User: jenish (posted by fizzyblogic) Date: 2007-08-16 15:56 Subject: (no subject) Security: Public Tags: aargy, fandom:bands:aar, mike/chris, nick/tyson

Hit With Cupid's Archery
{Mike/Chris, Nick/Tyson, AARgy // NC-17 // AU // 100% untrue & disclaimed // Beta by Jamie // Thanks to William Shakespeare for the loan of some lines // For Fi in the third DYW fic exchange}

Shafts of sunlight made their way through the shuttered slats on the windows, warming Michael’s skin in bars. He didn’t feel like opening his eyes just yet, warm in the cocoon they had made with the sheets and their limbs, tangled. Christopher’s breath stirred against his back, puffs of air on his skin. Michael could smell hay from the stables adjacent, almost drowning out the scents of the street below.

“It is but dawn,” Christopher mumbled as Michael settled comfortably. “No movement is required at this hour.”

“True,” Michael smiled. “I am not sure of my own wakefulness.”

Christopher kissed his skin. “Sleep, sleep, thy mistress, she calls,” he whispered. Michael turned over, resettling closer, their noses almost touching. They breathed.

“Is that one of Bill’s?” he asked, sliding his eyes closed.

Christopher moved closer to kiss him. “Yes. It was something he said to me last week.”

Michael took Christopher’s upper lip between both of his and kissed it, released. “It is good advice.”

“I would rather wake with you than sleep on downy feathers,” Christopher sighed, eyes roaming over Michael’s brow, his eyes, his cheeks, his nose, his lips.

“Kit,” Michael exhaled, moving closer, kissing him. Breath moved over skin, and Michael heard the soft sounds of lips meeting and parting over the sounds of the street. He shifted his leg, sliding it between Christopher’s thighs, and they groaned in unison.

“You could drive a man wild just by breathing,” Christopher moaned, turning them over so he was on top. Michael’s back settled against the thin bed, and he smoothed his hands over Christopher’s shoulders. “You are determined that I wake, Michael.”

“I do not mean to be,” Michael smiled up at him; his smile opened and spread as Christopher ground their hips together suddenly, rolling his upwards. “Do that again, do that again,” Michael groaned, and Christopher obeyed. “Oh, oh Kit, you – you – you.”

Christopher leaned down to brush their noses together. “You,” he returned, softly, dipping his head further to nudge Michael’s jaw until he exposed his throat; then Christopher licked a long line from clavicle to earlobe and whispered into it, “You, my archangel.”

Michael gripped his arms and gave a long sigh, Christopher grinding down on him, the light shifting and moving a little, as if a cloud passed outside.

They arrived at the theatre that afternoon, bursting into the room just as William was yelling, “Where are those layabouts, what keeps them this long?”

“My apologies, Will,” Christopher bowed low, making a show of sweeping off his hat. “I am afraid I kept Mr Kent rather occupied this morning.”

“I too am to blame,” Michael added. “I in no way discouraged Mr Greyson from his … attentions.”

William stared at them for a moment before relaxing. “Very well, very well. I beg of you not to make this a regular occurrence, the financier is coming to rehearsal tomorrow and may I remind you of the imminence of a certain play?”

“We are aware of tonight’s performance, Bill,” Michael patted him on the shoulder. “Sorry – Will.”

“Yes. I thank you. Now we are all here,” he threw a pointed look to Michael and Christopher, “why don’t we start with Act Two, Scene Three, from your entrance, Kit.”

Michael stepped up onto the stage. “All ready?”

Spencer looked up from the pages in his hands. “I believe I have the part learned.” His tone was icy. Michael beamed at him.

“That’s my Hermia.” He ruffled Spencer’s hair, and Spencer ducked away, shooting him a glare. Michael just lay on the stage and patted the board next to him. “Come, and dream away the hours with your Lysander.”

Spencer sat, putting as much distance between their bodies as he could while still being on the same part of the stage. Michael pulled him closer, gently, and Spencer stiffened for a minute but eventually relaxed a little against the stage. “Take your hands away,” he said, teeth gritted.

