Warning: RPS is not to everyone's taste. If it's not your thing, please skip this one :)
Disclaimer: No real people! Absolute make-believe from start to finish!
Plot: It's June 2011, the show has wrapped, and both Tom and Michael are feeling a little nostalgic...
It's his first June in ten years without a back-to-work deadline looming. There are projects in the ether but nothing finalized yet. Tom can sleep in, the dogs get long walks; the stack of books beside his bed is finally getting some attention.
Tom's enjoying it, mostly; occasionally he gets a rootless feeling, the hint of a clench in his belly. His future is open wide, which is both an exciting and unnerving prospect.
It's 10:30 on a bright L.A. morning and apart from the new script on his desk, the day is free. His phone buzzes, with a text from Michael: "Want to hang out today?"
There had been no hanging out during the finale shoot: Michael had been rushed from make-up trailer to set. They'd only had the chance for a brief hug and maybe five minutes of uninterrupted talk. It had left Tom nostalgic for the old days when he and Michael had filled the filming breaks with shared jokes and pranks, had made Vancouver their personal playground.
Perhaps Michael has been nostalgic too; he's been texting and calling a lot more in recent weeks.
Tom wanders into the kitchen. His wife has a pile of horse-breeding books on the table, and a half-written genealogy chart for her latest acquisition, a chestnut mare.
"Michael's invited me over."
She looks up from her papers.
Their eyes meet. It's both a directive and permission. Tom smiles; she knows him so very well.
* * * *
Michael serves lunch in his garden. There are a few fluffy clouds overhead. Michael's dog yawns and settles his head on Tom's foot.
"How are you enjoying limbo?" asks Michael.
"Limbo's not a bad word for it. Both my shows over, gone. It's a bit like a phantom limb. It doesn't hurt but sometimes when I wake up in the morning, it feels like there's something missing."
Michael nods and refills Tom's glass.
"Know the feeling, buddy, "Breaking In" is Schrödinger's show right now: one moment it lives, the next it's a goner."
"You know, we got lucky with Smallville," says Tom. "It was nothing if not reliable."
"If our new projects bomb, we could always resurrect it," says Michael. "On a shoestring budget."
"Film right here in your yard?" suggests Tom. "Clark and Lex fight it out in the Jacuzzi?"
"Yes!" says Michael. "And it's very wrong that you've never been in my Jacuzzi-"
"After all this wine, I may never get out of your Jacuzzi," says Tom.
They clear the dishes away. Michael throws Tom a towel and steps casually out of his shorts and t-shirt.
"High fence, buddy, no bathing suit required."
Hint of a challenge there, but Tom isn't self-conscious about being naked, while Michael positively revels in it. Tom removes his shirt & shorts and neatly folds them, then turns around to see Michael watching him, with unabashed appreciation.
"No tan lines! Have you been skinnydipping at your fancy Vineyard beach?"
"Too many backyard naps," Tom explains. He joins Michael in the bubbles. Their knees bump. It's not a big Jacuzzi and they're two large men.
Michael leans back and closes his eyes.
"Mmmm…if you could do anything next, Tommy, what would it be?"
"I don't know. I'm just waiting to see what opportunity comes along. I'd like to direct again…"
"But what's your dream project, if money was no option?"
"I don't know…"
Michael opens his eye a crack.
"Sure you do. Every actor has one. Every director does too."
Tom kicks him gently under the water.
"Tell me yours, then!"
He listens as Michael recounts his dream role in his dream movie – not a bad pitch actually. The rhythm of Michael's voice is soothing and Tom is getting drowsy, when there's a sudden rumble.
Michael sits up:
"Was that thunder?"
The sun's still out but the cerulean blue of the sky has turned to slate.
"There wasn't a storm forecast today," says Tom.
Another loud thunder crack, closer now; a raindrop hits the center of Tom's forehead.
"Do you think it will pass us over," says Michael. "Or-"
The sky opens and a cataract of rain beats down. Michael grabs Tom's arm. They make an ungraceful exit from the Jacuzzi and rush for the house. Michael slides the patio door closed and stares up at the sky. Tom looks at Michael's naked brown back, his round white ass, and is very aware of his own nakedness, the cool of the house, the droplets on his skin.
"That was loud," says Michael. "Do you think-"
There's a furious flash of lightning, right in front of the window. Michael, startled, takes a step back. His ass, bare, grazes Tom's cock.
They're both completely still, then Michael says:
But he doesn't move and it's his flirty voice, so Tom says "Apparently so". He takes Michael by the shoulders, turns him round, and kisses him.
"Oh," says Michael, into Tom's mouth, then nothing more for a while.
But after a minute, Tom is aware that Michael is talking again.
"Adultery? Are we-?"
Tom puts his mouth to Michael's ear.
"S'okay if it's you. I have permission-"
Michael leans back:
"Permission….Just for me?"
"Yes," says Tom. "But-"
He gets no further. Michael lunges at him; Tom finds himself rushed to the bedroom, then pushed onto his back with Michael looming, and dangling, over him.
Michael pins Tom's hands above his head and kisses him, nudging a thigh between Tom's legs. It rubs the side of Tom's cock and the friction feels amazing. Tom grabs Michael's hips and grinds against him; Michael makes a startled noise, loses his balance, and falls right on top of Tom.
"I didn't mind," says Tom.
They look at each other. Tom runs a finger along the crack of Michael's ass and enjoys the way Michael shivers in response. Michael kisses him, then says:
"I haven't done this before, with a guy…."
Tom smiles at him. Michael's eyes narrow a little
"Have you done this before, with a guy?"
Tom, still smiling, rolls them over so he's on top.
"Because, I wondered-" Michael begins but then he stops talking because Tom wants him to, and knows exactly how to keep his mouth busy.
* * * *
After a loud and satisfying hour, Tom is ready for a nap. Michael, head on Tom's chest, is narrating.
"How does it feel, being conquered by me, sexually?"
"Which one of us was begging a few minutes ago?"
"When you talk, your voice rumbles like a bass." He puts his ear to Tom's nipple like he's listening to the sea.
Tom squeezes the closest part of Michael, which happens to be a thigh.
"I'll be quiet then."
"No," says Michael. "Talk. Tell me what's going on with you."
Tom hesitates, almost offers his usual deflection, turning the conversation back to Michael; But something, the storm, the sex, the closeness, makes him want to talk.
So he does. He tells Michael about his hopes for this year, his dream projects, the one role that he really wanted and didn't get. For once the words bubble out, and Michael listens, his chin propped on Tom's shoulder, while outside the storm moves east.
(Happy Birthday, Miss R!)