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It was becoming too much to bear. Gerry would catch themself getting mesmerized by the dance of Michael’s fingers, the elegant motions as he folded paper or gestured while he spoke or touched the left corner of his desk for luck. Never sudden, never harsh — a constant cautious pattern of quiet touches and subtle movements.
The more time they spent together the harder it was to ignore, especially as some of those touches started to be directed toward Gerry — uninvasive and reserved but gentle in a way Gerry had never known before, could barely comprehend. The way Michael’s hand would close over his at an exciting point in a story, long fingers wrapping effortlessly, loosely around Gerry’s; a hesitant brushing of cobwebs off his shoulders in dusty artifact storage that made Gerry’s skin feel warm; a strand of hair tucked idly, inattentively behind his ear.
They were sitting on Michael’s desk during a lunch break, passing a bag of purple-red grapes back and forth, and as usual Gerry was growing more and more lost to Michael’s motions and less and less conscious of the conversation. His hands looked so soft and so quietly sure of their movements — his fingernails were perfect ovals — he had a scar by his left thumb — he held each grape like it was a precious gem — his fingers were long and graceful and these were absurd thoughts to be having about a person who was only picking storebought grapes from their stems and eating them one by one.
At that thought Gerry’s eyes followed Michael’s hands to his lips and saw the grape poised against his mouth as if for a kiss, the color bright against the pink of his lips, parting against it. Everything about him was beautiful and careful. Everything looked deliberate.
“Michael,” he said, blankly, “I think I want to be a grape.”
He was still staring at the grape when it froze, pressing slightly into Michael’s lower lip, and he realized Michael must be looking at him and glanced up hurriedly to meet his eyes. Michael was giving him a very strange look; Gerry wasn’t entirely sure he was looking at their eyes either. Slowly, Michael lowered his hand, let the grape fall back into the bag, and tilted his head slightly, still regarding Gerry quizzically, as if he were trying to make up his mind about something.
Finally, agonizingly carefully, he reached out, cupped Gerry’s cheek in one palm, and the gesture destroyed them — they couldn’t move, couldn’t think, could barely see Michael for the feeling of his hand fitting so gently against his face. “May I?” whispered Michael, and Gerry nodded, scarcely sure what he was agreeing to but certain that whatever it was he wanted it, craved it more than he knew how to crave something.
Michael leaned in so gently and kissed him, slow and soft on the lips and Gerry didn’t know what to do, but there was warmth flooding him and he felt like a grape and he felt like a star and he felt like the shore being brushed by the ocean. Michael’s lips were warm and slightly chapped and fit against his so perfectly, like he was trying to be the sweetest feeling Gerry had ever known.
Still, he didn’t move, and Michael pulled away, concern on his face that Gerry didn’t notice, too lost in confusion and bliss. “Is this okay?” he asked. His voice was far away and Gerry, who was still trying to be a grape, did not answer at first. “Gerry? Oh, god — I’m sorry, I misread, didn’t I?”
Panic was rising in Michael’s voice too quickly, and that Gerry registered. He shook himself, found Michael’s eyes searching his face for displeasure or distress. “No,” he managed, and his voice came out breathy and he couldn’t be bothered to care. “No, I — that was nice. That was … good. Thank you. I — I just don’t know how — what to do.”
“Oh.” That same patient gentleness in his voice. “Well then,” and now it was lightly teasing, though still affectionate, and there was a smile on his face. “Do you want to practice?”
The words, the tone — both — made Gerry dizzy, and he nodded his head, perhaps looking too wide-eyed. Michael only grinned at him and cupped his face again, in both hands this time, tilting his chin up slightly to regard him in the flickering lights.
He came close again, kissed the corner of Gerry’s mouth, his bottom lip, tilted his head to adjust the angle and kiss them again. So soft, so sweet his kisses that Gerry thought he might melt, dissolve into the fluttering in his stomach and the warmth that was making his chest tight.
Again, after only a few moments, Michael pulled away, and already Gerry missed the slow deliberate press of his lips on theirs. “Still okay?” he asked, one of his thumbs stroking Gerry’s cheek, distracting them.
“Perfect,” breathed Gerry. He watched Michael smile at that, wanted to live in the slow breaking of light across his face, like sunrise.
“You’re perfect,” murmured Michael, closing in again. “But I’m sure you’d like more practice still,” he added, a mere whisper against Gerry’s lips, a whisper that turned into a shiver and traced the length of Gerry’s spine. “Can I play with your hair?” he added, and at Gerry’s assent his hands wandered, combed back through his hair and tangled in it; his nails scratched gently against Gerry’s scalp and Gerry didn’t know whether to lose himself in that feeling or the tenderness of Michael’s kisses or both at once.
