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Michael’s never been particularly good with puzzles. He doesn’t have the patience, and the payoff is never satisfying.
David, then, shouldn’t interest him. Michael’s never met a more puzzling person, and part of him suspects that someone long ago put David’s pieces together wrong, but he can’t quite figure out where.
It’s been a few days since the show, and Michael keeps returning to the boardwalk every night to see if he can spot that white-blond head. He’s not only going to the boardwalk looking for David, Michael tells himself; if he can figure out how to score some weed, it would make his house a whole lot more tolerable. And it’s not like he has anything better to do besides sit in his room under the watchful eye of a stuffed and mounted raccoon and listen to Sam verbally recount, in excruciating detail, episodes of The Golden Girls, since they don’t have anything to watch it on.
Feeling a little dejected after his fourth night wandering aimlessly and peering into the shadows, Michael swings his leg over his bike to head home when someone pulls up next to him. He feels a prickle on the back of his neck and somehow knows it’s David before he even turns to look.
“Michael,” David says jovially, and Michael’s hand flies up to the earring dangling from his ear. “Leaving so soon?”
“Uh.” Now that David is here in front of him, Michael isn’t sure what to say. “I was just gonna… head home.”
David seems amused by this, for some reason. He glances to his friends, who smirk back at him. The moonlight catches on David’s cheekbone, making his face seem almost incandescent. “So early?”
It must be nearing midnight, by Michael’s judgment. “Oh. Um, I could stay out a bit longer, I guess.”
The leather of David’s gloves makes a soft thwack as he claps his hands together once. “Great. Hey, I’ll race you to Coronado Bluff. What do you say?”
Michael sizes up David’s bike and suspects this is not a fair competition. “I don’t think I can beat your bike. What happens if I lose?”
“You come in and have a drink with us.” The other guys giggle as if this is hilarious.
That doesn’t sound so bad. “And if I win?”
David pauses and rubs his chin, as if he hadn’t considered this possibility. “I’ll teach you to play the guitar.”
Michael’s dad had played guitar, and privately he resented that his dad hadn’t taught him. His eyes are drawn to David’s fingers, wondering how they would look curled around a guitar. “Okay. Sure.”
The grin David gives him is sharp and borders on unfriendly. “Alright, then. Let’s go.”
Michael’s heart lodges in his throat as he tries to keep up, knuckles aching with the force of his grip on the handlebars. More than once, he catches David’s eye, feeling warm despite the wind whipping through his hair.
Gravel bites into his hands as he hits the ground, clawing to slow his momentum as the edge of the cliff appears before him suddenly. This is of no concern to David and his friends, apparently, as they laugh at his panic.
“What the fuck!” Michael snaps. “I almost went over the edge.”
Dwayne claps a hand on his shoulder. “Key word: almost.”
“It’s not funny.” Michael’s ears go hot with irritation and mild embarrassment.
“Aw.” David pouts, mocking him. It sends an odd zip through Michael’s stomach. “Well, we owe you a drink. You coming in?”
Michael looks around. “Coming in where?”
“Our home.” David waves his hand, urging Michael to follow.
Michael swallows against his nerves and treks after him.
Michael stumbles into the iron works factory, clutching at his sunglasses despite the darkness blanketing all of Santa Carla, and tries not to throw up on the dusty floor.
“David!” he bellows, room spinning slightly. His voice echoes off the walls, the room feeding his words back to him. “David!”
“Michael!” David greets in that same delighted way. It grates against Michael’s skin.
“What the fuck is happening to me?” Michael demands, voice low. “What did you do?”
David’s mouth twists in that odd way it does, and he clucks his tongue patronizingly. “Now, Michael—”
Somehow, Michael’s hands find the lapels of David’s jacket, and he grips them tightly, shaking him. “What did you do to me?”
“Easy, boy,” David says, features hardening. There’s a glint in his eye, promising something dangerous. “I’ve given you a gift. A precious, precious gift.”
“You call this a gift?” Michael spits. “I’m—I’m—”
“Nobody can hurt you, now.” David’s voice is smooth, soothing. Like Michael is a child throwing a tantrum over a broken toy.
