|Happy birthday, chrisluvstommy!
||[Jun. 28th, 2010|01:03 am]
For her birthday, Chris wanted some Tom/Michael RPS!
Warning: RPS is definitely not to everyone's taste! If it's not your thing, please skip this one :)
Disclaimer: No real people and not a word of truth in it!
Summary: It's June 2010 and Michael has a decision to make...
Michael watches all of Tom's interviews at the upfronts. Of course he does; it's Tommy. Tom's his boy. But he hadn't expected Tom to mention him at all, let alone repeatedly.
It's a late night location shoot. The stars are out. There's a chill in the air.
"Clark is so "the girl" in this relationship," says Michael.
"Mmm," says Tom. "Possibly. But you are definitely "the girl" in our relationship."
"I gave you my coat," says Tom. "I'm rubbing your hands because you keep complaining that they're cold. And also you're sitting in my lap."
A crew member standing nearby snickers and covers it up with a cough.
"That doesn't makes me the girl," says Michael. "It might make you a chair."
"You exploit me," says Tom, but he doesn't sound bothered. Michael looks down at Tom's bare arms.
"How do you not have goosebumps? I think you are a chair."
"Ten more minutes!" shouts the director. Michael groans and leans back against Tom's warm shoulder.
"Do you want to go for a beer afterwards?" says Tom.
All Michael wants is his bed. He says:
"Dude, it's been a twelve hour day…"
"So we should go for a beer?"
"That's because I need a beer," says Tom.
So in the end, they go. Michael complains about work, has two beers and relaxes. Tom listens, draws the Red Sox logo in condensation on the table and makes Michael laugh with a horrendous Gandalf impersonation.
"Yo, Superman!" says a guy at the bar as they walk out.
Tom nods amiably back at him.
* * * *
Michael needs to know. And he knows the person who can tell him. Even on hiatus, Steve hears all the gossip.
"You," says Steve. "Aha. Does this mean I get the dubious pleasure of making you stand still for costume fittings next year, and retrieving stacks of stolen underwear from your trailer?"
"Was Tom sent to the upfronts with talking points?"
"He was. But he didn't use any of them. Imagine everyone's delight when he went repeatedly off script to talk about you. But he's a producer now - they can't just send him to his room" Steve adds. "They could send him to MY room."
"Oh," says Michael.
"Did it work?" Steve asks. "Are you caving?"
"I have a lot on my plate..."
"Yet somehow I suspect your next meal may be eaten out of Tom's hand," says Steve.
* * * *
Tom is out on the field, shooting a football scene; Michael sits in the stands, surrounded by giggling extras. He tries out a variety of expressions for Lex, from smitten to obsessive. In between scenes, he flirts a little with the thrilled girls around him, while Tom listens to the director. Then the director wants to talk to the football extras and everyone else gets a twenty minute break.
Tom is waving from the field, holding a football.
"Don't roughhouse with him and don't smudge your make-up!" yells the AD as Michael runs past.
They find a semi-private corner. For once in Vancouver, the sun is fully out. They toss the ball and shout across the field at each other. Tom charges Michael, picks him up, and carries him for a victory lap. The extras laugh.
"You're ridiculous!" says Michael. "You're a ridiculous person."
It's a good day on Smallville
More than anything, Michael loves to make Tom laugh. Because Tom never laughs out of politeness; he only laughs if he's truly amused and that's a hard target to hit. A joke might get a smile, a quick flash of teeth but Michael wants the belly laugh, wants Tom doubled over, gasping.
Before Tom, Michael really only cared about making women laugh. He's not sure what this says about his relationship with Tom.
They're filming the scene where Clark, addled on RedK, tries to strangle Lex in the barn. But it’s Tom who keeps choking, losing it every time he meets Michael's eye.
"Guys…" says Kristin.
"I'm sorry," says Tom. "I'm so sorry."
He looks at Michael and starts to shake.
"Rosenbaum…" says the director, wearily.
"I'm not doing anything," says Michael. He looks at Tom, who claps a hand over his mouth, and explodes.
It's late and the crew is ready to wrap this scene. Michael's tired too. But nothing seems as important as this moment he's sharing with Tom, as making Tom laugh; there's a crew waiting for them, but they might as well be alone in the barn set.
Michael meets Tom's eye; they both try to hold back giggles.
"I'll get you for this," mouths Tom.
