Work Text:
Every muscle in your body protests as the gentle heat of the flat begins to thaw your frozen joints. Each step through the hall is stiff and staggered— your nerves jolting back to life one by one. You’re forced to bite your lip, stifling a sharp hiss of pain as you tentatively toe off your work shoes, padding softly toward the living room; yearning for the quiet comfort of your worn sofa and some crap Saturday night telly.
The smell of damp wool lingers in the air— you can never quite get your flatmate’s thick jumpers to dry properly during the winter. Michael never complains, though. He simply shrugs when you apologise, murmuring that it gives them ‘character’ as he nudges your hip softly on his way out each morning.
It’s always early— the sky still a mottled grey as you wait for the sun to come up— when these quiet moments occur, but that’s the way you like it. You don’t have to get up— you both know that— yet neither of you mentions it. Even when the single-glazed windows are coated in frost and the kitchen tiles feel like ice against your bare feet, there’s always a steaming cup of tea waiting for him next to your own.
He's wearing one of those jumpers now. It's frayed a little at the sleeve, and there's a small hole, the size of a fingertip, right by the collar. You've offered to stitch it up— more times than you care to remember— but he won’t have it. He’s all too fond of the way it’s worn in like a second skin; a weighted, comforting hug on a cold day he can always rely on.
You hover in the doorway for a second, despite your joints crying out in protest. The room is quiet, the telly turned down so low the audience laughter of some late-night gameshow is nothing more than a muffled hum. Outside, you hear the distant rattle of the last bus, winding its way down your street and hitting every pothole without fail. Michael rests his head against the back of the sofa, the flickering light of the screen dancing over his features. His eyes are closed, his chest rising and falling with a slow, heavy rhythm— you can't quite tell if he's asleep or simply resting his eyes.
You join him on the sofa, the tired springs groaning quietly as you lower yourself into the familiar dip of the cushion. A ghost of a smile twitches at the corner of his mouth, but he doesn’t open his eyes. Awake, then— feigning sleep like a child waiting to be scolded for staying up past his bedtime.
“You didn’t have to wait up for me, y’know,” you speak softly, a warmth settling over your words as you look at him, the exhaustion of work slowly washing away now that you’re sitting by his side.
There’s something between you— something more than friends, yet always left unspoken. You’re not sure why, but it feels fragile. As if the second you put a name to it, the whole thing would topple; a house of cards you’ve carefully built together, at risk of falling if someone so much as breathes in its direction.
Michael shrugs, his eyes opening just enough to glance over at you with a crooked smile. He doesn’t speak; he only watches you curiously as you shift to pull your legs up onto the sofa, stretching them out in the narrow gap between you. Your toes nudge his thigh— the soft, worn denim a familiar comfort against your bare skin— but instead of lifting his leg so you can burrow beneath him like normal, he reaches over, his grip firm as he pulls your legs across his lap and keeps them there.
It shouldn’t make your cheeks burn, but it does. His hands are rough— weathered and callused from work— but the skin of his palms is unexpectedly soft where he lays them against your ankles.
“Bloody ‘ell, y’feet are like ice,” he grumbles, his voice hoarse and low with disuse. He doesn’t move you, though, he doesn’t pull away; instead, his fingers tighten slightly over the arches of your feet, his thumbs stroking the chilled skin as if he’s trying to transfer his own heat to you.
You don’t know what makes you do it, but once the idea strikes, you can’t resist the urge. Before Michael has a chance to react, your toes dip under the hem of his jumper. You slide past the gentle scratch of wool to find the enticing heat of his skin beneath, prodding the soft give of his stomach with ice-cold precision.
You can’t contain your snort of laughter as he jerks, a sharp hiss escaping through his teeth as your cold hits his burning warmth. He tries to recoil, but there’s little space to move on the narrow two-seater; he’s trapped, cursing out loud as he’s squeezed between you and the cushions. You just sit there, sniggering and watching him with sleepy amusement.
“You’re a menace,” Michael grumbles, his stomach still twitching beneath your feet as he tries to regain his composure. You release a slightly stuttered breath as his hands add a gentle pressure to his hold on your ankles, pinning you there. The air between you seems to crackle with something heavy and tender as you both sit in silence, your feet finally beginning to warm.
“I got you something,” you murmur, the heat in your cheeks building as Michael’s gaze falls on you once more. He watches you with an almost guarded expression— a flicker of curiosity and maybe a hint of uncertainty— as you arch your back, reaching for the work bag you left discarded on the floor.
You hesitantly pull out a small, slightly squashed box— its pale pink edges darkened with a hint of grease. Opening it, you turn it to show him. Inside sits a single fairy cake, topped with a messy swirl of yellow icing and a few too many hundreds and thousands. Your manager had been kind enough to let you nick one, allowing you to decorate it hastily before the end of your shift.
“Happy birthday, Michael,” you whisper— the moment between you feeling dangerously fragile. You glance over the top of the box at him, focused on the way Michael looks at the little cake as if it’s something precious; his eyes flicker between the gift and you. He opens his mouth, then closes it— struggling to find the right words, or maybe any words at all. His silence unnerves you, your skin prickling with an anxious heat as opposed to the gentle flush from before.
“I know it’s not much, don’t get paid ‘til next week,” you huff, a self-deprecating laugh falling from your lips as you drop your gaze from his. He’s quick then— his large hands reaching out for the small box, prying it gently from your hands before placing it with such unnecessary care on the faded, fraying arm of the sofa. It sits there precariously, but Michael pays it no mind.
He turns back to you, his eyes searching yours with an intensity so raw it has you blinking away a subtle row of building tears. He moves fast— one moment his fingers are still tight around your ankles, and the next he’s lunging forward, leaning heavily into your space and hovering just inches above you. You feel his breath— the pungent but familiar hint of cigarettes— hit your face in a sharp, warm huff.
“You remembered,” he mumbles, his voice laced with a tender fragility that makes your chest ache. His eyes trace a slow line down to your parted lips, and you swallow hard, your heart thumping erratically beneath your ribs— the sound of it surely loud enough to fill the hair’s breadth of space remaining between you.
Michael’s nose bumps yours— a soft, teasing touch, playful even under the weight of his clear insecurity. One of his hands finds your waist, cautiously letting his fingers splay over the thin polyester of your work-blouse, as if he’s still expecting you to push him away. His lips are so close you can feel the heat radiating from them; so close that when your tongue dips out to wet your own in a nervous move, you catch the rough, dry edge of his lower lip.
The contact drags a broken groan from his throat and your breath hitches when his fingers finally dig into your waist, grounding himself in you.
“Michael,” you speak his name against his mouth, your lips wet and soft as you breathe the word into him. You can feel his hesitance— the way he’s holding himself so rigid, every muscle pulled taut. He’s breathing heavily now, his chest touching yours with every ragged exhale. He hasn’t taken his eyes off of you, not for a second— not even to blink.
You know what he’s waiting for. He needs it to be you— he needs you to make the first move here, so he knows, without a doubt, it’s what you want. He doesn’t want to overstep; he can’t risk misunderstanding and breaking this delicate balance you’ve both lived in for so long.
His lips are softer than you imagined, and you feel the way Michael’s entire body sags in relief against you at the first gentle touch. It isn’t long before the kiss turns— shifting into a desperate, yearning tangle of lips and tongues and teeth. You’ve both waited so long for this; both stood on the precipice of more for far too long, without either of you brave enough to make the jump— until now.