by Emilia Loft
“Inside, want you—more,” begs Michael. He wonders if he’d be embarrassed if he could see himself, rutting against Devin’s hip like this, but right now, all he wants is Devin on him, in him, filling the very space around him.
What he wants, Devin gives, because there’s suddenly the press of heated flesh against the pucker of his hole. And thank goodness Devin thought to add lube, because when he slides in, Michael doesn’t have to tell him wait or stop because the pressure is slow and easy, giving him time to adjust.
“Michael?” Devin asks, when their hips are flush. He cradles Michael’s cheek with a roughened palm. “Are you all right?’
Michael closes his hand over Devin’s. “All right,” he assures. Breathes in once, then twice, before breaking off into pleasured gasps as Devin moves inside him, pressing upward and in. He twines his legs over Devin’s back, urging him on with his ankles. Begs for harder and more, rewarding each of him’s pleasing thrusts with a breathy gasp, a strangled cry.
As if heartened by Michael’s cries, Devin hikes one of Michael’s legs over his shoulder, pinning the other to the bed with his own leg, and presses in deep again.
The new angle has Michael sinking teeth into the pillow, trying to muffle his cries, because Devin’s hitting him right bloody there and Michael’s caught between gasping in pleasure and whimpering at the sharp, near-painful impact. Devin must notice something, in the furrow in his brow, or the quality of the sounds Michael’s making, because he eases the power of his thrusts back just a touch, but then it’s not enough anymore, and Michael scowls, digging his nails into Devin’s forearms, harsh.
“Harder,” Michael pleads. “Deeper.” He’d take the near-painful digs to not-enough any day.
In response, Devin shoves a pillow under Michael’s hips. Hitches Michael’s other leg over his shoulder, until Michael’s bent nearly in half, knees pressed to shoulders as he clutches the sheets hard, crying out between rough, greedy kisses at the depth of each thrust.
“Please, Devin—” Michael whimpers, as Devin pounds him into the mattress, his fingers trailing intermittently over Michael’s cock, teasing. He’s unsure of whether he wants more or harder or neither, because it’s too much and just right at once; it’s Devin occupying every part of him like he’s wanted, with tongue and fingers and prick, and Michael can’t think, can’t breathe, just knows to moan at every frisson of pleasure sparking through his body.
When his legs threaten to slip from Devin’s shoulders, Devin locks them in place, gripping Michael’s ankles, hard. Surges forward for a perfect, brutal thrust that has Michael howling, helpless.
“Devin, I—I’m—” Michael gasps. He’s close, he can feel it, the familiar burn building in the base of his spine, like a wave, ready to crest.
“Not yet,” Devin growls. “Not yet, we’re almost—we’re almost there.” He lets Michael’s legs slide down to his waist. Wraps his palm around Michael’s cock just in time for a long, steady stroke, before Michael spills, shaking and panting, onto his own belly. Pushes in deep, then deeper, filling Michael a heartbeat later.
They still haven’t managed to come together in all this time, but Michael supposes it’s one of those things he can deal with, before the thought of how good birthday sex can be overwhelms every other thought in his mind.
Michael lets Devin rest his head on his shoulder for a few breaths, and ends up counting his respirations for a full minute. Slides fingers through Devin’s hair, gentle, for another. After three whole minutes pass this way, he nudges his hips into Devin’s, and says, “Again?”
“You greedy little…” Devin laughs, fond, before pressing Michael into the sheets again, sinking teeth into his neck to leave a livid, cherry-bright bruise.
They go a second round, a third, then finally a fourth, each time slower than the last, until it’s less like raw, physical fucking and more the easy lovemaking they’ve grown used to in the mornings. Until Michael can’t move anymore, can’t come anymore, his cock twitching helplessly against his belly.
“Devin, I can’t—no more, please,” Michael begs. He’s not sure how he ever thought he could outlast Devin in a match of stamina or endurance, since every time they manage a minor marathon like this, he never has. Not that he’s complaining. “Devin—”
“Finally,” Devin says, huffing a laugh. And with one brutal, aimed thrust, he pushes into Michael and spends, hot and deep and wet, pressing his tongue deep inside Michael’s mouth and wringing the air from his lungs with a hard and hungry kiss.