* * * *
Tom hasn't asked him to stay, which in a way, is making it even harder to leave. There's no ambiguity in Michael's mind: he is done with the show. He wishes that Tom was done too, that they could finish as they began, together. But looking around the set, crew members at work in every corner, Michael knows that it's different for Tom. This enterprise rides on Tom's shoulders; any decision he makes will impact several hundred people.
"I'll miss you," says Tom.
"Stop it," says Michael. "You'll make me cry. You know how I am, dude."
"Yeah, I do," says Tom. "And I want to see tears. Lots of them. Visual proof that you'll miss me."
Michael throws a muffin at him:
"That didn't miss you!"
"Not like you're going to miss me," says Tom, brushing crumbs off his chest. "Seven years together…all the times we’ve had. Do you remember-"
"Stop it!" says Michael. "Sadist."
Tom giggles evilly and even that makes Michael a little teary.
When the doorbell rings, Michael knows who it's going to be.
Tom is on the step, half-hiding under his Sox cap.
Michael folds his arms, mock stern.
"Anything you'd like to say to me?"
Tom grins and drapes an arm across Michael's shoulder:
"The Lakers didn't deserve to win."
"And you totally don't deserve a beer but I guess I have to offer you one."
Tom follows him into the kitchen.
"So….Mr. Producer," says Michael. "Amazing."
"I know," says Tom, accepting a beer. "Who'd have thought?"
"I always knew you'd go places," says Michael.
"L.A., Boston, Vancouver," says Tom. He flops on the couch. "Mostly I seem to go to airports."
They clink their bottles.
"To Hellcats!" says Michael
Tom laughs and drinks.
"You've been wooing me through the press," says Michael. "When I prefer to be wooed through karaoke."
"I could do some of that too," says Tom.
"Why the full court press?" says Michael. "Why now?"
"I miss you," says Tom. "You know. The laughter."
Michael shoves him. Tom raises an eyebrow and shoves him back. Michael says:
"And you think a bit of interview praise is going to win me back? Think I'm that easy?"
"It was worth a shot. Did you tear up a bit watching?" Tom shoots him a sly look. "Anyway, I'm willing to do more."
Michael sits back on his heels:
"Oh, the possibilities."
They look at each other. Tom takes a long drink from his bottle. There's a silence; neither fills it. Michael doesn't like silence. He's about to make a joke, diffuse the tension. But then Tom puts his hand on Michael's cheek.
Kissing. Kissing a guy. He's thought about this, won't lie to himself, but he hadn't imagined it being this easy: side by side on the couch, Tom's hand on his neck, their noses bumping. Knees bumping too. Tom throws a leg over Michael, pulling him closer.
Tom is warm. Michael rubs his back, presses his face to Tom's neck. Tom ducks his head and they kiss again. Michael doesn't want the kiss to end, even when he needs the air. The kiss has become more important than breathing. Tom, it's Tom, in his arms.
He fumbles for Tom's hand, finds the wedding ring, freezes.
"S'okay," says Tom. "She knows. She's okay with it. You're the exception to the rule."
Michael thinks this over. Tom whispers in his ear:
"Actually you're the exception to a lot of my rules."
He's seen Tom undress before but now Tom is undressing for him. Awkwardly pulling off his shorts, wriggling out of his shirt, and then lying back in a patch of sun. Michael puts his hand into the sunlight, warm on Tom's chest.
Tom reaches up and tugs at Michael's shirt. Suddenly shy, Michael waits, lets Tom undress him. When he's out of his shirt and shorts, he rolls into the sunlight too, joins Tom.
The sun is in his eyes; Michael can't see, but in a way, that's good. It makes him less shy. He uses his other senses on Tom. He does all the things he's wanted to do. Inhales the scent of Tom's hair, tastes the soft skin behind his ear, touches every place he's wanted to touch.
The rub of skin to skin. Different than being with a woman. Bigger than being with a woman. Tom's legs seem to go on forever; his hands span the whole of Michael's back. Tom covers him, envelops him.
It's nice not to be the one in control, to surrender himself to hands big enough to catch him, arms strong enough to hold him.
When Michael comes, and he comes hard, he falls back against Tom and stays there, warmed by sunlight. But Tom's arms are even warmer than the sun.
"I still don't know what I'm going to do."
Tom leans over and kisses his head.
"No pressure. This just felt like something we needed to do. Overdue, actually."
Michael rests his chin on Tom's arm. He doesn't feel like moving. Tom yawns and says:
"I'll still like you, dude, either way."
Which really, Michael reflects, only makes the decision that much harder.
(Happy birthday, honey!)