Disclaimer: These characters belong to me; please respect that.

Author's Notes: Another for the bodyandsoul100 challenge: "Thunder" was the prompt. This one has very little character exposition and is more about the boy love, which is rarer for my Paul and Michael stories. I dunno, rating's higher on this for suggestion, so ... tread carefully.

Of Thunderstorms and Dark Chocolate

When Michael was little, he used to be afraid of thunderstorms. Da told him that it was the growls of God telling him he'd been naughty and if he wasn't careful then lightning would come through his window and strike him dead — so eat your vegetables, little man! When Mum found out about that, when she came to tuck him in one night and found him under his bed with everything metal shoved in a corner at the far side of the room, she told him Da was silly and that it was just angels playing at lawn bowling. But that didn't help either, because what if they dropped a ball on the house by accident?

Pete was the one who fixed it, who made thunderstorms okay. He dragged Michael to the town library, a big brick building with a million steps and lots of grownups who shushed kids but knew Pete, took his hand and led him to stacks of books that had titles with lots of letters in them. Pulled one on weather patterns down and flipped through it; explained to Michael that thunder was just a by-product of the air around a lightning strike getting super-heated and cooled in a split second. It wasn't anything that could hurt him.

After that, even though thunderstorms still gave him a little shiver down his back, Michael wasn't scared anymore. Besides, by the time Pete explained away thunder to him, there were worse things than distant sounds in the sky to keep him up at night, and Pete couldn't make them go away with science.

He never did get the knack to sleep through storms, though. Michael would lie awake, staring out the window — he could see the flashes of lightning through his eyelids if he closed them anyway — and obsessively counting the seconds between the sky brightening and the rumbling crack, dividing by three to see how many kilometres away it was.

He was seventeen now, and no longer worried about the Wrath of God or being woken up because Father decided that if he couldn't sleep, no one could. Michael had other fears that kept him awake, of losing people and messing up and wrecking things forever, of people realizing he wasn't wonderful like they thought he was, of phone calls from police telling him that Father had gone too far this time and Mum was —

The room lit as though time jumped forward half a day and made it noon, and Michael jumped. Paul, arms and legs wrapped around Michael as though the redhead was some sort of giant body pillow, made a discontented sort of mumble-grunt and shifted. "Sleep," he said into Michael's chest.

Michael ran his fingers through the other's hair, giving a little shake to clear his mind. If anything, he was annoyed at the constant light and sound for keeping him awake, because it was at night that his brain refused to be quiet. "Sorry."

"Mm, no 'sorry'." Paul moved his head, nuzzling Michael and scooting upward a little. "Just sleep."

He let out a breathy laugh and tweaked Paul's ear. "Yes, sir."

Again, closer this time, and in the brief moment when things were visible Michael saw Paul's eyes open — pale and washed out; lightning illuminated but did not show colour, he should ask Pete why that was. "Oh," Paul said, and Michael heard him forcing awakeness into his tone. "Storming."

Paul could sleep through anything if he wanted to. The creak of a small foot on the floorboard brought him to full consciousness instantly, but through the blaring of three alarm clocks he could remain happily oblivious if he thought he deserved more time in bed.

"Yeah." Michael ran one hand down Paul's back, tracing the contour of muscle and bone beneath skin and soft cotton. "I'll sleep when it's over."

Paul yawned, a soft sound that ended in a high squeak like a small puppy's might. Michael felt him blink, the brush of lashes against his throat like butterfly's wings. "How close is it?"

He knew Michael kept track. He'd made fun of him at first, lightly, before realizing it was just one of those things Michael did, something he could control in a life that constantly shifted out of his grasp. Michael closed his eyes. "Still approaching."

"Oh, okay." Something crept in 'round the edges of Paul's voice, thick and promising like the canvas in the corner of the room that Michael promised he wouldn't touch until he finished this essay, studied for this test. "We've got plenty of time, then."

"Huh?" Michael recognized the tone, indeed it coiled something in his stomach and made his toes twitch, but wasn't sure what it had to do with the weather. This was the first time Paul had woken up while the storm was still raging.

Rain pelted against the window now, with barely ten seconds between the first patter and the ensuing deluge. The lightning and thunder were almost simultaneous now. "I think it's the electricity." Paul's hand traced patterns over Michael's ribs, nails dragging here and there. "Makes the hair on your arms stand up."

"Pete says that's a throwback to when we were more primitive and had more hair. Like how cats puff up to make them look more frightening —"

Paul's fingers slipped beneath the hem of Michael's sleep shirt, scratching up his side and pausing at spots when Michael's breath hitched. "Honey." Paul sounded amused, "I don't want to hear about Pete right now."

He pressed an open-mouthed kiss to Michael's neck; Michael shivered. "Sorry." He swallowed and tried for coherence. "You were saying about electricity?"