“I did not mean anything by it,” Michael reminded him, moving far enough away that Spencer relaxed further. “I am sorry if I offended you, I was merely –”

William clapped his hands for silence. “If it please you, gentlemen, may we begin today’s rehearsal?”

Michael made Please, continue motions with his hand, lying back against the stage. Spencer followed suit, and Christopher entered from stage right.

“Through the forest have I gone,” he began, “but Athenian found I none, on whose eyes I might approve this flower’s force in stirring love.” He almost stumbled over Michael and Spencer, whose eyes were closed. “Night and silence! Who is here?” He gestured. “Weeds of Athens he doth wear: this is he, my master said, despised by the Athenian maid; and here the maiden, sleeping sound,” he gestured towards Spencer, “on the dank and dirty ground. Pretty soul! She durst not lie near this lack-love, this kill-courtesy. Churl, upon thy eyes I throw all the power this charm doth owe; when thou wak’st let love forbid sleep his seat on thy eyelid.” He motioned pouring from a flower onto Michael, who flickered his eyelids. “So awake when I am gone; for I must now to Oberon.”

The third act ended in much the same way, and William called a break in the rehearsal. “That is excellent, good work my fellows,” he called, clapping each on the back in turn. “Mr Siska, I must discuss with you Demetrius’s lines in scene two.”

Michael found Christopher behind the stage, searching through a box of costumes. “He will want full dress for rehearsal before the sun is down,” he said, “and I cannot find Puck’s tunic.”

“It is with the seamstress, after Monday’s performance. Do you not remember? You caught it on a nail and it tore.”

“Ah!” Christopher set the box down again, softly taking Michael’s hips and pulling him in. “Jack shall have a Michael, nought shall go ill,” he murmured, leaning in to kiss his neck.

Michael shivered. “That does not rhyme,” he said, an intake of breath.

“The alternative was ‘Jack shall have a Bill’, and I would much rather have my version than that,” Christopher smiled against his skin. Michael’s hands ran up and down his back, slowly.

“I am in complete agreement,” he sighed, a contented sound, tilting his head back and closing his eyes.

“Somebody is going to see that.” Michael looked up at the voice, seeing Ryan in the doorway.

“A fair point.” Christopher moved away, rearranging Michael’s shirt where he had rumpled it in his palm. “If you are in search of Helena’s gown, it is in this box.” He patted the box to his left, and took Michael’s hand, leading him out of the room and into the deserted auditorium.

“Gentlemen!” Or at least, the almost deserted auditorium. “Gentlemen, a word, if you please?”

“Mr Stumph, how goes the finances of our most excellent band of players?” Christopher clapped Patrick on the back. He shuffled his feet a little.

“As well as can be expected, when we are only just winning the support of a financier,” he sighed. “I am to see Sir Robert after the performance this evening, he will tell me if he is willing to pay for us or no.”

“Surely he will agree,” Michael said. “This is Sir Robert Bryar, if I am not mistaken?”

“You are not,” Patrick nodded.

“In which case, this is the gentleman who approached me personally to congratulate me on an excellent performance twice last week. I assure you, Mr Stumph, you have nothing to fear from Sir Robert.”

Patrick seemed to deflate. “I am most glad to hear that. However, I wished to discuss with you … another matter.” He beckoned them closer, further away from the stage.

They glanced at each other, but followed. Patrick seemed unsure of where he was heading; at last, he selected a space in the seats, and gestured for them to sit next to him. They settled one either side.

“What is it?” Michael asked. Patrick glanced around, as if to be sure they would not be overheard.

“What do you know of … of Mr Iero?”

Christopher tilted his head. “I know he is a pleasant fellow, William’s expert on Italy, and I know he is a fine Titania. Why do you ask?”

“Do you – would you name him trustworthy?”

“I would,” Christopher nodded. Michael matched the motion, encouragingly. Patrick exhaled in relief.

“Good. That is – that is good.”

