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smokingmirrorSeries: Chalk And Charcoal
Author: Avarice
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Mikhael/Tybalt, Tybalt OC
Spoilers: pre BMB
Summary: Can amends be made after a not-so-private fight? Continues from 'Sympathy for the Devil'. October 1994.
Word Count: 4509
Date First Posted: 29-12-2001
Date Revised: 22-05-2011
Beta: Tink, Brandon.
Awards: -
Notes: d'aaww.
Feedback: always welcome, as is constructive criticism.
Also Archived At: LJ
Mikhael walked home. He ignored everything but the sound of his feet pounding on the pavement in a brusque rhythm, keeping in time to his internal metronome. The brunet walked the path of the quickest route to his dorm, the one he had worked out five months ago as being the most efficient way to traverse the campus when going from one place to another.
He moved with a machine's oiled, methodical gait, never even so much as slowing down. Slowing down would lead him to stop walking. If that happened, there would be nothing else for his body to do but think about things. Thinking about things would inevitably mean he would feel, and that was bad.
Numb was good. Drunk and numb was better.
With that spurring him on, Mikhael soon reached his dorm. After traversing a flight of stairs with a few fumbles, the key fit the lock to his door.
Silence greeted him, and the brunet was comforted falsely by it. The first thing Mikhael did upon entering was struggle his way out of the velvet jacket and loosen the high lace collar around his throat. He rubbed his eyes blearily, feeling the effects of the alcohol profoundly.
Looking around the room, he noticed how cold it was. Not temperature-wise, but almost sterile in its lifelessness. No movement, no noise, no anything. Those awful feelings of guilt and anger and sadness that had been fighting to appear for the last twenty minutes finally won and settled in the pit of his stomach.
And he felt sick.
Mikhael took a deep breath and walked into his bedroom, suddenly feeling very weary. He stripped out of his costume and left it rather untidily on the floor. Grabbing a pair of sweat pants and pulling them on, the brunet moved to crawl into bed.
There was a pile of clothes on the bedspread. Mik picked them up, hazy brain not recognising them as his. And he was right -- they weren't.
Tybalt had left his street clothes in Mikhael's room.
And he felt sick.
No, really.
With a choked little gasp, the brunet sprinted out of the room to the sink.
***
Tybalt leant his elbows on the cold metal railing outside on the patio, drink loosely grasped in his hands. He looked down on the college grounds and at the general mayhem that ensued.
He had been dancing for the last hour more fervently than in the last year. Exorcising demons? Perhaps. Dancing was a kind of tactile movement therapy for intense emotion for him, second only to sex.
Except that was something out of the question now, wasn't it?
The redhead pushed away those thoughts, blaming copious alcohol consumption for his bout of melancholy. For fuck's sake, he was at a party. Why wasn't he having a good time?
"I have got to stop asking myself questions I already know the answers to," he murmured to himself, downing the last of his drink and dropping the plastic cup over the railing.
A scraping sound behind him caught his attention, as the sliding door was opened and he was joined out on the balcony. Kit gave him a wide grin, breathing heavily with exertion.
"What on earth are you doing out here? You were on fire in there!"
Tybalt looked back out into the night. "Yeah, I'm burning alright," he said.
Kit studied his profile, illuminated by the night sky, and bit her lip.
"You're not still upset about what happened with that guy before, are you?" she ventured.
"Upset? Why the fuck would I be upset?" he spat with the intention to be dismissing and sarcastic, but it came out bitter and angry.
The blonde girl didn't answer. Instead, she put a hand over his, rubbing her thumb in little circles. He didn't respond at first, but eventually gripped her hand back. She gave it a reassuring squeeze, before gently pulling him away from the balcony railing.
"Now, would you rather dance or stand around and mope some more?" Kit asked with a bright smile.
The corner of Tybalt's mouth turned up in an automatic response.
"It's really not my style, is it?"
"Nope. I have to say... you're not as sexy all brooding,"
Tybalt looked well and truly scandalised. "What?!"