Holds Michael through his trembling and presses kisses to his brow, his cheeks, and mouth as they lie together, catching their breath.
“We should shower,” Devin says at last, into the dark of their room. He turns and finds Michael’s mouth, touching his tongue to Michael’s lips until he yields and lets Devin in. “Or at least change the sheets.” Their sheets are damp, and will be cold later; there’s definitely logic to this suggestion.
“Mmhn,” Michael mumbles. “I don’t want to do either.” He rolls over and peels the innermost blanket off, kicking it to the floor. “There, problem solved.” Nudges his way back into Devin’s arms.
“That’s the laziest solution I’ve ever seen,” Devin says. He squeezes Michael’s shoulder, reproachful. “Even lazier than the time you wanted to do it in the shower just so we wouldn’t have to clean.”
Michael shrugs, and curls deeper into him’s embrace, where it’s warm and snug and the scent of their vanilla-almond soap still lingers.
Sensing that their conversation’s over, Devin winds his arms lower, around Michael’s waist. Slots his hips and knees perfectly in place behind Michael. “I love you,” he says softly, kissing the space beneath Michael’s ear.
Michael only responds with a soft, snuffling sound, pretending he’s already asleep. Devin always makes it sound so easy to say, that it makes Michael wonder why he’s holding back. Why he hasn’t said the words aloud since he realized he wanted Devin in every way. In every capacity there was to want.
He wishes he could say it the way Devin does, affectionate and all-encompassing, because each time Devin whispers the words, Michael hears, I love you, brother, lover, other half of my soul.
He’s debating saying it for so long that he nearly falls asleep, but when Devin nuzzles into his neck, his jaw rough but warm, Michael thinks very hard at Devin, I love you too.
* * *
The bed is empty when Michael wakes up.
2
Chapter 2
He can’t deny it leaves him feeling a little disgruntled and annoyed; one of his favorite things is to find that they’ve somehow shifted during the night. That Devin’s become the little spoon in their cuddling, so Michael can press small, skittering kisses along the nape of his neck. Can trail his fingers along the side of Devin’s arm, to trace the scar where a nail gun backfired and nicked him in the shoulder a year ago.
Michael still remembers it as one of the few times he’d fought with Devin about something; he’d wanted Devin to quit the building business, to find a profession where he’d be safe, away from the dangers of slipping off roofs and being hurt by nail guns.
What if the nail had gone a few inches left? Michael had argued. What if, instead of your shoulder, it had been your heart?
Devin had simply pulled Michael to him, settling his arms about Michael’s waist. I can’t quit. We need the money.
Money that they have now, Michael supposes. He spares a moment to be glad that him can work with him in the flower shop now, where the biggest danger is a paper cut from filing bouquet orders. Or pricking a finger on a flower thorn. Michael sighs and turns over in the bed, throwing the blanket over his head to simulate the last dregs of nighttime, in spite of the glaring sun. Spies as he does so, a note.
It’s written on a piece of white cardstock, one that’s folded in half and perched on his night table.
Thought I’d give you some time to recover after last night. Went down to open the shop for y
ou. :)
– D
The note sits on top of a covered tray, which Michael finds contains a plate of scrambled eggs, and bacon, chewy, just the way he likes it. Michael laughs, what little annoyance there was dissipating, though he still wishes he woke at the same time as Devin so they could cook breakfast together.
He’s never told Devin, but he loves to wind his arms around Devin’s waist from behind while he’s cooking. To hook his chin over him’s shoulder and watch him work his culinary magic.
After making his way through quick mouthfuls of the breakfast Devin’s left him, Michael pads downstairs in his bare feet, clad in nothing more than Devin’s red plaid shirt—a little loose on him—and a pair of soft flannel pants.
Through the side window of the shop, he spots Devin looking pleased as punch, and a customer, a man with dark shoulder-length hair, walking away with a large wrapped parcel in his hands.
