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winterliveHi, all.
I wroted a little something. It's a Michael Rosenbaum/Tom Welling AU, NC-17, for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
revisionary, beta'd and encouraged and audienced oh my by violetsmiles and traveller. Until recently, we just called it Seattle.
This one's. Well, it'll stick with me.
I Am Fallen To This
On a beautiful summer day, sun dappling the tent and spring perfume causing reverie and sneezing, Michael Rosenbaum mingles with some of Seattle's most prominent theatre buffs. His jeans and pinstriped suit jacket are tailored to look casual, his t-shirt actually is casual. More than a couple of times, people remark on his hair – Mike wears a short mohawk in the off season – and it's a little unprofessional, but he can get away with it. It's interesting, something the brass can tut over and the press can dish, something the photographers can chase after. Plus he just likes it, so fuck them.
He discusses the company's latest offering, laughs gently at the idea that playing Iago will typecast him. He enjoys taking the villain's role, he says, he wants to make the character likeable, give him some depth so the audience can identify with him. It's the sort of thing you say when people ask you about that kind of thing. It's his tenth major role with the world renowned Seattle Shakesperean troupe, and when Twelfth Night comes around next December, he's been promised Orsino. It's a dream, his life's work; he loves what he does and his focus hasn't shifted in years. Ask him and he'd tell anyone, he knows what he needs to know. His life is mapped, and planned, and accounted for, thanks: house in three years, Macbeth in five and, if he has anything to say about it, a Kenneth Branagh movie deal in ten.
He sips his orange juice, the chatter around him fading quietly as he zones out. The bright sun is a welcome respite – it rains all the fucking time in Seattle anyway, but it's seemed particularly chill and ugly the last few weeks. Summer is burning down, just the coals of it flaring into days like this, sometimes. Mike soaks in the warm green grass, the rich smell of earth, and tries to enjoy it.
And then his breath stops in his mouth. His fingers get clumsy, the world slows down and the sound fades out as the most beautiful kid in the whole fucking world passes by the drinks table.
Mike's eyes are dragged after him like magnetism; he can feel the pull of the dark hair and the broad shoulders in his chest. Green eyes flash in the sun before they cut away, Mike's heart is ready to jump out of his chest, and then the kid goes behind someone's cell phone, someone else's giant hairdo, and disappears.
Mike is not this kind of guy. Mike has a job to do here, a focus, a goal: his career, making the right impression.
He's off across the grass like a shot, pushing past people who start and exclaim, trying to keep his eyes on the flash of black hair, blue jeans, red jacket. Even as he does it, he knows it's fucking crazy. Matrons turn up their noses as he rushes past, men apologize and remember his face in the way where it means temperamental, and therefore not good.
But he's almost there. He feels a pull in his gut like fate, like if he finds this kid, it'll be there, just like that, Antonio and Bassanio, and he needs to see – sneakers, a knapsack, flash, flash, flash.
And then he's standing in the middle of the meadow, out from under the tent with the sun in his eyes. He's alone, there's no kid, people are looking at him and he's holding his orange juice like a chump, looking around for someone that isn't there.
Goddammit.
He looks and looks, keeps an eye out for the kid the whole afternoon, but there's nothing. Talking to the event manager, the guy swears he'll look into it, and Mike gets a vague call a couple weeks later that tells him there was a dishwasher matching that description, but they paid him and he left and er, um, we'll try to track him down, sir, yes, of course we have a name, somewhere, sir, yes. Mike hangs up cursing whoever decided that paying laborers under the table was a good idea, and tries to forget.
So one day, a couple of weeks later, Mike's on the way to the theatre, organizing in the aftermath of Othello's downfall and preparing to be connived by the fey folk. He's coming out of a Starbucks with a fresh cinnamon chai and then out of nowhere, there's his boy from the brass party, slouched under the library awning with a book in his hands. He's looking around and the gray light hits his cheekbones so perfectly; Mike just gets yanked across the street by that same invisible force like he doesn't even have a choice. He doesn't; the rain pats down onto his head and he has no choice.
Falling debris to the head. Hit by a car, crossing the intersection. Bam, stars, whiteout.
He just stands there then, staring, feeling like a world-class idiot, and the kid sort of looks at him grouchily and goes, "I'm not begging," because his clothes are frayed and beat up and his knapsack is dirty and there's a smudge of something on his cheek.
Mike stammers, "I'm sorry, I didn't..." because he just has no idea what to say.
The kid looks him up and down and says, "If you're looking for what I think you're looking for, you should go see Chad on 42nd." Mike just stares at him, long enough to get the kid to say, "What?"
And then Mike says, "Let me take you to dinner."
Something in his voice must give him away, because the kid goes, "You mean... like, a date?"
Mike just nods. "Yeah." The kid squints at him, suspiciously, and Mike volunteers, "It, you wouldn't owe me anything. I just want to take you out."
Maybe it's because of the way Mike's staring at him, but the kid seems to gloss right over the part where it could be charity, because it really isn't. He just says, "Where do you want to go?"
"Anywhere you want."
The kid examines him a little, a sharp eye that's too old for him, and then he says, "Okay. But you try anything…"
Mike puts his hands up, open. "I promise."
"I'm Tom," the kid tells him, a little defiantly. He slings his knapsack down on his elbow, dogears a page and shoves the book into the pouch.
"Michael Rosenbaum," Mike says, and holds out his hand.
Tom takes it. His palm is warm and dry, his hand easily spanning Mike's own, and Mike loses equilibrium for a second, but manages to let go in one piece.
Tom picks this cheap little Italian diner that's not too far from where they are. They walk, and Mike sits at the red-and-white checkered table and watches Tom put away two full plates of pasta and sausage. The guys at the counter greet Tom by name and clap hands on his shoulder. They bring Mike some Alfredo, but he's too busy watching Tom eat to do more than poke at it.
They make idle chit chat during dinner: "So what do you do?" "I'm an actor." "Oh, yeah? Have you been in anything?" "Just plays, mostly." "Oh." Mike's not much of a conversationalist until Tom stops sliding that fork between his lips and acting like it's the best thing that's ever been in his mouth. But it's not all sex - his eyes when he talks to the guys at the counter, his huge hands - how did he get to be that big, living on the streets? He's a well of questions, and Mike has forever loved puzzles. He just looks and looks, as if looking would give any answers. The rain spatters the ground outside as the sky goes from gray to black.
When Tom's finally done and they clear the plates away, he looks at Mike and smiles a little. "So, what do we do now?" he asks, sort of shyly. "I haven't really been on an actual date before."
"Well," Mike tells him, "Traditionally there's some talking, and then either dancing or a movie."
Tom lifts his shirt to his nose and delicately sniffs it before giving Mike this look like, man, I don't think that's going to go over so well. And Mike blushes because he didn't mean to embarrass Tom, but Tom just laughs. He's not embarrassed at all, and Mike feels like a fool, which he normally hates feeling like, but right now he doesn't mind so much.
They talk a little, and Mike gets around to asking what Tom's reading, "The book you had when I saw you, what is it?" So Tom pulls it out of his knapsack, shy again, and slides it across the table. Mike reads the title, Marabou Stork Nightmares, by Irvine Welch, and just blinks. Tom lowers eyelashes that are too long to be really human, and says, "I liked Trainspotting, he did that one too."
Mike worries that if Tom rolls up his sleeves, there will be track marks. He's aware, in the moment that he thinks of that, that what he's doing is totally insane. He doesn't even know how old Tom is. He looks so young, now that Mike thinks of it, and he sort of just stares, helplessly.
Tom perks up a little just then, and he says, "Come on, I know where we can go." He stands up, and Mike pays the bill while Tom scuffs his sneakers and blushes, and the guys look at him hard. Mike can't hold back a little smug smile.
Tom drags him out the door fast, "Come on, Michael."
It's stopped raining, the streets are slick and smell fresh. A few blocks away, down a street Mike's never been before, Tom turns into an alley. There's a fire escape that's rusted through, enough so the ladder's hit the ground. Tom climbs up like it's the safest thing in the world. "Come on, Michael, come on."
With some trepidation, Mike follows, and puffs as he follows Tom up fourteen flights. They arrive at the top of the building and Tom hushes him. "The super'll catch us if you make too much noise," Tom explains, and then edges up the window so they can climb in. Mike worries, but Tom's slipped in the window like a cat, and Mike's going to lose sight of him if he doesn't move, so he moves. Tom whisks them down a little hall and through a door, and then they climb one more flight of stairs and Tom opens the big metal door on the roof. "It's nice up here," he says.