"Your face was built for smiling." Her face lost some of its mirth. "What can I say? I hate to see you pout, Zippers."
Tybalt was momentarily lost for words. He didn't know what to say or how to say it. Kit had always been good to him... sometimes something more, but above all, always someone he could kick around and have a good time with.
And he didn't have to say thank you -- she saw it in his face. So instead, Tybalt pulled her to him, dropping an arm over her shoulder. The blonde grasped his hand, keeping his arm where it was.
"So," Tybalt said as they headed back inside, "how about that dance?"
***
Mikhael trudged back to his room and crawled into bed. He felt pretty lousy, and most of it wasn't because of alcohol consumption.
The brunet sighed and closed his eyes. Rest didn't come, however, as his mind felt it necessary to replay every scene from the party in THX surround sound. Tybalt's voice rang angrily in his ears...
“You don't have the fucking right to lecture me on what does and doesn't make a good boyfriend!”
It stung because it was true. Mik knew about lust and about fucking, but very little about the mechanics of love, and even less about being a boyfriend, if anything at all.
He'd never gone out with someone exclusively for six months. He'd never been out shopping for new clothes and picked up a shirt, wondering whether he'd look attractive in it. He'd never found himself staring at the telephone, waiting for it to ring.
He'd never fallen in love before.
And he certainly had never fucked up so spectacularly in public.
Mikhael sighed and opened his eyes.
Sleep would not be forthcoming.
***
It was getting to the point where the crowd's embrace became less comforting and more claustrophobic. Tybalt pushed his bangs off his forehead and eyed the door. People had spilled out onto the patio so it was no longer a viable option for a place of down time. As depressing a concept as it was, he really needed time away to think.
On his way out, he once again felt a familiar hand on his arm.
"Leaving so soon?"
"Just for some fresh air, Kit," Tybalt answered.
"Want I should come with?" she scrunched her nose cutely.
Tybalt looked at her for a long moment, considering the prospect. Finally he gave a small smile and shrugged. "If you want."
"I want." Kathleen wound her arm around his and they left together, but not before she was able to pilfer a half-full bottle of cheap vodka.
The pair ended up wandering around in the general vicinity of block 'D', alternately taking drinks from the bottle. It did not take long for the vodka to act on their already intoxicated systems. Kit fell down in a heap first on one of the lawns.
"Ow!" she exclaimed, rubbing her backside. Tybalt chuckled. "S'not funny," she pouted, which only seemed to increase the redhead's sense of mirth. He threw his head back and laughed raucously.
Kit took the opportunity to grab his ankle and make him lose his balance in turn. With a surprised cry, he headed for the lawn too, landing half on, half off her. The nearly empty vodka bottle rolled away harmlessly.
Tybalt found himself nose to nose with Kit. Her blue-grey eyes sparkled drunkenly, a large grin on her face. He couldn't help but smile back.
"I take it back," she smiled, "it is pretty funny."
"Wench," Tybalt cursed, no malice on his features whatsoever.
Kit shrugged. "It's why you love me."
The words jarred Tybalt slightly. He became all too aware of the body that was pressed up against his own. Curved and soft... the blonde's cheeks were prettily tinged with pink, mouth slightly parted, chest heaving with exertion.
"Why I lo..." Tybalt trailed off, frowning. He moved his arms to prop himself up off Kit when her hand stopped his work. Blue fingernails lightly scraped up his arm to his face. They eventually rested at the base of his neck, and applied pressure, pulling him down towards her.
Before he even properly realised it, Kit was kissing him.
And because he couldn't think of anything else to do, Tybalt kissed her back.
***
Mikhael tried sleeping flat on his back, but that never seemed to work unless there was an arm thrown carelessly around his waist -- which there wasn't.
((not your usual type))
Somewhere in the back of his mind was a piece of information that told him all couples fought on occasion, but that didn't make him feel any better.
((he's a quiet one, isn't he?))
Not when he felt like his world was crumbling, and he'd been the one to launch an attack on it.
