cimorene

southpaw526 is dying for richard dean anderson/michael shanks.

we're creating our own genre. anyone else want to join in?

a first kiss by naina

Michael closes his eyes and opens them again and Rick's face is still right there. Like, there's being next to Rick on the couch with your heads tipped together, and there's having your faces two inches apart. Two inches Michael can handle, intellectually. But somehow, what he knows intellectually is two inches is something else when he has blinked and opened his eyes again.

A face close up is not like a face far away, only just closer. There are a million other things involved, like a symphony instead of a little tune you hum. There's Michael breathing and the fact that he can see every breath Rick takes, there's the grain of his skin, for God's sake, there are wrinkles in the corners of his eyes, and they're not even the same shape up close, even though he knows exactly what they look like from a little way away. Close, what looks like a little crow's foot, one two three, is a ripple in the skin, and each wrinkle is really several. Rick's lips are dry but not chapped, open just a little. There's Mexican beer on his breath.

Michael tries closing his eyes and opening them again because he's getting hypnotized. That means he's blinked three times in a row, which looks odd.

Rick opens his mouth to say something about bedtime for little boys and closes it again, sighing a little. With a sigh, your whole chest moves, your shoulders, your back, and if you're lying bonelessly on your couch with your best friend's head next to yours, your head moves too. At two inches away your best friend's face is your whole field of view and the couch is your whole world, and when Rick sighs, the whole night seems to expand and contract.

Michael sighs with him. If he sneezed the force would bump their foreheads together. If he breathed very deeply it might do the same thing. Or maybe their noses would bump or maybe--fuck.

Mouth. His mouth.

Michael's mouth is dry and he's paralyzed. His eyes are locked to Rick's. It's amazing how far you'll go to make yourself believe someone else is thinking the same thing as you.

It's hurting him to hold still, looking into Rick's eyes is hurting him. He closes his eyes and leaves them closed, for an instant, and thinks at Rick, Touch me.

They must have been thinking the same thing after all, because the next thing he knows is another little sigh, and this one he feels on his lower lip, a little damp mist before the contact, dry lips, warm mouth, just touching his lip, the slick tip of Rick's tongue. Rick pauses. Michael lets go a breath he didn't know he was holding and relaxes. The force propels him closer until there can't be two inches between them down the whole lengths of their bodies.

Their thighs are pressed together--not the first time, on this couch--Michael's palm feels the papery brush of the outer edge of Rick's little finger, tracing a line across it. His mouth forms an "oh" against Rick's and Rick's lips follow the movement lazily, closing over his mouth. Rick is warm, he's wet, the inside of his mouth tastes dirty, like a hot wet stolen kiss, like his mouth in the middle of the night, but he can taste beer, and vanilla icecream. He feels his eyelashes brush Rick's cheek, he's lifted his head a little, Rick's making these urgent little noises like "Mm," like he forgot to say something, his hand curling around Michael's now. He knows what Rick is thinking. He hasn't even had to open his eyes.