Disclaimer: I own these characters. Please don't take them or claim they're yours. No one will believe you, anyway.

A/N: My first entry for a contrelamontre/petittesoeur challenge. The criteria were to write a scene that occurs after sex but not write the sex itself; everything else was up to the author. Oh, and we had one hour. I finished this in about 59 minutes, give or take 4 seconds. ;)

Afterglow

It had been awkward.

Michael snorted to himself and turned so his face was pressed against the pillow — so soft and fluffy, smelling faintly of lavender (good heavens, Paul’s room was such a girl’s domain. But then, that was part of his charm.). He knew he was clumsy; he had none of the grace that he wished he had, or that his boyfriend possessed in everyday things like walking or washing the dishes. It only made sense that this carried over to sex.

He hadn’t expected to make that much of a mess, though.

Michael, always the obsessive-compulsive, had almost insisted on changing the sheets immediately. It was smelly and sticky and just all-around gross, and he didn’t want to wake up with it caked all over him. It just didn’t seem sanitary. But just as he’d opened his mouth to voice the suggestion, Paul had smiled in that sweet, sleepy way and rolled up against his side. Michael had wrapped his arms around Paul’s lithe form and decided the laundry could wait until morning.

Paul was still curled up next to him, his breath warm against Michael’s collarbone, his black hair spread out in sweaty strands that slid away when Michael ran his fingers through them. He was so beautiful. Michael had thought Paul would be all for the soul-searching talks and whatnot afterward, but he’d fallen asleep almost immediately. It was amusing, really, particularly when he’d begun to snore.

It was so different when compared with Brian.

The memory caused a twitch, and Michael rubbed his chest to remove the sudden ache. It didn’t help. Brian, all roughness and no subtlety or romance whatsoever; it was all about the physical with him. No mental connection, no love — goodness no, not love. Not with Brian Jacobson. Not with the All Star of Every Sports Team Possible.

With Brian, Michael had stifled tears. Not because it had hurt — which it had — or because he didn’t want it — which he hadn’t — but because sex was supposed to be this glorious thing, a meeting of minds and souls and all that poetic nonsense. It was supposed to mean something.

Not Michael pressed up against the wall in the boys’ locker room after one of Brian’s games, biting his lip to hold back a cry, Brian leaving almost before his breathing returned to normal, heart pounding against Michael’s back, Michael huddled in the corner with his clothing clutched to his chest once the other had gone.

With Paul, it was different. With Brian, there had been purpose but no passion, no tenderness; with Paul, they had no idea what they were doing, but it didn’t seem to matter.

Paul hadn’t minded when they couldn’t figure out who should do what. They didn’t toss a coin or anything so banal, but there had been a few minutes of staring and half-hearted attempts to ask the question and giggling to themselves. It had been Paul who came up with the idea of kissing and letting the evening evolve from there.

Michael hadn’t expected that he would be the one to lower Paul down onto the blankets, to press a soothing kiss to the other boy’s temple, to brace himself against the pillows and —

He blushed.

Michael didn’t like control. He liked having others tell him what to do, where to go . . . liked knowing that if something happened, he’d have someone else to fall back on. And while Paul’s hands had guided him to where he needed to be, and it was Paul who rested his own legs on Michael’s shoulders and told him it was all right, eventually, Michael had had to take control. He hadn’t expected that.

He hadn’t expected the fierce protectiveness that had washed over him, either. It went beyond trying to minimize the pain (something that Brian hadn’t done with him, and perhaps he wouldn’t have been so frightened if his then-lover had even attempted to be gentle) and crossed over into something that Michael didn’t even understand. But as he laced their fingers together over Paul’s head, as he kissed Paul in an attempt to stifle his own moans (he didn’t know he was that loud — certainly he’d never been with Brian), as he worshipped the other’s body again and again, Michael vowed he’d never let anything happen to him.

It was a silly promise. He wasn’t some sort of guardian angel who had power over what happened to Paul. But when the older boy clung to him and sobbed his name and I love yous over and over as the last wave washed over him, Michael knew he had to try.

Funny how something like this could turn over everything he thought he knew about himself.

Michael let his hands wander over Paul’s back, tracing the lean muscles there. In his sleep, Paul made a happy-sounding noise and burrowed closer. He was like a cat when he slept; he snuggled up in the warmest places and resented being moved.

He’d thought he would be terrified.

He had been, for a time. Afraid not of commitment but of being unable to follow through; of making a promise to love and protect, then finding out that his feelings weren’t real, after all. But Paul had been patient, to the point that Michael had grown angry — why didn’t Paul slap him, or scream at him, when Michael was being so obviously frustrating?

Michael shook his head, a little amused at how incoherent his thoughts were tonight, but he supposed it was only natural. He’d leapt off the bank of a cliff he hadn’t ever intended to climb again, and found that not only had the fall not hurt, but that somewhere along the line he’d learned how to fly.

He hoped Paul wouldn’t be too sore in the morning. Michael knew nothing of morning-afters except that his had hurt terribly; he’d skipped school in the guise of a stomach-ache because he could barely get out of bed. Brian hadn’t called, of course, but he had come over after school to do it again. Michael protested, but not for long; he’d thought he loved Brian, and if you loved someone you were supposed to make sacrifices, right?

But Paul didn’t seem as though he’d been in a tremendous amount of pain. He’d looked sated, happy, and while his movements were ginger, it didn’t look as though he felt anywhere near what Michael had.