“Patrick, what is this sudden interest in Mr Iero? Do you have some reason to suspect him?”

“No, no, certainly not, I – well, I must confess, I – I came to you because I.” Patrick looked down at his lap and mumbled something.

“I beg your pardon?” Michael leaned his ear closer.

“I went to – he took me to his bed, last night, and I – today, he does not seem to be –” Patrick trailed off.

“Ah.” Michael shifted closer, putting one arm around Patrick’s shoulders. “Did you know he rooms with Mr Way? The elder,” he added, as Patrick opened his mouth to ask.

“I – I did, yes.”

“Did you know that he – rooms with Mr Way?” Michael pressed. Patrick looked at him, and then at Christopher, and back to Michael, before blushing and looking back at his lap.

“Oh,” he said, softly. “I did not – though I –”

“Patrick, we do not know either of those two men as well as we know you,” Christopher interrupted, “but we have watched as you were seduced by first one, and then the other, and it seems to us as if that is – that is what they wished. To seduce you. Not in a,” he hastened to add, “not in a harmful way, not in the slightest. They are fond of you, Frank and Gerard both, but they are – they are more fond of each other.”

Patrick nodded down at his knees.

“Do not be mournful,” Michael patted his arm. “Celebrate in what you had, celebrate in that time, and seek other happinesses.”

Patrick nodded again, this time at the seats opposite them. “Thank you,” he said, voice small. “I will, I shall – I shall do as you advise.”

“Other happinesses,” Christopher reminded him as they stood. “Seek, and there they shall be, I promise you.”

Patrick nodded one last time, and left, calling to William on his way out that he would return before the night’s performance. William appeared on the stage and looked up at Michael and Christopher.

“What,” he asked, “pray tell, did my accountant want with the two of you?”

“Some advice,” Michael shrugged. “Are we sufficient to continue?”

“We are sufficient in numbers, and all but you are sufficiently attired,” William said, gesturing to his Theseus costume. “Now, if one of these things is remedied, we may begin.”

Michael waited in the wings that night as Christopher peered out at the audience from behind the curtains, and on stage, William and Gabriel discussed their upcoming nuptials. Michael stepped closer to Christopher to look out at the audience, and then tapped him on the side.

“Those two,” he whispered, “the man and wife not three rows from the stage. Have you seen them before?”

Christopher looked, and snorted quietly. “That is no woman.”

Michael peered. “Ah,” he said at last. “He is handsome enough. But I ask, have you seen them before? I am almost sure they have been here, at least three times previous, if not four, to see this play.”

Christopher leaned into his space, heat from his body warming Michael’s. “Perhaps they are particularly fond of the tale,” he whispered, and Michael smiled.

On the stage, William said, “But I will wed thee in another key, with pomp, with triumph, and with revelling,” and Michael entered the stage with Daniel, Adam and Spencer.

“Happy be Theseus, our renowned duke!” Daniel boomed, spreading his arms wide.

“Thanks, good Egeus: what’s this news with thee?” William returned, and Michael prepared to look innocent as Egeus explained how he preferred Demetrius over Lysander.

He watched the couple in the audience out of the corner of his eye; one dressed ordinarily, as a man, the other dressed in women’s clothes, both tall, both watching attentively. Michael caught the former’s lips moving as Adam said, “Relent, sweet Hermia; and Lysander, yield thy crazed title to my certain right.”

“You have her father’s love, Demetrius,” Michael replied, “let me have Hermia’s; do you marry him.”

The man in the third row moved his lips to every line of Adam’s, barely taking his eyes from the stage. Michael kept glancing out of the corner of his eye; both of them were intent on the play, though he got the feeling the man in women’s clothes was watching him in particular.