((not quite what I expected))
Tybalt and he were so similar in some respects, but so different in others. Was that normal? It pained him to be ignorant, but Mikhael didn't have a clue.
The brunet kicked the covers off his bed and sat up. He rubbed his eyes, toes scrunching in the cheap carpet. After taking a moment to make sure he could balance, Mikhael got up and shuffled out to the small living area.
He weaved quite successfully between pieces of art in various stages of completion on the floor before finally making it over to his battered easel. There was a half-finished abstract landscape pinned to the backboard with bulldog clips. Mikhael tugged on the cord to a table lamp, lighting up his portion of the small room.
He started to draw.
***
Kit's perfume invaded Tybalt's nose, almost suffocating him. They parted lips and he panted heavily, looking down on her lidded eyes, and kiss-bruised mouth. The blonde's tongue snaked out and lazily moistened dry lips. Tybalt watched all he could stand before descending on her mouth again with a moan.
Her nails scraped at his shoulders, working their way under his collar to reveal bare skin and hook into it, undoubtedly leaving marks. Tybalt's hands dropped to Kit's hips, molding to the sublime but wriggling curves. She flung her legs around his waist, once again tipping his balance so that the redhead fell on top of her. The blonde girl kissed him fervently, hands slipping down parts of his smooth chest to snag her fingers in the waistband of Tybalt's trousers.
Tybalt sighed into her mouth, desperately needing the contact. Not just there, but anywhere. Her mouth was soft and pliant... but tasted of waxy lipstick. The redhead squeezed his eyes shut, not liking the thought. But it was too late; the idea had implanted itself.
Her cloying perfume was irritating, not enticing. And her hands were too small, nails too sharp. In fact, her whole body felt entirely too slight underneath him. It never had before, though...
Fingers carefully unbuttoned the fly of his pants, and grasped the zip.
"Try not to earn your name this time, okay Zippers?" the blonde laughed, squeezing her legs tighter around him. Their lips met again, but Tybalt was far less enthusiastic. Kit didn't seem put off at all, dragging her mouth down the side of his neck.
Tybalt grit his teeth. It felt good -- damn good -- but... but...
In the end, all it took was seven words to make his decision.
"It's just like old times, isn't it?" she murmured into his ear, softly. The redhead jerked back violently and scrambled to his feet, startling Kit.
"Tybalt?" she asked, reaching her hands up for him. He studiously ignored them, staring down at her with an inscrutable expression.
((wouldn't even know I was your boyfriend))
Kit's brow furrowed and she puffed out a breath of air, blowing her bangs away from her forehead. "It's him, isn't it?"
Tybalt's jaw twitched as he pulled the shirt back onto his shoulders, looking at a point past her head. The blonde's brow furrowed, her face showing annoyance for the first time that night.
"You're ditching me... here... now... for someone who won't even dance with you?" she gestured to herself, watching the barb hit its mark. The redhead's nostrils flared and he glowered at her.
"In public?"
"That has nothing to do with anything, Kit," Tybalt shook his head as he zipped up the brown trousers.
"Like hell. Who's been with you all night? Me. Who's danced and laughed and socialised with you? Me. Who has known you longer than anyone else? Me."
"In case you're not with the program, princess, this isn't exactly all about you," Tybalt sneered.
Kit's eyes narrowed before she ducked her head, looking contrite.
"Look, Zipp- Tybalt..."
"Just save it, yeah?" The redhead wiped lipstick away from his mouth with his sleeve, leaving a dark red streak. He gave the blonde one last glance before moving away, leaving her sitting on the lawn.
"It could have been like old times, you know," she said when he reached the pavement, just loud enough for him to hear. Tybalt stopped and half-turned his head.
"See you around, Kathleen," he said before breaking into a run.
Tybalt's feet thumped over the lawns, heading for block 'G' as fast as he could manage.
"Fucking hell... Mikhael better appreciate this..."
***
Mikhael was jolted awake, suddenly finding himself face down on the carpet. He blinked blearily. From the looks of things, he'd dozed off at his easel, and the mad thumping had scared him awake.