Michael releases David’s jacket and punches him square in the jaw.
“Oh, yeah? Did that hurt?” Michael grits out, hand throbbing.
David grunts, hand pressing against his lip and eyes flashing when it comes away bloody. He bares his teeth, neither a smile nor a sneer, lower lip red and shiny in the low light. Slowly, so slowly, his tongue darts out to lick away the blood, and it occurs to Michael that maybe he should run.
Before the thought even clears Michael’s brain, David is there, shoving him to the ground. Michael thrashes, knee colliding with David’s stomach, which gives Michael a chance to scramble back to his feet.
David’s chest rises and falls rapidly as he regards him, wiping at his lip again. “Michael—”
“Fuck you,” Michael spits. He’s always been sloppy when he gets angry, always picks the dumbest possible option in every situation. He swings at David again, colliding with nothing but air as David dodges him, looking infuriatingly amused.
“Look,” David says, hands spread in front of him placatingly. Have his fingernails always been this long? “If you can beat me, I’ll apologize. How about that? Will that make you feel better?”
Michael lunges for him again, uncoordinated and dizzy, more pawing at David’s face than actually hitting him. His sunglasses go skittering across the floor as David grabs him roughly and spins him, twisting Michael’s arm painfully behind his back. Michael struggles, shoulder screaming, but David overpowers him easily. In the blink of an eye, he’s face-down on the ground with David’s knee in his back.
For a long moment, there’s no sound in the room other than their heavy breathing. Dust tickles Michael’s nose, sweat making grit stick to his face. The anger in his veins is starting to be replaced by a creeping fear.
“Well,” David says smoothly, right into his ear. “I win. Now, you apologize.”
“Fuck you,” Michael spits again, and David grinds his face into the floor with a hand in his hair, scraping Michael’s chin.
David chuckles, low and unbothered. “Not quite.”
Michael tries to wiggle out from underneath David but achieves nothing, David’s weight uncomfortably pressing his hips into the floor in a way that is making his blood run hot. It feels like an eternity, lying there with David on top of him, until his newly heightened senses seem to dull and all he can feel is the twinge in his shoulder and the floor underneath him. It feels almost… good. Grounding.
“Apologize,” David says again, all amusement gone from his voice.
Michael licks his lips, tasting sand and dust. He opens his mouth and all that comes out is a croak. He clears his throat and tries again. “Sorry.”
“Hmm?” David leans down, closer to Michael’s face. He smells like cigarettes and iron. “I didn’t catch that.”
Michael grits his teeth, exhales harshly through his nose. “I’m sorry.”
David releases Michael’s arm, patting him on the shoulder before his weight is gone from Michael’s body.
It takes another few moments for Michael to drag himself to his feet, shoulder muscle aching and chin stinging. His legs feel unstable, like he’s just climbed a million stairs.
“Here you go,” David says, holding out the sunglasses.
Michael stares at them before slowly taking them and slipping them back on, unable to meet David’s eyes.
Wordlessly, he leaves.
At home, Michael prods at the scrape on his chin, studying it in his waning reflection in the mirror. He presses his fingers to it and winces at the bite of pain. He presses harder, remembers David’s weight on top of him, and feels his entire body throb.
A hand lands on Michael’s shoulder and he nearly jumps out of his skin.
“Michael,” David greets, the way he always does, the hard ch sharp in the back of his throat. “Haven’t seen you in a couple days.”
I’ve been avoiding you, Michael thinks. The cut on his chin healed, but the embarrassment remains.
“Aw,” David says, like Michael had said that out loud. Did he? “No need for that. You’re one of us now.”
“Uh.” Michael wants to shrug the hand off of his shoulder.
“Come on.” David indicates farther down the boardwalk with his head. “Let’s go.”
“Go where?”
“Come have a drink.” David laughs at the way Michael tenses. “A regular one. Bar’s down the boardwalk.”
Michael’s feet agree before he can object. He should hate David, or at the very least be afraid of him. But he follows, as helpless as the earth is to exit its orbit around the sun.