He's not wrong.
The city sparkles below them like the view from Mike's apartment, and the rocks shift under their feet. Mike sees some deck chairs and ashtrays up here, a sleeping bag or two under a lean-to shelter. He points them out to Tom, asks, "Do people live here?"
"No," Tom says, "They just come up here sometimes. It's pretty. Come on, you can sit on the edge."
"Wait, wait," Mike says, but Tom's already swinging his legs over the wide edge and sitting down, like there's not a huge drop below him, and Mike swallows. "Come back over," he says, and Tom grins at him. "What's the matter, Michael? Are you scared?" Mike just glares at him as he laughs softly, and climbs over the edge. There's a ledge under his feet, of course, but there's no seatbelt, and it's pretty freaky. Nothing to stop him from falling.
But that's how he's been feeling all night, so it's not so bad.
They sit there and stare out at the city for an hour and a half before the door creaks open, kids pouring out of it, laughing and passing a bottle. Tom waves hello, they wave hello, and then Mike shifts uncomfortably so Tom says, "Let's go back."
Tom walks Mike to his car. Mike pushes the button and it makes that chirpy little yes-I-am-locked-now sound, and then the engine's low rumble. Tom looks at the ground.
Mike turns to him and reaches out halfway between them, like he'd touch Tom's arm, but doesn't. "When can I see you again?"
Tom shrugs, head still down, hands shoved into his pockets. "I don't know," he says, but he steps a little closer.
"Was it all right?" Mike asks, nerves fluttering in his stomach. Tom looks up at him, intense and dark eyed, and Mike is struck again with the almost physical sensation of need to be with him.
"It was great," Tom says. "I had a really good time."
"So when?" Mike presses, and Tom glances around.
"Um. How about Wednesday? It's Monday now."
Mike nods, he's willing to take that. "Sure, Wednesday's good. Where do I meet you? I can come pick you up from somewhere, if you want."
Tom gives him an address, and Mike sifts through his own pockets to find a pen and something to write on. There's a receipt for something, and he doesn't care what it is. He writes the address down, and then his phone number, and he tears that last part off and passes it to Tom. "Here, that's me. Call me any time. Like, if your plans change, or you want to reschedule or something."
Tom just nods, and takes the paper. It disappears into his clothes, and Mike makes a wish. "Okay," he says shakily. "Thanks for an exceptional evening."
Tom nods, and then steps in even closer, and Mike's looking up into his face and Tom leans down and then they're kissing.
He tastes like pasta, cola and cigarettes. Mike doesn't like most of those things, but he can't get enough. He would put his arms around Tom, except Tom is holding him by the arms, and it's awkward and strange and so totally mind-blowingly hot that Mike thinks he could come, just from this.
And then Tom lets him go and steps back. Mike feels like he's just been drenched in ice water, it's so cold.
"Good night," Tom tells him, and with a little smile, he turns and walks off down the street, hoisting his backpack on his shoulder.
Mike gets in his car and sits there for twenty minutes, trying to remember how to drive.
He goes home and he's shaken and completely out of it. He runs a red light and doesn't hit anything or get pulled over, but he's never run a red light before, and someone honked and stomped on their brakes, and he pulls over and gets out of the car.
It's just a normal black car, nothing special.
He leans up against the door and waits for this feeling to pass him over, this feeling like he might throw up or maybe start dancing through the rain-drenched streets like Fred Astaire, but it's not normal; he needs it to stop. He just breathes nice and slow, and when he's less dizzy, he drives home.
Tuesday passes in a total blur. He can't concentrate, he's absentminded and not paying attention to much of anything. He hits his cues, remembers his lines because hey, it's fucking Shakespeare. But he's not much good at the planning phase, and Allison lays a hand on his arm after and says he might want to get some coffee or maybe a nap or something. You're looking pretty pale around the gills, Mikey. He nods, and debates blurting out his whole story to her over coffee. It might be cathartic, and God knows he would like to be sure that he's sane about all this.
But the very concept's crazy, he knows what she'd say, so he doesn't tell her anything, just nods her good night and goes down to his car.
In some obscure way, the car reassures Mike. It saw Tom, it was in the same place as him. It's some kind of proof that Tom was there, that Mike wasn't dreaming.
He wonders if he'll get a call on Wednesday, wonders if he should even bother coming in to the theatre when he knows he'll jump every time there's a jingle that could be his phone ringing. He eats dinner that night at home, alone, and decides to call in some personal days. It's early enough in this staging; they've just started running lines and they're still working out who's going to play the bit parts.
He calls up Al at home; he's in. "Al, I need the next three days. I know. I know it is. I just do. Personal reasons. No, nothing like that. I will. I won't. Al. Okay. Bright and early Monday morning. Bye. Al. Bye."
He sighs, thumbs the button and lays the phone on the kitchen counter. "I have got to be crazy," he mutters to himself, and presses the heels of his hands into his eyes.
On Wednesday, the phone rings just as the sun is setting. "Hello!" Mike says, almost before the phone is to his head.
"Michael?" It's definitely Tom's voice, and Mike's pulse leaps. "It's Tom," says the phone, and Mike remembers how you're supposed to talk back.
"I know, hi, sorry. I was, caught up. Are we still on for tonight?"
"Yeah," says the soft, shy murmur right into Mike's ear. "If you want."
"I want," Mike breathes.
There's no sound, and Mike worries for a minute that he's been too forward, but then Tom speaks, and Mike can hear the smile. "Good, okay. Um. Can you still come pick me up?"
"Yeah, of course," Mike says, picking the receipt up off the coffee table, where it's been sitting in the fruit bowl. "I, um. How should I dress? Do you have someplace you want to go?"
"Well, I got to pick last time," Tom says. "You can this time, but nothing too fancy, okay?"
"Sure, of course," Mike tells him, wracking his brain for anything that might be even a little bit appropriate. He discards the bistro at city hall, the coffee shop at the theatre, and the stadium before he realizes his next mental stop is the Needle and stops trying to think while Tom is on the phone. Instead, he asks, "What time should I come get you?"
"Um. Seven?"
"Seven, okay. Absolutely. I'll see you then." The phone clicks off in his hand as Tom hangs up, and Mike listens to the dead air for a second. Seven is one hour away, and he's got to go get dressed, but he's got that dizzy feeling again, so he just stands there for a bit, waiting for it to pass.
The address he's been given is for a shelter. He pulls up outside in his car and Tom's hanging around at the entrance, waiting for him. Two boys are standing with him and they're all smoking by the brick wall. Mike worries again about how young Tom must be, and vows to himself that he will ask, at some point tonight.
When Tom sees the car, he flicks his cigarette to the curb, waves to the boys, and hoists up that knapsack again. The guys whistle and grin; one of them tosses his cigarette butt near Tom's feet, but it's just a gesture. He's smiling, and the little cinder doesn't get too near. Tom climbs in, tossing his bag at his feet, and Mike immediately smells soap, and blushes.
"Hi."
"Hi." Tom smiles, blushing a little as well. "Don't mind those guys. They think you're a trick, they're just assholes." He smiles to himself, and then his eyes open up worriedly as he hurries to explain. "I mean I don't do that, trick, I mean. I'm not, I don't -"
Mike talks over him, "No, no, Tom, I know. Remember? You thought I was looking, and you sent me to -"
"Right," Tom says, "Yeah, right. So. I'm not."
"I know."
There's a moment of awkward silence and then Mike clears his throat and pulls out into the flow of traffic. Tom bites his lip beside Mike, and looks out the window, but before Mike has a chance to think of something to break the tension, Tom beats him to it.
"So, where are we going?"
"Oh! Well, I..." Mike clears his throat again. "I thought if it was all right with you, we'd go to the Pacific Science Center." He glances over to gauge Tom's expression and finds it stunned. He adds on, cheeks flushed, "If you think it's lame, we don't have to. I just thought, y'know, you might want to see the stars a little closer than fourteen stories up."
There's a pause, and Mike starts to fill in the awkward silence with it's okay, we'll go get dinner, but Tom cuts him off with a little smile. "I want to go. I just... it's not what I was expecting. But it's nice. I like it."
He gazes out the window again, but this time he's wearing that little smile, and Mike counts his blessings and doesn't interrupt.
