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Michael smells so good, so fucking good, under him like this, too cold and tired to jump into the shower before bundling up in his motel bed. Trevor had used that cold as a lame excuse to snuggle up to him last night, both of them laughing at how transparent he was, Michael half-heartedly trying to shove him off, before he went dead weight. How long now? Four days? He pressed his nose into the crease between shoulder and neck and inhales. The smell alone is enough to make him shudder, so, yes, must be. He should throw away his deodorant, storm into the shower and smash it to bits, never let him bathe again. Writhe in filth with me forever.
Michael’s a light sleeper, borderline insomniac, he knows. They’ve been like this for almost five hours, so he was overdue to start twitching and fretting, to wake up with a start from the night terrors he’d never tell him about - the ones he’d sneer at him for calling ‘night terrors’, what are you, five years old? - so, really, he was doing his friend a favour by waking him up while he was still peaceful.
Can he blame his desperate horniness on morning wood if he’s been awake most of the night? Who cares, he’s pressing it, just slow and gentle for now, into Michael’s stomach, and snaking his arm under his neck to pull himself closer to his ear, groaning low and quiet - intimate, because Michael had shown him the appeal of quiet. He’d never give up on living fast, crashing into walls and breaking through them, fucking loud and hard and shameless, but! Michael’s private touches and secret glances and whispers only for him, his subdued affection, well. He couldn’t pretend it didn’t make him only want him more. Michael, as he predicted, stirred immediately.
“What’re ya doin’?” Good grief, his voice like this, even if he is being deliberately obtuse. He rolls his hips again, huffs low and hot into Michael’s ear. He’ll get the message. Come on, sweetheart, you’ve kept me waiting too long. I need you.
They seemed to pass the instigation torch back and forth over the years, Trevor outright jumping him the first few times, or slowly coaxing him into a drunken stupor before ravishing him, Michael fighting back emotionally and sometimes physically, as well; strangling him, punishing the hungry mouth around his cock by ramming it in as far as it would go while plugging his nose, gave him a black eye when his fingers brushed too low under his balls once. Michael flipped things over after that, started taking; selfish, forceful, magnificent. From then on, it was almost always on his terms, when and where he wanted: rarely sober, never in the light of day, no touching in public. (A unspoken rule that didn’t seem to apply to Michael grabbing him at the elbow and pulling him around as he saw fit. It seemed to be one of his favourite pastimes) But oh, that silver tongued bastard could be tender when he wanted to, and that ruined everything, didn’t it? That, and his smile, and his weirdly smooth hands, and his words and smell and cold greyblue eyes and the spot on the back of his neck where his hair was coarsest, and the way that neck would disappear into his shoulders and he’d make that half laugh, half scoff noise when Trevor’s hands gravitated there because he was ticklish. All this to say, he really couldn’t be blamed for the time he came even quicker than usual and “I love you” slipped out, chanted mindlessly but with feeling as he shook. Michael became subdued again after that, put them back at square one, once drunkenly mumbling about it being better in the long run, whatever that means. Then Michael met Krystal, who became Amanda, then came a pregnancy test, a tacky ring, a shotgun wedding, a honeymoon someplace ridiculous, he couldn’t remember Michael telling him where and he definitely didn’t receive so much as a fucking postcard, and he still hasn’t been invited to meet little Tracey yet. Point is…
Christ. Has it really been almost two years since he’d been allowed to hold him close like this?
He feels like a woman or something, some floozy waiting for the man to make the first move, but he doesn’t care. He needs Michael to give him something, to instigate something, give him some proof or shove him off, beat him to death, end it here and now. Just touch me Micheal, for fucks sake, do something. And he does, to his credit.
Michael’s left hand is cold from spending the last few hours outstretched from under the covers when it comes to rest on the back of his bare thigh, where it meets his ass, feeling his muscles as they move, and tracing the line of his briefs. The ring is colder. The contact makes his stomach drop and causes heat to twist down there in his naughty bits all at once. He presses himself back into the cold contact, openly groping him now. It’s something, he tells himself. Michael’s just drowsy, taking it slow, teasing him. His breathing picks up as finds a slow rhythm, a quiet hummed moan on every exhale, not really feeling it yet, but hoping to inspire lustful action in the fucking statue under him, playing all hard to get. He pointedly doesn’t think about the fact that he’s pathetically fucking faking it right now.
He found himself in a similar position to this with his mother once, too young and dumb to know what he was doing, just full of love and needing a way to release it. She didn’t stop him, either. At least she wrapped a soft, perfumed hand around the back of his neck, not chocking, just holding, and whispered encouragement, told him she loved him. He doesn’t think he’ll ever hear those words from Michael.