David makes a big show of greeting the bouncer at the door, smoothly talking his way around the question of Michael’s age. They slip inside the dimly lit bar, which smells like cigarette smoke. There’s a sharp, acidic undertone, like someone recently vomited on the floor. Michael feels briefly like gagging, wondering how long it will take to adjust to his heightened senses.
Michael is almost disappointed to find that Marko, Dwayne, and Paul are also here, seemingly waiting for their arrival. He wonders if David told them about their fight, and is embarrassed all over again for the way he acted.
David claps him on the shoulder again and pushes a glass of amber liquid into Michael’s hand. “Michael, relax.”
“Right,” Michael says, and drains half of it in one gulp.
“Damn, Mikey,” Paul says appreciatively, and Michael has always hated the nickname, especially during his phase in middle school when he used far too much gel in his hair and his classmates had called him Spikey Mikey.
Michael feels the pressure of David’s hand on his shoulder and decides to let it slide.
Marko resumes telling a story that Michael assumes they interrupted, and Michael studies David out of the corner of his eye. He finishes his whiskey and David orders him another, hand coming to rest on Michael’s thigh for a brief moment in a way that sends a jolt of electricity through Michael’s body.
“What do you say, Michael?”
Michael blinks and realizes he’s missed something. “Sorry, what?”
“Darts. You want to play?” David gestures to the board nailed to the wall, which had previously been occupied by a group of college-age-looking kids but is now vacated.
“Oh. Um, sure.”
David collects the darts and offers Michael his share in his outstretched hands. “Want to wager?”
Michael eyes him warily. “Last time we did that I ended up dead.” He tries to say it lightheartedly, but the words taste sour in his mouth.
One corner of David’s mouth turns up. “We’ll pick something with lower stakes, then. I can still teach you to play guitar.”
Michael licks his lips. “What if I lose?”
David ponders this. “I could use a little help around the house.”
“What does that even mean?”
David shrugs, nonchalant. “We’re a bit behind on cleaning. I don’t have the time; I have to prepare for our next show.”
“A bit behind on cleaning” is an understatement. Michael has wondered if they have a trash can or all of the guys just drop things on the floor whenever they’re finished with them. He’s never even played darts before, and doubts David makes bets he won’t win.
“What do you say?” David goads.
Michael finds himself nodding before he can think it through.
David throws the darts with unnerving precision, the muscles in his arms flexing as he draws his hand back to aim. Michael finds them particularly distracting, David’s arms. His palms itch to touch them, and David turns to him and grins like he knows exactly what Michael is thinking.
“Your turn,” David practically purrs with the confidence of a man who already knows he’s won the game.
Michael does his best, but it’s nowhere near David’s score. One bounces off the wall and onto the floor. Still, he wants to go down fighting. “Best of three?”
David presses his tongue to his front teeth when he smiles, drawing Michael’s eyes. “Sure, sure. Best of three.”
David flops down onto the couch with his guitar and a notebook. He gestures to the collection of bottles and ashtrays and miscellaneous pieces of paper and discarded items on the coffee table. “Clean that up, will you?”
Michael stares at the table and wonders how he ended up here. He clears his throat. “Uh, do you have a garbage bag?”
David wordlessly waves a hand toward the kitchen, which is technically a break room containing only a fridge and a microwave. Michael supposes they don’t need to cook, and shudders.
Michael finds the box sitting on the countertop and grabs a bag, then thinks better of it and grabs the whole box. The bottles clang together as he puts them in the bag.
David pauses his strumming. “Michael, a little quieter, please.”
Michael grits his teeth and tries to put the bottles in the bag more carefully. He empties ashtrays and gags a little at what appears to be a blood-soaked handkerchief. When he can finally see the stained, scratched coffee table, David looks up from his notebook and smiles.
“Good work,” David says, and Michael feels the words land in his chest. “Keep going.”
Michael goes through the makeshift living room, filling another bag with trash and bottles and cans. Sometimes, he feels David’s eyes on him, and his face flushes hot under his gaze.