For the most part, Tom wanders around the planetarium sedately. He peers at things, laughs over some and is quiet over others. It's not quite the awestruck kid thing that Mike was sort of subconsciously expecting; he keeps looking over at Tom and thinking he's going to see that face light up over some star chart or gizmo, but it never happens. Tom just looks and reads, sometimes pleasantly surprised and sometimes interested, but never overwhelmed. Naturally, that makes Mike crazy to find something that really pleases him.
Somewhere between the industrial revolution and the space age, Tom's thick fingers slip shyly into Mike's palm, and then Mike's the awestruck one. He laces their fingers together and follows wherever Tom leads, feeling entirely at peace. It's like now that they're touching, some weird buzz under his skin has stopped and he can stop being distracted and focus.
He gains an impression of some looks directed at them from some thick, overly made up WASPs, and he holds Tom's hand tighter as an act of rebellion, of go-fuck-yourself. Mike's contrary like that. He sees Tom looking over his shoulder at the glowers, uncomfortable, but when Mike tries to let go, Tom tightens his hold and pulls Mike into the alcove for the laser light show.
He leans over and whispers in Mike's ear, "Can we go?"
Mike gives ten bucks to the usher and Tom pulls him into the theatre, seating them in the back. They watch the show (Pink Floyd) with their hands firmly together, hidden in the dark. By the time the lights come up, Mike has totally forgotten to be angry.
It's closing on ten o'clock when they leave. They pry their hands apart, because they have to or they'll lock that way. Mike walks beside Tom, slow and easy, out to the car. "So, what now? If you want, we could go for some food, or I could just take you home. Anything."
Tom sighs, and looks down at the ground, and Mike stops and gently touches his arm. "What?"
Tom smiles, a sad sort of try at it, and it jerks at Mike's heart. "It's nothing," he says. "I just wish I..."
"What?" Mike touches his face, and Tom closes his eyes and inclines his head into it, so subtly. They stand in a circle of orange streetlight, the pavement slick with rain, and Mike barely breathes.
"I wish I'd met you before."
Mike just strokes Tom's cheek, and feels his heart tear a little.
And then Tom smiles again, opens his clear eyes, and Mike can feel the inside of him heat up like someone opened the furnace door. "Anyway," Tom says. "I could go for some food, if you want. I mean, I don't have to be up, or anything, so."
Mike smiles back, can't help himself, and they start walking back to the car. "Great," he says. "Neither do I. We can stay out as late as you want."
Tom smiles that secret, private smile that makes Mike's pulse jump in his throat, and scuffs his feet on the black asphalt. His tone is quiet, but Mike can tell he's being a wiseass. "Will you keep me out past curfew?"
They laugh softly - Mike first, then Tom joins in. they arrive at the car, black and shining under the streetlights, and inside it's dark and humid and close. Mike looks over and sees Tom looking at him, feels it pull at him just like it did that first day. Kiss me, it says, and he pictures that thick, solid body laid out on his white sheets instead of the silver-gray upholstery. They're drawing together, and then Mike reaches out and rubs a thumb over those lush, full lips. Tom's eyes flutter closed and he licks his lip in Mike's wake.
"Wait," Mike breathes, and Tom looks at him again. "Before this goes any further, Tom, I have to ask..."
Tom dips his head down, cheeks flushed, and Mike could groan, but doesn't. "My eighteenth birthday's in four months," Tom says, and Mike nods his head.
"Okay."
"Okay?" Tom looks up, the edge of hope in his eyes.
"Well. Not... not like, whatever okay, but. Dealable." Mike runs a hand down his arm, warmly, and smiles his best reassuring smile. Outside, a soft rain begins to ping a little symphony on the hood.
Tom gives him a beautiful look that threatens to dissolve his fledgling willpower, and so Mike starts the car and pulls out of the parking lot.
The lights flash by on the windows, gleam off the dash as Mike pulls through the streets. He's trying to think of where Tom would want to go for supper; he doesn't want to insult him, but he wants to impress him. He kind of used all his thinking on the date part, and he's at a total loss. He's on a date with a seventeen year old street urchin and it's just, it's not how he thought he'd be spending his Wednesday, is all.
"Are we going to go to dinner?" Tom asks gently, and Mike coughs.
"Yeah, I, uh. Yeah." In the silence that follows, the awkwardness grows. Mike's not sure what to say, but he's got to come up with something, and Tom seems like he's catching on to Mike's floundering around, which makes it even harder.
And then Tom clears his throat and offers, "Y'know, I like McDonald's."
"Yeah?" Mike asks, latching onto it, and Tom nods.
"Yeah, they have the best fries."
Mike swallows hard, breathes a little easier. "Okay," he says. "You want McDonalds, you got it."
They find a pair of arches and Mike parks. Under the harsh lights, they eat, and blessedly the TV is tuned to the Leafs versus the Red Wings, so Mike pulls for Toronto and Tom looks on. Mike told him to get anything he wanted, and insisted he get the big fries, but Tom can't eat them all and builds little forts on his tray out of the leftovers, questioning Mike about the plays he calls at the screen.
It's fun. It surprises Mike a little, but it's comfortable and easy and he has fun.
When they're done, they get back into Mike's car and drive. Tom directs them back toward the shelter and asks him to stop a couple blocks away. Mike pulls into the lot and they climb out.
Mike comes over to stand by him. It smells of rain and dirt, but clean. Tom looks down at him and Mike waits.
There's a moment. It's this holding-your-breath moment, when they could kiss and it feels like they're going to kiss, because there's nothing else to say and he's leaving. The silence stretches out as they look at each other, and there's a soft gravity pulling at them. Tom's eyes go a little heavy, his breath comes a little faster. There's a change in the air, so subtle, like he might take a step forward.
Mike turns his head to the side and down a little, breaking the eye contact.
"Well. I should get going. Again, please, call me anytime."
And he turns and walks around to his side of the car, and just as he goes to get in, Tom says, "Michael?" Mike looks up at him and there he is, with his backpack and his sneakers and his earnest eyes, and he says, "How about tomorrow? Are you busy tomorrow?"
Mike smiles wide and says, "No. No, I'm not busy."
Tom calls early on Thursday afternoon, around one.
Mike's relaxing on the couch, sleepily watching TSN, when the phone rings. "Hello?"
"Hi, Michael?"
Mike sits up and mutes the television, runs a hand over his hair like Tom could possibly tell if he had bedhawk. "Tom, hi. How're you?"
"Pretty good," he says, and Mike can hear him smile. "We still on for today?"
"Yeah," Mike says, "Of course, definitely. Where to?"
"I don't know," Tom says sunnily. "Somewhere outside, maybe this afternoon? I mean if you're not busy..."
"No, no, this afternoon's fine," Mike hastens to assure him. "Tell you what, if you want, we could hit the farmer's market. I have to do some shopping anyway, and if you came with me, we could pick up your favorites. Have dinner at my place later tonight. And there's usually buskers and street performers, lots to see."
Tom's laughter stops the sales pitch. "That sounds fun," he says. "Do you want to meet there, say, three o'clock?"
"Sure," Mike says, beaming at the phone like it just won him the lottery. "Three sounds just fine. Meet by the fire station?"
"See you there," Tom says, and the line goes dead, but that's fine by Mike, because he's got an all-day date.
And sure, maybe it's with a seventeen year old. Maybe he's crazy. But Tom's not your average seventeen-year-old and he can't think about that anyway because he only has two hours to make this place halfway presentable, shower, dress, and make it to the market, just in time for it to open.
One hour, fifty-two minutes later, with a dishwasher full of dirty dishes and the fourth shirt he tried on his back, Mike parks on the street and climbs out. His heart's a little fast as he looks around, a smile on his face already. When he spots Tom - not hard to do, so tall - he waves and jogs over, realizing only belatedly that he looks like a huge dork.
But Tom is smiling at him, wide and happy, and so Mike thinks maybe it doesn't matter.
"Hi," he says. "You ready?"
"Any time you are," Tom says, and they head into the market together, the rare sun warming their shoulders.
They sort through almost everything. Tom is shy at first about expressing a preference, but when Mike refuses to buy anything unless it gets the Tom seal of approval, he warms up. He prefers berries to melon, and Mike picks up a bag of blackberries the size of his head. They browse the jewelry and knick knack kiosks and Mike ends up with a wind chime set that looks like snowfall and four or five bead necklaces and woven bracelets. He insists Tom take at least two of those, and Tom laughs and says he'll have to think about it. Later on, they get some fresh pasta (the corkscrew kind) and Mike says they can make sauce from scratch, so they spend some time poking around vegetables before just getting a big pile of sausage.
