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This sucked. January in Detroit always sucked.
Chuck tries to push his fists further into what little warmth there is in his jacket pockets, tips of his fingers so cold they’d started to feel hot, a tingling sensation. Mutt’s internal heating system could only do so much against the biting cold of a Motorcity winter, and he knew the garage wasn’t much better. A shitty ventilation system that was years out of date, and space heaters that tripped the breakers of the hideout if too many of them were going at one time.
Jacob had spent a few days pilfering through desolate areas of the city and abandoned residential areas, and the result was a rather impressive pile of extra blankets for each of them that had begun to fray at the edges from several cycles through the washer and dryer.
But despite two comforters and a duvet stacked neatly on top of his bed, Chuck still felt the winter chill seeping into his bones. It had gotten to the point where sleep became increasingly difficult, kept awake by the cold creeping up his toes and spreading across his skin.
It’s about halfway through the month when Chuck finds his way to Mike’s room, waking up from a boutless fit of sleep and staring bleary-eyed at the glow of his holoscreen that reads 2:16 a.m. He sits up and smooths down his pajamas, a worn sweater from a college he never attended that’s nearly threadbare at the cuffs of the sleeves and sweatpants that are a size too big, threatening to slip down his narrow hips if not for the double knot of the drawstrings.
He carefully makes his way out of his bedroom and down the hall toward Mike’s. The hallway is mostly quiet, the occasional groan of wood accompanied by the shifting, clicking of metal, faint sounds of the wind howling outside. Chuck knows where to step, which planks on the floor produce shrill creaks, and he easily slips past the other doors before stopping in front of Mike’s.
He never knocks, just turns the knob and gives it a rough jiggle because the latch gets stuck half of the time and it’s not like it’s loud enough to wake anyone. He slips in and shuts the door quietly, twisting the lock like he’s done dozens of times before.
Mike’s room is tidy, thankfully, making Chuck’s walk of a few steps to his bed less complicated. He doesn’t say anything, just pulls back the covers carefully and slips into the Chuck-shaped space that Mike so conveniently leaves for him during the colder months. Mike always ran hot, skin warm and reassuring, Chuck feeling the occasional thumping of his veins underneath his fingers if he’s holding onto Mike just so. Chuck settles in with his back towards Mike’s, the other boy curled towards the wall, but that doesn’t last long as he feels the mattress dip and shift beneath him and then Mike’s got an arm around his waist and is pulling Chuck closer to him. The heat from Mike’s chest easily slips between the two of them and through Chuck’s fabric to seep into his back.
“Sorry, did I wake you?” Chuck whispers, barely able to make out shadows in the darkness in front of him. Mike makes a sound, a sort of sleepy grunt in response.
“Wouldn’t really say I was asleep,” Mike says, voice rough with exhaustion and that certainly does something to Chuck’s heart, a low murmur of sound that makes him shiver. “Feel like I haven’t seen you all week,” he adds into Chuck’s shoulder with a huff that sounds a bit like frustration.
“Mikey, we ride together, like, every day,” Chuck replies, a lilt of amusement in his voice.
“‘s different,” Mike retorts, pressing his face further against Chuck, his nose pressed up against the scratchy fabric of Chuck’s sweater. Chuck supposes he isn’t exactly wrong; between working with Dutch to put together custom parts for Rayon, and having to sit down with Julie for decoding sessions that went into the early hours of the morning, Chuck feels like the only time he really has seen Mike is when he’s strapped into Mutt’s passenger seat, riding shotgun while frantically arming the vehicle’s weapons and trying not to squeal when Mike pushes 300 on the speedometer while dodging the newest variant of Kane Bots. Not really what either of them could call quality time together.
He starts kissing along the back of Chuck’s neck, past locks of blonde hair that feather out at his nape. Chuck has to clap a hand over his mouth when Mike scrapes his teeth against the skin there, muffling a startled cry.
“Gotta be quiet, Chuckles,” Mike chides him and that sends a thrill down Chuck’s spine because that sure is something he’s always had trouble with. He cups the side of Chuck’s head and turns it towards him, adjusting so that he’s half on top of the other boy so he can kiss him properly. He presses soft kisses against Chuck’s mouth, licking along his bottom lip and sucking it between his teeth, savoring the way Chuck moans, swallowing those noises that are just for him, just for Mike.