“Um, that’s all the trash,” Michael says, gesturing to the three bags.
David seems uninterested, barely looking up, and Michael feels it like a punch to the gut. “Wipe down the table, would you?”
“Oh, um. Okay.” Michael goes back to rummaging through cabinets and is surprised to find any cleaning supplies at all. He brings the spray and rag back into the living room, spraying down the table and wiping it hastily. He’s starting to feel self-conscious, playing the part of maid, and thinks maybe it was a mistake to agree to this at all.
David peers at the table when Michael finishes and frowns. “You can do better than that.”
The impulse to slam down the bottle and storm out flashes through Michael’s mind, but David’s words make him pause. He’s right; Michael can do better. And, for some reason, he wants to. He wipes the table down again, more carefully this time, and looks to David for approval.
David sighs and sets aside his guitar, shaking his head. The disappointment etched on his face hits Michael like a stab to the gut. David moves to stand behind Michael.
“Spray again,” David says, voice soft but leaving no room for anything but obedience. Once Michael has followed his order, he presses his entire front into Michael’s back, and Michael jolts.
“Wha—”
Before Michael can get even get a full word out, David bends Michael over and blankets Michael’s hand with his own, directing how hard he wants Michael to scrub. “Did your mom never teach you how to clean?”
It’s pretty rich, coming from someone who lives in a glorified dump, and Michael bristles. “Fuck you.”
David chuckles, vibrating Michael’s skin in a way that makes his whole body tingle. He can feel every part of David pressed against him in a way that has his skin heating against his will. Inexplicably, he wants to rock back into David, anger and embarrassment mixing with whatever is charging the air between them in a way that really shouldn’t be appealing.
Abruptly, David steps back, and Michael practically falls face-first onto the table, catching himself with his hands. David pats Michael on the shoulder, says, “Good,” and Michael realizes in that moment that he’s halfway to hard.
David settles back on the couch and picks up the guitar, and Michael awkwardly tries to angle his body away from David’s view, tugging down the front of his t-shirt. He can’t remember the last time he felt this awkward. The satisfied smirk David gives him is far too knowing, but he just goes back to strumming.
“I don’t need anything else from you tonight,” David dismisses, and Michael tries not to be devastated by it.
Michael presses his forehead to the cool tile of the shower wall and shuts his eyes against his memories of David pressed against him, David’s cool breath on the back of his neck, David’s oddly delicate fingers laced through Michael’s as he controlled his hand. Michael pretends David’s hand is on his now, directing him to drag it tantalizingly slowly over his cock.
He comes before he has the good sense to be ashamed.
Thoughts of David start to consume Michael’s brain, to the point where his family is asking if he’s okay when they have to say his name three times to get his attention at the dinner table. No, he isn’t okay. This is possibly the least okay he’s been in his entire life. It occurs to him that he should be angry at David, perhaps even afraid of him, but it’s getting increasingly more difficult to care.
After an evening wandering the boardwalk with no sign of David, Michael heads to the dive bar and allows the bouncer to draw an X on the back of his hand before he enters. He isn’t here to get drunk. He isn’t as addicted to television as Sam is, but has definitely missed watching football. It was one of the only things Michael did with his father, before he would get so drunk during games that he’d start swinging if the Cardinals lost. It’s nostalgic but also feels like pressing a finger into an old bruise.
Michael nurses a Coke and stares at the television in the corner, his mind wandering, as it often does, to David. When David sits down next to him, Michael wonders if he’s truly lost his mind and started hallucinating.
“No, it’s really me,” David says, amused. He lights a cigarette and takes a puff. He gestures with it to the television. “Wouldn’t want to miss the game.”
Michael can’t tell if he’s being sarcastic. “You watch football?”
“Sure. I played a little, once upon a time.”
“What?” Michael can’t picture David doing anything that requires cooperating with teammates.
“Not that much to do on the army base, some days.”
“You were in the military?” This seems even less plausible. David taking orders?
David doesn’t answer his question. “Ah, the Cardinals. Arizona. Think they’ll ever win a championship again?”
