Mike goes slow. No telling when Liam last did this — the less Mike thinks about it the better — and he’s got a game tomorrow anyway, Mike isn’t going to fuck him over for that. Not that Liam lets him keep things slow, not for long, anyway. He asks for harder, faster, both tripping off his tongue and in the way his hand goes almost bruising on Mike, his leg curling around Mike’s waist to pull him deeper.
Mike does his best to resist, but he can’t help but fall into it, lets Liam goad him until he’s got a hand braced against the headboard, another tucked around Liam’s head so he won’t bang it, since he’s not bothering to brace himself, one hand still white-knuckled on Mike’s skin and the other tight on his cock, brows furrowed enough that Mike would think he was in pain if he didn’t know any better.
Liam comes first, streaking across his wrist, his belly, and Mike eases up until the pace becomes a slow grind. He knows Liam likes getting fucked after, likes where it floats between good and too much, but it’s been years since they’ve had sex, and Mike sure as shit isn’t going to keep going without Liam’s say-so.
When Liam’s come down a bit, he opens his eyes. “Why’d you stop,” he says, flat, and Mike can’t help but huff a laugh. Liam’s legs are still tucked around his waist, loose, and Mike leans down to kiss him, Liam sighing against his mouth when Mike fucks into him again, slow this time, and staying slow, because Mike doesn’t want this to stop, doesn’t want to chase his orgasm, just wants to stay in the tight hot clutch of Liam’s body as long as he possibly can.
He has to come, eventually, does it with his mouth against Liam’s neck, the salt of his sweat on Mike’s tongue. He can’t stay in Liam as long as he’d like either, pulls out reluctantly, tying off the condom before lobbing it at his wastebasket.
Liam’s flushed and drowsy, skin hot when he presses his cheek against Mike’s, pulling him back down until Mike’s practically blanketing him, Liam taking most of his weight.
Mike’s gotten drowsy himself, the heat of Liam and the slow pace of his breathing enough to lull him.
“Can I sleep here?” Liam asks, when Mike’s started to drift.
Mike should say no. There’s no way Liam doesn’t have curfew, and Mike has already fucked up enough, letting the kid come back with him. Mike should say no, but he doesn’t want to. He has Liam sprawled out on his bed for the first time in years, and he wants to keep him there.
“Fine,” he says, trying to sound grudging, probably failing. He rolls off Liam, then, so he doesn’t crush the kid, and falls asleep with Liam tucked back against him, body running hot as always, his hand trapping Mike’s against the hard line of his stomach.
Mike wakes up when it’s still dark, doesn’t understand why until the bed shifts beside him and Liam leans over him, back in yesterday’s clothes. “Hey,” Liam says, quiet even for early morning. “I have to go if I want to get back before I get busted for missing curfew. I’ve got a cab waiting outside.”
“Okay,” Mike says, groggy, as Liam’s thumb brushes over his shoulder. This feels familiar, so familiar, like every practice Liam went to that Mike couldn’t thanks to minor injury or illness or, in the end, that fucking concussion. Like every morning Liam woke him up like he somehow knew that if Mike woke up without him there, it’d hit like a lead ball to the chest. Every single morning that Liam woke him up like this, Mike wanted to strip him right down, pull him back into bed, and hold on tight to him. He wants that now more than anything.
It’s a stupid fucking wish.
“We head out right after the game,” Liam says. Mike doesn’t know what his face does — it’s too early and he’s too close to asleep to be able to school it worth a damn — but Liam leans down the rest of the way, lips brushing against the corner of his mouth before he sits back up.
“I missed you,” Liam says, so soft Mike isn’t sure he was even supposed to hear it. Reproachful, which is fair, because this is Mike’s doing, there wasn’t an inch of it that wasn’t his decision. There’s something frayed in his voice, close to snapping, and maybe Mike wasn’t supposed to hear it, but Liam sure as hell meant it.
