We're back! More about Sullivan in a separate post.

Rating: I don't know yet, but knowing me, at least R
Pairing: MR/TW
Summary: AU. Trapped somewhere between angst and humour.
A/N: Never happened. Except the tiny bits that did, and those have been completely turned to my own purposes. Feedback is like really hot peppermint tea.

Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5


It’s not like he doesn’t have friends. Michael knows about a dozen people in Vancouver alone who might merit the title. They meet sometimes, go out to dinner or catch a Canucks game. Sure, they don’t exactly sit around and ponder the meaning of life but they’re guys, and guys are generally content without having to do that.

And it’s not like he doesn’t date, either. Michael transferred locations almost entirely because of a thing with a co-worker that ended badly a few months back. They’d both thought they could get past it, but they couldn’t. Michael pretended like it was his problem and that’s why he’d left, but he knew it was really her. She didn’t know when to back off -- ironic, considering those were the exact words he’d shouted at her right before he put in for a transfer.

She still calls sometimes, but Michael doesn’t pick up.

So, yeah. Michael isn’t anything like a social outcast. If he’s lonely sometimes, it’s only because part of him misses the constant extroverted display of Hollywood. He fills his head up with characters instead, but now he’s actually finished a first draft of -- well, of something.

Finished, and it’s gone quiet in his head for a while, and Michael feels hollow.

He ponders his options -- call someone up, go and grab a beer. Or flip on the TV and let it be the background noise as he tidies up his apartment. Or grab his skates and try, try again.

Michael hates all the options. It’s five o’clock on a Saturday afternoon and he’s full of the kind of elastic energy that he used to take for granted. He stands in the middle of his tiny studio apartment, bouncing a little on his toes.

The phone rings and Michael dives for it. Tom.

“Hey,” he says breathlessly into the receiver.

“Michael,” says a voice that does not belong to Tom.

“Hi,” Michael says, annoyed at himself for thinking Tom would call so soon. “Uh, who is this?”

“It’s Ian.”

For fuck’s sake. “Ian,” Michael repeats tersely, and immediately begins to pace.

“Look, Michael, just wanted to let you know -- I made a couple of calls and checked. Tom Welling never saw those screen tests.”

“Yeah, I figured,” Michael says warily, frowning at his bare white wall.

Ian is quiet for a second, probably waiting for Michael to gush with gratitude.

“Is that the only reason you called?” Michael asks, sparing Ian the trouble of being subtle.

“Actually, no,” says Ian, confident again. “I mentioned your name at a lunch meeting I had, and you wouldn’t believe the response I got. Michael, if you ever want back in -- and you dictate the rules, man, you know that -- I’d always be willing to represent you again.”

Michael is about to tell Ian to go fuck himself when he turns his head and catches sight of his open laptop, the draft of the screenplay winking at him. It makes his heart thud even faster just to contemplate it, but he opens his mouth anyway. “So, you’re talking guest roles on TV?”

“If that’s what you’re after,” says Ian. “TV or the movies, Mikey, you name it.” Full ass-kiss mode, but it’s been a long time since Michael bought into that bullshit.

“I want to meet with some producers,” says Michael in a rush. “I want to pitch an idea I have for a series.”

The slightest hesitation, but it’s enough to tell Michael that he just shot too high. “Sure, Michael, let me make some calls and see what we can do. Do you have a fax machine? Can I fax you a contract?”

“You know,” says Michael, pivoting and heading for the other end of the room, “I’d actually like some time to think about this.”

“Sure, I’ll fax you the contract and you take your time,” says Ian magnanimously.

“No, I’ll call you back and let you know,” says Michael hastily. “Appreciate your help, Ian.” And he hangs up.

The phone rings again not more than ten seconds later. Fucking Ian. Michael picks up the phone again and bites a greeting into the receiver.

“Uh, hey, is this Michael?”

Tom.

Tom Welling.

Michael’s whole body goes warm and boneless as he drops down to sit cross-legged on the floor. “Hey, just the booty call I was waiting for,” he says, grinning helplessly.

***

Tom’s car isn’t the uber-manly SUV or truck Michael might have expected. He pulls up to the curb in a wine-red little Toyota Echo, and Michael’s still laughing with surprise as he clambers in. “Nice vehicle,” Michael comments, pronouncing the ‘h’ in vehicle with a hillbilly twang.

