(no subject)

Michael wakes up on Monday morning, not in his own bed. It's warm, both by virtue of his own body heat kicking that up, but also because he's not in bed alone. Without opening his eyes, he arches his back and seeks out that other person, shifting until he's lying nestled against the line of warmth, pushing back into it. His shirt feels too tight, but it doesn't matter because every deep breath he takes in smells familiar and safe.

It takes him a moment to realize that it's because he's in bed with Alex.

He and Alex are in the same bed and holy shit, they were seventeen for a week. He turns very carefully so that he's facing Alex, searching his body with his eyes. He traces the scar on his face, the way he's slack and peaceful with sleep. Then, his eyes slide down to his own mangled hand, and when he lifts the covers, he sees that Alex's leg is gone again.

He closes his eyes when the pain of it comes back. For one perfect week, there hadn't been a war, there hadn't been Jesse Manes and a hammer, there had just been them. There won't be any more dates at the beach, there won't be easy dances in an apartment, which...speaking of, he's in Alex's apartment and he's in bed with him. Fuck, so much for taking it slow.

Michael reaches out to slowly trace his finger softly over the earring that Alex is wearing from their trip to the mall, then to his nose, reaching for a tissue to tidy up some of the smudged eyeliner. He knows that he's a miserable liar and that as Alex rouses, he's going to see the pain on his face, but he wants to take care of him, especially on the precipice of not knowing what's going to happen next. It's that knowledge that makes him lean in for a kiss, leaning over him like Alex is Sleeping Beauty and Michael is his Prince Charming, here to wake him from his deep sleep.

"Hey, sleepyhead," he rouses him, trying to plaster on a smile even though it feels tremulous. "You gonna wake up?"