The armrest bites uncomfortably into his neck, the room is bristling and his jaw is starting to feel numb. Nevertheless, he feels like he is floating. Michael’s lips are pink and feel so ripe against his. Somehow the insides of his soft children’s mouth tastes like sugar (pronoun confusion?); his baby brother feels light as a feather against his chest.
As always Michael treats kissing as a serious matter that requires full concentration. His eyes are squeezed shut and his brow furrowed. His hands press into Lincoln’s chest as he thrusts his tongue into Lincoln’s mouth like it’s an exercise.
Days like these it feels like they are the only two people in the world.
There is a picture in his mind, a painting from a half forgotten field trip. Forever trapped in a golden frame a knight kneels in front of an angelic boy, his face turned upward in elation as he receives benediction from a haloed ornamented cup. That’s how he feels, as he strains upwards trying to get a longer sip of Michael’s sweet, blistering mouth (off Michael’s sweet, blistering lips?).
He lets his hand trail up Michael’s spine, grazes the nape of his neck and tries to pull him closer. But Michael is relentless and shrugs off the fingers that bear down on him. The ministrations of their lips don’t stop even as their hands start quarreling.
It is a crazy game they play, each one daring the other to end it first. Most of the time it’s just easier to wait for an outside influence to break the spell, a knock on the door, the ringing of the phone, the whistling of a tea pot on the stove. Afterwards Michael will be lying on the couch, head in lap, serene, just like the innocent little boy he is supposed to be. It’s their unwritten rule that nobody gets to leave and jerk off after the game is finished and so he just sits his hand in Michael’s hair or stroking the side of Michael’s face, his eyes mesmerized by the wet marks on Michael’s cheek and his forever swollen lips.
He remembers his mother’s quivering shoulders as she stood over Michael’s crib, one night, many nights. He would walk to her, feeling small and tug at her dress and she would hold his hand while tears of gratitude spilled down her cheeks, and she would tell him that Michael was an angel, sent from the heavens. That God had taken his father away from them and given them Michael instead. Back then, he looked at Michael and he believed.
Started with the idea of Michael posessing angelic beauty and this Arthurian painting. I had to get it out of my head, but I'm afraid I don't really like it anymore. The hardest part is the ending. For the longest time it ended at the "drinking from his lips" part. Then came the idea of Michael needing to be in control and Lincoln fighting for it, which to some extent spun into something more). Rivaled by the idea of Lincoln thinking of the mother. I have an additional ending bit about Lincoln wondering what the mother would think if she saw them now, but I thought it was too crass.
Sometimes he thinks he can still feel her presence, almost hear the rustling of her clothes in the room. He jerks up and looks for her. He wonders what she would think of him, lying here, soiling her perfect little angel with his spit?lips?hands?touch?.
I'm not sure if all the different parts of the fic really match.