“Yeah,” Mike says. Liam leaves with one last squeeze of Mike’s shoulder, and once Mike hears the front door shut, he knuckles his eyes. Should get up and lock his door. Should have managed something more than vague agreement, or said nothing at all. He exhales, shaky, and then tries to get back to sleep, because he needs to not think for a fucking minute.
It works, Mike guesses, because when he opens his eyes again the room’s light, and his clock brightly informs him it’s two in the afternoon. Mike doesn’t know the last time he actually slept through a morning, except when he’d try to sleep a migraine off. His phone buzzes in his jeans, and Mike gets up to grab it, finds a text from Liam, wish me luck ;).
It’s an hour until the game, and Mike knows the schedule. Maybe not the Red Wings’ specifically, but he figures he probably knows where Liam is, knows he’s about to put his phone away and out of his head until they win or lose. Realizes, suddenly, that he took the kid home and opened him up and blew this shit wide open all over again, and this is Liam throwing a gauntlet down with a fucking winking face.
That he tells the kid right now that last night was stupid, and a mistake, and that it won’t happen again. Or he doesn’t: that he wishes him luck, and Liam continues to send terribly spelled texts that hurt Mike’s fucking soul.
And maybe the next time Liam’s in Minnesota he comes right to Mike’s door, and Mike gets him back in his bed, plants a hand between his shoulder blades and fucks him into the mattress then makes them both sandwiches after, with Liam in one of Mike’s shirts and his own boxer briefs, sitting on the counter instead of a chair because he’s a wildling, ankles knocking against the cabinets. Trying to filch ingredients, watching Mike’s hands work, all sleepy eyed and well-fucked and satisfied. That it will keep happening, and Mike will resign himself to waiting for those times, Liam blowing in and out of his life, his space, all his restless attention on Mike until he’s gone again.
That Mike stops this now or he doesn’t stop it at all, because he doesn’t have it in him to hurt the kid again. Doesn’t have it in him to break his own fucking heart again, doesn’t think he could do it, not without flinching. That he stops this now or he puts it in Liam’s hands to do what he will, because Liam’s more responsible than him in the only way it really counts, and Mike loves him, and Mike’s fucking sick of it, of loving him and not having him and not being able to blame anyone but himself for it, sickly grateful for any sign that Liam’s better off without him.
The thing is, Mike’s selfish. He’s tried so hard not to be where Liam is concerned, but he is. He’d rather have the kid miserable than be miserable without him, and if that makes him a son of a bitch, he can’t make himself care anymore.
He could easily delete that text, three words and a fucking smiley, who does that. Delete it and go on with his life and let Liam go on without him. It’d probably leave the both of them better off in the long run.
He finally sends, Good luck., to be received whether it’s a win or a loss, whether or not the luck goes sour. He could send it with a fucking smiley, or even just an exclamation mark, but he isn’t that kind of guy, is never going to be that kind of guy, not even for Liam, the fucking personification of sunshine.
He thinks Liam won’t mind anyway. Thinks Liam might just know what he means.
HOLDING IT TOGETHER (2022-2028)
Chapter 20
Mike didn’t know what he was getting himself into when he sent Liam that text. Didn’t have a clue that when he opened that door a crack, to let Liam choose whether or not he wanted to push it open the rest of the way, Liam would decide instead to blow the damn thing off its hinges.
Mike is, apparently, a fucking idiot. How could he have expected anything else, knowing Liam Fitzgerald as well as he does? Years may have passed, but the kid’s still the same, deep down.
Now that Mike’s gotten used to the fact that his
phone rings about five times more than it ever has before, it’s not so bad. He doesn’t like phones, but he likes texting even less if it isn’t for the purpose of establishing a time and place to meet or asking a yes or no question, which are, in his opinion, the only useful purposes for it.
Video calls are better, partly because it feels more like just hanging around, shooting the shit. Partly because while Liam’s unsurprisingly good at phone sex, considering how goddamn dirty his mouth is, Mike will take getting to watch him any day.
