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Drabbles
A/N: As a writing exercise, and an attempt to get out of a slump,I decided to try writing drabble-- which, for those who might not know, are stories that are 100 words exactly - not one letter more, not one syllable less. ;) They turned out to be amazingly addictive. I put them up on my storyblog, but then decided that those who don't frequent LJ might be interested in seeing them, too.
So that you aren't all inundated with alerts for a bunch of 100-word entries, I'm trying to post them up in groups by who they feature. Round one: My usual suspects.
Chapter One: Paul, Michael, Pete, and Manda
Little Touches
It’s amazing how much little touches can mean. A finger to the lips, silence; if the lips belong to another, a lover’s gesture. A hand on the shoulder; anything from easy camaraderie to quiet intimacy, if the thumb brushes the side of the neck. A hand on the knee or thigh, hints of what’s to come in private. Any higher, well!
Paul’s toes against Michael’s calf, fingers against the other’s chest, shoulder to cheek. Michael’s heartbeat finally slows, pulsing against Paul’s arm. They breathe together.
“You okay?” Michael’s voice, slurred, drugged-sounding.
“Mm,” is Paul’s only reply.
Little touches are home.
Pete was horrible with them, but liked to watch her. Manda toyed with her hair and muttered when she concentrated; half the time she forgot Pete was there. It was at once endearing and unbelievably sexy.
Of course, he broke the mood by pouncing and covering her with kisses. Manda squeaked and threw her pencil at him but kissed him with a small grin. Pete knew she didn’t really mind at all.
You never forget your first.
Growing up, Pete was there for all of Michael’s. When Michael’s parents couldn’t afford a bike, Pete let Michael borrow his, running along behind with his hand on the seat.
Michael’d kissed two people before Pete, but Pete was the first who mattered.
He still remembered how Pete tasted.
Michael knew Paul was jealous, even if he didn’t say it. Michael shook his head and smiled, cuddling against his husband’s side. Silly Paul.
Michael may have been in love with Pete first, but he was in love with Paul now. That was the important thing.
His mother fell in love with her husband all at once. Look how that turned out.
Paul didn’t like to be jaded; it always seemed a little pretentious. The cliché just hadn’t made sense to him.
But as he gazed at the tiny life in his arms, small fingers curled around his thumb, tears falling from his eyes, Paul had never been so happy to be proved wrong.
(A/N for “Love at First Sight”: In case some people didn’t know, Paul and Michael adopt children eventually. Robbie, i.e. this one, became theirs as a sort of accident. If you read Paul’s livejournal then you know all about it. If you don’t, well, I’ll get around to writing it eventually.)
He’d been so proud of his hair.
Paul laughed a sound nothing to do with humour, fingers running through shorn strands of pitch. No ribbons and bows; no skirts and blouses, either.
The trousers felt itchy, awkward against legs used to softer fabrics and more room. Paul was done with pretty things, as the lighter side of life had finished with him.
“Paul?”
Hesitant; Michael wasn’t sure how to act around him. It disgusted Paul. What, if he didn’t prance and squeal he wasn’t himself?
Michael called again; Paul didn’t answer. He stared into the mirror, daring it to speak.
There’s No Magic
“There's no magic, Michael," Paul gritted out, teeth clenched tightly enough to make his jaw ache. He ripped through the shorn, ragged strands, barely noticing that his arm kept jerking once the comb reached the ends, expecting there to be more hair.
"There never was. I just fooled myself with all the sparkles and candy floss and who knows what else. There's no magic, there are no fairies, and there's no good in the world. It's just sad that it took me thirty-two years to see that."
“Paul,” Michael’s voice was strangled. He raised one hand, then let it fall.
(A/N: for “Enough” and “There’s No Magic”: Sneak preview from “Worlds Away”, about halfway through. Maybe. I’m not sure yet. But it’s future!Paul, and it’s not a happy story by any means. Eaugh.)
Michael draws his knees up to his chest, bringing the sheets with them. He winces. He hurts all over, no matter how many times his boyfriend tells him it will get easier, feel better.
His body isn’t the only thing in pain.
Michael shudders. It’s too late now.
But really, he thinks, it’s better than nothing. At least he pretends to care. Pete won’t — not the way Michael needs —
No. Not thinking that.
Still fast asleep, Brian rolls over and flops half on top of Michael, mumbling. His dead weight makes it hard to breathe, but Michael doesn’t dare move.
(A/N for “Pretending”: In case you didn’t know, this is mid-Through Hell timeline here. Like … an insert for chapter 2. Okay? Okay.)