Tom flushes a little and shakes his head, smirking. “It’s got the best head and leg room,” he tells Michael earnestly. “Most important thing in a car when you’re tall.” He looks different somehow, but Michael can’t quite place it.

“Here I thought the most important thing was whether or not it attracts pussy,” Michael jokes, pulling his seatbelt around his hips and liking the way Tom has one arm across the back of Michael’s seat as he twists around and edges the car back.

“Yeah, well, my wife didn’t really care about that,” Tom says absently, and throws the car back into drive. His arm is gone from the back of the seat again and Michael misses it. “She wanted something safe for the car seat.”

Michael goes cold abruptly, like he’s just wiped out on the ice again. Wife and car seat?

Tom glances over from the sideview mirror as he signals to pull back into traffic. “I should say ex-wife,” he corrects himself with a rueful smile. “Jamie and I separated about a year ago, but we’re still working on the divorce settlement.” He looks over again and swings out onto the road, gunning the little engine to merge with the busy traffic.

One year. Divorce. Michael can breathe again. Now, if only there was some way to find out whether Tom realizes that he and Michael have been flirting. Some Hollywood guys can be remarkably obtuse when it comes to sexual chemistry because they’re used to everyone trying to fuck them. “Where are we headed?” Michael asks, because Tom wouldn’t say on the phone.

“Well, there’s a thing,” says Tom, shrugging, “in West Van. It’s, like, a casual get-together that Went’s holding.”

Fuck, no. Michael can’t -- he can’t -- he casts around in his mind for excuses. He already ruled out the skating thing by making up a story about his skates being in the shop for sharpening. What can he say now? That he hates actors? That would only make Tom feel like an ass.

“But unless you really want to sit around and listen to everyone talk about themselves,” Tom says, “I’d rather not go.”

“Definitely not,” Michael says, relieved.

Tom looks over as he pulls into a left turn lane, heading away from downtown and the North Shore and ‘Went’. “I’d rather just hang out with you,” he says, and Michael has to meet Tom’s eyes because Tom’s voice has suddenly gone sleek and low.

And that addresses Michael’s second worry, because even if the tone of voice and the look are up for interpretation, the way Tom reaches over and squeezes Michael’s knee with his huge warm hand -- is really not a very mixed signal.

Tom has definitely been flirting on purpose.

***

Tom takes them east, away from the expensive stores and glass-fronted buildings, more and more east until they’re negotiating narrow streets and contemplating signs that only use English as a subtitle. “Lucky Super Pearl Jade Restaurant?” asks Michael as Tom noses the Echo into a tiny spot.

“Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it,” says Tom, throwing the car in park. “Do you come to the night market often?”

Michael’s never been to the night market in Chinatown, but he’s heard of it, and he says so.

“Shame on you,” says Tom as he unbuckles. “Bad Vancouverite.”

Perfect chance to let Tom know that Michael’s not really a Vancouverite, that he’s not even Canadian, but then Tom is out of the car and Michael’s scrambling to keep up.

“I thought we’d grab dim sum and then hit the market later,” Tom suggests, looking hilariously out-of-place in a crowd that mostly only reaches as high as his shoulder.

Michael nods, then realizes why Tom looks different than usual. “Where’s the hoodie?” he asks. “And the sunglasses? Aren’t you going to go incognito?” Tom doesn’t usually actually pull the hood up or wear the sunglasses inside the store, but the minute he steps outside they’re both in use. Tonight he’s just wearing a dark blue button-down shirt and dark worn-looking jeans.

Tom grins and lifts one shoulder. “I don’t usually get recognized down here. There might be a couple of people asking for --” He stops himself with a blush, as though it’s too embarrassing to even say. “Does it make you uncomfortable? Because I can grab a pair of sunglasses in one of these stores if --”

“Nah,” says Michael hastily. “I don’t mind. But if you sign any autographs, you have to do one for me too.”

“You want my autograph?” asks Tom, disbelieving.

“And I get to say where,” Michael concludes with a wink.

Tom pretends to consider this, and then nods. “Sounds fair.” And then he reaches out, slips his arm around Michael’s shoulders, and steers them both towards the restaurant.

