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Coffee was what got him out of bed, the strong smell drafting through their shitty Latvian apartment, making the idea of leaving the warmth of his bed a much more acceptable one if it meant he would have a hot cup of coffee as a result.
Mike rolled out from under the blanket, then shivered as his bare feet hit the cold floor. He compromised on his laziness of finding socks to instead wrap the raggedy blanket around his shoulder and stumble down the hall. At least with the chill racing up his legs from the cool wooden floor he was half awake now, enough to deal with his roommate, who was surprisingly up already.
Michael was the source behind the coffee blessing so early in the morning (Mike glanced at the clock as he sat in the dining chair and saw it was actually 10.45 am), shirtless for whatever reason and wearing a cowboy hat, as he slathered butter some toast.
“Morning, Michael.” Mike said, yawning before he could stop himself and collapsing on one of the squeaky old chairs that came with the equally squeaky old dining table.
“Mornin’, partner.” Michael replied, turning around with a sly grin. He jerked his head towards the steaming pot. “Coffee?”
It took Mike’s tired mind a second to realize that something was horribly off about him. He looked like the Michael he had said good night to yesterday, if perhaps more shirtless. His scars were still all in the same places, at least those Mike was familiar with. Michael had acquired much more of them in the five years he’s been alive for longer, and Mike dreaded finding out first hand how he was going to inherit them as well.
He was holding out a full mug of coffee for his younger iteration to take, the comforting smell tempting Mike, urging him to accept this gift and ignore the paranoia but it was too strong for him to brush off.
“What- what’s wrong with your voice?”
That was it. His voice. He was doing the stupid accent like he had done with Mikey just yesterday, after they helped him complete the fourth challenge.
He had almost forgotten about the dress up, his mind lingering on the more urgent parts of that mission (who was the guy Michael killed? What were the Flinchites doing? Where was Mikey? Who had transported him?).
“Ain’t nothin wrong with my voice, pilgrim. This is how I always talk. How long were you out for?” Michael kept grinning, still holding the coffee out.
“No.” Mike shot back. “No, no, no. You are not doing that with me, Michael. You can’t gaslight me like you did with Mikey, I am not that gullible.”
“Whatever you say, pard.” Tired of holding the cup, Michael put it down in front of him, earning him a grumbled thanks as Mike finally accepted his gift.
For a few minutes there was nothing but comfortable silence between the two Mikes, with the sound of eggs and mushrooms frying on their tiny gas stove. It was peaceful, even if the apartment hadn’t gotten any prettier since yesterday and it was still freezing cold. Though heat from the coffee and Michael’s cooking helped a bit at least, giving the apartment a brief illusion of home.
The quiet was also a pleasant change of pace. There was no obnoxious game runner hogtied in the living room screaming his head off between the sock in his mouth. Mike had to appreciate how much nicer it was to sit here now, thinking to himself how maybe the apartment doesn’t have to be that bad. They could make it more comfortable, now that they’re stuck here helping out-
“Talked to Base this mornin. Told them about Mikey but they said they had no idea where he might’ve gone.”
There was that stupid accent again. Mike groaned from behind his mug.
“Well no need to make a big fuss out of it, Mike.” Michael replied. “I’m sure he’s fine where ever he is, otherwise we won’t be-”
“The accent, Michael?”
“What about my accent?”
“Why do you keep doing it? Mikey isn’t here, you don’t have to keep playing pretend.”
“Who said I was playing, pilgrim?”
Mike let out another annoyed groan. “I can’t fucking believe this.”
Michael turned off the stove, scooped the food onto two plates and sat down next to Mike. After sliding one in front of him, he grabbed a cup of coffee (black, no sugar, not like Mike’s) from the pot.
“You better-”
“Don’t.”
“You better believe it, partner because this is happening. I’m a goddamn cowboy now and there’s nothin you can do about it.”
“I’m going to issue a correction on your ass.”
“I’d like to see you fucking try.”
