his cigarette out. "Shall we?"
Michael could be a true gentleman when he wanted to be, and he was one now, stepping back to let James through the door first. James could be one as well, but - also like Michael - he could equally be the sort of gentlemen who copped a feel when he wanted to, and Michael looked so comfortable in his tee and camo shorts that James couldn't resist it now. He brushed his fingers along Michael's thigh as he passed by, a tiny movement, casual enough to seem accidental to any watching eyes.
Beyond the door was a short flight of stairs, which they went down with Nick in front of James, and Michael close behind. Then they were in the sports bar itself, a cavernous but sleekly outfitted basement space with big screen televisions, bowling lanes, and dozens of billiard tables under cool blue and white ambient light. Behind the mile-long bar, an alluring army of liquor bottles waited, ready to be pressed into action.
When they bellied up, it was Michael who got the attention of the bartender first. "Bonjour, hello. A Manhattan, please - no, with the Old Pulteney there, not the rye, and splash in some Maraschino juice along with the cherry if you will - and a vodka martini for me. Merci."
"How'd you know I wanted a cocktail instead of whisky and soda?" James asked, blinking his astonishment. "I'm not sure I even knew."
"No oranges on the snack trolley the past two days," Michael said promptly. "You've been overdue for something sweet, but you've also been overdue for a whisky. So...." He spread his hands.
"You're a clever man, Mr. Fassbender," James said, sliding his fingers through the cool stem of the glass the bartender pushed his way. A slow sip let the sweetness of the vermouth and the cherry and the smokiness of the whisky linger pleasantly on his tongue. He tipped the glass at Michael. "Clever indeed."
"Ah...." That was Nick, and James twisted away from Michael to look over at him inquiringly. "I was going to ask if you guys wanted to split a pitcher of lager? Happy hour special? But I'll just -" Find someone else to ask, James supposed, from the way he hooked a thumb over his shoulder.
"Ask me later," James called to Nick's retreating back. "I won't be drinking these all night."
"You won't?" Michael looked hurt, but theatrically so; his pout was exaggerated enough to make James laugh out loud.
"No, delightful as they are," James took another sip to prove that point, then another because it made his mouth happy, "I intend to walk out of here under my own power tonight, thank you very much. Also I have to beat Nick at billiards later. There may be a small wager on it."
"Money?"
"Nah, nothing so pedestrian as that. Somebody has to put Jennifer's... shoes, I think we decided on shoes, in the freezer. On the catering van."
"Madman." Michael rubbed his face, smile escaping through his fingers. "You ridiculous madman."
As far as keeping their secret went, splitting up for a while tonight wasn't a bad idea. James wished he could give himself credit for thinking of that earlier, but there hadn't been any strategy involved when he'd been making plans with Nick, just silliness, plain and simple. He and Michael did make an effort on occasion to seem as if they weren't living in each other's pockets; when they failed, James reminded himself that they'd been thick as thieves from the very beginning, before hearts - or any other body parts - had fully come into the equation, and that made them well suited to hiding in plain sight.
Placing his drink on the bar, Michael stretched his arms over his chest one after the other, tugging on his triceps in a way that was totally distracting and probably a calculated retaliation for the feel James had copped earlier. “If you’re going to be beating Hoult later,” he said, “time for some practise, eh?”
"Oh, have you got some moves to teach me, then? Are you some sort of pool hustler? Some sort of -" the more obvious the joke, the more James had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep a straight face - "pool shark?"
Michael grinned slowly, baring tooth after tooth like the world's most predatory strip-tease act. "Oh, I'll show you moves, all right," he said, and it was all James could do not to lean up and claim that mouth in a kiss.
James wasn't a terrible billiards player by any means, but he was certainly willing to spend an hour or so watching Michael lean over a table, slim waist and broad shoulders on display, muscles in his back and arms coiling just before the sudden sharp burst of contained power that sent the balls flying exactly where he wanted them.... Yes, James could do that for as long as it took.
He was also willing to lose, badly, and say things like, “You know, maybe I’m not getting this?” while regarding Michael with one of his most innocent, helplessly confused expressions. Holding that expression without cracking became a feat when Michael adopted a sincere one of his own, and asked, "Is there some way I can better be of service?"
Peripheral vision told James no-one was paying them the slightest bit of attention. Nick had joined up with Hugh and some of the guys from the crew, and they were hanging out at a table near the bar, their backs to the billiards area. There were a few other customers playing pool, people James didn't know, but they were several tables away and wrapped up in their own game. So it felt safe to make a show of eyeing the table thoughtfully, then turn that look on Michael. "Well... I may be a hands-on learner."
"Oh, really?"
Michael was already moving in closer, slow and purposeful, a grin spreading across his face. James shrugged, and his shoulder met Michael's solid chest. "Only one way to find out."
If they weren't keeping their relationship under wraps, this would still feel very, very nice indeed: Michael pressed along his back, arms bracketing James' shoulders, hands over James' on the pool cue, whole body enfolding James, keeping him as tight and warm and close as he would in bed. But with every second precious and borrowed, this was as far from nice as a summer day from the surface of the sun; it was sizzling, electric.
"Think you can move with me?" Michael's breath tickled James' ear; James choked on one of his own.
"Oh, I'm reasonably sure I can manage that. After all -" a tiny shift of his hips to demonstrate, and to give Michael a reason to choke in return - "I've had experience in the area."
They broke the rack together, pulling farther back into the swing than James might have done normally, keeping steady on the follow through and hitting the cue ball just below centre, textbook-perfect. A high-five afterwards seemed only appropriate, and James curled his hand around Michael's just a little, drawing it out, making Michael's eyes go soft.