Just as they're coming on the invisible line where the meat shops turn into dessert displays, there's a commotion behind them. Mike turns around just in time to get slammed into by a kid racing by; the kid doesn't even slow down as he nearly bowls Mike over. Tom's there in a heartbeat, strong hands to hold Mike up. There's a moment when the clock stops, and Mike can feel the heat at his shoulder, his waist, his side.
Then, back in the crowd where the kid came from, someone yells, "Stop him! Thief!" Mike's about to go running after the kid, but Tom's hand is a soft request on his shoulder, and Mike turns to look at him.
Don't go, says Tom's face, quiet and a little sad.
Mike just sort of blinks, and then figures it out: they're in a farmer's market. So whatever the kid stole, it was probably food. And if he stole food, then maybe he's just hungry, and if he's a hungry kid then...
Then maybe, Mike thinks, as he comes back to stand beside Tom - maybe he'll just stay right here.
"Well," Mike says, clearing his throat and turning to the shelves of fudge. "Let's, uh... let's get back to shopping, okay?"
They spend a half hour touring through the rest of it. A man has painted himself silver and moves like a robot if you put a coin into his hat. Someone's doing caricatures for ten dollars. Mike gets two slices of black forest cake from one stall, dripping with cherries and slivers of chocolate, and that lightens their moods more than anything. Tom says more than three words together, for that.
They drive back to Mike's house and get in the elevator, their arms loaded down with brown paper sacks. Tom says it smells great, and Mike smiles that they haven't even got started yet, just wait. In the kitchen, Mike puts Tom to work chopping up sausage while he puts the sauce on. It's easy and relaxed, some classic rock on the stereo behind them as they make a mess of the counters and dining room table. Tom tries to "help" with the spices, sneaking up behind Mike and taking the shaker from his hand.
"Just a little," Mike grins, watching Tom tap the shaker like it's filled with nitroglycerin. "It's Andouilli sausage, so you have to be careful with anything that isn't garlic or oregano, pretty much."
"Maybe I should do the garlic and oregano, then." Tom grins, and Mike has to laugh.
"Spicing's not hard," Mike says as Tom plays with the garlic press. "You just have to watch your quantity, always include at least a little salt, and remember not to mix things like Italian spices with mints. No rosemary and oregano together." Mike brushes off his hands and turning the heat down to let it simmer. "You've got to let them stay apart or your palate gets confused. But I don't know, I guess you don't really need to know about that."
Tom stops, the smile fading. "I don't need to know?" he asks, his brows furrowing. "What exactly do you mean by that?"
Mike freezes. "What? Oh, nothing, nothing at all. Tom, I didn't mean..."
Tom's face closes down. It's like somebody just turned the heat in the room way down; the easy, relaxed atmosphere is frozen, shattered. He backs up, just one step, and Mike knows he's losing.
"Maybe I should be going," Tom says, and heads into the living room.
Mike hurries to keep up with him. "No, please. I'm sorry, I didn't mean it like that."
"Don't worry about it," Tom says, picking up his backpack and bringing it to the door. His mouth is tight; he won't look up.
Mike touches his arm, but he just moves away. "Tom... I swear, I didn't..."
Tom's picking Mike's jacket up from the couch, looking for his own. "It's fine." He drops the leather and comes up with his own big denim thing, frayed at the cuffs. Mike is sure if he lets Tom leave now, he'll never see that jacket again.
"Tom," he says, taking Tom firmly by the wrist and forcing the issue. A muscle in Tom's jaw clenches as his teeth clench, and Mike's nervousness spikes, but he doesn't let go. "I don't think you're anything less than anyone else. I couldn't. Shit, since the first second I saw you, I couldn't tell anything about you, and I can usually read people like billboards. I just, I just want to know who you are."
Tom drops his jacket to the ground. It clinks, soft.
He breaks Mike's grip as easily as he would a child's, and then those hands are gripping Mike's shoulders and dragging him close. The first touch of his mouth is hard, desperate and open. There's more honesty in it than any kiss Mike's ever known, and Mike puts his arms around Tom's waist and holds tight, like if he doesn't, he will wake up and Tom will be gone.
"I'm just me," Tom breathes into the space between them. "That's all."
"There's nothing just about you," Mike growls, and he grips the back of Tom's shirt as they press together again.
The foyer melts into the living room, standing to sitting, and Mike's lost in the feeling Tom makes with his mouth. Nothing about this is remotely familiar or safe: Mike holds Tom closer, can't keep his hands still.
It's just a bunch of contradictions, Mike thinks, as he tastes tomato and spring on Tom's tongue. It shouldn't be possible that Tom is seventeen, and if it is, then it shouldn't be possible for him to hold firm under Mike's rushing hands, to feel like a mountain when their chests touch and Mike's heart is pounding. Tom should be nervous, or older, or less beautiful, or something.
But instead he just puts his heavy, strong hands on Mike's back, settles him closer and allows what this is, which is Mike biting softly at his bottom lip, running a thumb over his jaw, breathing his air. Mike tries to sense when Tom will shift, wants to kiss him until he forgets his name. He wants in, he wants to know, and Tom's letting him have just enough to make him ravenous.
Tom's gentle but unstoppable. When he pulls Mike closer, Mike moves just fast enough to stay ahead of the inexorable pressure. When Tom puts a knuckle on Mike's chin to hold his mouth open, tasting him, Mike can't think to close it. When Tom groans, low in his throat, it rocks Mike's core.
It's not just how he kisses, but that's part of it. It's not that Tom's too experienced, he isn't. Mike was expecting raw passion, he expected testosterone and pawing, and that sort of thing is fun, sure. But when he instead gets this dreamy, sinking kiss where Tom cups his jaw and presses a hand in the small of Mike's back, it's... sort of shocking. Unsettling. Every time he turns around with this kid, he gets something he didn't expect, and it makes Mike hesitate.
Heat builds slow between them, but Mike can feel it stoking, tight and intense. He pulls them apart a little more, sets his cheek against Tom's and holds it there, closing his eyes. "We should stop. Wow. We should. The food's going to get cold, so, we should stop."
His mouth feels pleasantly bruised.
"I'm sorry," Tom says, the smile audible. "I guess I just got caught up..."
"No, no," Mike assures him, coughing politely. "I got a little caught up myself."
They pull away from each other, make distance. "Come on," Mike says, and beckons Tom into the kitchen, feeling shaky but good. Ethically speaking, that is.
They eat pasta. The sauce they made is really, really good, and they don't talk about anything important. They just sit at dinner and bullshit about nothing, about sports or books, because Tom likes books, or about Mike's house, which Tom likes too. But it's a quiet, warm, good evening, and Mike is more than content to take it. What he wants... that's more complex. But there's no time for that now.
At the end of the night, they're full of pasta and pleasant conversation. Tom stands up around ten and stretches; Mike can't help but notice the way his shirt rides up over his belly, softened a little with the supper they've just had.
"I should get going," Tom rumbles, sounding sated and satisfied.
Mike wants him to do anything except leave, but of course he has to. He rubs his palms on his jeans and stands up, follows Tom into the living room and watches as he picks up his jacket, shakes it out. "You want a ride home?" Mike asks, going for his keys.
"Nah." Tom smiles, shrugging the jacket over his broad shoulder. "That's all right. I've got some stuff to take care of before I get there, so."
Tom heads for the door, picks up the knapsack and slings it over his shoulder, turns the doorknob, and Mike blurts out, "Do you need anything? Is there anything I can, y'know..."
Gently, Tom turns in the doorway and lifts his hands. They settle inside Mike's elbows, holding him, and Tom gives him this soft smile and says, "No, Michael, it's okay. You stay. Can I call you tomorrow?"
"Sure," Mike says, holding tight to Tom's arms. "Sure, of course."
And then things are shifting, changing, and Tom leans toward him, blacking out the light from the hall. It's a good kiss, firm and damp, light pressure and heat. It's totally unselfconscious; Mike can feel Tom saying to him It's all right, I'll be back, I won't leave you. and Mike is all set to press into that warmth, wrap his arms around it and hold on, but then Tom pulls away and turns to go, and Mike's left standing in his doorway, watching Tom's back disappear down the stairs.