———
Michael’s insistence on doing the voice didn’t get to Mike until later that day. The apartment was too cold to stay in during the entire time, so they went to the car and drove around Riga for a bit. Latvia’s national library had a few English books, and plenty of Russian ones that they poked around at for a while. Neither Mike nor Michael owned a library card and they weren’t keen on getting lost in reading while around in public, so they didn’t stay for long.
Walking around the city was also fine for a while. Riga was beautiful, the charm of an old European cities with gorgeous architecture and ordinary people living their ordinary lives, bumbling around the streets shopping or meeting with friends. Far away from the chaos of bloody time travel murder games. Mike found it a little sad to be whisked away from his violent bubble so he could witness a more simpler life. One he wanted for himself and Edgar. He imagined what it would feel like if Edgar were here with him, commenting on the history of the landmarks or suggesting they duck into a bakery for some coffee to warm up. He wondered if Michael missed being back home as much as he did but when he looked over, Michael was busy stammering out a shitty Latvian-Russian mix to some of the locals who were admiring his hat.
Of course.
Soon it became too cold, colder than the apartment would be and they had to admit defeat. It took even longer to walk back to their car because Michael kept stopping and exchanging words or tipping his hat towards tourists and locals who wanted a picture. He ignored all of Mike’s pointed stares or meaningful throat clearings urging him to hurry up already.
An hour later they were standing in front of their door, shivering as Michael fished the key from his pocket.
“We should really ask Edgar to transport us some space heaters or something. It’s so fucking cold.” Mike said, shivering as Michael let them into the apartment.
“We could always sleep in the car-” He started but Mike cut him off.
“No – I’m not sure my back is still recovered from last time we did that. I woke up with the worst back pain of my life and that’s accounting for the bear attack.”
“Well then don’t go complainin to me, partner. This was never gonna be a walk in the park-” Michael kicked off his shoes and dropped his jacket on a nearby chair, keeping his cowboy hat on, much to Mike’s annoyance. “-so if you can’t handle it like a fuckin man, perhaps we should call Base to pick up your whiny ass-”
“Why are you still doing that stupid accent.”
Michael grunted. “It’s not stupid.”
“It is. You sound ridiculous, you know that, right? You’re me. I get it was funny to mess with Mikey when he was here but it’s getting old, Michael. I know you don’t really sound like that!”
“And what the hell do you think you know about me?” An expression akin to anger briefly flashed across Michael’s face. Mike felt the urge to apologize, taken aback by the emotional reaction his complaining had drawn out of the older Mike.
Then, as quickly as the anger appeared on Michael’s face, it faded, replaced by that same sly grin from earlier this morning.
“’Sides. There ain’t jack shit you can do about it. Unless you want me to call up Base and tell them to extract you because you’re a big baby who can’t handle the cold or the job or the fact that your partner’s walkin around as a rootin tootin gun slinger. This job ain’t for everyone, I get it, you’re not too far off from baby Mikey-”
The sympathy faded pretty quickly. Mike scowled, getting up from where he had carelessly sprawled onto the couch and stepped closer to the older iteration of himself.
Michael just stared him down, still smirking. They were technically the same height but Mike had taken to the bad habit of slouching which made him appear an inch or two smaller. Disgruntled he pulled himself up so they were standing completely face to face.
“Knock off the southern accent.” He said slowly. “Or I’ll make you.”
That got a laugh out of the cowboy, his tone mocking. “Oh really Mikey. Whatcha gonna do, huh? Use your defensive bitching maneuvers?”
Honestly, Mike hadn’t thought that far. He had said the first thing that came to mind to get Michael to shut up already but of course Michael wasn’t going to go down easily. He was a Mike Walters after all, when it came to their iterations they were always trying to prove their superiority.
Maybe that’s what had pissed him off to begin with. Michael putting on a show of authority with his cowboy shtick, his ‘grizzled old man’ act, as if Mike were a child that needed to be sheep dogged around lest he did something monumentally stupid. He wasn’t Mikey for god’s sake. He didn’t need to be guided.