That’s odd, Michael thinks. We don’t have anything that big for sale, do we?
And even though he recognizes the man, knows he comes in on occasion for flowers for his pale, waifish girlfriend, he doesn’t like the way Devin was smiling at him. It’s the expression Devin reserves for him, that bright, guileless curve of lips.
When Devin turns to him through the window and tips him that exact expression, the knowing grin Michael wants to hoard for his own, he realizes Devin’s wearing his shirt beneath his apron. That it’s a little tight on him, so he’s left the top couple buttons undone.
The sight of it stirs a new wave of desire in Michael, and he swallows, hard. Licks his lips, before he realizes what he’s doing.
“You’re up early,” Devin grins, when Michael pushes the door to the shop open. He shifts a bucket of petal clippings to the side as he comes out from behind the counter. Hums, appreciative, as he plucks at his shirt on Michael. “I didn’t expect you for another hour or so.”
Michael throws a mock scowl at him, but has to bat his hand away when Devin makes to slip it around his waist. “There’s a customer coming,” he whispers. When it turns out they’re only passing by the shop, Michael reaches out to flip the shop sign to CLOSED. Sidles up against Devin, like a pampered feline. “Let’s pretend it’s still your birthday,” he murmurs into Devin’s ear. “And take the day off.”
“Oh?” Devin chuckles. “What do you want to do instead?” He takes in Michael’s flushed expression, the way he’s fidgeting at the sleeves of Devin’s shirt that he’s wearing, and laughs. “Oh my god, you are insatiable,” he says, slipping his arm around Michael’s waist, this time successfully. Lets his fingers wander over the jut of Michael’s hip and squeeze, playful.
“Wait, wait, I have something to show you first,” Michael says, reaching for the cooler display. He’d forgotten his arrangement in the heat of the moment last night, and because the timing’s right, it can even double as a thank-you for that breakfast Devin made for him. He nudges several rose vases aside and digs around in the back, but it’s—
It’s gone.
Michael stands there, disbelieving.
“Michael, what is it? What’s wrong?” Devin asks, coming to stand behind him. Circles his shoulders with an arm, worried.
“There’s—there was an arrangement here,” Michael tries, his throat tight. “I was going to—it was supposed to be—”
“Oh,” says Devin, sheepish. “That guy that was just here? He bought it. I didn’t know how much it was, so I just priced it with the thing closest to it.”
“You what,” says Michael. He feels something like hysteria rising in him, because no, Devin did not just sell the arrangement he’s been working on for weeks.
“It was a big sale, too!” Devin adds quickly, an attempt to reassure. “So if you want, we can go out tonight for—” He stops, taking in Michael’s stricken expression. “I’m sorry. Michael, I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were—were you saving it for someone? Was it the pricing?”
“It was priceless,” Michael snaps. He shakes Devin’s arm off his shoulder and pushes out the door. Sprints up the stairs, each grip of the banister a tight, awful clench, like the vise around his heart, and throws himself on their bed, where he lets out an ugly sob into the pillow.
He’d put his heart and soul into that arrangement, and Devin had thoughtlessly sold it.
Michael had specifically grown and arranged stalks of salvia flowers to say I’m thinking of you. The cluster of primroses for I can’t live without you. And the red roses, artfully assembled in the middle, for I love you, an overt gesture just for Devin.
And now Devin would never know.
It doesn’t matter, Michael decides, sullen. He’d never appreciate it anyway.
3
Chapter 3
It’s not long before he hears footsteps on the stairs. The creak of the door to their room.
“I’m sorry,” Devin whispers. He settles behind Michael on the bed, on top of the blankets. Tries to curl behind him. “Michael, please. Whatever I’ve done, I—”
“Get out,” Michael croaks. “Out.”
“This is my bed too,” Devin tries to joke, but there’s something hurt in his voice, and it hurts Michael too, that he’s put that emotion there. But it’s not fair, because it doesn’t come close to how much Devin’s hurt him.
“I hate you,” Michael whispers. He doesn’t mean it, but it feels inexplicably good to say the words. And when he rolls crabbily into the blanket, bunching it around himself until he’s curled into a petulant lump, Michael says with more conviction, “I hate you.”