Part 2
I wroted a little something. It's a Michael Rosenbaum/Tom Welling AU, NC-17, for
revisionary, beta'd and encouraged and audienced oh my by violetsmiles and traveller. Until recently, we just called it Seattle.This one's. Well, it'll stick with me.
On a beautiful summer day, sun dappling the tent and spring perfume causing reverie and sneezing, Michael Rosenbaum mingles with some of Seattle's most prominent theatre buffs. His jeans and pinstriped suit jacket are tailored to look casual, his t-shirt actually is casual. More than a couple of times, people remark on his hair – Mike wears a short mohawk in the off season – and it's a little unprofessional, but he can get away with it. It's interesting, something the brass can tut over and the press can dish, something the photographers can chase after. Plus he just likes it, so fuck them.
He discusses the company's latest offering, laughs gently at the idea that playing Iago will typecast him. He enjoys taking the villain's role, he says, he wants to make the character likeable, give him some depth so the audience can identify with him. It's the sort of thing you say when people ask you about that kind of thing. It's his tenth major role with the world renowned Seattle Shakesperean troupe, and when Twelfth Night comes around next December, he's been promised Orsino. It's a dream, his life's work; he loves what he does and his focus hasn't shifted in years. Ask him and he'd tell anyone, he knows what he needs to know. His life is mapped, and planned, and accounted for, thanks: house in three years, Macbeth in five and, if he has anything to say about it, a Kenneth Branagh movie deal in ten.
He sips his orange juice, the chatter around him fading quietly as he zones out. The bright sun is a welcome respite – it rains all the fucking time in Seattle anyway, but it's seemed particularly chill and ugly the last few weeks. Summer is burning down, just the coals of it flaring into days like this, sometimes. Mike soaks in the warm green grass, the rich smell of earth, and tries to enjoy it.
And then his breath stops in his mouth. His fingers get clumsy, the world slows down and the sound fades out as the most beautiful kid in the whole fucking world passes by the drinks table.
Mike's eyes are dragged after him like magnetism; he can feel the pull of the dark hair and the broad shoulders in his chest. Green eyes flash in the sun before they cut away, Mike's heart is ready to jump out of his chest, and then the kid goes behind someone's cell phone, someone else's giant hairdo, and disappears.
Mike is not this kind of guy. Mike has a job to do here, a focus, a goal: his career, making the right impression.
He's off across the grass like a shot, pushing past people who start and exclaim, trying to keep his eyes on the flash of black hair, blue jeans, red jacket. Even as he does it, he knows it's fucking crazy. Matrons turn up their noses as he rushes past, men apologize and remember his face in the way where it means temperamental, and therefore not good.
But he's almost there. He feels a pull in his gut like fate, like if he finds this kid, it'll be there, just like that, Antonio and Bassanio, and he needs to see – sneakers, a knapsack, flash, flash, flash.
And then he's standing in the middle of the meadow, out from under the tent with the sun in his eyes. He's alone, there's no kid, people are looking at him and he's holding his orange juice like a chump, looking around for someone that isn't there.
Goddammit.
He looks and looks, keeps an eye out for the kid the whole afternoon, but there's nothing. Talking to the event manager, the guy swears he'll look into it, and Mike gets a vague call a couple weeks later that tells him there was a dishwasher matching that description, but they paid him and he left and er, um, we'll try to track him down, sir, yes, of course we have a name, somewhere, sir, yes. Mike hangs up cursing whoever decided that paying laborers under the table was a good idea, and tries to forget.
So one day, a couple of weeks later, Mike's on the way to the theatre, organizing in the aftermath of Othello's downfall and preparing to be connived by the fey folk. He's coming out of a Starbucks with a fresh cinnamon chai and then out of nowhere, there's his boy from the brass party, slouched under the library awning with a book in his hands. He's looking around and the gray light hits his cheekbones so perfectly; Mike just gets yanked across the street by that same invisible force like he doesn't even have a choice. He doesn't; the rain pats down onto his head and he has no choice.
Falling debris to the head. Hit by a car, crossing the intersection. Bam, stars, whiteout.
He just stands there then, staring, feeling like a world-class idiot, and the kid sort of looks at him grouchily and goes, "I'm not begging," because his clothes are frayed and beat up and his knapsack is dirty and there's a smudge of something on his cheek.
Mike stammers, "I'm sorry, I didn't..." because he just has no idea what to say.
The kid looks him up and down and says, "If you're looking for what I think you're looking for, you should go see Chad on 42nd." Mike just stares at him, long enough to get the kid to say, "What?"
And then Mike says, "Let me take you to dinner."
Something in his voice must give him away, because the kid goes, "You mean... like, a date?"
Mike just nods. "Yeah." The kid squints at him, suspiciously, and Mike volunteers, "It, you wouldn't owe me anything. I just want to take you out."
Maybe it's because of the way Mike's staring at him, but the kid seems to gloss right over the part where it could be charity, because it really isn't. He just says, "Where do you want to go?"
"Anywhere you want."
The kid examines him a little, a sharp eye that's too old for him, and then he says, "Okay. But you try anything…"
Mike puts his hands up, open. "I promise."
"I'm Tom," the kid tells him, a little defiantly. He slings his knapsack down on his elbow, dogears a page and shoves the book into the pouch.
"Michael Rosenbaum," Mike says, and holds out his hand.
Tom takes it. His palm is warm and dry, his hand easily spanning Mike's own, and Mike loses equilibrium for a second, but manages to let go in one piece.
Tom picks this cheap little Italian diner that's not too far from where they are. They walk, and Mike sits at the red-and-white checkered table and watches Tom put away two full plates of pasta and sausage. The guys at the counter greet Tom by name and clap hands on his shoulder. They bring Mike some Alfredo, but he's too busy watching Tom eat to do more than poke at it.
They make idle chit chat during dinner: "So what do you do?" "I'm an actor." "Oh, yeah? Have you been in anything?" "Just plays, mostly." "Oh." Mike's not much of a conversationalist until Tom stops sliding that fork between his lips and acting like it's the best thing that's ever been in his mouth. But it's not all sex - his eyes when he talks to the guys at the counter, his huge hands - how did he get to be that big, living on the streets? He's a well of questions, and Mike has forever loved puzzles. He just looks and looks, as if looking would give any answers. The rain spatters the ground outside as the sky goes from gray to black.
When Tom's finally done and they clear the plates away, he looks at Mike and smiles a little. "So, what do we do now?" he asks, sort of shyly. "I haven't really been on an actual date before."
"Well," Mike tells him, "Traditionally there's some talking, and then either dancing or a movie."
Tom lifts his shirt to his nose and delicately sniffs it before giving Mike this look like, man, I don't think that's going to go over so well. And Mike blushes because he didn't mean to embarrass Tom, but Tom just laughs. He's not embarrassed at all, and Mike feels like a fool, which he normally hates feeling like, but right now he doesn't mind so much.
They talk a little, and Mike gets around to asking what Tom's reading, "The book you had when I saw you, what is it?" So Tom pulls it out of his knapsack, shy again, and slides it across the table. Mike reads the title, Marabou Stork Nightmares, by Irvine Welch, and just blinks. Tom lowers eyelashes that are too long to be really human, and says, "I liked Trainspotting, he did that one too."
Mike worries that if Tom rolls up his sleeves, there will be track marks. He's aware, in the moment that he thinks of that, that what he's doing is totally insane. He doesn't even know how old Tom is. He looks so young, now that Mike thinks of it, and he sort of just stares, helplessly.
Tom perks up a little just then, and he says, "Come on, I know where we can go." He stands up, and Mike pays the bill while Tom scuffs his sneakers and blushes, and the guys look at him hard. Mike can't hold back a little smug smile.
Tom drags him out the door fast, "Come on, Michael."
It's stopped raining, the streets are slick and smell fresh. A few blocks away, down a street Mike's never been before, Tom turns into an alley. There's a fire escape that's rusted through, enough so the ladder's hit the ground. Tom climbs up like it's the safest thing in the world. "Come on, Michael, come on."
With some trepidation, Mike follows, and puffs as he follows Tom up fourteen flights. They arrive at the top of the building and Tom hushes him. "The super'll catch us if you make too much noise," Tom explains, and then edges up the window so they can climb in. Mike worries, but Tom's slipped in the window like a cat, and Mike's going to lose sight of him if he doesn't move, so he moves. Tom whisks them down a little hall and through a door, and then they climb one more flight of stairs and Tom opens the big metal door on the roof. "It's nice up here," he says.