“Shut up,” Michael mutters. “They won their last game.”
David’s eyes glint at him. “Rams are the superior team. Bet you they’ll lose.”
Well, Michael isn’t going to bet against his own team. His stomach jumps as he says, “Fine. What do I win? Finally get that guitar lesson?”
“Sure,” David says easily. “And my boots could use a good polishing.”
Michael’s disgusted with himself, how his breath hitches at the idea. Already his skin gets hot, and he wants to press the cool glass of his Coke to his face.
David gets up to get a drink, and when he sits back down, his hand lands on Michael’s thigh, making him jump. It rests there casually as David uses his other hand to continue smoking, watching the television while looking completely unbothered.
Michael can’t think of a single thing outside of the weight of David’s hand on his leg, just close enough to his inseam to feel dangerous. His body starts to react, and Michael tries to think of anything at all to keep from getting hard in public—his grandfather’s creepy mounted deer heads, his mom going on a date with her boss, the time in middle school when he spilled milk on the front of his pants and everyone laughed at him. It works, mostly, and after the Cardinals lose and they stand to leave, Michael subtly adjusts his pants as they head out.
David drops a small box and a cup of water onto the coffee table and sits down on the couch with a flourish. Michael stares at him, then at his feet on the floor, and wordlessly drops to his knees. Carefully, hesitantly, Michael starts removing the laces from David’s boots, feeling his skin burn under the weight of David’s gaze.
Michael takes a brush and starts methodically wiping away any dirt, hands shaking just a little. He chances a glance up at David and gets momentarily distracted by the image of him, arms and legs spread, staring down at Michael with intensity.
Swallowing nervously, Michael dampens a cloth with saddle soap and gets back to work. His breathing echoes loudly in his ears, nearly panting as his knees dig into the floor. The snap of fingers startles him, and he looks up.
“Not too much water,” David says, voice even.
It’s an unnecessary direction, since the rag is barely even wet, but Michael just swallows and nods. He wants to tell David to fuck off, to push back even just a little bit to preserve some of his dignity, but he doesn’t think he could get his mouth to form words.
When Michael finishes with the soap, he reaches for the polish, but David snaps his fingers again. “Let them dry first.” He pulls an honest-to-god pocketwatch out of his jacket and flicks it open. “Fifteen minutes.”
Michael starts to stand, but David holds out his hand. “Stay.” His tone leaves no room for argument.
Michael feels his face heating as he feels dumber with every second that ticks by, knees aching. This is so stupid, he thinks. He could just get up and go home, tell David to polish his own shoes, but he doesn’t move a muscle. David, for his part, tips his head back against the couch and closes his eyes, looking as relaxed as Michael feels tense. Michael looks at David’s exposed throat and wonders what it would taste like.
Every time Michael adjusts his knees, he feels the head of his cock press against his underwear, dampness starting to grow. The humiliation burns through his veins and his hand twitches with the desire to press down between his legs for a little relief. He prays that the dark denim of his jeans and the low light disguise his arousal.
Finally, David heaves a sigh and checks the time again. “Alright. Continue.”
Michael’s hands shoot for the polish, taking the opportunity to lean down so David can’t see the tent in his jeans. His hands shake as he unscrews the lid, dips a clean cloth into the polish. He shines one boot with careful circles, glancing up periodically at David, as if looking for approval. Maybe he is. David continues to just stare, expression unreadable.
Finally, Michael sets down the polish. “I’m done,” Michael says, voice so rough it’s almost unrecognizable to his own ears.
David sits up a little and examines his boots, turning them from side to side. His expression turns almost predatory when he says, “Good job, Michael.”
The words don’t help his borderline-painful erection, and before his brain catches up, Michael drags the heel of his hand down over it. “Fuck,” he mutters when he realizes his mistake, the hungry way David is looking at him.
“Enjoyed that, did you?” David teases, legs still sprawled wide. Is he hard, too? Michael wishes he could tell with his leather pants.
“Uh,” Michael says dumbly, face burning hot. Maybe he should just kill himself—but David took that option from him, didn’t he? He scrambles to his feet without waiting for permission. “I have to go.”