Michael stood at the side of the stage, watching the last scene. William, Gabriel and the others swept past him, and he leaned against a beam to watch as Christopher turned to the audience and said, “If we shadows have offended, think but this – and all is mended – that you have but slumber’d here while these visions did appear.” Michael’s eyes flicked to the couple in the third row and back. “And this weak and idle theme, no more yielding but a dream, gentles, do not reprehend; if you pardon, we will mend. And, as I’m an honest Puck, if we have unearned luck now to ’scape the serpent’s tongue, we will make amends ere long; else the Puck a liar call: so, good night unto you all. Give me your hands,” he extended his to the audience, receiving smiles; the couple in the third row were all but lit up, “if we be friends, and Robin shall restore amends.” The audience erupted into applause as Christopher bowed low and hurried off the stage.

Michael beamed at him. “They could not take their eyes off you,” he whispered. “Neither could I.”

Christopher smiled, large. “I know. I could not take my eyes off you either, when you were up there.”

“I meant them,” Michael nodded towards the audience, who were still cheering. The couple’s arms were above their heads in applause, and they were whistling.

Christopher smiled, quieter that time. “Yes. I saw them.” He drew closer and murmured, “Either my eyes deceive me, or they are both extremely handsome.”

“If your eyes are deceivers, then so are mine,” Michael murmured back.

“Handsome enough, perhaps?” Christopher whispered against the back of his neck.

Michael smiled. “If fate allows,” he answered.

The company retired to their usual tavern when every costume was back in its place and every scrap of make-up removed. Ryan and Spencer slipped away to a table in a corner; another boy from the orphanage where they slept was waiting for them. The gypsy boy, Michael noticed, who Ryan talked of. Brendon, though what his last name was, Ryan never said. Michael turned away from their corner as he sat, a mug of ale set on the table before him.

“To a lucky night for our lucky company,” William held his mug aloft.

“To another week’s run of A Midsummer Night’s Dream,” Daniel added.

“An excellent notion, Mr Whitesides,” William beamed at him. “Another week, another fortnight, another month, here, with this delightful company. Providing our Mr Stumph can charm Sir Robert out of his money.”

They all laughed, and drank down the foamy ale. Michael set his mug back down after taking a satisfying pull, and swallowed, eyes falling on the doorway.

Christopher nudged him with his elbow before he could carry out his plan of doing exactly that. “Do you see?” he whispered.

“I see,” Michael replied. “Fate is kind to us this night.”

“Let us hope that holds true,” Christopher smiled, getting up and moving to the door to beam at the couple who had just walked in. “My good sir,” he bowed slightly, “unless my eyes deceive, you and your lady were at the playhouse tonight.”

“We were,” the man replied, visibly taken aback. “We very much enjoy that play, Mr Greyson.”

“I see I am at a disadvantage,” Christopher said. “You clearly know my name, but I am yet to have the pleasure of yours.”

“Oh – I am Tyson Rittle, and this is my wife Nancy.”

Nancy curtsied awkwardly.

“Christopher Greyson. I am charmed to make your formal acquaintance. Allow me to introduce you to the company, and provide you with refreshments. Mr Shakespeare!” he called, steering them towards the others. “These are two very attentive members of tonight’s audience, whose acquaintance I have made and found delightful. May they have a place among our number tonight?”

“Why, do you even have to ask?” William jumped up and bowed low. “I am always pleased to meet the followers of my mere,” he waved his hand, “offerings. Please, sit!”

“Thank you,” Tyson blinked, sitting down, Nancy already at the table and sitting opposite Michael. “Your, um, your hospitality is admirable, Mr Shakespeare.”

“Do not mention it,” William beamed. “Mr Walker! Another two ales for these fine folk, if you please.”

“Company, this is Mr Tyson Rittle and Mrs Nancy Rittle. Mr and Mrs Rittle, this is the company – Will, of course, you’ll know –” William beamed, at that – “this is Gabriel Saporta –” Christopher leaned closer to Tyson to murmur, “Hippolyta, Queen of the Amazons, was written especially for him,” with a wink. “Mr Daniel Whitesides, the fine Egeus, father of Hermia – who is over there in the corner with Helena and another boy, though he is not of our company – this is Mr Adam Siska, the excellent Demetrius, and Mr Joseph Trohman, a wonderful Quince. Mr Michael Way, Mr Gerard Way, Mr Robert Morris, Mr Michael Carden, Mr Andrew Hurley – they are our very fine players of Pyramus and Thisby. Mr Richard Burbage over there is of course my master Oberon, and Mr Frank Iero is the proud Titania. And,” Christopher’s smile softened as he indicated the last player in the tavern, “this is Mr Michael Kent, our Lysander.”

