Characters: Michael/Lincoln (Slash)
Summary: (Pre-series) This summer everything is different, and Michael can't help noticing it.
Author's Notes: For jasmasson's birthday, the "Clothes Make The Man" porn challenge at pbhiatus_fic, and my fanfic100 table ("Summer").
It's crazy to fixate on this (though fixation is something Michael does all too well). He should be able to tear his eyes away, look somewhere— anywhere— else, and yet he can't.
Lincoln. T-shirt— sleeveless and tight. It's making Michael stupid.
Lincoln never wore anything like this last summer— just regular t-shirts and jeans, that was all, or maybe Michael's hormones weren't in overdrive then. Whatever it was, things were different.
Now Michael's world is filled with muscled arms and an incredibly well-defined chest, visions that come to him in his sleep or take the place of television programs playing out in front of him. He can't escape them.
"Michael," Lincoln says— so close that the heat from his skin brings a flush to Michael's face and the scent of him is delicious and dizzying— "Hey Michael, what's going on?"
The answer to that is Obsession and You, though even something as simple as Sex would cover it, but Michael's not about to say any of those things. "I think the heat is melting my brain."
"Maybe you should lie down for awhile," Lincoln says. He urges Michael onto the sofa and heads off to the bathroom, unknowingly giving Michael the time to turn over onto his stomach and keep from embarrassing them both.
Michael regrets it as soon as he makes contact with the cool, yielding firmness of the sofa, wishing instead that Lincoln would either develop the mysterious urge to ravage him or that he'd go outside for awhile. Neither of those things happens.
"This'll help." Lincoln is back, his weight on the edge of the sofa as he wipes a damp washcloth over Michael's neck and then leaves it to rest on Michael's forehead. "Better?"
If better means I want you all over me like a blanket, I want to taste every part of you and make you scream my name, then sure it's better. Unfortunately, Michael knows that's not the vocabulary Lincoln's using. "I guess," he mumbles uncertainly.
"Need something else?" Lincoln's got that little 'v' going between his eyebrows, the one that says he's ready to help Michael anyway he can. But this… Michael can't tell him what he really wants, can't begin to mention everything rushing through his head that he doesn't even have words for, let alone the experience.
"No," he finally says.
"Okay," Lincoln answers, brushing his hand over Michael shoulder—all of which draws Michael's attention to the rippling of the muscles in Lincoln's arm again, the masculine tufts of hair peeking out over the edges of the shirt and the play of that powerful chest under the thin, stretched fabric.
Michael swallows noisily, hoping Lincoln doesn't notice. He shifts uncomfortably on the sofa, harder than ever with all those ideas and images happening right here in front of him.
"Need me to stick around?" Lincoln asks.
"No," Michael says too quickly. "Thanks," he squeaks out belatedly, as Lincoln gets up and heads out to go downstairs and meet his friends. It seems like forever until the door slams closed behind him.
As soon as Lincoln's feet hit the metal stairs, Michael's off the sofa and running for the bathroom with its promise of privacy and sweet relief…
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