He's not wrong.
The city sparkles below them like the view from Mike's apartment, and the rocks shift under their feet. Mike sees some deck chairs and ashtrays up here, a sleeping bag or two under a lean-to shelter. He points them out to Tom, asks, "Do people live here?"
"No," Tom says, "They just come up here sometimes. It's pretty. Come on, you can sit on the edge."
"Wait, wait," Mike says, but Tom's already swinging his legs over the wide edge and sitting down, like there's not a huge drop below him, and Mike swallows. "Come back over," he says, and Tom grins at him. "What's the matter, Michael? Are you scared?" Mike just glares at him as he laughs softly, and climbs over the edge. There's a ledge under his feet, of course, but there's no seatbelt, and it's pretty freaky. Nothing to stop him from falling.
But that's how he's been feeling all night, so it's not so bad.
They sit there and stare out at the city for an hour and a half before the door creaks open, kids pouring out of it, laughing and passing a bottle. Tom waves hello, they wave hello, and then Mike shifts uncomfortably so Tom says, "Let's go back."
Tom walks Mike to his car. Mike pushes the button and it makes that chirpy little yes-I-am-locked-now sound, and then the engine's low rumble. Tom looks at the ground.
Mike turns to him and reaches out halfway between them, like he'd touch Tom's arm, but doesn't. "When can I see you again?"
Tom shrugs, head still down, hands shoved into his pockets. "I don't know," he says, but he steps a little closer.
"Was it all right?" Mike asks, nerves fluttering in his stomach. Tom looks up at him, intense and dark eyed, and Mike is struck again with the almost physical sensation of need to be with him.
"It was great," Tom says. "I had a really good time."
"So when?" Mike presses, and Tom glances around.
"Um. How about Wednesday? It's Monday now."
Mike nods, he's willing to take that. "Sure, Wednesday's good. Where do I meet you? I can come pick you up from somewhere, if you want."
Tom gives him an address, and Mike sifts through his own pockets to find a pen and something to write on. There's a receipt for something, and he doesn't care what it is. He writes the address down, and then his phone number, and he tears that last part off and passes it to Tom. "Here, that's me. Call me any time. Like, if your plans change, or you want to reschedule or something."
Tom just nods, and takes the paper. It disappears into his clothes, and Mike makes a wish. "Okay," he says shakily. "Thanks for an exceptional evening."
Tom nods, and then steps in even closer, and Mike's looking up into his face and Tom leans down and then they're kissing.
He tastes like pasta, cola and cigarettes. Mike doesn't like most of those things, but he can't get enough. He would put his arms around Tom, except Tom is holding him by the arms, and it's awkward and strange and so totally mind-blowingly hot that Mike thinks he could come, just from this.
And then Tom lets him go and steps back. Mike feels like he's just been drenched in ice water, it's so cold.
"Good night," Tom tells him, and with a little smile, he turns and walks off down the street, hoisting his backpack on his shoulder.
Mike gets in his car and sits there for twenty minutes, trying to remember how to drive.
He goes home and he's shaken and completely out of it. He runs a red light and doesn't hit anything or get pulled over, but he's never run a red light before, and someone honked and stomped on their brakes, and he pulls over and gets out of the car.
It's just a normal black car, nothing special.
He leans up against the door and waits for this feeling to pass him over, this feeling like he might throw up or maybe start dancing through the rain-drenched streets like Fred Astaire, but it's not normal; he needs it to stop. He just breathes nice and slow, and when he's less dizzy, he drives home.
Tuesday passes in a total blur. He can't concentrate, he's absentminded and not paying attention to much of anything. He hits his cues, remembers his lines because hey, it's fucking Shakespeare. But he's not much good at the planning phase, and Allison lays a hand on his arm after and says he might want to get some coffee or maybe a nap or something. You're looking pretty pale around the gills, Mikey. He nods, and debates blurting out his whole story to her over coffee. It might be cathartic, and God knows he would like to be sure that he's sane about all this.
But the very concept's crazy, he knows what she'd say, so he doesn't tell her anything, just nods her good night and goes down to his car.
In some obscure way, the car reassures Mike. It saw Tom, it was in the same place as him. It's some kind of proof that Tom was there, that Mike wasn't dreaming.
He wonders if he'll get a call on Wednesday, wonders if he should even bother coming in to the theatre when he knows he'll jump every time there's a jingle that could be his phone ringing. He eats dinner that night at home, alone, and decides to call in some personal days. It's early enough in this staging; they've just started running lines and they're still working out who's going to play the bit parts.
He calls up Al at home; he's in. "Al, I need the next three days. I know. I know it is. I just do. Personal reasons. No, nothing like that. I will. I won't. Al. Okay. Bright and early Monday morning. Bye. Al. Bye."
He sighs, thumbs the button and lays the phone on the kitchen counter. "I have got to be crazy," he mutters to himself, and presses the heels of his hands into his eyes.
On Wednesday, the phone rings just as the sun is setting. "Hello!" Mike says, almost before the phone is to his head.
"Michael?" It's definitely Tom's voice, and Mike's pulse leaps. "It's Tom," says the phone, and Mike remembers how you're supposed to talk back.
"I know, hi, sorry. I was, caught up. Are we still on for tonight?"
"Yeah," says the soft, shy murmur right into Mike's ear. "If you want."
"I want," Mike breathes.
There's no sound, and Mike worries for a minute that he's been too forward, but then Tom speaks, and Mike can hear the smile. "Good, okay. Um. Can you still come pick me up?"
"Yeah, of course," Mike says, picking the receipt up off the coffee table, where it's been sitting in the fruit bowl. "I, um. How should I dress? Do you have someplace you want to go?"
"Well, I got to pick last time," Tom says. "You can this time, but nothing too fancy, okay?"
"Sure, of course," Mike tells him, wracking his brain for anything that might be even a little bit appropriate. He discards the bistro at city hall, the coffee shop at the theatre, and the stadium before he realizes his next mental stop is the Needle and stops trying to think while Tom is on the phone. Instead, he asks, "What time should I come get you?"
"Um. Seven?"
"Seven, okay. Absolutely. I'll see you then." The phone clicks off in his hand as Tom hangs up, and Mike listens to the dead air for a second. Seven is one hour away, and he's got to go get dressed, but he's got that dizzy feeling again, so he just stands there for a bit, waiting for it to pass.
The address he's been given is for a shelter. He pulls up outside in his car and Tom's hanging around at the entrance, waiting for him. Two boys are standing with him and they're all smoking by the brick wall. Mike worries again about how young Tom must be, and vows to himself that he will ask, at some point tonight.
When Tom sees the car, he flicks his cigarette to the curb, waves to the boys, and hoists up that knapsack again. The guys whistle and grin; one of them tosses his cigarette butt near Tom's feet, but it's just a gesture. He's smiling, and the little cinder doesn't get too near. Tom climbs in, tossing his bag at his feet, and Mike immediately smells soap, and blushes.
"Hi."
"Hi." Tom smiles, blushing a little as well. "Don't mind those guys. They think you're a trick, they're just assholes." He smiles to himself, and then his eyes open up worriedly as he hurries to explain. "I mean I don't do that, trick, I mean. I'm not, I don't -"
Mike talks over him, "No, no, Tom, I know. Remember? You thought I was looking, and you sent me to -"
"Right," Tom says, "Yeah, right. So. I'm not."
"I know."
There's a moment of awkward silence and then Mike clears his throat and pulls out into the flow of traffic. Tom bites his lip beside Mike, and looks out the window, but before Mike has a chance to think of something to break the tension, Tom beats him to it.
"So, where are we going?"
"Oh! Well, I..." Mike clears his throat again. "I thought if it was all right with you, we'd go to the Pacific Science Center." He glances over to gauge Tom's expression and finds it stunned. He adds on, cheeks flushed, "If you think it's lame, we don't have to. I just thought, y'know, you might want to see the stars a little closer than fourteen stories up."
There's a pause, and Mike starts to fill in the awkward silence with it's okay, we'll go get dinner, but Tom cuts him off with a little smile. "I want to go. I just... it's not what I was expecting. But it's nice. I like it."
He gazes out the window again, but this time he's wearing that little smile, and Mike counts his blessings and doesn't interrupt.
