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“Dude, you are fucking stupid— ”
“I’m just saying, it’s pretty obvious that it’s Childs.”
“No it’s not! The point is that it’s not obvious, you don’t know! That’s the whole point of the fucking movie, actually, they don’t know who—”
“But didn’t John Carpenter literally say he knows one of them is definitely the Thing?”
“Carpenter’s fucking skin is falling off of his head, dude, his skull is caved in and filling with rainwater right now, I’m not— it’s about the analysis— ”
If Michael stuck his head straight into an airplane engine, that would probably be quieter than sitting in between Zach and Chris, especially after a couple drinks. Not to mention the joint that Zach kept pilfering from Michael despite claiming he wasn’t going to smoke tonight.
Not that Michael necessarily minds it. Usually he’d pick a side at random and jump to join in, but right now he can’t really muster up the energy to pretend to care that much about The Thing dir. John Carpenter. He couldn’t even muster up the energy to pay attention to the second half of it, preferring to sink into the couch and let Chris and Zach snip at each other about it over his head.
They’re pretty good at doing that. Michael bites his cheek and steals a glance at Chris, his little mischievous smile that suggests he’s only being a contrarian to get on Zach’s nerves. A little pang of affection goes thump in Michael’s chest, followed by an inexplicable wave of unease.
He’s suddenly too aware of how dry his mouth is, coated with the lingering taste of booze and smoke. He peels himself off the couch with a mumble of gettin’ water, stumbling his way to the kitchen, letting the voices get fainter behind him.
Michael fills up a glass and drinks it like an animal, spilling water down his mouth. He drinks a second glass in a more civilized manner. Then he forgoes returning in favor of jumping onto the kitchen counter to sit on it, bracing his elbows on his knees and his chin in his hands.
Stupid. So stupid. He fiercely wishes he could sober up already, then maybe he wouldn't be like… this. He doesn’t know how to describe it, this inescapable cycle of thinking and overthinking he finds himself in, but sitting quietly between Zach and Chris was just starting to make him feel… small. Out of place. That happens more than he’d like to admit. Especially, he thinks with a little guilt and a lot of embarrassment, when he looks at Chris.
That’s not to say he doesn’t like being around him or anything. He likes Chris. A lot. And logically, Chris must like him too, otherwise they wouldn’t have been friends and certainly they wouldn’t be shagging. But you don’t have to like someone to keep fucking them, do you, and there’s just something about him that makes Michael stop operating on logic and navigate blind. Sometimes he feels out of his depth, or like a dumb fucking high school girl drooling over someone who doesn’t care about Michael as much as he cares about them.
Has he ever felt this way about Zach? Maybe when they first met, but working with him kind of puts to bed any worries by necessity— being clingy is part of Michael’s job, and besides, Zach is really not as good as he thinks he is at hiding when he’s irritated. Chris, though? As much as he likes to act like a piece of shit, Michael knows how much he hates being involved in any type of conflict, and if he was ever tolerating Michael for Zach’s sake he wonders if he would ever be able to tell.
Whatever. It doesn’t matter. He’ll sleep this off and forget about it until the next time he decides to feel strange about himself and his place in his own relationships, whenever that may be. Knowing him, probably sooner rather than later. Until then, he can deal with it, bite his tongue, and make his way back to the couch— or he would have, if Chris didn’t pick that moment to finally wander into the kitchen after him.
He takes in Michael sitting motionlessly on the counter and laughs. “What’re you hiding in here for?”
“‘M not hiding!” Michael complains, although his sulking could most certainly be described as hiding. “I didn’t feel like getting down. What are you in here for?”
“Following you.” Chris moves to stand in front of Michael, between his legs. “And also Zach fell asleep, so I got bored.”
“On the couch? That can’t be good for his back.”
“And dragging him down the hall would be worse for my back, so. He’ll live.”
Chris sounds unconcerned about the whole thing, more focused on dragging his hands across Michael’s legs and up to his thighs. Michael wraps his arms around Chris’s neck and leans forward enough to hide his face so that he can’t see his head spinning. It’s this, exactly this— this is how he wants it to be with Chris, all the time. Quiet and certain and warm, Chris’s stubble scraping his cheek when he kisses his jaw and his hands hot where they sneak under Michael’s shirt, fingers pressing into his bare skin.