David doesn’t stop him, looking like he finds all of this very entertaining. “See you later.”
Michael knows he’s right; he’ll be back.
The hunger pains in Michael’s stomach are starting to feel unbearable. His hands shake all the time, and all he can hear when he looks at his brother is the blood rushing through his veins.
“You need to feed,” David tells him.
Michael wonders how David always manages to sneak up on him. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine. You’re starving.” David’s leg touches Michael’s next to him on the bench.
Michael inches away. It’s hard enough to think clearly already. “I can handle it.”
David huffs out an amused breath, and Michael finds it particularly enraging how David seems to find everything so funny. It’s patronizing.
“Don’t starve to death to make a point, Michael; you’re smarter than that.”
“Not smart enough, evidently,” Michael mutters, and moves to stand. The smell of David is clouding what’s left of his functioning brain.
David’s hand lands heavy on Michael’s leg, holding him in place. Even in his haze, the desire to lean into David’s touch is overwhelming. He’d take anything David is willing to give him; it’s pathetic.
“I bet you’ll feed by the end of the week.” David looks at him, face hard but not cold.
Michael can’t help but laugh a little. “You want me to bet I’ll starve myself to death?”
“It seems to be what you want.”
Michael is angry all over again that David put him in this position. “Fuck you, David.”
“Yes, you’ve been thinking about that a lot, haven’t you?”
Christ. “Shut up. Leave me alone.”
David just pats Michael’s leg, sending a jolt through his body. “End of the week, Michael.”
Then he gets up and leaves before Michael can ask what’ll happen if he does.
It takes three days.
“I knew you’d come around,” David says, looking proud. It twists Michael’s stomach.
Michael tries not to cry as they head under the boardwalk with the guys and surround a group of twentysomethings having a bonfire on the beach. He feels sick and uncertain, but David holds a steady hand on Michael’s back, nails digging into his skin just a little.
The moment Michael’s teeth pierce the girl’s neck, his whole body sings with relief. His headache is gone, his hands no longer trembling. It’s like being reborn. He pays no mind to the blood running down his chin, only thinking about the taste on his tongue and the approval on David’s face.
“Good boy,” David praises when everyone is dead, clapping Michael on the shoulder in that way he always does. “I knew you could do it.”
The praise settles, electric, on Michael’s skin, live wire touching water. He’s lost their bet; he feels fantastic. “What happens now?”
David slides his arm around Michael’s shoulders and leans in to speak directly into his ear. “You’re going to give me whatever I want.”
Michael follows David into the factory, already breathing hard in anticipation. Whatever David wants. What does that mean? He’s desperate to find out.
David walks leisurely into a makeshift bedroom full of dark clothing and assorted trinkets, a couple of guitars in the corner. He sits down on the bed, and Michael wonders why he even has one, but decides it isn’t important.
“Take your shirt off,” David instructs. “You’re a mess.”
“Sorry,” Michael says reflexively. He knows he’s covered in blood, and is kind of embarrassed at being a messy eater. God, he’s like a toddler trying food for the first time. He takes the hem of his shirt and pulls it over his head, trying not to feel self-conscious about the softness of his stomach.
David ignores his apology. “On your knees.”
It hurts, how quickly he hits the ground. He stares at David, awaiting instruction; David stares back.
“Unzip your pants.”
Michael’s shaking fingers hurry to comply. Anxiety thrums in his chest, embarrassed to be so exposed in front of David but needing to know where this goes next.
David stands and walks, excruciatingly slowly, to Michael. He presses three fingers under his chin, makes Michael look up at him. David’s thumb strokes his cheek.
David’s lips curl around the next instruction. “Take out your cock.”
Michael freezes. He inferred they were heading here, but he’s still nervous. Hesitant. He’s only had sex with one girl, and everything they had done had been under the covers with the lights off. David would be the first person to look at him—really look at him.
He’s waited too long. “Now, Michael.”
Awkwardly, Michael pushes his jeans and boxers down to his thighs. He’s hard already, has been for probably half an hour now. He looks at a point over David’s shoulder.