For the most part, Tom wanders around the planetarium sedately. He peers at things, laughs over some and is quiet over others. It's not quite the awestruck kid thing that Mike was sort of subconsciously expecting; he keeps looking over at Tom and thinking he's going to see that face light up over some star chart or gizmo, but it never happens. Tom just looks and reads, sometimes pleasantly surprised and sometimes interested, but never overwhelmed. Naturally, that makes Mike crazy to find something that really pleases him.
Somewhere between the industrial revolution and the space age, Tom's thick fingers slip shyly into Mike's palm, and then Mike's the awestruck one. He laces their fingers together and follows wherever Tom leads, feeling entirely at peace. It's like now that they're touching, some weird buzz under his skin has stopped and he can stop being distracted and focus.
He gains an impression of some looks directed at them from some thick, overly made up WASPs, and he holds Tom's hand tighter as an act of rebellion, of go-fuck-yourself. Mike's contrary like that. He sees Tom looking over his shoulder at the glowers, uncomfortable, but when Mike tries to let go, Tom tightens his hold and pulls Mike into the alcove for the laser light show.
He leans over and whispers in Mike's ear, "Can we go?"
Mike gives ten bucks to the usher and Tom pulls him into the theatre, seating them in the back. They watch the show (Pink Floyd) with their hands firmly together, hidden in the dark. By the time the lights come up, Mike has totally forgotten to be angry.
It's closing on ten o'clock when they leave. They pry their hands apart, because they have to or they'll lock that way. Mike walks beside Tom, slow and easy, out to the car. "So, what now? If you want, we could go for some food, or I could just take you home. Anything."
Tom sighs, and looks down at the ground, and Mike stops and gently touches his arm. "What?"
Tom smiles, a sad sort of try at it, and it jerks at Mike's heart. "It's nothing," he says. "I just wish I..."
"What?" Mike touches his face, and Tom closes his eyes and inclines his head into it, so subtly. They stand in a circle of orange streetlight, the pavement slick with rain, and Mike barely breathes.
"I wish I'd met you before."
Mike just strokes Tom's cheek, and feels his heart tear a little.
And then Tom smiles again, opens his clear eyes, and Mike can feel the inside of him heat up like someone opened the furnace door. "Anyway," Tom says. "I could go for some food, if you want. I mean, I don't have to be up, or anything, so."
Mike smiles back, can't help himself, and they start walking back to the car. "Great," he says. "Neither do I. We can stay out as late as you want."
Tom smiles that secret, private smile that makes Mike's pulse jump in his throat, and scuffs his feet on the black asphalt. His tone is quiet, but Mike can tell he's being a wiseass. "Will you keep me out past curfew?"
They laugh softly - Mike first, then Tom joins in. they arrive at the car, black and shining under the streetlights, and inside it's dark and humid and close. Mike looks over and sees Tom looking at him, feels it pull at him just like it did that first day. Kiss me, it says, and he pictures that thick, solid body laid out on his white sheets instead of the silver-gray upholstery. They're drawing together, and then Mike reaches out and rubs a thumb over those lush, full lips. Tom's eyes flutter closed and he licks his lip in Mike's wake.
"Wait," Mike breathes, and Tom looks at him again. "Before this goes any further, Tom, I have to ask..."
Tom dips his head down, cheeks flushed, and Mike could groan, but doesn't. "My eighteenth birthday's in four months," Tom says, and Mike nods his head.
"Okay."
"Okay?" Tom looks up, the edge of hope in his eyes.
"Well. Not... not like, whatever okay, but. Dealable." Mike runs a hand down his arm, warmly, and smiles his best reassuring smile. Outside, a soft rain begins to ping a little symphony on the hood.
Tom gives him a beautiful look that threatens to dissolve his fledgling willpower, and so Mike starts the car and pulls out of the parking lot.
The lights flash by on the windows, gleam off the dash as Mike pulls through the streets. He's trying to think of where Tom would want to go for supper; he doesn't want to insult him, but he wants to impress him. He kind of used all his thinking on the date part, and he's at a total loss. He's on a date with a seventeen year old street urchin and it's just, it's not how he thought he'd be spending his Wednesday, is all.
"Are we going to go to dinner?" Tom asks gently, and Mike coughs.
"Yeah, I, uh. Yeah." In the silence that follows, the awkwardness grows. Mike's not sure what to say, but he's got to come up with something, and Tom seems like he's catching on to Mike's floundering around, which makes it even harder.
And then Tom clears his throat and offers, "Y'know, I like McDonald's."
"Yeah?" Mike asks, latching onto it, and Tom nods.
"Yeah, they have the best fries."
Mike swallows hard, breathes a little easier. "Okay," he says. "You want McDonalds, you got it."
They find a pair of arches and Mike parks. Under the harsh lights, they eat, and blessedly the TV is tuned to the Leafs versus the Red Wings, so Mike pulls for Toronto and Tom looks on. Mike told him to get anything he wanted, and insisted he get the big fries, but Tom can't eat them all and builds little forts on his tray out of the leftovers, questioning Mike about the plays he calls at the screen.
It's fun. It surprises Mike a little, but it's comfortable and easy and he has fun.
When they're done, they get back into Mike's car and drive. Tom directs them back toward the shelter and asks him to stop a couple blocks away. Mike pulls into the lot and they climb out.
Mike comes over to stand by him. It smells of rain and dirt, but clean. Tom looks down at him and Mike waits.
There's a moment. It's this holding-your-breath moment, when they could kiss and it feels like they're going to kiss, because there's nothing else to say and he's leaving. The silence stretches out as they look at each other, and there's a soft gravity pulling at them. Tom's eyes go a little heavy, his breath comes a little faster. There's a change in the air, so subtle, like he might take a step forward.
Mike turns his head to the side and down a little, breaking the eye contact.
"Well. I should get going. Again, please, call me anytime."
And he turns and walks around to his side of the car, and just as he goes to get in, Tom says, "Michael?" Mike looks up at him and there he is, with his backpack and his sneakers and his earnest eyes, and he says, "How about tomorrow? Are you busy tomorrow?"
Mike smiles wide and says, "No. No, I'm not busy."
Tom calls early on Thursday afternoon, around one.
Mike's relaxing on the couch, sleepily watching TSN, when the phone rings. "Hello?"
"Hi, Michael?"
Mike sits up and mutes the television, runs a hand over his hair like Tom could possibly tell if he had bedhawk. "Tom, hi. How're you?"
"Pretty good," he says, and Mike can hear him smile. "We still on for today?"
"Yeah," Mike says, "Of course, definitely. Where to?"
"I don't know," Tom says sunnily. "Somewhere outside, maybe this afternoon? I mean if you're not busy..."
"No, no, this afternoon's fine," Mike hastens to assure him. "Tell you what, if you want, we could hit the farmer's market. I have to do some shopping anyway, and if you came with me, we could pick up your favorites. Have dinner at my place later tonight. And there's usually buskers and street performers, lots to see."
Tom's laughter stops the sales pitch. "That sounds fun," he says. "Do you want to meet there, say, three o'clock?"
"Sure," Mike says, beaming at the phone like it just won him the lottery. "Three sounds just fine. Meet by the fire station?"
"See you there," Tom says, and the line goes dead, but that's fine by Mike, because he's got an all-day date.
And sure, maybe it's with a seventeen year old. Maybe he's crazy. But Tom's not your average seventeen-year-old and he can't think about that anyway because he only has two hours to make this place halfway presentable, shower, dress, and make it to the market, just in time for it to open.
One hour, fifty-two minutes later, with a dishwasher full of dirty dishes and the fourth shirt he tried on his back, Mike parks on the street and climbs out. His heart's a little fast as he looks around, a smile on his face already. When he spots Tom - not hard to do, so tall - he waves and jogs over, realizing only belatedly that he looks like a huge dork.
But Tom is smiling at him, wide and happy, and so Mike thinks maybe it doesn't matter.
"Hi," he says. "You ready?"
"Any time you are," Tom says, and they head into the market together, the rare sun warming their shoulders.
They sort through almost everything. Tom is shy at first about expressing a preference, but when Mike refuses to buy anything unless it gets the Tom seal of approval, he warms up. He prefers berries to melon, and Mike picks up a bag of blackberries the size of his head. They browse the jewelry and knick knack kiosks and Mike ends up with a wind chime set that looks like snowfall and four or five bead necklaces and woven bracelets. He insists Tom take at least two of those, and Tom laughs and says he'll have to think about it. Later on, they get some fresh pasta (the corkscrew kind) and Mike says they can make sauce from scratch, so they spend some time poking around vegetables before just getting a big pile of sausage.
