Bad-good alignment of planets, fluke, and three heartbeats.
Fluke: fight started standing up, continued wrestling on the floor between the couch and the coffee table.
Three heartbeats: the time to make a decision.
One second, they were fighting. Physically fighting; grabs and grunts and brute force. It was rare that things went that far, but every now and then, tension and exasperation and something else, odd, built up and exploded. There was just no way not to let the steam blow, then.
The next second, Lincoln was crushing Michael against the floorboard, and crushing their mouths together – rough contact immediately morphing into something that was in equal parts a battle of wills, a kiss, and a desperate struggle to stop and go on at the same time.
When Lincoln lifted his head and broke the kiss, his breath swept over Michael’s mouth. Ragged and scorching hot and suddenly so vital that Michael wondered how he’d lived without it so far. He wrapped his hands around his brother’s neck, fingers tight and nails digging into the delicate skin of his shorn head, and arched up into him.
“Don’t stop,” Michael breathed out. Because Lincoln was shaking with need, hesitation, trepidation between his hands, and was doing nothing about it, Michael pressed their lips together again.
He counted three frantic, pounding heartbeats in his chest before Lincoln kissed him back and ground down on him so hard that Michael slid a little way across the floor.
-End (kind of...)-