***

Tom is surprisingly comfortable here, so much so that Michael almost feels jealous because this Tom -- speaking casually and spreading his long limbs out in relaxation -- has never shown his face at Starbucks. He seems to know the server and though his conversational Chinese seems to be limited to grinning and trying valiantly to pronounce ‘chow mein’ the way the girl does, he is obviously familiar with the menu.

“And that stuff that comes in, like, dumplings, with -- is it duck? And the orange sauce with it?”

The waitress rattles off something in Cantonese and Tom beams like he recognizes the name of the dish. “For two?” she asks, which is the most English she’s spoken so far.

“For two,” Tom agrees, checking with Michael first. “Tsao meeyeh,” he adds with great care, and the server laughs at him before repeating ‘chow mein’ back to him effortlessly. “Have I got it now?” Tom asks, all eager eyes and wide smile.

“You are expert,” she tells him condescendingly. “You have perfect.”

“Tsao meeyeh,” he says one last time, slowly, and she walks away giggling.

Tom turns his attention back to Michael and pours them each a cup of green tea. “Soon you’ll be fluent,” says Michael.

“And I can get a role on that space western where everyone speaks Chinese,” says Tom, shaking his head. “Can you do accents? I’m so jealous of people who can do accents.”

“I’m good with English and Scots and Aussie, and Brooklyn,” says Michael, “pretty much anything that’s an English-speaking accent. But I’m not as good with, you know, European accents.” Tom’s eyes go wide, and Michael realizes that most non-actors probably don’t have this sort of information on the tip of their tongue. “What about you?” Michael asks, clearing his throat and diving for his tea.

“I can’t,” says Tom, spreading hands wide with helplessness. “They wanted me to do an English accent once on the show, I forget why, and they brought in a dialect coach and I spent hours in my trailer saying, like, ‘The rain in Spain’ and shit like that, and finally the coach just went and told the director to figure out another way of doing the scene.”

“I could teach you,” Michael offers automatically, and what’s with him and offering to show Tom how to do things? But Tom is smiling sweetly. “If you want. I mean, I took some classes. I used to act.”

There, that was done. And left up to Tom’s interpretation.

“Say ‘chow mein’,” Tom orders, as though testing Michael.

“Tsao meeyeh,” says Michael, just as the server comes back bearing bowls of egg-drop soup.

“Very good! You better than him,” says the server admiringly.

Tom looks betrayed, and Michael laughs.

***

If Michael let himself think about it, he might have worried about what they would talk about. The recently divorced, he knows, have to pick their topics carefully unless they want every sentence to start with, ‘we used to’ or ‘once we’. As for Michael, he can only share so many stories about working at Starbucks before he has to resort to mentioning where he’s from, what he’s done with his life that he wound up working for practically minimum wage in the food service industry at the age of thirty-three.

It’s a good thing he didn’t let himself worry about it, then, because he and Tom don’t talk about work, or about home. They talk about Chinese food and Vancouver, and veer off into the B.C. interior, then swing all the way across the continent to New York, and somehow wind up arguing over whether or not movie musicals should make a comeback. Then the dumplings arrive and Michael teaches Tom how to talk like Keanu Reeves. They call their food ‘gnarly’ and ‘excellent’, complete with doofy head bobs, for about ten minutes, and by the end of it, Tom’s actually doing a decent impression.

“It’s like you’re an actor or something,” Michael pretends to marvel, and then he pretends not to notice the pleased blush that floods up to Tom’s ears. It’s like that, then -- Michael should have guessed. Those studio exec fucktards have obviously made it their business to make Tom feel like a living prop instead of the artist that he wants to become. Michael is surprised by the fierce protectiveness that surges inside him at the thought, and he tries to stem it by reaching across the table and laying his hand over Tom’s.

Tom looks up, surprised but interested.

“Repeat after me,” says Michael, slowly, catching Tom’s gaze and holding it. Tom is wary, like Michael might be about to deliver a personal affirmation, but he goes with it. “I wish I knew how to quit you,” he drawls in his best Heath Ledger voice.