Just as they're coming on the invisible line where the meat shops turn into dessert displays, there's a commotion behind them. Mike turns around just in time to get slammed into by a kid racing by; the kid doesn't even slow down as he nearly bowls Mike over. Tom's there in a heartbeat, strong hands to hold Mike up. There's a moment when the clock stops, and Mike can feel the heat at his shoulder, his waist, his side.
Then, back in the crowd where the kid came from, someone yells, "Stop him! Thief!" Mike's about to go running after the kid, but Tom's hand is a soft request on his shoulder, and Mike turns to look at him.
Don't go, says Tom's face, quiet and a little sad.
Mike just sort of blinks, and then figures it out: they're in a farmer's market. So whatever the kid stole, it was probably food. And if he stole food, then maybe he's just hungry, and if he's a hungry kid then...
Then maybe, Mike thinks, as he comes back to stand beside Tom - maybe he'll just stay right here.
"Well," Mike says, clearing his throat and turning to the shelves of fudge. "Let's, uh... let's get back to shopping, okay?"
They spend a half hour touring through the rest of it. A man has painted himself silver and moves like a robot if you put a coin into his hat. Someone's doing caricatures for ten dollars. Mike gets two slices of black forest cake from one stall, dripping with cherries and slivers of chocolate, and that lightens their moods more than anything. Tom says more than three words together, for that.
They drive back to Mike's house and get in the elevator, their arms loaded down with brown paper sacks. Tom says it smells great, and Mike smiles that they haven't even got started yet, just wait. In the kitchen, Mike puts Tom to work chopping up sausage while he puts the sauce on. It's easy and relaxed, some classic rock on the stereo behind them as they make a mess of the counters and dining room table. Tom tries to "help" with the spices, sneaking up behind Mike and taking the shaker from his hand.
"Just a little," Mike grins, watching Tom tap the shaker like it's filled with nitroglycerin. "It's Andouilli sausage, so you have to be careful with anything that isn't garlic or oregano, pretty much."
"Maybe I should do the garlic and oregano, then." Tom grins, and Mike has to laugh.
"Spicing's not hard," Mike says as Tom plays with the garlic press. "You just have to watch your quantity, always include at least a little salt, and remember not to mix things like Italian spices with mints. No rosemary and oregano together." Mike brushes off his hands and turning the heat down to let it simmer. "You've got to let them stay apart or your palate gets confused. But I don't know, I guess you don't really need to know about that."
Tom stops, the smile fading. "I don't need to know?" he asks, his brows furrowing. "What exactly do you mean by that?"
Mike freezes. "What? Oh, nothing, nothing at all. Tom, I didn't mean..."
Tom's face closes down. It's like somebody just turned the heat in the room way down; the easy, relaxed atmosphere is frozen, shattered. He backs up, just one step, and Mike knows he's losing.
"Maybe I should be going," Tom says, and heads into the living room.
Mike hurries to keep up with him. "No, please. I'm sorry, I didn't mean it like that."
"Don't worry about it," Tom says, picking up his backpack and bringing it to the door. His mouth is tight; he won't look up.
Mike touches his arm, but he just moves away. "Tom... I swear, I didn't..."
Tom's picking Mike's jacket up from the couch, looking for his own. "It's fine." He drops the leather and comes up with his own big denim thing, frayed at the cuffs. Mike is sure if he lets Tom leave now, he'll never see that jacket again.
"Tom," he says, taking Tom firmly by the wrist and forcing the issue. A muscle in Tom's jaw clenches as his teeth clench, and Mike's nervousness spikes, but he doesn't let go. "I don't think you're anything less than anyone else. I couldn't. Shit, since the first second I saw you, I couldn't tell anything about you, and I can usually read people like billboards. I just, I just want to know who you are."
Tom drops his jacket to the ground. It clinks, soft.
He breaks Mike's grip as easily as he would a child's, and then those hands are gripping Mike's shoulders and dragging him close. The first touch of his mouth is hard, desperate and open. There's more honesty in it than any kiss Mike's ever known, and Mike puts his arms around Tom's waist and holds tight, like if he doesn't, he will wake up and Tom will be gone.
"I'm just me," Tom breathes into the space between them. "That's all."
"There's nothing just about you," Mike growls, and he grips the back of Tom's shirt as they press together again.
The foyer melts into the living room, standing to sitting, and Mike's lost in the feeling Tom makes with his mouth. Nothing about this is remotely familiar or safe: Mike holds Tom closer, can't keep his hands still.
It's just a bunch of contradictions, Mike thinks, as he tastes tomato and spring on Tom's tongue. It shouldn't be possible that Tom is seventeen, and if it is, then it shouldn't be possible for him to hold firm under Mike's rushing hands, to feel like a mountain when their chests touch and Mike's heart is pounding. Tom should be nervous, or older, or less beautiful, or something.
But instead he just puts his heavy, strong hands on Mike's back, settles him closer and allows what this is, which is Mike biting softly at his bottom lip, running a thumb over his jaw, breathing his air. Mike tries to sense when Tom will shift, wants to kiss him until he forgets his name. He wants in, he wants to know, and Tom's letting him have just enough to make him ravenous.
Tom's gentle but unstoppable. When he pulls Mike closer, Mike moves just fast enough to stay ahead of the inexorable pressure. When Tom puts a knuckle on Mike's chin to hold his mouth open, tasting him, Mike can't think to close it. When Tom groans, low in his throat, it rocks Mike's core.
It's not just how he kisses, but that's part of it. It's not that Tom's too experienced, he isn't. Mike was expecting raw passion, he expected testosterone and pawing, and that sort of thing is fun, sure. But when he instead gets this dreamy, sinking kiss where Tom cups his jaw and presses a hand in the small of Mike's back, it's... sort of shocking. Unsettling. Every time he turns around with this kid, he gets something he didn't expect, and it makes Mike hesitate.
Heat builds slow between them, but Mike can feel it stoking, tight and intense. He pulls them apart a little more, sets his cheek against Tom's and holds it there, closing his eyes. "We should stop. Wow. We should. The food's going to get cold, so, we should stop."
His mouth feels pleasantly bruised.
"I'm sorry," Tom says, the smile audible. "I guess I just got caught up..."
"No, no," Mike assures him, coughing politely. "I got a little caught up myself."
They pull away from each other, make distance. "Come on," Mike says, and beckons Tom into the kitchen, feeling shaky but good. Ethically speaking, that is.
They eat pasta. The sauce they made is really, really good, and they don't talk about anything important. They just sit at dinner and bullshit about nothing, about sports or books, because Tom likes books, or about Mike's house, which Tom likes too. But it's a quiet, warm, good evening, and Mike is more than content to take it. What he wants... that's more complex. But there's no time for that now.
At the end of the night, they're full of pasta and pleasant conversation. Tom stands up around ten and stretches; Mike can't help but notice the way his shirt rides up over his belly, softened a little with the supper they've just had.
"I should get going," Tom rumbles, sounding sated and satisfied.
Mike wants him to do anything except leave, but of course he has to. He rubs his palms on his jeans and stands up, follows Tom into the living room and watches as he picks up his jacket, shakes it out. "You want a ride home?" Mike asks, going for his keys.
"Nah." Tom smiles, shrugging the jacket over his broad shoulder. "That's all right. I've got some stuff to take care of before I get there, so."
Tom heads for the door, picks up the knapsack and slings it over his shoulder, turns the doorknob, and Mike blurts out, "Do you need anything? Is there anything I can, y'know..."
Gently, Tom turns in the doorway and lifts his hands. They settle inside Mike's elbows, holding him, and Tom gives him this soft smile and says, "No, Michael, it's okay. You stay. Can I call you tomorrow?"
"Sure," Mike says, holding tight to Tom's arms. "Sure, of course."
And then things are shifting, changing, and Tom leans toward him, blacking out the light from the hall. It's a good kiss, firm and damp, light pressure and heat. It's totally unselfconscious; Mike can feel Tom saying to him It's all right, I'll be back, I won't leave you. and Mike is all set to press into that warmth, wrap his arms around it and hold on, but then Tom pulls away and turns to go, and Mike's left standing in his doorway, watching Tom's back disappear down the stairs.