–
This thing with Mike is new, still doesn’t quite have a name. Chuck doesn’t know that he would call it dating. They don’t really go on dates, though Chuck thinks he’d like to be properly courted by Mike if there was ever a span of time longer than two weeks where Mike wasn’t working himself into a bundle of unease and anticipation, like he’s going to come apart at the seams if something doesn’t happen. It’s something closer to a “situationship”, a term he’d heard some of the younger Motorcity residents throwing around when he’d been hanging around a sketchy backalley one night waiting for Mike to finish a deal inside what appeared to be a rather derelict bar.
He knows the sex helps Mike unwind, loosens up the coil of nerves that’s wound itself so tightly around him that Chuck wonders if he can breathe. Chuck likes it too, likes the way Mike takes charge when they’re finding each other in the darkness of either of their bedrooms and Mike handles him with practiced ease, deftly working open Chuck’s dark wash jeans and pushing them down in one smooth motion along with his boxers so he can press up against him in all the right ways.
And that’s fine, Chuck’s fine, swears up and down that the way Mike bends him over and breathes hot and desperate against the back of his neck while railing him into his shitty mattress at 3am doesn’t make Chuck’s heart skip a beat. He’s cool with it.
Until he isn’t.
–
They don’t really talk about it beyond the walls of Mike’s bedroom, and Chuck’s okay with that. Really. It becomes increasingly difficult to tell that to his heart though, which starts to thump wildly against his ribs like it’s threatening to break free of his chest cavity whenever Mike throws an arm over his shoulder, easy, something he’s always done. He doesn’t seem fazed by it either, which throws Chuck’s mind into a frenzy, an internal back and forth of does he or does he not. There’s only so much he can take and he realizes he needs to stamp these feelings out. The sooner the better.
And that’s certainly easier said than done. No time ever seems like The Right Time, and when they do find a moment to be alone together, it’s usually well past midnight and involves the two of them being tangled up in Mike’s sheets and Chuck gasping and whining and begging for the other boy to stop teasing, come on Mikey as Mike pushes deep into him and has Chuck seeing stars behind his eyelids.
Chuck realizes his problem started years ago, when he was pimply and scrawny and just shy of fourteen and had first come down to Motorcity. He didn’t know anything about the lay of the land, unspoken rules about turf boundaries and gangs, and had gotten himself into a rather sticky situation. Until Mike had shown up, scrappy and lean with bandaged knuckles and a beat up car that had certainly seen better days. Mike had quite literally saved him, pulled him from the depths of the city beneath Deluxe and started a ragtag team of misfits with Chuck at his side, like they were kids all over again. God, he’d had feelings for Mike even back then and didn’t put two and two together until he was pushing twenty.
Fucking embarrassing, that’s what that was.
–
Chuck turns around fully, on his side now, and Mike presses up against him easily in the dark, pushing up his sweater with rough hands and slotting a leg between Chuck’s thighs, and he knows Mike is smiling at the way Chuck is already half hard just from deep kisses and heavy petting. It’s not his fault Mike was a really good kisser, knew the right way to lick into Chuck’s mouth or nip at his lower lip while rubbing up and down his sides.
Chuck whines when he feels Mike’s fingers grope down towards his ass, rough and calloused but still gentle. Mike’s always gentle with him. He slips his fingers underneath the waistband of Chuck’s boxers, feeling him up and Chuck’s breath hitches and he presses his hips down, unabashedly grinding against Mike’s thigh.
“You’re cute like this,” Mike tells him, nipping at his neck, up to the shell of his ear. He doesn’t elaborate on that further, doesn’t really talk that much when they’re like this. But its simplicity sends Chuck’s pulse racing and his heart melting at the way Mike says it, like Chuck could be something special to him.
Any more words between them are far and few between, Mike quiet under the cover of night and anything that Chuck wants to say is stuck in the back of his throat, too desperate and too full of unrequited feelings for Chuck to put out into the world. Too vulnerable underneath Mike’s capable hands, taken apart and put back together again each time. Rinse and repeat.
Mike blindly reaches for the half empty bottle of lube on the edge of the bed, gets his fingers slicked up. Mike opens him up easily, practiced, two fingers then three slipping into Chuck with little resistance and Mike makes a curious noise. It reminds Chuck that he’d shamelessly fingered himself in the shower last night underneath the hard spray of hot water until it ran lukewarm, resting his forehead against his arm as he leaned heavily against the tile of the shower until he was cumming untouched, hips jerking and biting into the heel of his palm to stay quiet.