“Pleased to make all your acquaintances,” Tyson said, tugging his forelock as if tipping a cap to them. Christopher slung an arm over his shoulders.

“There is no need for airs and graces, good fellow,” he said. “We are but poor players, and speak fine to cover the muck below.” He winked. Tyson looked like he didn’t quite know what to do, so he blushed and swallowed a mouthful of ale.

“I am merely a stable-hand who wishes he were a player,” he mumbled into his mug. Michael heard it, but he wasn’t sure that anybody but he and Christopher, who was sitting between them, had.

“So come, young Mr Rittle, tell us how the great comedy and drama looks from down there on the floor. We only see it from the stage,” Andrew smiled at him. Tyson swallowed another mouthful of ale, awkwardly in his haste to speak.

“It is very fine. Very fine,” he repeated, looking around at them all. “I – we like it so much we come once a week, when we have the shillings.” He glanced at Nancy, who kept sneaking looks at him.

“And we are indeed indebted to you for doing so,” Michael beamed at them both. “You may have single-handedly financed the mending on Kit’s costume today.” Half the company laughed, including Nancy.

“Your voice.” William was tapping his chin. “Mr Rittle, do you hail from this fine city, or did you travel from the country? You speak in a manner familiar to me, I cannot place it.”

The Rittles shared a slightly panicked glance. Tyson cleared his throat. “No, I – Nancy and I, we are both from the country. We came here to find – I came to find employment, Nancy because – well, because she is my wife.” He waved his hand in a vague gesture.

William snorted. “I left my wife in Stratford. Though I was forced to, in some way.” He grinned, sudden. “I stole some deer for a feast. It did not please Sir Thomas Lucy; it was he who owned them.” He paused, Tyson and Nancy watching him, the others already sitting back to observe the familiar story unfold. Michael couldn’t help smiling, leaning a little against Christopher. “Though I believe what truly angered him was the ballad I wrote and pinned to his gate.”

Tyson laughed. “What did it say?” he asked, leaning forward.

William jumped up, a quick movement, and stood on the bench. Arms spread wide, he began to recite in a booming voice, “If lowsie is Lucy, as some folk miscall it, then Lucy is lowsie, whatever befall it: he thinks himself great, yet an ass in his state, we allow by his ears but with asses to mate.” This last was accompanied by thrusting motions.

“Get down from the table,” Mr Walker shouted from beside the barrels, though he was laughing all the same.

“I am not on the table,” William returned, but he jumped down and grinned at the Rittles. “So I had to leave the county, and my poor Anne was left with the children.” He leaned back, putting his feet up onto the table, back settling against Gabriel, who just smiled at him. “If you keep coming to my plays, you may yet pay for my son’s education.”

“Well, I have hopes that I will,” Tyson replied, tipping his mug in William’s direction. He seemed bolder, and Michael smiled at him, receiving one in return.

Three hours later, after Joseph and Adam had in turn declared their money drunk away and left, Tyson stood up. “This has been a very fine evening, gentlemen,” he said, “but my wife and myself must be on our way. We have a bed to go to, and so I bid you all good-night.” Nancy stood, and when Tyson bowed, Nancy bobbed a curtsey.

“Mr Rittle,” Michael stood, “would you care for an escort? Mr Greyson and myself were about to leave, and I see no reason we should not walk together.”

Tyson blinked. “I – that would be pleasant, I am sure. Yes. I thank you.”

Christopher drained his mug and patted William on the back. “See you tomorrow, Will,” he called as they left. William waved, still deep in a conversation with Mr Carden about the props.

