Michael was everything he wanted to be. He was tall and dark and slim and everybody loved him. Everyone always said good morning to him, no matter how late they had worked or how foul a mood they were in. And he always said good morning back. No matter what.
Except the mornings after he slept with Steve.
He would look distracted, give him a "hmmm" and a slight nod, and pass right by. Time and time again Steve had pointed out that this particular reaction seemed more suspicious than a friendly hello, but Michael never believed him.
"This is the way it has to be. You know that. I know that. I'm sorry."
He was never sorry in bed, however.
****
"Are you mad at me?"
"Yes, god damn it! What were you expecting! I'm...what the hell were you thinking? Is this...fuck, how stupid am I? This is why Michael protected you, defended you so long, isn't it? Isn't it!"
"Chuck, please-"
"Don't! Just don't, Steve, all right? Fuck!"
"Don't be mad at me, Chuck."
"I'm not mad, Steve. Confused, surprised, and just fucking humiliated, but I'm not mad."
****
Michael-never Mike, not when they were alone, it helped separate the officemate from the man in the bedroom-always tasted like scotch and Listerine. It may have been an odd combination, but it might as well have been Swiss chocolate to Steve, it was that sinfully good.
For a man who made his living with words, there were surprisingly few suitable words to describe his encounters with Michael. The few he could come up with seemed disjointed, unfit somehow.
Visceral.
Infernal.
Guttural.
Insatiable.
There was the night of that massive storm, when a power line had fallen down across the street in a shower of blue-white sparks. They had been making love at the time-not fucking; fucking was what he did with Caitlin and with that red-haired intern after the Memorial Day party-and as horribly clichŽd as it was, Michael had come right as the live wire flashed past the window, shooting his liquid heat down Steve's throat. And damned if Steve hadn't come just after that.
They lay there, listening to the pounding of the rain against the double-glazed windows of Michael's apartment and the eerily synchronized echo of their own harsh breaths.
"So this is it, then."
Steve jerked up so quickly that he had nearly fallen off the bed. "What do you mean, this is it? Are you mad at me?"
"Of course not. But I can't take a chance on the Journal finding out."
"What are the chances of that?"
"Oh, I'd say about as good as the chances of Marty finding out."
He sounded so bitter. That wasn't Michael. Michael didn't sound like that.
"What are you talking about?"
"They didn't just fire me on a whim, Steve."
"You mean-"
"Yeah. That's exactly what I mean."
****
Chuck wasn't anything like Michael. Chuck was so uptight, so concerned with appearances. And so mad. Chuck always seemed mad about something.
That's why Steve was so eager to take advantage of Chuck's few and far between good moods. That's why he walked right up to him in the lobby and said, "Beautiful day, isn't it?"
And kissed him.
****
"You can't just walk away from me!"
"I can, Steve, and I will. I have to. This isn't...it's not even what you think. It never has been."
"You don't mean that. I know you don't."
"You're a kid, Stephen! You don't really know anything!"
"I know how I feel about you!"
"No. No, you don't. You have no idea."
"Why are you mad at me?"
"I'm not mad. I just want to get it through to you that it's over."
"It can't be over!"
"It is over, Steve. That's it. Goodbye."
"But Michael-"
He had already turned away.
"That's it. Now please leave."
****
"Didn't you hear what I said? I'm afraid of what might happen. I'm afraid of what I might do!"
"Yes, I heard you."
"Then how can you-"
"Get out."
"Chuck, please! Why are you mad at me?"
"Get out!"
"But-"
"Just. Get. Out."
Except the mornings after he slept with Steve.
He would look distracted, give him a "hmmm" and a slight nod, and pass right by. Time and time again Steve had pointed out that this particular reaction seemed more suspicious than a friendly hello, but Michael never believed him.
"This is the way it has to be. You know that. I know that. I'm sorry."
He was never sorry in bed, however.
****
"Are you mad at me?"
"Yes, god damn it! What were you expecting! I'm...what the hell were you thinking? Is this...fuck, how stupid am I? This is why Michael protected you, defended you so long, isn't it? Isn't it!"
"Chuck, please-"
"Don't! Just don't, Steve, all right? Fuck!"
"Don't be mad at me, Chuck."
"I'm not mad, Steve. Confused, surprised, and just fucking humiliated, but I'm not mad."
****
Michael-never Mike, not when they were alone, it helped separate the officemate from the man in the bedroom-always tasted like scotch and Listerine. It may have been an odd combination, but it might as well have been Swiss chocolate to Steve, it was that sinfully good.
For a man who made his living with words, there were surprisingly few suitable words to describe his encounters with Michael. The few he could come up with seemed disjointed, unfit somehow.
Visceral.
Infernal.
Guttural.
Insatiable.
There was the night of that massive storm, when a power line had fallen down across the street in a shower of blue-white sparks. They had been making love at the time-not fucking; fucking was what he did with Caitlin and with that red-haired intern after the Memorial Day party-and as horribly clichŽd as it was, Michael had come right as the live wire flashed past the window, shooting his liquid heat down Steve's throat. And damned if Steve hadn't come just after that.
They lay there, listening to the pounding of the rain against the double-glazed windows of Michael's apartment and the eerily synchronized echo of their own harsh breaths.
"So this is it, then."
Steve jerked up so quickly that he had nearly fallen off the bed. "What do you mean, this is it? Are you mad at me?"
"Of course not. But I can't take a chance on the Journal finding out."
"What are the chances of that?"
"Oh, I'd say about as good as the chances of Marty finding out."
He sounded so bitter. That wasn't Michael. Michael didn't sound like that.
"What are you talking about?"
"They didn't just fire me on a whim, Steve."
"You mean-"
"Yeah. That's exactly what I mean."
****
Chuck wasn't anything like Michael. Chuck was so uptight, so concerned with appearances. And so mad. Chuck always seemed mad about something.
That's why Steve was so eager to take advantage of Chuck's few and far between good moods. That's why he walked right up to him in the lobby and said, "Beautiful day, isn't it?"
And kissed him.
****
"You can't just walk away from me!"
"I can, Steve, and I will. I have to. This isn't...it's not even what you think. It never has been."
"You don't mean that. I know you don't."
"You're a kid, Stephen! You don't really know anything!"
"I know how I feel about you!"
"No. No, you don't. You have no idea."
"Why are you mad at me?"
"I'm not mad. I just want to get it through to you that it's over."
"It can't be over!"
"It is over, Steve. That's it. Goodbye."
"But Michael-"
He had already turned away.
"That's it. Now please leave."
****
"Didn't you hear what I said? I'm afraid of what might happen. I'm afraid of what I might do!"
"Yes, I heard you."
"Then how can you-"
"Get out."
"Chuck, please! Why are you mad at me?"
"Get out!"
"But-"
"Just. Get. Out."