“Did you think about me?” Mike asks in that deep tone his voice takes on when he gets worked up, pulling Chuck from his memory and reeling at the sensation of Mike’s fingers curling inside of him, slowly massaging his walls. The real thing is so much better than just his hand and imagination and he tries his best to bite down shy noises, letting Mike work him open.
Mike takes his silence for affirmation and gives a cocky little hum that makes Chuck’s face positively burn. It doesn’t help when Mike pulls his fingers out, leaving Chuck empty and wanting, the pathetic little whine he lets out just making his cheeks hotter. Mike pushes himself up and reaches over Chuck, using his free hand to get to the bedside table, fumbling and thumping against the wood until his knuckles knock against the small lamp there and a pool of warm light fills the corner of the bedroom when he flicks it on. Chuck’s heart skips a beat at the way the shadows fall against Mike’s handsome features as he feels for a condom and the bottle of lube.
Mike resituates himself on the bed, sitting up on his knees and pushing his sweats down quickly, waistband loose and stretched out and his cocks springs free, flushed and bobbing heavy with want. Chuck moans at the sight, hungry for the length of it inside him, and Mike moves so that he’s between Chuck’s legs, pushing the heavy blankets back further. He strips him of his sweats and boxers, working them down his long legs, and Chuck adjusts his knees to rest over Mike’s hips when he’s tossed half of his clothes onto the floor.
Then Mike is kissing him again, once, then twice, swallowing up all the small noises that Chuck offers to him. He clumsily rips the condom open, rolling it on and getting more lube on his dick and Chuck gets the idea, lifting his hips and scooting himself further down the bed. Easy access, a filthy thought, that Chuck is so used to accommodating Mike’s needs. Not that he ever minded, would do anything for him, would drop to his knees if Mike asked, for Mike’s use only. This isn’t for anyone else.
Mike takes his length in hand and lines himself up with Chuck’s entrance, slick and wet with lube and he groans, sliding the head of his cock against the pucker before slipping in with little resistance. He bottoms out easily, the slide smooth as his fingers press into Chuck’s hips and it leaves Chuck breathless every time. Mike wasn’t huge, above-average probably, but there was a thickness to it that stretched him out perfectly, like they were made to fit together in such an intimate way. The way Mike’s dick curves is also a plus, pushing right up against Chuck’s prostate with nearly every solid thrust, Mike finding an easy rhythm and fucking into him with smooth precision.
Mike doesn’t actually fuck like he drives. He’s not reckless, doesn’t just put his foot on the gas and not let up until he’s arrived at his destination, taking Chuck along for the ride as happenstance, as collateral. He’s great in bed, considerate of his partners and way too sexy for his own good, words of filthy praise whispered into Chuck’s ear and a loose fist around his cock that never quite pushes Chuck to his orgasm until Mike wants him to get there.
Chuck doesn’t last long, not with Mike. He never does, coming apart like Mike’s had years to learn how, and not just a few months. Mike always knew him well, could almost always figure out what made Chuck tick.
“Mikey I-, ‘m close, please, please touch me,” Chuck is babbling, sighing and gasping as tremors run up and down his body, jolts of pleasure throbbing up his spine with every pronounced hit to his prostate.
Mike’s thrusts become frantic, losing that careful rhythm as he drives into Chuck repeatedly, chasing his orgasm and he’s lightheaded and Chuck looks like the most gorgeous thing he’s ever seen, splayed out on his bed and nearly incoherent as he’s pulled back onto Mike’s cock over and over and over again. He moves one hand from Chuck’s hip to wrap firmly around his neglected cock, just the right amount of pressure, how he knows Chuck likes it, learned from their first few times together, messy handjobs and sloppy makeouts under Mike’s covers. He times his strokes with his thrusts, the desperate press of his hips as he tries to drive, deeper, deeper into Chuck. Like he can mold himself around the shape of Chuck and slowly seep into him, into his heart, the way Chuck has made a home inside of his.
“Good, you’re so good, love you so much,” and it slips out before Mike can even begin to think about stopping it, losing a solid grasp on his words in the haze of lust and attraction and feelings that he’s kept buried for years. Says it into the crook of Chuck’s neck, a whisper spoken into the pale expanse of skin but something impossibly loud in the silence that forms between the hours of late night and early morning.