Every once in a while and before doing anything new Michael would repeat his request for permission. It felt so strange to be cared for, treated with such gentleness and consideration. Gerry wasn’t used to people doing things with his comfort in mind, much less to make him feel good. It was overwhelming in a good way, and as Michael moved to trail kisses along his jaw and then slowly down his neck they let themself start to sink into it, simply cherish the affection he was receiving.
He wasn’t sure when he’d been drawn so close to Michael, but they were being held, and Michael’s beautiful careful hands were running up and down his back like they were checking it for cracks or maybe just admiring its shape, and Gerry didn’t know what was better. “How are you doing?” murmured Michael, drawing a circle just under his shoulderblade.
Gerry only hummed at first, a soft contented sound, and Michael hummed in response, like reassurance.
“Good,” said Gerry at last. “Very.”
“Good,” said Michael, pressing a kiss to his collarbone for a long second, and “good,” he added again in a whisper, sending Gerry floating, high and still a little confused but happy, warm through with affection and praise.
It was a little easier after that. Michael was free and open with his affection, greeting Gerry in the mornings with an arm around his waist or a kiss to his shoulder or the back of his neck. Idle, lighthearted touches, a hand trailed down his arm in passing or the feeling of his nails against Gerry’s scalp as he braided and unbraided their hair while they worked.
Still, it wasn’t easy not to get overwhelmed. When Gerry started to shut down Michael would slow, pull back, check again and again for his permission. He was so careful, so determined to provide comfort — “I want you to feel good,” he said once, a half-confident admission into the crook of Gerry’s neck.
And more and more often, Gerry welcomed his affections, caught at his collar when he started to pull away and kissed him again or let him continue pressing his lips to Gerry’s collarbone, his wrists, his neck. He’d let the sensation melt him, dissolve into the way Michael made him feel.
Like he was wanted. Like he was precious. Like Michael was enjoying everything about him and at the same time making sure they were enjoying being touched, cherishing the path his hands traced up Gerry’s sides and the press of his mouth against Gerry’s own. It was easy to forget how unfamiliar it was when Michael made him feel so right.
And Michael was so beautiful in those moments, hair prettily disheveled from Gerry’s hands getting lost in it, lips pink with kisses and eyes bright, pupils wide. Gerry would get distracted admiring the blush on his cheeks and only notice he’d been caught staring when Michael grinned wide enough for his dimples to show, raised an eyebrow and leaned in to kiss them again until they were breathless and warm, soft in Michael’s embrace.
“I love you so much,” Michael mumbled, and Gerry said it back, the words foreign but comforting on their tongue. And when Michael kept kissing them it was like he was trying to press the words into Gerry’s lips, and Gerry was floating or maybe melting and his hands were on Michael’s blushing face and everything felt familiar and everything felt right.
They found a rhythm, and the rhythm dissolved into a disorganized comfort. Michael’s forgotten sweaters were draped over the back of a chair in Gerry’s bedroom, and then they were in his closet, soft bright colors standing out against the usual black and grey. Gerry woke up in Michael’s bed about as often as he did in his own, and Michael knew where to find flour and sugar in Gerry’s pantry.
It was familiar and reassuring in a way Gerry hadn’t known was possible. He loved it. The days without some book or another to chase, which he’d used to dread, were time to spend with Michael — driving all day to the sea, or sitting up late at home, or wandering the streets looking for anything at all to pass time.
Gerry sat now on the counter, swinging his legs idly while Michael wandered the kitchen to cook. He’d offered to help but Michael had shaken his head — “Just keep me company, love. You’ve had a long week.” And it was true that he’d been after seven books in as many days and it was nice to sit quietly and watch the sun set and turn Michael’s hair strawberry and gold, knowing that when it rose in the morning there would be nowhere to be but here. Besides, Michael had always been better in the kitchen than he, and they would likely only slow him down if they did try to help.
Michael turned away from the sink and set a bowl of grapes, fresh-washed, on the counter. “While we wait,” he mumbled, popping one into his own mouth. Gerry felt himself blush faintly and Michael raised an eyebrow, stepped forward to place a hand on the counter beside him. He was beautiful, a slight smile on his lips and his face tilted up to regard Gerry in wide-eyed amusement. “Do you still want to be a grape, Gerry?” he asked.
He must have taken Gerry’s deepening blush for an answer, because he leaned up and cupped his face in one hand, kissed him gently. “Here,” he said when he pulled away, and there was a grape between his fingers and then it was pressed against Gerry’s lips. Their eyes widened, but they knew a cue when he saw one and opened his mouth to eat it. Michael grinned. “Your turn now,” he said. Gerry loved the tone he was using, and knew it well by now — low, playful, and somehow still so affectionate.