Mike didn’t examine why he thought Mikey was someone who needed guidance and how the age difference between them were the same age difference between him and Michael. He didn’t stop to think perhaps Michael’s protectiveness is just that – concern for his safety rather than outright condescension.
He stepped even closer, close enough that their chests were almost touching. It was like standing in front of a mirror, except Michael had more graying hair at his temples and in his beard, his eyes squinted in amusement. Mike could tell his own face was twisted into a scowl and he made an effort to relax it. He wasn’t going to let Michael make him feel like he was a kid throwing a tantrum, damn it. He was going to make the cowboy eat his fucking words.
“I have some tricks up my sleeve.”
“Let’s see ‘em, Mikey.”
“It’s Mike.”
“With the way you’ve been whinin all day, it may as well be Mikey, Mikey.”
Mike huffed. He placed his hands up on Michael’s shoulders, like he’s about to shove him away but he had no idea how to proceed after that. Michael had called his bluff and truth was, he had no plan.
He refused to back down either and if he admitted defeat now, Michael was never going to let him live this down. He would be insufferable for as long as they lived together and that may take longer now that Early Base was still fucking things up for themselves left and right.
A dumb idea struck him, as dumb as this whole situation is, and for lack of better options, Mike took it. He leaned in, his hands tightening on Michael’s shoulder and pulling him closer.
Michael, obviously not having expected this, grunted in surprise as he took an off balanced step forward to avoid falling over. Their chests were touching now, noses almost brushing each other as Mike stared Michael down, the roles having reversed for a moment.
“Drop the accent.” Mike repeated, high off the dumbstruck look on his older iteration’s face. He felt powerful, giddy, he had done it, he’d shown the cowboy who’s boss and it certainly wasn’t the Mike Walters who couldn’t be bothered to pronounce the gs at the end of his words.
Michael laughed in his face again. Mike’s grip loosened slightly.
“Did you really think that was gonna work? Man, you’re even more desperate than I thought.” He cackled. “What was you gonna do, Mike? Try an intimidate me by getting in my face? Is that the best you can-”
The rest of his taunts were muffled by Mike’s mouth on his.
It wasn’t a romantic kiss by any means. Mike was shoving Michael against the wall hard enough that he risked breaking the wall or his back, lips mashing ungracefully together, his heart beating way too fast for any illusion of composure.
He refused to let himself stop and think about what he was doing or how Michael was going to yell at him for taking things too far afterwards or how he was going to have to go back to his own time period and look Edgar in the eye and-
Mike didn’t realize Michael was kissing back until he went to pull away and instead the cowboy flipped their positions, pinning Mike against the wall with strength far greater than his, drawing out a startled moan. A hand cupped his cheek affectionately while the other buried itself into his hair. Michael’s knee was pressed up against Mike’s thigh to pin him in place, an action that caused heat to rise up his neck and cheeks – although not unpleasantly.
And of course – in a moment of clarity between the fog – Mike had time to be annoyed at the fact that of course Michael was also good at kissing. He thought it would be mediocre at best but Michael was far better than he was, leading the kiss with both passion and gentleness that made a shameful part of Mike want to keep going a bit longer.
They finally pulled apart when both of them were breathless, arms tangled into each other. Michael’s hat had been bumped up, letting Mike see his searching gaze, as nervous as he was, afraid that any moment one of them was going to jump away and yell what the fuck was that?!
Instead they found themselves stuck like this, eyes locked and chests heaving as they caught their breath and wits about them. The act of what just happened laying heavily in the air between the two men. Neither of them had the right to act upset. Mike instigated. Michael reciprocated. They had both wanted to do it at some level.
Surprisingly, Mike was the first one to break the silence, with a nervous chuckle that caused Michael to tense up.
“W-well-” He began and trailed off.
“Well indeed.” Michael grunted after a long pause.
They stared at each other.
“I won’t tell if you don’t?” Mike offered. He thought of the many secrets they were already keeping from Edgar and cringed at the unfair comparison. Literal murder doesn’t liken to kissing your older cowboy self, but he still felt ashamed that he did something he would have to keep from his boyfriend.