It isn’t exactly feast and famine, except Mike always forgets that after Liam leaves, his bed his own again, his house quiet, hands back to making meals for one. Liam comes blowing in and out, leaves the place a mess, the kind it never is when he’s not around. Mike’s always picking up the detritus he leaves: trashy erotica books he half thinks Liam buys just to get Mike to roll his eyes; empty coffee cups he never bothers to put in the sink; clothes he forgets that Mike sticks in the wash, leaves folded in the laundry room for the next time he comes around, a thought Mike doesn’t want to think of as optimistic.
Mike always thought Liam, young as he was, would leave at the first hint of something newer, more exciting, but it’s been six years now that Mike’s known him, and the only time Liam stayed away is when Mike drove him off. Even then that didn’t really stick. He’s starting to figure out that as long as he lets Liam in his life, distance be damned, his own lack of charms be damned, Liam is going to keep coming back.
But it’s one thing to recognize a fact and it’s another thing entirely to depend on it, and Mike realizes, with depressing clarity, that he’s doing the latter. That as empty as his days can get, as monotonous, Liam’s prepared to bolster them with the paper-thin presence of phone calls, Skype, or, less frequently, his too loud too much presence filling Mike’s house and settling something inside of him, letting him relax.
*
Liam comes into town, and with him comes fresh air and immaturity, noise and exasperation all adding up into something that feels like relief.
No one seems to have let Liam know that by the time you hit twenty-four you probably shouldn’t be sitting on counters, swinging your feet like an infant. Alternately, Liam got told enough that he decided he’d do it more. That’s just as likely.
The Red Wings are dominant this season, tearing shit up. Mike doesn’t have to follow them closely to know they’re a favorite for the Cup, and Liam’s climbed the lines since he got there, plays a tight second line center role, slotted in every defensive face-off: little shit kicker all grown up, a key piece of the puzzle.
Mike’s hands have started to tremble, just a bit, since the last time the Red Wings came to town. It’s not every day, and it’s not during most tasks, but he figured it was something he should probably tell the docs about, and he’d almost forgotten how fucking annoying it is, watching doctors give him that look, that ‘we know something you don’t’ look, the one that means a battery of tests are coming, an answer, sometimes, weeks later, or just hearing ‘inconclusive’ a-fucking-gain, because god forbid Mike’s fucked up body throws something simple at him for once.
If he tells Liam about it, Liam’s going to worry. He doesn’t hover like he did at the start, too young and too stubborn to handle feeling helpless. Can’t, really, being in Detroit most of the year, but he was in Minny for a month last summer, and he did okay facing shit full on after a couple stops and starts. Hovered during the first migraine, trying to help, which emphatically didn’t, then tiptoed around Mike’s house like a kid past curfew the subsequent times, which was sure as shit more helpful than his big sad eyes fixed on Mike like he could heal him with the power of his stare.
If he tells Liam about the tremors, Liam’s going to worry, going to read into it. Mike’s popping a fucking pharmacy worth of pills, so it’s just as likely as not two pills working against one another. The doctors have said as much, started fiddling with Mike’s meds for the thousandth fucking time. No point telling Liam if it’s just going to go away.
He can’t tell in advance when the tremors are going to come on, but more often than not it’s when he’s doing precision work, because of fucking course it is. The worst possible moment, because his luck is for shit. Cooking’s been a crapshoot lately, Mike suddenly stalled in front of the cutting board, hands trembling too hard to hold a knife.
Mike spent a good five minutes staring at pre-cut veg at the grocery store last time he went, but it felt like giving in. He’s regretting it now, because he has a vegetable drawer full of great produce he might end up throwing out because it’s that or cut his damn hand open because he insisted on pretending the shit that’s happening to him isn’t. Mike’s stubborn, but he’s not a fucking idiot, and he needs his hands, even if they’re currently betraying him.
Liam being here actually gives the vegetables a chance in the end. Mike gathers ingredients while Liam hovers like he always does when Mike’s in the kitchen, banging his heels against the cabinets. Mike practically empties the vegetable drawer on the counter beside Liam. “Chicken and salad?” he asks.