Tom cracks up and then they finish their dessert on a mountain in Wyoming, referring to their green tea ice cream as ‘real nice and ruffreshin’. Tom gets stuck on the ‘cain’t’s and Michael tells him that the trick is to never move his lips or tongue unless absolutely necessary.

This comment earns Michael a clear green ‘oh really?’ look and then Tom leans across the table to bestow a cold sweet green tea kiss. It’s over by the time Michael gets his eyes closed, and when he opens them again, Tom is settling back into his chair with a satisfied look.

“Absolutely necessary,” Tom drawls, tipping an invisible ten-gallon hat at Michael.

Michael tries to laugh and ducks his head as he licks away the traces of Tom’s kiss. “Shee-it,” he manages at length, and then they’re both chuckling again.

***

It’s dark out now. They head for the main market, towards the noise and the paper lanterns, separate but brushing elbows once in a while. When Michael looks over, he notices all over again that Tom is ridiculously pretty. Even in the half-light -- no, especially in the half-light -- he’s perfect.

Tom catches him looking. “Hey,” he says, almost shyly, and then reaches down to get an arm around Michael’s waist as they keep walking.

They study pirated VCDs and contemplate cutesy stationery with frogs and kittens and broken English slogans. Tom buys a bag of lychee fruit and makes Michael try one, peeling off the strange hard husk and pushing the round golfball-sized thing between Michael’s lips. “It’s like melon,” he tells Michael, licking his fingers with utter innocence.

Michael remembers to chew and swallow and agree with Tom that it’s like melon, but all his attention is for Tom’s fingers, glistening with sweet juice and saliva.

“Healthy, too,” Tom continues, digging in the bag for another globe of fruit. “It’s got anti-oxidants.”

Michael laughs because Tom’s like a sticky-fingered version of every health-obsessed TV actress he ever met. Tom laughs too, as though he’s not quite sure what’s funny, and Michael notices that Tom’s eyeteeth are sharp like fangs.

“Want any bling for your cell phone?” Tom asks, inclining his head towards a booth that glitters with LED lights.

Michael catches Tom by his sticky fingers as Tom turns away, pulls him back so they’re facing each other. There’s a light in Tom’s eyes like he gets what Michael’s after, and he cradles Michael’s chin with his free hand before he bows his head.

Tom tastes like melon and ice cream and tea. He’s solid and warm and his mouth is almost too wide. And then his lips part and Michael licks inside, and Tom makes a rough breathy sound, his arm going around Michael’s back to pull him in closer. Somewhere behind Michael and to the left, there’s a dragon dance, and somewhere down the street, there are little firecrackers popping and spinning, but everything contracts into this single point until the dragon dance and the firecrackers are part of Tom’s touch, part of how he glides his fingers just under the waistband of Michael’s denim jacket.

“God,” Tom breathes as they break apart, no Keanu or Heath in his voice, no one but Tom reacting to Michael and this kiss.

Michael wants to make a joke about people getting him confused with God all the time, but his voice has dried up somewhere in the space between the lychee fruit and this instant. All he can do is study how Tom looks with his pupils blown in the dim light, the way his lips are wet and hungry.

“God,” Tom says again, and his hand pulls Michael in again reflexively while he examines Michael’s face like he did earlier that day. “I’ve known you forever.”

It’s time to tell him, Michael knows it. He can’t let Tom go on thinking that it’s some cosmic connection between them when probably it’s just that Tom caught an episode of bad sit-com TV sometime in the late nineties.

Yeah, it’s time to admit who he is, time to let go of the pretense, but then Michael’s voice says something else entirely. “In that case,” he says, “it’s probably not that big a deal if I put out on the first date, right? I mean, since you’ve known me forever.”

Tom laughs and kisses Michael again, and now it’s different because Tom tastes like Michael, they taste like each other, and Michael may or may not be making small happy noises.

Tom pulls away this time, and now he lets Michael’s waist go. “It kills me to admit it,” he says, not breaking eye contact, “but I wonder if we should take things slow anyway.”

Michael has almost always seen that sort of line as a red flag, a sign that the other person is in this for a longer haul than Michael’s looking for. It’s usually the way Michael knows to go and seek sluttier pastures. But Michael intertwines his fingers with Tom’s and they go wandering down the market hand in hand.

He has to tell Tom.

But not yet.