Michael must’ve misread his reaction because his face hardened. He stepped back, reaching up to readjust his hat, pulling the brim over his eyes.
“Sounds fan-fucking-tastic to me, pilgrim.” There was venom in his voice.
“Michael, wait-”
“No, no. How about we don’t ‘Michael’ this, Mike.”
“I didn’t mean it that way.”
“What didn’t you mean that way?”
“The- my- my reaction, Michael and the kiss- but also not really? I didn’t mean to- well, I did but I didn’t mean it like that. I just wanted to-” Mike had no idea what he was saying. He could tell he lost Michael too, with the way the cowboy was squinting at him, half between confusion and anger.
Why anger though? Did he want it to mean something? Those thoughts only made Mike’s head spin even more.
“I’m sorry, Michael.” He finally managed. “I shouldn’t have-...we...we don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”
There was a long pause that followed as Michael seemed to turn the words over in his head, his expression settling on unreadable. They were still close to each other, Mike slouched against the wall as his older iteration stood over him, eyes staring off into the middle distance. They found Mike again and his expression was careful, blank, like he couldn’t figure out if he could trust him yet.
Somehow that stung a little.
“I didn’t mind the kiss.” Michael said.
“O-oh.” Was all Mike could say.
The cowboy shuffled, then took a deep breath. Nervousness had begun to creep in on the edges of his tone.
“And I reckon if you wanted to, we could try again.”
“What about Edgar?”
“What about him?”
Mike straightened up a little. Michael avoided his gaze.
“You know what I mean, Michael. We’re still- you’re married to Edgar. I’m going to marry him. What is this, a bit of fooling around? Are we ever going to tell him?”
There was a pained look in Michael’s eyes, but Mike didn’t have the context to understand what was behind it. He figured Michael must be beating himself up over this, in the typical Mike Walters way. He thought so because that’s what he was planning to do later, when he had time to let the self hatred fester. Seeing the pain right in front of him gave him pause. Mike couldn’t help but empathize with Michael at that moment and he reached out, a hand on his shoulder.
“We don’t have to-”
“Edgar don’t mind.” Michael finally muttered. “You know what he thinks of iterations. It might as well be the same as kissin’ a mirror.”
“But we don’t believe that.”
“No, we don’t. But I never could- he’ll never see it the way we do, Mike. We had this argument with him many times. For him, we’re the same person, period. It ain’t cheatin’ if you look at it from that view. It’s only somethin’ we’d beat ourselves up over because what would Mike Walters be without all the shit ton of self hatred we carry around.”
“Michael…” Mike sighed. “I don’t hate you.”
“Are ya gonna hate yourself once we’re done here?” Michael’s eyes bore into his, challenging him to deny what both of them already knew. It was intense but this whole thing started because Mike refused to back down. He stared back stubbornly.
“Not if we don’t have time to think about it.” He offered. He could be a hypocrite for the time being. Being a hypocrite was one of the many things Mike Walters was good at, next to lying and aforementioned self hatred.
Michael hesitated, then stepped a half step closer. Mike looped his fingers into his belt jeans, holding on for dear life. They both looked at each other again. The teasing from earlier had now turned into something fragile and frightening, one wrong move and it could ruin everything – if it hadn’t already been destroyed.
It felt akin to time travel, those harrowing moments of indecision and doubt followed by a thrilling rush and the knowledge your life has been permanently altered.
Fuck it, Mike thought, looking into hazel eyes that were almost exactly like his own, except more sorrowful and frightened. I’ve done worse.
He tugged at Michael’s belt loops, and the cowboy let out a small, ungraceful squawk as he stumbled forward, not having expected it. In the next moment, Mike’s lips were on his, less frantic, less pushy than the first time, not having to prove themselves.
The kiss was shy, like the one they stole years ago with their first crush, standing underneath an old oak tree behind their middle school. Something familiar and foreign.