James could only bear to lose so many times. The next game he played to win, and win he did, although it was a damn near thing. His victory celebration included pumping the air and yelling, "Hoult, are you ready for this?"; it had the intended result, because Nick joined them just as James was racking up the balls, a pitcher of lager in one hand and three glass mugs clinking in the other. James took a mug and Nick poured, topping off with just the right amount of foam - James was mildly impressed, to see that kind of finesse in one so young.
Michael, on the other hand, declined a mug. "I'll leave you gentlemen to it," he said, lifting a hand in farewell. Since part of keeping a secret meant not appearing too invested, James bit back questions most partners could ask, like What are you going to do? Are you going to come back over here when you're done? Or do you want me to come find you? Instead, he echoed Michael's gesture, then got down to business with Nick.
Nick was no terrible billiards player himself, it turned out, but James had ten years' experience on him, and the practise rounds with Michael hadn't hurt either. But the further behind Nick got, the wilder his playing became, and that was the source of the trouble in the end. When there were five stripes left to James' two solids, Nick hit too hard and too low, sending two balls flying off the table. One landed harmlessly on the floor; the other slammed into James' hand, the one holding his mug, in an explosion of pain and breaking glass.
"Fuck." James was a champion swearer more often than not, but when it came to pain he tended to be succinct. Moving his fingers hurt like fire, but he was able to do it at least, and he uncurled them from what remained of the mug and put it down on the corner of the billiards table.
Nick was already at his side, pool cue clattering to the floor. "Shit. You're bleeding. We need to -" He grabbed the hem of James' t-shirt and wrapped it around James' hand. "Somebody get Fassbender over here!" he yelled, loud enough to make James flinch. "Fassbender! Somebody go get him!"
"That's - there's no need for that," James managed to protest. He was feeling light-headed, but from the sudden shock of the injury, he thought, not from anything worse. He really wasn't bleeding that badly. It hadn't even soaked through his t-shirt yet.
"James. Yes, there is." Nick's voice was steady and certain, and James shook his head, trying to bring his worried face into focus. "But I'll tell people it's because he's good at first aid, okay?"
Oh, James thought, in the second before Michael was in front of him, shouldering Nick out of the way. Oh, he knows.
"What the fuck, Hoult," Michael said, hissing as he pulled back James' makeshift t-shirt bandage. "Okay, James, sit down. You've gone completely white, sit down. Hold your hand up - no, higher than your heart. Good. Nicholas. What the fuck."
"I -"
"Go find out where the nearest hospital is, and call us a taxi. Go!"
"That's good." James waved Nick away with his uninjured hand. "He shouldn't be over here with all the glass anyway. He's wearing flip-flops."
"Oh Jesus Christ," Michael said, shaking his head as he cupped a hand around James' elbow, lending support to James' raised arm. Beyond Michael, across the room, James could see Nick heading for the bartender, waving Hugh and some of the others back on the way. Giving them space. Still, all the fuss made him wince.
"It's really not that bad. Maybe we don't need to -"
"That gash below your thumb is going to need stitches," Michael interrupted, matter-of-fact. "I fell off nearly everything a kid could climb on, growing up, and I can tell you that's going to be at least two stitches. And they'll make certain you haven't damaged any bones or tendons, and they'll give you drugs, which you'll thank me for in the middle of the night when your hand hurts like hell and you can't sleep."
"Nick knows."
Michael's fingers tightened. "Because you - did you ask him to get me?" So many layers in Michael's tone, but below the surprise and the ever-present worry, there was something that might have been gratitude, or hope. James wished he could say he'd called out for Michael; in the way Michael wasn't quite meeting his eyes, he knew just how much Michael would have liked to hear it.
"He already knew," James had to say instead. "That was his immediate reaction, to shout for you."
"Don't worry," Michael said. His other hand gripped James' knee, low, where no-one could see. "If he knows, it's because you're friends, and he pays more attention than we gave him credit for. But that also means he knows what's important to you. He won't tell."
"I know. I'm not worried about that. Michael -" His voice was unsteady. It was the pain, yes, James was sort of shaky all over, but more than that, he was consumed by the need to make sure Michael understood. Some conversations were too important to have only once, and it had been a long time now since the beginning. It was time to say this again. "The more something matters, the more I don't want it to be everyone's property. The more I want it to be just for me. For us. That's why. You know that, right?"
"Hey," Michael said softly. He slipped his arm around James' waist, coaxing him to his feet. James fought a fresh rush of dizziness to focus on Michael, because when Michael was quiet he was at his most earnest, his most desperate to be heard. "James. This mattering to you... that's everything I need. Everything. Got it?"
"Got it," James said. Michael squeezed his hip in perfect punctuation, and they began walking slowly towards the door. James concentrated on moving his feet one after the other, and left the business of navigation to Michael.
"Oh well," James said, remembering. "Wrong about that, I suppose."
"James?"
"No, it's only - I said I was going to walk out of here under my own power, tonight. And I'm just so glad I don't have to." He paused. "And glad I'm not ringing an ambulance for Nick, come to that."
"You may still have to, when I'm done with him," Michael grumbled, and he pulled James a little closer. "I suppose I was wrong about something myself. I said I didn't need anything else, but there was one thing... and look. I have that, too."
James squinted up at him. "Have pity. I'm only suffering blood loss here."
"I really, really needed to hug you," Michael said, pressing his cheek very quickly against the top of James' head, "and I am."
"You're so warm," James murmured, knowing it sounded like a non sequitur and not caring. He leaned against Michael's shoulder, basking, letting it spread through him from head to toe: not a glow, not a sizzle, and far better than any secret. This was Michael himself, the steady, comfortable heat of a hearth-fire that showed no signs of going out.