The night air was cool after the warmth of the tavern, and Nancy shivered, drawing his shawl closer about his shoulders. He hadn’t spoken all night, and Michael was a little shocked to hear his voice when he opened his mouth to say, “We live three streets to the south, if you – if you wish to escort us.”

“You have a curiously deep voice, for a woman,” Michael told him, tipping a wink. Nancy blushed.

“I cannot help that,” he said, stepping closer to Tyson. Michael just smiled at him.

“We live two streets that way,” he said, pointing. “It is nearer. Would you care for some company, for just a little longer?”

Nancy and Tyson shared a look that seemed to contain an entire conversation. “Yes, thank you,” Tyson answered for them both. “We would enjoy that.”

The four of them walked in silence until they reached Michael and Christopher’s door; Christopher led the way inside and closed the door after them. “Now,” he said, clapping his hands together, “what say we all exercise a little honesty?” Tyson and Nancy looked taken aback. Christopher amended, quickly, “That is to say, I should like you to know that my name is, in fact, Christopher Gaylor; but when I became an actor, it was decided that Gaylor is too jolly a name for one who displays a tendency for villainous roles.”

“Oh.” Tyson looked visibly relieved.

“And I,” Michael added, “am called Michael Kennerty. When I was first introduced to the players, however, the gentlemen who did so was rather,” he paused. “Taken,” he continued at last, “by some excellent wine, and could only manage the first part. So Mr Kent I am.”

“We know that your,” Christopher coughed delicately, “wife’s name is not Nancy, Tyson.”

Nancy blushed. “Well. Since you seem to know already, it isn’t. My name’s Nickolas, Nickolas Wheler, if you must know.” He untied the bonnet and shook his hair out; it was shorter than Michael had expected.

“I – really am Tyson,” Tyson added. “Though my last name is Ritter. We,” he took Nickolas’s hand again, “we left the county because – well, my father discovered us, and we thought – we thought we would be safe, here in the city. Nicky could pretend to be my wife, then our living together would not be frowned upon.”

Christopher slid his arms around Michael’s waist and murmured, “We should have thought of that. You’d look beautiful in a dress.”

“All you need do is say,” Michael leaned back into his touch. “I know where the costumes are kept.”

Christopher placed open-mouthed kisses along Michael’s shoulder. Michael exhaled, a soft sound. Tyson cleared his throat.

“Are – I do not wish to be rude, but if we have outstayed our welcome –”

“No, not in the slightest,” Michael assured him. “We had hoped to have an opportunity to spend more time with you,” he extended a hand, “like this.”

Nickolas blinked. “Do you – do you mean –”

Michael gently took his hand, pulling him closer, and kissed him on the cheek. “We wish to take you both to bed,” he whispered, and he heard Nickolas swallow.

“Ty?” he murmured, as Tyson’s hands snaked over his hips. Michael watched as Tyson matched Christopher’s movements on him on Nickolas.

“Do you wish to?” Tyson asked him. Nickolas nodded, and Tyson smiled. “So do I.”

The couples broke apart and resettled, as Michael reached up to touch Nickolas’s cheek. Nickolas closed his eyes and leaned against Michael’s hand, nuzzling it a little. Michael leaned forward and kissed him, gently at first; but Nickolas moved closer and opened his mouth, tongue questing at Michael’s lips for entrance, and Michael’s hands moved to his hair, kissing him deep and slow. He could feel and hear Tyson and Christopher next to them, doing the same, Tyson making small sounds.

Christopher undressed Tyson, walking him over to the bed. “How do you –” Nickolas whispered to Michael as they watched Tyson lie down, “how is it that you and Christopher can live like this, how do you –”

Michael pointed to the second bed. “We sleep in each bed on alternate nights, and claim that each man has his own and stays to it.”

“Oh.” Nickolas considered, as Christopher kissed his way down Tyson’s chest. “I,” he breathed, “I wish to watch this, that is – that is all,” and Michael nodded.