Michael cupped Mike’s face sweetly and in return Mike wrapped his arms around his waist, leaning into the warmth of his body hungrily like he hadn’t been warm in so long. The apartment was still so cold now that the sun had set. In the dingy living room with its weak lighting and bare walls it felt like the only comfortable spot was here, pressed up against the wall with Michael cornering him, the brim of his cowboy hat occasionally brushing over his hair.
Michael kissed him like he was hungry yet unsure if the meal was permitted, a starving passion that swallowed Mike whole, mixed with a tentative shyness that any moment he might overstep, take too much and hurt his younger self in a way he couldn't take back. Maybe that's what let Mike be so selfish as he pressed himself up against him and greedily drank in the affection he would spare. If Michael wasn't going to take what he wanted, then he would have to do it for him.
A while later they broke apart for air, foreheads leaned against each other as the only sound that filled the room was their panting.
“You’ll tell me when you want to stop, right?” Michael sounded unsure, as if he didn’t believe Mike could want him back. There was a flicker of doubt in his eyes. Mike wanted to reach and snuff it out immediately, make sure it could never spark again.
He leaned in and kissed Michael a third time, briefly. “Does this look like I want to stop?” He asked with a smile and kissed him again.
Michael groaned, his fists curling into balls in Mike’s shirt.
“M-Mike.”
Mike stopped and quirked an eyebrow. It took the other a moment to realize why. He had unwittingly dropped his accent, so caught up in the moment that he had forgotten to keep up his cowboy voice.
“Mike.” He said again, intentionally lowering his voice a little more than usual.
“Michael.” Mike was smiling.
“You didn’t hear nothin.”
“I don’t know, Michael. It sounded like I just got you to drop your accent.” The smugness in Mike’s voice was insufferable.
“Then there’s somethin wrong with your hearing, partner.” Michael shot back, a bit annoyed. He huffed and went to turn away in a pretend pout, but he was stopped by his younger self grabbing his shoulders, the amusement still there now alongside a darker gleam in his eye.
“Maybe I need to try again. See how long you can hold it up...partner.” Mike said lowly. Heat was pooling in his stomach and clouding his mind but he couldn’t be bothered to try and think clearly. He wanted this. Now. Michael would let him do it. Michael wanted him too, hell, he kissed him back. There was no reason in Mike’s horny mind for them not to fool around.
And hey, they were the same person, right? He probably knew everything Michael liked without having to ask him. (Person hood evidently didn’t matter so much when it was convenient for him and when he was too horny to think)
Michael swallowed hard. Mike’s eyes followed the bob of his Adam's apple hungrily.
“W-well…” The cowboy began and then trailed off. He glanced away, rubbing his palm with the opposite hand for a second.
“What? Scared you’ll lose?” Was all Mike needed to say to have his attention snapped back on him.
“You aint playing gay chicken with me, you fuckin’ dimwit.”
“Then you’ve got nothing to worry about if you’re gonna win anyway, cowboy.”
Michael growled and pushed Mike back into the wall. They were pressed together again, Michael’s knee now rudely shoving itself between Mike’s legs, rubbing against the growing hard on. Mike could feel Michael’s poking his thigh too, the confirmation that he wasn’t the only one getting off to this practically permission to continue. He stopped thinking about shame or embarrassment. He ground down into Michael’s knee, letting out a soft moan in the process.
“C-come on, don’t be a tease.”
“Don’t tell me what to do.” Michael gruffed yet he obliged, pushing the knee in further as Mike whimpered. “Look at you, already hard from trying to rile me up. I forgot how easy I was when I was younger.”
“Sh-shut up, Mr Inconsistent Accent.” Mike bit back but it didn’t stop him from grinding down again. Something about the frottage, the feeling of taboo, of sneaking in kisses when they weren’t supposed to. It was both delicious and not enough to get him off fully.
He fumbled with Michael’s belt, only to have his hands slapped away.
“Michael.”
“Lemme take care of you, Mike.”
“No, fuck you. You’re going to get off as well, don’t make me fucking wrestle your pants off.”