“Enjoying yourself, baby?” His insufferably smug sounding best friend murmurs in his hair, instead, and he feels himself actually flinch at the petname. No, he wants to say, but he’s afraid he might scream it at the top of his lungs, followed by do you call her that as well? God, he wants her dead. He wants Michael dead. He wants to die. He is so, so fucked. (He wishes he was getting fucked. At least then he’d have an excuse to curse and growl and scream and wail and sob and tell Michael he loves him again, he loves him, he loves him, so much it hurts.)
Michael shifts under him, and his body doesn’t know whether to still so he can prepare for rejection, or hump faster in the hopes of finishing before Michael can force him off, so he just kind of spasms a little while Michael manoeuvres them both, legs bending to brace on the bed to cage Trevor closer against his torso, propping himself up a little on the pillows. No pushing away. The angle, he must admit, is better. It’s… Nice. Makes him feel warm inside.
“C’mon, T, keep goin’, I can tell you’re getting close.” He bites down hard on his lip, a weak wavering sigh of disappointment tumbling out before he can stop it, because there goes any hope of this becoming something more memorable, more tangible and real than a shameful fumble before the sun is even up. He resumes his movements, bitterly resigned to the inevitable, what else is there to do? At least both of Michael’s hands are on him now, the left still squeezing his hips and thighs, aiding his grinding, the other rubbing up and down his back, and it’s.. It’s fine. It’s fine how every time his hand comes up to ghost his thumb and middle finger around the back of his neck, it gets closer to staying there and applying pressure. It’s fine how the act sends a shiver down Trevor’s spine, and Michael’s hand follows it down, soothing and firm. His shuddering exhales sound pathetic even to his own ears.
Luckily, or unluckily, Michael opens his fat fucking mouth again, sounding so condescending, so fucking happy with himself, and breaks him out of his trance, and the phantom smell of his mother’s perfume dissipates, as well as the sick feeling in his stomach -
“Man, oh man, I forgot how much I like you like this. All animal and dumb, all mine. Come on, puppy, come for me, make a mess all over us an’ I’ll give you a treat, huh? Let you blow me in the shower? Yeah, look at you, you want it so bad.”
Nausea doesn’t even begin to describe the feeling that cracks through him like a whip after that. He’s shaking all over like a wet beast before he knows it, stuttering out the beginnings of words and he doesn’t even know, he doesn’t even know what he’s trying to say, he only knows he’s suddenly so overwhelmed with mixed emotions (The praise, immediately followed by ‘all mine’, all mine!? The fucking AUDACITY!? But above all he knows it’s puppy that half broke him, because shit, how does he know, he can’t remember telling him. Surely he never told him Ma used to call him that, in the dark.) he can’t… He cant speak, even as he tries. He can’t fucking speak. Animal and dumb, his only friend had called him.
And then Michael finishes him off, effortlessly, by finally wrapping his hand around his neck and using it to press them close together, and he hadn’t even realised he’d risen up to knees and elbows - trying to… He doesn’t know, he never knows what he’s doing anymore. Animal and dumb, he said - until he slumps back down into thick arms and he can’t feel even an iota of satisfaction at the pained grunt that comes from the man holding him, because he doesn’t hear it, drowned out as it is by the strangled animalistic whine that forces its way out of him, warbling and pathetic, and he burns hot with self hatred. Or maybe it’s just hatred.
Naturally, it only makes him press himself harder, faster, more insistent into the soft belly below him, somehow still horny, like the rutting beast he is. No wonder she left me. No wonder he did as well. Getting close now, too, for fuck’s sake. And he only burns hotter when all slothful, selfish Michael can bring his high and mighty mouth to do is press a patronising kiss to his forehead. His hold on him, by the scruff of the neck, hasn’t loosened.
He makes the noise again, higher and needier, and he doesn’t even realise he’s done it until Michael scoffs at him from his throne of pillows above. He could kill him, right now; Sink his decaying teeth into that soft cheek, grab onto his jawbone and pull, teeth and all, dislocate it, clean it and keep it with him, forever, like some perverted dentist. But then Micheal whispers something like I’ve got ya honey, not goin’ anywhere; the sleep had mostly left his voice now, replaced by a slightly nasal smoker’s rasp and shit, he makes lies sound so fucking good, just like she did, and he can smell her perfume again, and her cigarettes, feel her nails against his neck, digging in his scalp, her clothed thighs squeezing around his head cutting off his hearing, and for a brief, crystal clear and damning moment right before he comes the love and devotion snaps away and he hates her for ruining sex with the only person he’ll ever love half as much as he loves her.
Even after all this, even when his orgasm is ordinary and terrible and makes the whole thing feel like a fucking waste of time, he still has to literally bite his tongue to stop himself saying the words, the ones he hasn’t been told back since he last smelled her.