“Sounds good,” Liam says.
“You chop the veg,” Mike says.
Liam gives him an exaggeratedly shocked look. “You’re trusting me with chopping?” he asks.
“Testing you, more like,” Mike says. “You insist you’re feeding yourself, I want some proof.”
“Rude,” Liam says, but he slides off the counter.
Mike gets the chicken breasts seasoned and in the oven while Liam cusses out the vegetables. Mike doesn’t have a lot of faith in Liam’s knife skills after the third time he hears Liam mutter ‘fuck off’ under his breath, and turns out he was right not to.
“You murdered those poor fuckers,” Mike says, looking at a mess of red wet pulp that was supposed to be slices of tomatoes.
Liam grabs the carnage and shoves it in his mouth.
Mike raises his eyebrows.
“I did a great job,” Liam says, waving his hand over the remaining tomatoes. They’re not great by any means, not even good, but at least they don’t look like a murder scene.
“Except for the evidence you just shoved in your mouth,” Mike says.
“What evidence?” Liam says. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, old man.”
Mike rolls his eyes.
“All gone, see?” Liam says, then sticks his tongue out.
“Are you a toddler or a drug mule?” Mike asks, laughing, charmed despite himself, like he always is when Liam’s at his childish, bratty best.
“I really don’t think there’s a good answer to that question,” Liam says, before getting on his toes to press a kiss to Mike’s jaw. Classic Fitzgerald attempt at distraction.
“Get back to work,” Mike says. “Unless you plan on eating that cucumber whole.”
Mike knew before he even finished his sentence that Liam would have a cucumber joke right on the edge of his tongue.
“Don’t play with your food,” Mike says before Liam can say it, and Liam snickers and gets back to chopping while Mike surveys the contents of his fridge, trying to decide what’ll serve for dessert. He’s got enough berries to swing it, and it’d please Liam’s nutritionist, even if he knows Liam’s going to pout about not getting cheat food.
Mike seasons some potatoes while Liam chops.
“How’d I do?” Liam asks once the potatoes are in the oven, waving his hand with a flourish over the inexpertly, haphazardly chopped vegetables.
“Well…” Mike says.
“Be nice to me,” Liam wheedles.
“I’m sure they’re edible,” Mike says.
Liam laughs. “Your nice is so mean,” he complains, but he’s smiling. His mouth is red and wet, and Mike suspects if he checks the store of raspberries he’s not going to like what he finds. Bets Liam made a game of it, seeing how many he could sneak before Mike noticed.
When he kisses Liam he tastes exactly like Mike expected, tart raspberry with a smile still pulling acro
ss his mouth, impish, like he knows he just got caught. His body curves into Mike as if it’s magnetized, the way it always has, the way that’s flattering and terrifying in equal measure; how much he seems to feel, how bad he is at hiding it.
“You eating raspberries, brat?” Mike says against his mouth, and Liam grins wider, kisses him like a distraction again, because he knows exactly how effective it is.
Dinner’s okay. The salad would probably be better if it wasn’t a crapshoot on getting a piece of cucumber or tomato the size of a loonie, but Liam’s chicken is well-spiced, at least as far as Mike could tell without tasting it. His stomach’s been fucked lately, yet another side effect of the drugs he’s taking, so his own is irritatingly bland. Mike picked up some beer for Liam — his taste’s gotten a lot better than when he was drinking domestic piss lager at eighteen. Detroit seems to have taught him the value of a good IPA. When he kisses Mike after taking a sip, the flavors bloom heavy on his tongue: beer, paprika rub, all the things he can’t have himself.
He could resent it. He does some days. He does a lot of the time, honestly. There are so many things he can’t have now, as big as hockey and small as going for a jog. He’d always disliked jogging. Boring low-impact bullshit. He has no fucking idea why he misses it.
“Bed?” Liam says.
“It’s nine,” Mike says. “I’m not an invalid, Fitzgerald.”
“Did I say sleep?” Liam asks.
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