He reached for Michael’s belt again, slapping at the hands that were trying to catch his and in a moment of frustration he reached up and pulled Michael’s hat over his eyes.
It worked, to his surprise.
Michael’s hands shot up to his hat and then Mike had his belt open, managing to unbuckle it enough so he could shove his jeans and boxers down in one go.
Before Michael could stop him, Mike wrapped his hand around the base of his shaft and squeezed.
The cowboy groaned, bucking his hips up towards Mike.
“Looks like you’re still as easy as you were five years ago.” Mike taunted, earning himself a vicious glare from his older self. He only chuckled in his response, giving him another quick squeeze before he slid his hand up the length of his cock, rubbing his thumb over his slit. Shit, they didn’t have any lube, do they? Not even in the apartment, considering the stay was temporary and Edgar wasn’t going to visit anyway. He’ll have to improvise.
He locked eyes with Michael and raised his own hand to his mouth, making sure he could see his tongue lathering up his palm and digits with saliva. Michael’s glare couldn’t hold up at the sight of watching Mike suck on his fingers, generously wetting them before he moved his now coated hand back down. If he hadn’t been hard earlier, he definitely was by the time Mike was touching him again.
“G-god, Mike…”
“Yeah, keep talking, big guy. Let’s see how well you play the cool, unaffected cowboy with your dick in my hand.”
“You think you’re so clever, don’t you?” Michael ground out through gritted teeth, strain in his voice as he tried to keep it low like earlier. Involuntary moans and soft gasps escaped no matter how hard he tried to keep still. It’s been too long – far longer than Mike will ever know – and the sudden rush of intimacy and affection went to his head faster than booze on an empty stomach. It was only his Walters stubbornness that kept him from caving in immediately.
Mike hummed in agreement, his amused gaze flitting between Michael’s red face and his hand, stroking up his hardening shaft. He was just as needy as his older self, his cock straining in his jeans but when Michael tried to undo his belt, Mike slapped his hand away and squeezed him again, causing any thought to stutter in the cowboy’s mind.
“There you go. Let me take care of you for once.” Mike leaned in, burying his face into the crook of Michael’s neck, hand never stopping its slow torment. Michael smelled like leather and sweat, with the hint of the body wash they shared in their dingy old shower. There was no trace of Edgar on his skin. Not like when Mike came back from checking in with his Edgar and he had the scent of his boyfriend’s shampoo clinging to him.
It must've been ages since Michael went home. Mike had no idea how long he was out in the field like this before, perhaps even living in the shitty apartment by himself before Mike joined to help and maybe it was his own worried thoughts changing the narrative to match his suspicions but he couldn't remember any trace of Michael's Edgar on him in the few weeks they've been working together, almost like he had been away from home for so long that Edgar faded away completely. Thinking about it now, with Michael pressed up against him, his desperate breathing in Mike’s ear, it made him want to protect him right back, fiercely keep the sorrow away that he saw slip out occasionally when they-
“Can’t believe you’re still thinking at a time like this.” Michael murmured in his ear. He sounded smug and without warning Mike felt his hand slip into his pants.
“Didya really think I would let you get me off and not return the favor, partner?” Michael deliberately drawled out the words, smirking. Mike gave a half growl of frustration, followed by an abrupt gasp. Michael was, of course, just as good as this as he was with kissing.
“M-maybe-” He squirmed but had no where to go with the wall behind him and Michael towering over, reducing him to a similar red faced mess with just a few unfair twists of his wrist. “Maybe I would’ve made you s-uck me off afterwards- fuck-”
“Fuck- Mike…” Michael responded with an echoing groan. Mike could feel him throb in his hand. Hmm, interesting… He decided to file sucking-off-your-iteration as a potential kink for Michael (that they definitely have to explore later. Later? Christ, he was already thinking about round two).
When he looked up to say as much, the words died on his tongue.
Michael was watching him through half lidded eyes, only partially obscured by the rim of his hat. His cheeks were flushed, lips parted to let those delicious soft noise slip out whenever Mike moved his hand. There was a shyness to his smirk, a gentleness to the grizzled old cowboy spiel.