David steps back, hand falling away, and looks Michael up and down. He smiles, and it feels oddly affectionate. “I knew you’d be beautiful.”
Michael flushes at the compliment, shaking all over.
“Touch yourself.”
Michael’s mouth goes dry. His arms don’t move at first, but he fears keeping David waiting. Slowly, he wraps his hand around his cock and strokes, struggling to breathe. He should be humiliated, maybe even angry, but all he feels is relieved.
He’s close already, producing wetness at an embarrassing rate, easing the glide of his hand. A sound he’s never heard himself make before rips out of his chest.
“That’s enough.” David holds up a hand to stop him.
Michael might actually start crying. “Wh—what?”
“You did so good tonight,” David purrs, stroking Michael’s hair. “You deserve a reward.”
Michael squeezes the base of his cock to keep from coming right then and there, and David laughs at him.
“Get on the bed.”
Michael scrambles to comply, nearly falling over when he remembers he’s still halfway in his jeans, and shuffles to the bed. David removes his pants the rest of the way in one swift motion before taking off his own shirt. Michael lifts his head to see David crawling up to settle between Michael’s legs. He can’t force air into his lungs.
Casually, David drags a finger over the tip of Michael’s cock and licks off the wetness there. Michael doesn’t think he’s ever seen anyone as hot as David. He has an eternity to look at him, and doesn’t think it will ever be enough.
“Just relax,” David says, then takes Michael’s cock in his mouth.
Michael’s hands fist in the sheets immediately, biting his lip. David’s tongue swirls teasingly around the head, applying pressure to the vein underneath it. A moan escapes him, and Michael presses a hand to his mouth and throws his head back.
David pulls off and snaps his fingers, and Michael realizes he’s going to develop an incredibly inappropriate Pavlovian response to that sound. “Michael. Look at me.”
Michael heaves a breath and complies. David’s mouth is glistening, and he can feel his breath on his dick as David talks. “Good. Don’t look away.”
Michael groans as David goes back to work, sinking his mouth all the way down. “Please,” Michael moans. He doesn’t even know what he’s begging for.
David moves a hand and runs teasing fingers down Michael’s balls, brushing against his perineum. Nobody else has ever touched Michael there, and it makes his face burn even hotter. David’s hand moves even lower, dragging the pad of one finger over Michael’s hole, pressing enough to tease but not enough to go inside. Michael gasps, choking, hips snapping up. David makes a grunting sound.
“Sorry,” Michael whispers, feeling out of control and strangely young.
David looks up at him through his lashes, somehow managing to smirk, and hooks an arm over Michael’s hips to keep him down. Michael struggles not to look away, to keep his eyes open, like David directed. It doesn’t make staving off his orgasm any easier. The piercing in his ear throbs in time with David’s mouth.
David reaches one arm up and rakes his nails down Michael’s stomach, not deep but sharp enough to draw a little blood, and Michael’s voice breaks on David’s name as he comes, legs shaking and vision turning spotty at the edges.
David swallows with a reverent look on his face, like Michael is a delicacy. Finally, he lets Michael’s cock slip from his mouth and drags the back of his hand over his lips.
Michael just pants, chest heaving, not sure how to feel or what to do now. He opens his mouth and what comes out is “Uh, thank you.”
This makes David laugh—a genuine one, not his usual patronizing chuckle. “You’re welcome.” His voice is rough.
David crawls up and presses a kiss to Michael’s mouth, and Michael realizes that they’ve never actually kissed. He’s surprised by the softness of David’s lips.
When Michael’s brain comes back online, he sees David rubbing one hand against the seam of his pants. Suddenly, he wants to touch David so badly it hurts. He reaches for his fly and David raises an eyebrow at him.
“You sure you—”
“Yeah,” Michael cuts him off, still working on getting his limbs to cooperate as he tugs on the button before he loses his confidence. “Why? You think I can’t?”
David looks down at him and licks his lips, hungry, anticipatory. “I’ll take that bet.”
Finally, one Michael can win.