Which was a good thing, really. If Michael had hurt him, he would have assumed the foetal position and refused to come out of his room for a good week. And, since he and Paul shared one, this would make things rather difficult.

He wondered what Pete, what Manda, would say. Neither of them was aware of how far he’d gone with Brian, because Michael knew they would disapprove; they might even be ashamed of him. He hoped they would understand why this was different.

“Mmrr,” Paul nuzzled Michael’s throat, emerald eyes cracking open. “Go t’sleep.”

Michael couldn’t help smiling at Paul’s dishevelled condition. “I will. I’m just thinking.”

“Well, stop,” Paul trailed his fingers down Michael’s arm until he found his hand and clasped it. “You think too much.”

“I know.”

“If you’re beating yourself up about anything —“ Paul attempted to look stern, but with his flushed skin and half-lidded eyes, he didn’t pull it off very well. “Then don’t. I don’t care that I’m not your first, and you didn’t hurt me, and it was very nice and if you don’t mind I would like a repeat performance in the morning, thank you very much.”

Michael made a sputtering sort of noise that began as a startled laugh and ended up choked off by embarrassment and a host of other emotions. “I just . . . I . . .”

Paul squeezed his palm. “It’s okay. Whatever the matter is, it’s all right.”

Michael nodded like an obedient child, a thought that amused him slightly. Having six younger siblings made Paul revert to older-brother mode quite often. “I didn’t think I . . . you know . . .”

“Well, I liked it very much,” Paul winked at him, then let go of Michael so he could prop himself up on one elbow. “I know you have that control . . . thing, but I said we should just let things go the way they wanted to, and that’s how it ended up,” his brow furrowed. “Is that what’s bothering you?”

“A little,” Michael sat up and pushed the blankets down to his waist; he was beginning to feel uncomfortably hot, and his feet were tangled. “It’s just . . .” he fought back the stammer that was trying to creep into his words, the one his father had given him years ago when he’d tried to beat out Michael’s lisp. “It’s a big responsibility.”

Paul’s eyes softened and he raised himself to a seated position, but said nothing.

“I’m scared,” Michael said, barely whispering. “Not just the sex, I . . . it’s just . . . I want to protect you, but . . . if I can’t . . .”

He stopped, because Paul wasn’t beside him anymore. He was straddling him, hands cupping Michael’s cheeks, an indefinable but definitely serious expression on his face. “Michael,” Paul frowned. “Stop it.”

Michael wanted to slide his eyes away, but Paul wouldn’t let him. There was something ferocious about the dark-haired boy’s gaze, and Michael couldn’t break it. “Being on top does not mean you signed some ineffable contract stating you’re responsible for everything bad that happens to me from now on!” Paul’s grip loosened, his thumbs stroking lightly. “Do you hear me?”

Michael nodded.

Paul kissed him, their lips barely touching. “We’re in a relationship, not a babysitting job,” his mouth quirked. “I’m honoured that you want to protect me. I don’t get that much. But,” he raised an eyebrow. “Keep in mind that I’m doing my own share of watching-out-for. All right?”

“I just don’t want to lose you,” Michael didn’t know what to do with his hands; he wanted to touch Paul all at once, to brand him somehow so that all the evils of the world knew to leave him alone. He settled for resting on Paul’s hips.

Paul sighed and lowered his head so his forehead was against Michael’s shoulder. “I know. But if we knew the answers, this wouldn’t be life. We’d have some guy in tweed and plaid yelling ‘CUT!’ every five minutes and telling us to try it again.”

He was right. He usually was. Michael felt himself relaxing, just a little. He was with Paul because he loved him; he’d done this because he wanted to, not because he felt obligated as a boyfriend or pressured by someone else. They’d waited so they would have a foundation first; so that when they finally did make love it would be an expression of their togetherness, so it would have meaning.

It didn’t change their relationship in some fundamental manner. It didn’t make things clear in a way they hadn’t before; in some ways, it muddled everything even more. But it did make Michael realize how much he wanted to be with Paul, now and for as long as life would let them have together.

Paul was looking at him now, and Michael recognized that expression. It started butterflies in his stomach, then shot downward in a sensation that was less cliché and more powerful. Michael grinned.

“Speaking of doing things over again,” the smile shifted into a smirk when Paul moved his hands from Michael’s face, slowly tracing down his body. “Shall we?”

“Mm, yes. Let’s.”

Those were the last (coherent) words spoken for a while, as Michael pulled Paul into his arms and kissed him, mouths and tongues and hands and bodies melding together.

It wasn’t perfect. Elbows and knees bumped into soft areas, eliciting “oof!” noises; they clashed teeth a few times when things got too eager; Michael, still unsure of the mechanics of things, almost lost his nerve halfway through and had to be threatened by a libidinous but still affectionate Paul. A few times Paul did cry out in shock when Michael moved the wrong way, and Michael had to be coaxed into not giving up right there. And it was certainly messy.

It wasn’t life-affirming. Their relationship was just as strong as it had been before, and while it had opened the floodgates for new possibilities and got Michael thinking, it wasn’t as though they couldn’t have been this close without the physical aspect.

But it was so, so right.

Afterward, lying in round two of the afterglow, Michael couldn’t help thinking (despite how horrifically sappy was the contemplation) that their bodies fit together in a way that his and Brian’s never had. Paul opened one eye, said that Michael was thinking too loudly, and told him to be quiet.

Michael laughed softly, kissed Paul’s forehead, and finally allowed himself to sleep.