Mostly bark some bite, Mike thought and couldn’t help but smile.
But fuck it, he wasn’t going to lose to the dweeb in the hat if he could help it. His competitive streak was enough to help him push on even as every stroke from Michael’s hand made his knees want to buckle.
Mike swiped his thumb over Michael’s head, brushing the pearls of pre cum onto the swollen skin, slowly rubbing over the slit again and again in sly, teasing circles until Michael couldn’t suppress his shudders anymore.
He buried his face into Mike’s neck as best as he can with the hat’s brim in the way, mouth open and wet against Mike’s flushed skin. The air around them was almost too hot now, their body heat fighting off the cold Latvian night.
Mike took the lead. He was laser focused on nothing but Michael, Michael’s noises, the soft tremors of his body, how he twitched in his hand, the whimpered ‘Mike’s no longer twinged with his accent but still low and gravelly.
Although victory was practically his, it no longer tasted as sweet as once imagined. Mike realized with sudden horror he missed the accent already, the casual laziness of the southern drawl and how it made his skin feel hot when Michael rumbles his name, slowly tasting it.
What was that about Mike Walters and being a hypocrite?
“That’s right, you can’t keep the voice up for long, can you?” He murmured into Michael’s ear, partially hoping that Michael would snap back into it to spite him. It earned him a hard squeeze around his cock, the sensation cutting his teasing off with a loud, pathetic mewl. Michael laughed softly against his neck.
“Shut up.”
“I didn’t say nothin’, Mike.”
“Shut up.”
Mike slipped his free hand down into Michael’s boxers to join the other one already teasing out more muffled groans from the cowboy. The veins pulsed under his fingertips, the velvet skin flushed hot. It didn’t feel like he was touching himself at all, even though he could recognize himself in the familiar bumps and ridges, the way Michael’s breath hitched as his fingers brushed the oversensitive head of his dick.
It was new to have the feeling of a beard scratching Mike’s neck, a large body pinning him to the wall. It never felt this way with Edgar, hell, it never felt this way with John either. There was never the exhilarating sense of taboo with John, just a casual this-is-what-boyfriends-do, an expected show of affection.
But what were they? Not partners, no matter how many times the word rolled easily off Michael’s tongue. They’re caught in the desperate actions of drowning men, engulfed in their pleasure, the knowledge if they slowed down even a second, guilt and doubt would slip through the cracks and poison their resolve.
Michael keened in his ear and Mike lost track of his thoughts, closing his eyes and submitting to the reality of his situation. He was pinned to the wall with the weight of Michael on top of him, kissing whatever skin he could reach as his hand worked away at Mike, stroking him until he saw stars in the dark spots of their ceiling. Michael was far more gone though, far more desperate, as every touch from his younger iteration would cause him to groan or tremble, not being able to last nearly as long. Mike had the suspicion its been far, far too long since anyone touched him like this. He didn’t let himself ponder about the implications.
“Fffuck, M-Michael.” He groaned, pushing the cowboy back a bit. The hat was half falling off his head, and it took Michael a second to focus his gaze on Mike. He looked like a drowning man, begging for another lungful of air.
God, he was so beautiful in that moment. Was that arrogant to say? But he wasn’t looking at himself in the mirror, it wasn’t like those glimpses of his own body Mike would sometimes get if he glanced up during sex – this was different. Michael was different. Older, more grey hair, more lines and scars that told of realities Mike couldn’t even dream about. A tougher version of him that protected him and passed on his sometimes annoyingly accurate wisdom with a smirk and a sadness that said he found it out the hard way.
Now, reduced to helplessness. Or no, not reduced. He let Mike see him like this, a look behind the curtain of the tough cowboy, a silent plea of vulnerability that Mike recognized in himself.
Michael was putty in his hands and as much as this whole thing started with an immature challenge, it had turned into something more fragile, something Mike was terrified of fucking up.