Thumping?
The brunet struggled to his knees, trying to pinpoint the source of the noise.
"Goddamnit, Mikhael, open up! I know you're in there!"
The voice registered in Mik's brain as he crawled to the door. Hand on the doorknob; the Russian hesitated for a moment. Rubbing his eyes to clear them, Mikhael opened the door.
Tybalt stood outside his door, looking suitably irritated. His hair was untidy, clothes rumpled and crooked. The redhead was clearly agitated, jaw clenched, brows furrowed.
Mikhael bit his lip pensively, not knowing what to expect. They shared a split second of searing eye contact before the brunet was shoved inside forcefully by the weight of Tybalt's body being thrown against his.
Mik stumbled back a few steps, stunned. Tybalt's foot lashed out, kicking the door shut behind him.
"What are y- mmggffm," his confused question was resolutely cut off by Tybalt's lips scorching his own. The longhaired man threw his arms around Mikhael's neck, kissing him deeply, desperately, with spine-tingling results.
Mikhael lost himself to Tybalt's tongue tracing the outline of his lips. He groaned and opened his mouth, bringing them closer together. The redhead dug his fingers into the dark hair at the nape of Mikhael's neck, tugging gently.
The Russian ran his tongue along the edge of Tybalt's teeth, murmuring in approval. His mouth tasted of that sweet tang that only Tybalt seemed to have, and alcohol and something else. Waxy.
Pulling back, Mikhael brushed a thumb across the redhead's kiss-swollen lips. He smudged something red away. And no matter how clouded his brain was still from sleep and alcohol, there was no mistaking what it was.
Tybalt leant forward to kiss him again, but Mikhael kept him away.
There was a moment of silence that stretched for an eternity.
"Did you?" he asked in a level tone that didn't seem to be a question.
"No."
Mikhael laughed with no trace of amusement. "Don't lie to me."
Tybalt struggled briefly, loosening the brunet's firm grip on his arms. "No, no I didn't," he shot back vehemently. The intensity lasted only a moment, though. It vanished as quickly as it had appeared, replaced with a beleaguered passion. His hands had slid down and were wrapped around Mikhael's biceps, bracing his weight on the Russian. "I... I want you..."
The brunet blinked, not taking it in. At his non-reaction, fingers around his biceps squeezed slightly. Tybalt's face looked despairing, his eyes slipping from Mikhael's to look down at the floor.
It was a barely audible hiss/whisper through clenched teeth, but it held ten times the power of an angry shout over a crowded party.
"Christ, Mik... please."
Tybalt waited for an answer, his head bowed. Mikhael didn't do anything. Not a word, a sound, a movement. Tybalt's stomach dropped into his feet. That was it, then.
Suddenly, Mikhael's body was pulled from his hands so abruptly he nearly toppled over. The redhead cringed, reflexes not quick enough to protect him from the floor.
But the fall never came. A strong arm looped underneath bent knees, as the other supported his back. Tybalt looked up at Mikhael's face -- or rather jaw, as that was the only part he could see -- trying to gauge what the brunet was thinking. But no expression or word betrayed his mind.
Mikhael entered his bedroom and set Tybalt down on top of his rumpled sheets. Tybalt looked up at him cautiously, still unnerved at not being able to utilise his accurate ability of reading people.
The Russian watched him impassively. After a few moments he walked forward, the bed dipping under his weight as he sat at the end of it. With a steady hand, Mikhael reached out and lifted the redhead's booted right foot. He gently began to remove the leather footwear.
"No shoes on the bed, I can't afford dry cleaning."
Tybalt smiled a little, and lifted his left foot when Mik was done with the right. "They're not shoes; they're boots."
"Are you going to be pedantic about it?" One sock removed.
"Are you going to argue with me?"
Mikhael stopped, last sock half-off Tybalt's foot. "No," he said softly, "I don't want to argue with you."