“As do I,” he murmured, though neither were still wearing clothes, all garments pulled off and tossed aside in the haze of kisses. Michael gently pulled Nickolas down onto the other bed, and they settled, on their sides facing Christopher and Tyson, Michael lying behind Nickolas and curled around. Their arms tangled in front of Nickolas’s chest.

Christopher had used the jar of oil, slicked fingers working inside Tyson, and now he was preparing to thrust in, lining their hips up. Tyson smiled up at him, and Michael watched as Christopher slid inside, slowly at first. Tyson arched up and bit his lip; Nickolas made a soft sound and shifted his thigh. Christopher slid out of Tyson again, then back in, buried fully. Tyson spread his legs further and whimpered, Nickolas matching the noise and rocking softly against nothing.

Michael shifted closer, grinding a little against the small of Nickolas’s back. “Do you like what you see?”

“Always, with Ty,” Nickolas breathed. “The first time we – it was like angels singing.”

“I know,” Michael breathed, watching Christopher. He shifted, rocking a little against Nickolas, who moaned and ground back onto him. “Do you – can I –”

“Yes,” Nickolas breathed. “Yes.”

Michael fumbled for the second bottle of oil, his eyes not leaving Christopher as the pattern of his thrusts into Tyson increased. Tyson started to grunt in the rhythm, eyes closed and neck arched. Nickolas squirmed against Michael, panting when he slid two fingers inside. Nickolas spread his thighs as far as he could at this angle, and Michael carefully worked his fingers, in and apart and three and apart, gentle, soft, slow. Nickolas groaned.

“More,” he breathed, and Michael kissed the back of his neck. “Oh, more.”

Michael was shaking by the time they were both ready, and he eased inside Nickolas, both still on their sides, both still watching as Christopher thrust inside Tyson, pace quicker, movements deeper. Tyson was making delicious noises that Nickolas matched as Michael moved against him, inside him, bit down gently on his shoulder. Nickolas let out gasping sounds, arching his neck, and Michael groaned against his skin.

“Kit,” Tyson moaned, on the other bed. “Nick – Nick, I – Kit,” as Christopher changed his angle a little; Michael had changed the angle of his thrusts into Nickolas at that exact moment, and Nickolas and Tyson made identical choking noises at the same time.

“Ty, he is – oh, Michael,” Nickolas moaned, and Michael flexed his palm on Nickolas’s hip, squeezing as he thrust in, deeper movement as Nickolas’s fingers and toes curled.

Over on the other bed, Tyson made three high-pitched sounds and spilled over Christopher’s hand. Christopher groaned, long and loud, and shuddered into him, stilling after a few moments.

Michael thrust precisely and sharply, and Nickolas whimpered. They climaxed in unison, Michael groaning into his skin, Nickolas gasping and squirming, and settled back afterwards, Michael not pulling out until a few minutes had passed. Nickolas looked over his shoulder and smiled at him.

Tyson and Christopher were curling around each other on the other bed, and Nickolas and Michael moved over and settled in either side of the tangle. Michael curled up to Christopher’s back, watching Nickolas pull Tyson closer, and murmured into his ear, “You look so beautiful in the moonlight.” Christopher turned over to kiss him.

“Not as beautiful as you.” His eyes examined Michael’s nose and mouth and cheeks, and back to his mouth. “Never as beautiful as you.”

Michael awoke the next morning, limbs cramped and stiff, but warmer than he had ever been. He opened his eyes to see Nickolas, blinking sleepily at him from over the heads of Christopher and Tyson. Nickolas smiled. “They look so lovely when they sleep,” he said, tilting his head at the other two. “So do you, truthfully.”

Michael stretched carefully, smiling back. “Stay,” he found himself saying. “The both of you – you would be welcome.”

“Perhaps,” Nickolas smiled. “I know we would like to come back.”

“You are welcome here,” Michael repeated. Christopher snuffled a little, then nodded.

“’S warm,” he murmured, nuzzling closer to Michael, slinging one arm over Tyson’s waist to reach Nickolas’s hip and brush it fondly.

Tyson slept on, comfortable in the cocoon the other three made around him.

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