Gerry pulled Michael a little closer, picked a grape without looking and held it to his lips. His grin widened and he bit the grape without breaking his smile, pressed it with his tongue against the roof of his mouth to crush it. He was very obviously enjoying himself immensely.
“Kiss me again?” He asked.
Gerry was comfortable enough by now not to hesitate, and Michael’s face fit so well in the palms of their hands. He was holding on to Gerry’s waist like an anchor and it struck him that he’d never felt so stable, so safe as he did here, now, like this. The taste of grapes was still on both their lips, sweet enough to lose himself in even without the way Michael kissed, like all that mattered was Gerry’s mouth against his and the way he felt receiving affection.
Still, there was more to be done and the water on the stove had begun to boil, so Michael stepped away and Gerry caught their breath and watched the way he smiled to himself as he finished cooking. Gerry caught his eye, tossed him another grape, and it missed his mouth entirely but he laughed and he was incandescent and it was worth it.
Dinner was quick and afterward there were more grapes to eat, sprawled together on the sofa with a film playing in the background, more attentive to each other’s giggles than anything happening on the screen. It felt light, existing with Michael like this — everything else faded into the background and it mattered very little how he held himself or appeared or acted because Michael loved him regardless, loved him completely, and kept showing him until he had no choice but to accept it.
Grapes tasted sweeter from Gerry’s hands — Michael could trace the veins on the back of them, the curve of his thumb, trace circles into his wrists and then the grape didn’t matter so much as Gerry’s quiet sigh, the occasional catch in their breath. He’d been nervous, at first, to show affection like this. Gerry had been reserved, even nervous, and Michael as always was terrified of coming on too strong. But he’d learned, after a while, what Gerry liked and when. It was easy now.
At last the bowl of grapes was nearly empty and the film was drawing to a close — Michael didn’t remember a bit of it, the plot secondary and faded to the feeling of Gerry relaxed on top of him, the tension bleeding out of him as Michael traced circles along his spine.
“Thank you,” mumbled Gerry, and their voice was so muffled in Michael’s shoulder that he barely heard it at first.
“What for?”
Gerry shrugged, or approximated a shrug. “Everything. This. You’re nice,” he managed, his voice trailing off into its usual whisper. He still wasn’t always comfortable with verbal vulnerability, and Michael ran a hand through his hair to remind him that he didn’t have to be.
“It’s deserved, Ger. You don’t need to thank me for what you should’ve been receiving all along.”
“I do, though.” He sounded moments from sleep.
Michael sighed — not unhappily, but perhaps a little wistfully. He knew convincing Gerry that the affection Michael offered him was given freely, happily, wouldn’t be easy. He knew reassuring him that he did deserve this, not just now but always, would be a repeated task. He knew he didn’t mind this, that he would gladly promise Gerry daily everything he had given him and more.
He hugged Gerry tighter, scratched his nails gently against their scalp and began to hum. It was easier, sometimes, when words weren’t getting through, to hope notes sung softly in the dark would find their way to Gerry’s heart, settle there and make him understand that Michael wanted this, loved it as much as Gerry did.
“Should we sleep?” asked Gerry, his voice thin with exhaustion or satisfaction or both.
Michael hummed assent, shifted to let them stand and followed, feeling slightly lightheaded, to Gerry’s room.
It was dark, and they were tired, but they found each others’ arms and then Gerry was kissing Michael’s cheek, the corner of his mouth, the little cluster of freckles on his chin. Idle, soft kisses, and Michael knew that once they would only have been so bold this late, this tired, but now he wasn’t sure. He couldn’t remember the last time Gerry had kissed him, not because it was infrequent but because it was so often, and every affection blurred together.
Gerry fell asleep first, the back-and-forth motion of his thumb on Michael’s shoulder stilling and stopping, his breathing levelling. Michael couldn’t see him in the dark but he could feel the familiar line of his cheekbone as he brushed stray hair from his face, the quiet shifting as he settled into a more comfortable position. It was all he could do to stay awake, but he didn’t want to fall asleep quite yet — not here, not now, not when everything was so peaceful and Gerry seemed so at ease in his arms. Maybe it wouldn’t stop surprising him — he’d been waiting for the warmth he felt from being trusted to wear off, but it had yet to. It felt nice, not just because Michael was proud he’d done well enough to make Gerry feel so safe, but because he wanted Gerry to feel this way always. It looked good on them, and they always seemed a little surprised to be so comfortable in Michael’s embraces, and the warmth of knowing he was bringing Gerry this long-needed respite was real and bright and wonderful.
But warmth and softness made Michael sleepy, and he couldn’t keep his eyes open forever, waiting for Gerry’s face to take shape as his eyes adjusted to the shadowy room.
He was asleep before midnight, his fingers still tangled loosely in Gerry’s hair.