The brunet crawled further up the bed and sat next to him. With a slightly trembling hand, he brushed the long red hair up and over Tybalt's shoulders. A finger traced the outside lace collar of the shirt, before skimming bare flesh on the inside. Another hand joined the first, and together they pushed the old fashioned shirt off Tybalt's shoulders. The redhead held his arms out as Mikhael pulled each sleeve away.
Mik's eyes paused on the reddened skin around Tybalt's neck and shoulders. A careful hand caressed his skin. One green eye twitched slightly, and Mikhael felt the indentations of fingernails in the smooth flesh.
Angry red blotches marred the otherwise pale cream complexion, grooves clearly visible to the naked eye. It wasn't pretty, symbolically moreso than physically.
Tybalt jumped -- in surprise, not fright -- when Mikhael's lips brushed the marks, his touch so light it made his toes scrunch. His eyes slid shut when the brunet's tongue swiped across his skin, soothing pain receptors. His head lolled back onto Mikhael's shoulder, exposing the soft flesh of his throat.
Mikhael cupped Tybalt's chin, holding his head in that position as his tongue traced a clavicle. A moan became audible when his lips found the redhead's Adam's apple. It bobbed, Mikhael's warm breath on his skin forcing him to swallow.
Fingers left a grey streak down the side of Tybalt's jaw. Mik looked down at his hands, still dirty at the tips from charcoal. A secret smile curved his lips. He shifted, forcing Tybalt to open his eyes and see what was going on. Shifting until he was sitting almost opposite his lover, Mikhael cupped Tybalt's face with large hands. He waited for the sparkling green eyes to meet his own. They glittered like rare jewels in the darkness of the bedroom.
Thumbs came to rest in the little crevasse underneath Tybalt's lips. Slowly, Mikhael dragged the digits down over his chin, leaving the same light charcoal line in their wake. Other fingers joined the thumbs by the time they reached the hollow of his neck.
The brunet was very particular about where he made the smudgy grey marks. They followed the existing lines of Tybalt's body. Curve of a muscle, ridge of a tendon. He didn't stop until fingers brushed a brown waistband. Mik looked up to find Tybalt watching him curiously. Then without warning, he lay back on the bed and dug his heels into the mattress, lifting his hips up slightly.
Quick fingers soon exposed the sharp peaks of Tybalt's hips. Pressing his lips to the prominent bones, Mikhael lavished attention on the salty skin. His hands were not idle, dragging the trousers and a pair of dark grey jockey shorts down and off the redhead's legs even as he kissed the soft flesh of a thigh. And when the kisses ended, Tybalt became his canvas once again.
Hands traveled all over the lower body then, finding a surprisingly tender spot on the left foot. Mik lifted it, running his tongue along the instep, enjoying Tybalt's gasped cry.
Mikhael stood and hooked his thumbs in his sweatpants, pulling them off and kicking them to a corner of the room. He walked over to the bedside and removed a tube from the top drawer, before rejoining Tybalt on the mattress.
Tybalt had propped himself up on his elbows when Mikhael straddled his waist. He hissed in pleasure as their sensitive parts rubbed together. Once again, Mik cradled his head in his hands. The Russian's fingers traced over the line of his jaw, the curve of his cheekbones, the line of his nose. Every inch of his face was mapped with loving determination.
Tybalt could only stare back making the same mental map with his eyes of Mikhael's face. Dark brows pulled together in utter concentration, long straight nose, full lips, and eyes that were black in the night. They sparkled, though. Gleamed with something Tybalt had never seen in any of his lovers before. He knew it because it stared back out at him from the mirror every morning after waking up in Mikhael's arms.
He would put a name to the feeling, but he was frightened what that might mean. And so it went consciously unrecognised.
But now... now he thought about it. And the very same second it crossed his mind, Mikhael's lips were on his.
Mikhael's tongue brushed Tybalt's bottom lip as a prompt to open it, before slipping his tongue in to weave its magic. He ran it over the redhead's teeth, feeling him shudder. Tybalt's excitement was evident pressed up next to his own, but he was determined to keep it slow, as difficult as it might prove to be.
Tybalt's throaty noises could prove to be his undoing.
