Chapter 7
Michael's POV
He's in the white room again but something feels wrong. Out of place. He feels himself being drawn inexplicably to a door that stands in dark contrast to the rest of the room. Every fibre of his being is telling him to turn the other way. Screaming for him to go back to a safe memory. Knowing that the black door leads to nowhere. Feels that there is no memory there. Despite the objection of both fibers and instincts he follows the pull.
The pull leads him to be facing the hard steel grey of the familiar loft door. He stood staring and memorizing the grooves, dents and all the other evidence of abuse. Angry tricks looking for a second go of it and getting turned away. Kicking, punching and screaming. Leaving their mark in the only way they could. For some unknown reason anxiety welled in him. The deep breaths he took as he pressed his forehead into one of the dents. With all certainty that this particular one was Justin's. Not knowing what to expect Michael took one last deep cleansing breath, grabbed the handle and jerked the door open. Expecting the worst and closing his eyes praying for the best.
When he finally does open his eyes he sees the loft bathed in warm blue light. He revels in how much this feels like home. It's the place he will always belong. Everything he senses when he walks in tells him he is alone. Which is why when the breathy moans broke the silence he starts slightly. Cursing himself as those moans start a fire in his veins. Brian's home and I'm home, more than ready to take him in a decidedly manly fashion. He sneaks rather stealthily to the slats that act as the only privacy this loft affords. Hoping to play peek-a-boo Michael slowly turns the first obstacle.
His blood runs cold and he sees his worst fear. Despite Brian's hand working furiously the moans stay quiet and breathy. Michael suspects this has something to do with the elegant silk scarf currently taking away his best friend inch by inch, second by second. The movement he is currently fixated on is doing a rather good impression of the blood rushing in his ears. Moving furiously and demanding the release of nothing. He takes one good long look at Brian and finally understands. This was what he saw in his first dream. He looks and sees that Brian is almost gone. He silently says his goodbye and walks toward the door. Leaving Brian blissfully unaware of his audience until the resounding crash of the loft door coming off its track for the last time.
His tired limbs fought against the atrophy as he pushed himself closer and closer towards the surface. A flash of Brian frantically grabbing at his throat and regretting the decision to be hanging. That was enough to make his decision. He felt the weight of this choice. He knew that once it was made there was no take-back. With a scream of panic and rage, he opened his mouth, let the warmth flow into him, smiling slightly as he felt his lungs fill with womb-like water. Drowning in what had given him life. He had finally made his choice.
With one last push he pierced the soft skin of what is known to most as coma.
AN: This is a shorter one. There will be more soon.