He half expects Devin to bully his way onto the bed and throw his weight on top of Michael until they’ve made up, until they’ve talked it over, like they did when they were kids. A habit that’s carried over even until now.
So it hurts that much more when Devin just leaves without a word, and closes the door, gentle, behind him.
* * *
When Michael decides that he’s had enough of lying about in bed like a petulant lump—because he’s heard about how communication is key in any relationship—he slips downstairs to see if he can talk to Devin. Like a reasonable person.
Devin’s reopened the store though, and is busy helping a cluster of teenage girls, so Michael makes his way to the greenhouse out back. Occupies himself with pruning dead leaves from the sweet pea plants. Absently rearranges the ceramic planters they’re supposed to put on display, once the spring-green and lilac Mother’s Day vases are sold.
From the greenhouse, he watches Devin sell long-stemmed roses to the girls, coupled with bowls of bamboo clusters for luck. Watches the girls flock around him, fawning.
It’s times like these he remembers how good Devin is at being the front face of the shop; people
seem to come in just for a browse and a chat, and end up leaving with bags and wrapped parcels in
their hands, whether it’s single flowers, bouquets, or even one of Michael’s full-sized arrangements.
If Michael knows flowers, then Devin knows people, and it’s a wonder how they managed to scrape by in the time before Devin worked at the shop.
One of the girls, tall, freckled and blonde, bats her eyelashes at Devin now, and Michael rolls his own eyes. Resists the urge to gag. Something about it—maybe the action, maybe the girl—bothers him, even when he knows it shouldn’t. Riles the part of him that believes Devin is his; him, his lover, just…his. And it’s funny how that one word’s come to mean everything.
He doesn’t like the way that the ogling gaggle of girls, with their too-thick makeup and his mothers’ high-heels, tries to flirt with Devin. The way Devin pretends to flirt back in return. So when him calls him over, having to fill more orders from their supply of roses out back, Michael grudgingly steps up to the counter. Suffers their too-loud giggles and clumsy seductions with a frosty smile.
Somehow Michael’s irritation spurs him into believing that he can flirt too; that he’s just as good as Devin is at this. In fact, anything Devin can do, Michael can do better.
Like flirting. Talking with customers. And not stupidly selling off flower arrangements without price tags hidden behind rows of vases.
It’s childish at best, but he’s feeling oddly vindictive.
Michael spies the girl with waist-length blonde hair, the one that visits once every two weeks, buying white lilies each time, though lately she’s taken to buying an assortment of orchids and marigolds as well. Excellent—his first test subject.
“Just the marigolds for you today, then?” he says, nodding, when she comes to the till. This is a good start.
“Why, do you have something else to recommend?”
“Uh.” Already he can tell his flirting technique is far clumsier than Devin’s. “Our—” Michael casts his eyes about for something, anything, and spots some of the girls from earlier, leaving with their single, long-stem roses. “—long-stem roses are very popular right now. Do you have someone you’d like me to wrap a rose up for?”
“There’s no one I…” She gives Michael a sidelong glance, before laughing. “Is this your way of asking me out for dinner? Because I wouldn’t say no.”
Oh. She’s got an unbelievably no-nonsense approach, and admittedly, her bluntness is refreshing.
None of the coy looks and shy, eyelash-fluttering glances.
Michael feels his face flush; he’ll feel terrible if he turns her down now. “Yeah. That’s what I was asking.” He’s digging himself deeper and he knows it, but there’s no one to bail him out. Maybe he’ll just see it through and—
“Oh, but I thought you and your boss were, you know. A thing.”
“My boss?” Michael laughs. He chances a glance back at Devin, who’s humming as he rifles through their back displays and clinking vases together audibly as he goes. The phrase bull in a china shop comes to mind, and a tickle of affection rises in Michael’s chest at how endearing that is, before he quashes the thought. “No,” says Michael. “We’re not…” There’s never been an agreement that they’ll be exclusive to each other. Just because they’re brothers, that they live together, that they fu—