One hand smoothed the copper red locks out on the pillows before joining the other in unscrewing the lid of the small tube Mikhael held. Not that Tybalt noticed, as their mouths were still joined in a slow dance. Mikhael didn't know all that much about relationships, or his role in them, but one thing he did know was kissing.
The redhead's eyes snapped open when Mikhael moved from on top of to between his legs. Expletives on the edge of his lips turned into incoherent sounds of pleasure, when the tube's contents were utilised. Mikhael was infinitely tender, as he had been all night, fingers slick and maddeningly gentle.
Preparation finished, Mikhael waited for his lover's eyes to meet his own, before pushing slowly inside the redhead's body. Tybalt threw his head back, nonsensical words falling from his lips.
There were pinpricks of light behind Tybalt's closed eyelids. Mikhael's slow rhythm drove him insane, and yet each stroke filled completely, wholly, and left him bereft when gone. Hands clutched the brunet's shoulders in a tight embrace, the firm flesh underneath his fingers hot to the touch.
Mikhael traced his fingers through the fine sheen of sweat on Tybalt's chest. His muscles quivered in pleasure, hair falling in waves onto the pillows in a river of fire. Mouth open, yet no recognisable sounds coming out. Eyes shut, what possibly might be a tear leaking out from underneath closed lids. Faint blush high on his cheeks, becoming deeper and deeper as the crux of ecstasy was closer to being realised.
Then, eyes did open. Only as slits at first, then wider. Green eyes so dark with passion. Suspiciously moist, proving that yes, there were tears to be had.
Tybalt had never looked more beautiful than in that moment in time.
Mikhael tasted the sweetness of his mouth, and the saltiness of his tears, and drove home with every thrust. Their eyes locked together, and one by one, they pulled each other over the precipice. Only after did Mikhael close his eyes.
Mik felt Tybalt's body beneath his, a slight tremor of residual passion. At least Tybalt wasn't shaking like a leaf like he was. He sucked in large lungfulls of air, perspiration dripping from his brow to run down his face.
The brunet opened his eyes when he felt a hand on his cheek, however. Tybalt gazed up at him with a wondering expression, brushing fingers over his cheeks. The tracks of moisture weren't sweat -- they were tears also. Mikhael wiped his eyes experimentally and they came away wet.
He glanced at Tybalt, at the matching lines down his face. He didn't know what it meant, what anything was supposed to mean, but something felt different. Something had changed.
And Tybalt knew it as well.
Slender hands cupped Mikhael's face and brought him down for a kiss that tasted of tears and promise.
***
Mikhael fidgeted, kicking the sheets down his legs. It was too warm for so many blankets. Gradually, he cracked his eyes open, taking in the much lighter room. Daytime. He glanced at the bedside clock. Well, 6am at least.
He rubbed his eyes wearily with his right hand. For some reason, the left seemed to be pinned down to the bed. When it seemed he'd be able to see properly, he looked down. A red head rested on his shoulder. A body pressed up against his side. An arm was flung around his waist, and a leg tangled with his own.
It took a few moments to register Tybalt curled around him, and even then Mikhael blinked a few times. The redhead didn't generally like to... 'snuggle'. For all the touching while he was awake, sleeping seemed to be a solitary act.
Mikhael ran his fingers lightly through Tybalt's hair, pushing errant copper strands behind his ears. It was a soothing action. Gradually, Tybalt stirred, his arm tightening around the brunet's waist in an early morning stretch. He blinked blearily, eyes hazy with sleep.
Tybalt moved his head and looked up at Mikhael, a drowsy smile curving his lips. They shared a brief kiss before Tybalt pulled away.
"Mik?" he asked in a sleep-roughened voice.
"Yes, beloved?" the brunet traced a finger down the curve of his cheekbone.
"Go the fuck back to sleep, 'kay?" he murmured before pillowing his head on Mikhael's shoulder again.
Mik smiled and planted a kiss on the top of Tybalt's head before joining his erstwhile lover in a satisfying slumber once again.
~finis