"Mm, oh yeah." Paul's words muffled themselves against Michael's throat. "I was just trying to figure out why thunderstorms are so —" He bit down. "Erotic."

Michael jerked upwards, fingers tightening on Paul's nightgown. Remembering how to breathe became less of a background action and one that desperately required his attention. Paul usually wasn't this … deliberate about things. Paul in bed was bubbles and sugar, not … smoke and dark chocolate. "Oh." It was a ghost of air, not really a word at all.

"Storms make you all think-y." Paul moved again, sliding his body overtop Michael's and scraping teeth over the tendon between neck and shoulder. "You get sad when you think."

Michael tried to remember if this was true and couldn't; honestly he could barely figure out how to un-stick his tongue from the roof of his mouth. This was all the thunder's fault, he decided. "Hnn," he said.

"Now, I know you like your little habits." One leg made its way between both of Michael's, crept up until Michael's eyes crossed then slipped back down. "But I think you need something better to do when it storms." Paul's hand filled the vacancy his knee had left, moving with just as much purpose as everything else he was doing.

Michael could only nod. Some part of his mind wondered if he should be protesting this, the shift from their usual dynamic, but oh there was something about letting someone else take control —

Paul shifted, his hips finding Michael's in a slow, rocking motion that rolled the other's eyes back. He slid his hands down Michael's arms to his wrists; pulled out and up until he pinned his boyfriend's hands over his head. Paul raised his head and kissed him, hard and hot and Michael couldn't fight back. He wondered if this was a dream, a product of too many late nights studying and not enough physical release.

"No thinking." Paul's voice was next to his ear, warm and wet and oh that was tongue, not words, teeth closing over sensitive skin and Michael choked.

"Don't worry," was all he could manage.

They kissed; Paul with just as much concentration as when he played a difficult flute concerto, and Michael just barely able to remember the rules, much less keep up. Paul didn't seem to care. The thunder and whatever it had done to Paul was contagious; Michael found himself shivering each time the air crackled, felt goose bumps when Paul's hands trailed over his skin.

And then, fingers on his thigh, running around behind to push one leg up, slowly, slowly. Paul pulled back enough to speak, and in the intermittent flashes Michael saw his eyes were dark. "Let me?"

For a brief second, Michael thought about reminding him that they'd tried this before, that it ended in embarrassed groans and giggles and Paul hiding his face in Michael's shirt. But this — Paul's thumb tracing lazy patterns, fingertips skirting up under the fabric of Michael's boxers — this was different. This wasn't curiosity, wasn't 'hey, why don't we try …'.

This time, the room shook; the family pictures on Paul's desk rattled, and Michael started. Paul just smiled at him; moved his hand up behind Michael's knee and bent down. Nosed the waistband of Michael's shorts aside and bit his hipbone. Hard.

Michael made a noise that had nothing to do with the English language or any sort of coherence. He just nodded, was pleased that he knew how to do that still, really, and lifted his hips off the mattress. He heard a keening whine and realized, with shock, that this time he was the one making it.

It was a few more minutes to get things ready, breathless and witless and Michael was glad that Paul paid attention to the proceedings all the other times because he was completely useless. But Paul's fingers left brands upon his skin and his mouth burned like ice and fire at once and Michael couldn't even imagine what it would feel like to - to …

And then he didn't have to imagine and it was everything and nothing like he'd thought it would be, it was more, so much more, different and the same and a million other things. Because this time Paul was above him, whispered 'I love you's in his ear and hands roving with firm intent, and Michael couldn't believe his body could hold itself together through it all. His own mouth forgot its purpose and spilled out sounds and fragments of words and Paul didn't laugh at all; just lowered his mouth back to Michael's.

Afterward, they rolled over, Michael sprawled on top of Paul while the smaller boy stroked Michael's hair and dragged the blankets up over them with his foot. The storm had long abated, soft, curling grumbles in the distance and Michael was too tired, too happy to bother counting.

"You okay?" Paul asked, and for a moment the seductress was gone, his usual half-nervous lilt taking its place.

"Mm." Michael laughed against Paul's collarbone; actually tried to move but somewhere his bones had gone missing. "Incredible."

"You are?" Paul joined in, adding his soft giggles. "Or this was?"

"You. Me. This. Both. Everything." Michael nosed the side of Paul's neck. He managed enough brainpower to find Paul's hand and link their fingers. "No talk. More sleep."

Paul laughed outright this time, but sleep was bleeding in and Michael felt him swallow a yawn. "I've created Caveman Michael. The world is no longer safe."

Michael wanted to make a smart remark, or perhaps add to the caveman joke, but he couldn't. Instead he let out a happy sigh and nestled closer. "Love you."

Paul chuckled, and he curled a strand of Michael's hair around his finger. "Love you."

Michael fell asleep and dreamt of angels. They weren't bowling.