Maybe that’s what it is. Maybe it’s not really believing that Chris might not want him anymore, but fearing the possibility of it. The possibility of ruining it all. Losing a good thing he’s managed to stumble his way into.
Michael has lost things for stupider reasons, he knows. Chris’s thumb slips past the waistband of his boxers just as he blurts unwittingly, “You still like me, right?”
Chris pauses, then hesitantly laughs, audibly trying to gauge if he’s being serious. “What?”
Michael feels dumb as a brick. “Just checking.”
“I was about to get you off in my goddamn kitchen like a degenerate.” He pulls away from Michael enough to look at him properly, a half-smile on his face, more confusion than humor. “Of course I like you, you fucking idiot.”
“I said I was only checking!” Michael’s just about to tell him he can go ahead and get back to the whole degeneracy thing now, but before he can manage it, he just has to add: “But you would tell me if you didn’t, right?”
“You are way too high, Michael.”
“I’m not,” he grumbles. Maybe thirty minutes ago he was. “Be honest.”
“Jesus. Well… I wouldn’t tell you to your face, probably?” That’s a little too honest. “But I think you’d know.”
“How would I know if you didn't tell me?”
Chris looks at him like he’s so stupid that it borders on being sad. “You’d probably know because I wouldn’t be sleeping with you. Which, you know. I am.”
That line of reasoning didn’t hold up when Michael tried to apply it to himself. Feels a little better hearing it from Chris, maybe. But not by much. “I guess so.”
“You guess ? Do you think you put a fucking spell on me to, to… magically trick me into threesomes that I actually secretly didn’t want to participate in?”
Michael shrugs. “You are very susceptible to spells and curses.”
“That’s not true. Don’t fucking go around telling people that, Michael. You’re really pee-ing me o,” he adds instead of just saying ‘pissing me off,’ because both of them struggle at being anything resembling serious for more than three seconds, but tonight his resolve crumbles remarkably swiftly. “Man, seriously, don’t… don’t worry. About stuff like that. Okay? You’re bein’ silly. I do like you. You, not just fucking you or whatever. I might even like-like you, if I can be honest here.”
“That’s moving a bit fast for me,” Michael says dryly, but he can’t help his mouth from twitching into a smile. Chris can border on sweet when he wants to be, even if he stumbles over it, and maybe all of it is simpler than he thought. Easier than he made it out to be. Or maybe Michael is just a grade-A idiot who can be placated with I like-like you, but if that’s the case, being an idiot feels pretty good. Pretty damn good.
“Live life in the fast lane, Cusack. Hey— I think this shirt is mine, by the way,” Chris informs him, one hand leaving his side to tug at the hem of it. “In case you forgot how extra silly you’re being? Asking me if I hate you while wearing my clothes?”
“I didn’t say hate! ” Michael glances down at himself. Too baggy on him and one solid dreary color. Yeah, it’s Chris’s. He lies anyway. “This isn't even yours.”
“What? It literally is? ”
“Umm… no, but it isn’t though, right?”
“I bought it with my own money!”
“I don’t see you wearing it, is all I’m saying.” To that, Chris takes a big deep breath and opens his mouth with purpose like he’s about to really get into it, before both of them are stopped in their tracks by a pained, sputtering yelp from the living room.
Turns out the cat had jumped directly onto Zach’s solar plexus, they learn when he comes in grumbling about his back and the couch and how no one gives a shit about him so he might as well go jump off the balcony and sleep in two pieces on the sidewalk since they hate him so much, then sees Chris with his grubby little paws still all over Michael and complains more for being left out.
Michael laughs. “You snooze you lose, buddy,” Chris says imperiously, “And I’m wide awake.”
“That’s nothing. That’s dumb, man. I’m going to bed, where anyone can feel free to hang out with me,” Zach announces loudly. “ If you give a shit. See if I care.”
Judging by how he leaves the door to Chris’s room open after he slinks into it, Michael would guess that he does, in fact, care. Chris holds out his hand to help him off the counter. “You comin’?”
Michael takes it. “‘Course.”
Chris grins at him, lopsided. Quiet and certain. Warm. Michael hops to his feet, follows Chris into the bedroom, thinks that maybe it could stay like this after all, all the time, and then he shuts the door behind him.