“What?!” Chuck cries out, a choked sound, stunned and shell-shocked and tumbling through an orgasm that blindsides him, like he’s being driven off a cliff and is helpless to stop it. His heart squeezes painfully in his chest and he’s gasping and shaking as he comes down from his high abruptly. He whines when Mike pulls out, feeling thoroughly used, watches as Mike tugs the condom off, not caring about the way his cum leaks down onto Chuck’s thighs and stomach and makes a mess of his sheets that he’ll have to deal with in a few hours.
He breathes heavily, two breaths, then three, sharp inhales and exhales before he’s leaning back on his knees, looking down at Chuck with an expression that’s indecipherable, the tight line of his mouth and the hardset downturn of his brows almost imperceptible in the faint light of the bedside lamp that softens his features but doesn’t hide the intense emotion that lays there. Dark eyes half hidden underneath his bangs and Chuck feels like Mike is staring straight into his soul and he has to swallow thickly around the lump that’s forming in his throat.
“I’m in love with you,” Mike tells him simply, chest rising and falling as he’s trying to steady his breathing. “And I can’t keep acting like I’m not.”
Chuck’s mind races a mile a minute and he’s frantically trying to slam on the brakes because Mike is saying things to him, things that sound an awful lot like a confession, like feelings. He stares at Mike with wide eyes, brushing his bangs out of the way so he can really look at him, so he can try to puzzle out the minute shifts in Mike’s face as Chuck’s silence bleeds into lengthy seconds.
Then Chuck laughs, a baffled kind of noise. He doesn’t mean to, it just sort of pushes past his lips and out into the space between them.
“That’s- I mean, Mikey, come on, do you hear yourself?” Chuck asks, laughter turning into a hiccuping sound as his mind reels in disbelief. Because who could love Chuck? Who could love gangly limbs and pockmarked cheeks and a voice that pitches and cracks?
Mike practically glares at him, something a little mean, a little hurt, lips curling down in a tight curve of disapproval.
“Tell me I’m wrong,” Mike says pointedly, firm and resolute. “Tell me I’ve been misunderstanding this…thing, between us, and I’ll drop it. You can act like I never said anything, like we never did any of this. Move on.”
Chuck thinks it would be rather hard to just not acknowledge Mike’s apparent feelings for him, running so deep that Mike was simply unable to contain the intricacies of them in the well of his heart. Chuck thinks it must be a pretty long way down to the bottom, like dropping a heavy stone down the cavernous hole until it’s swallowed up in the darkness, taking more than a few seconds for any sound to echo back up towards the opening and indicate its depths. Nevermind the fact that they’ve slept together more times than Chuck can count.
“What are you saying…” Chuck tries again, unsure and wavering, his eyes unsteady and gazing at every part of Mike that isn’t his eyes; tips of his ears, the bob of his adam’s apple in his throat, anywhere but that piercing gaze that’s filled with things that Chuck can’t quite place, that he can’t neatly compartmentalize and file away like everything else in his life.
“Tell me it’s not just me, Chuckles,” MIke says softly this time, like he has all the patience in the world for Chuck. This is one time where Mike seems to want to take his time, be cautious and thorough.
A leak springs in the dam that Chuck has tried so hard to put up, to keep all of his stupid, irrational feelings about Mike fucking Chilton at bay. To keep from pouring his heart out and blabbing about how In Love With Mike he is when the other boy would kiss him tenderly in the early light of morning, lips brushing over bandaged wounds and old scars. Clinging to him like he would die if Chuck wasn’t right there with him.
He can’t help the tears that well up in his eyes, giving Mike the best glare he can muster with his bangs still half falling in front of his face and his lips kissed nearly raw, cheeks red hot with embarrassment.
“You suck,” Chuck tells him and he hates that it sounds nasally and that his voice cracks on a two word sentence. “How could I not be in love with you?”
Then he’s reaching up and grabbing for Mike, hands curled around the back of his head and tangling in short, dark hair, and Mike lets himself be maneuvered down into the kiss. It’s clumsy, Chuck is clumsy, their noses bumping and teeth clicking like the first time they kissed, but it’s perfect, Chuck is perfect.
And Mike wouldn’t change that for the world.