“I..” His throat felt dry. “I got you, Michael. I got you.”
“Mike- god, Mike-” Michael repeated, the moan muffled in his neck. He wrapped an arm around him, clinging to him for dear life. He wouldn’t last long and Mike decided not to keep teasing him. He didn’t think he could stand it either, the need to see Michael unravel was as great as his own to finish.
He wished he could see his face but Michael was holding onto him too tightly to pull away. This was as good as he was going to get, with the older cowboy clutching him, whining and falling apart in his hands.
Mike placed a kiss beneath his ear over the sticky-sweaty skin, on top of the racing pulse and muttered something sweet, some encouraging nonsense he wasn't sure were even words as much as just a moan of Michael's name. It was all it took, his own trembling voice being enough to give Michael the push he needed.
“Fuck, Mike, I’m gonna-”
“I got you, big guy, it’s okay.”
Michael made a noise that Mike swore he would remember for as long as he lived before he tensed up, squeezing his younger iteration tighter. Sticky heat coated Mike's hand and wrist. Michael called out his name around the choked sobs. He leaned against Mike, pinning him further into the wall as his legs refused to hold him up on their own. Mike didn’t dare move, witnessing the unraveling in front of him in stunned silence.
Michael’s grip on Mike weakened. His head stayed buried in the crook of his neck as he shuddered pathetically.
“Th-... there you go,” Mike found his voice again, even if it was a little scratchy. He held onto him until Michael came down from his high, his entire body going limp as he tried to catch his breath. His own cock was all but forgotten, he didn’t even realize Michael’s hand was still around it until Michael began to move it again, weakly coaxing it back to full hardness.
Mike tried to protest that he didn’t need to, that he could take care of it himself but his words were lost in his own echoes of Michael’s earlier moans, just a lot less gravely. Michael’s red face with the cowboy hat askew and hair plastered on his sweaty forehead, watching him with tired, but satisfied eyes was enough to help Mike follow soon after, tensing up, his hips jerking upward as the orgasm overtook him. He was forced to close his eyes in pleasure as the world went white and his ears started to ring. Once again he regretted not being able to see Michael’s expression in response.
When he came back down, Michael was still there, holding onto him for dear life and muttering tired nothings into his neck. There was a twinge of guilt in his voice, some doubt. Mike knew why it was there but he was too tired and sex-drunk to care about that now. They could fret in the morning.
He hugged Michael back, and was thankful for the wall giving them the halt they needed to recover.
“Think you can make it to the couch, cowboy?” Mike prodded him, earning a tired grunt in response.
“I’m gonna fall asleep standing like a damn horse.” There was an attempt to do the accent but it was slurred with sleep and post-sex inebriation. After a moment or two, they managed to coordinate enough to shuffle to the nearest sofa, crashing onto the hard and uncomfortable cushions without a care for the inevitable oncoming back pain in the morning.
———
“Take your damn pipe out of your mouth, Michael, I can’t understand you.”
“You weren’t complainin’ before, pilgrim.” Michael snarked, staring Mike down as he moved the pipe from one end of his mouth to the other.
“I was, actually.” Mike shot back. “In case you haven’t noticed. I’ll gladly track Mikey down as my witness.”
“Mikey don’t know what I know.”
“Shut up, you smug asshole.”
“Make me.”
“Gladly!”
They exchanged looks, feigned annoyance and smirks. The breakdown over their night together came but they talked through it. After some anxious fretting, Mike eventually called Edgar and told him everything. Michael had been right – Edgar didn’t care. In fact, he asked a bunch of questions (too many, in Mike’s opinion), an excited q&a session that eventually led to Edgar demanding they incorporate cowboy role play into their sex life even more.
Fucking figures.
Regardless, whatever they had, Mike was glad it didn’t push Michael away. Even if he was more infuriating than he had been before and that accent grew more prominent by the day. And whenever Mike complained, Michael would allude to that fateful night with a smirk and a wink.
Insufferable asshole.
But Mike couldn’t help loving it all the same.