Chapter 5: The Cabin's First Night
The plane ride was a blurred hum of anxiety and relief, a cocoon of pressurized silence. Frank, a mountain of a man with kind eyes and a perpetually neutral expression, had delivered Nathan to the small regional airport with quiet efficiency. The charter flight Michael took landed two hours later, a discreet tail of rented sedans winding up the forest service roads until the tarmac and the world fell away.
Nathan’s cabin wasn't much from the outside: a stubborn structure of pine and grit clinging to the ridge. But inside, it held the scent of him—woodsmoke, old books, and the faint, clean odor of lemon oil. He’d been there for two hours, airing the place out, building a stack of logs in the stone hearth, fighting the compulsive need to check every lock twice, three times. The routines of his OCD buzzed under his skin, a static he could only quiet by action.
He heard the car before he saw it, the crunch of gravel on the drive. His heart hammered a painful rhythm against his ribs. He stood in the center of the main room, arms limp at his sides, waiting.
The door opened, and the gray afternoon light spilled in, outlining Michael’s slender frame.He carried a single bag, his shoulders tense beneath his jacket. For a suspended second, they just looked at each other across the dim room—the pop icon in the doorway, the musician rooted to the worn floorboards, the vast, silent wilderness at their backs.
Then Michael dropped his bag.It thudded softly on the braided rug.
The tension of the morning, the separate journeys, the photograph that wasn’t him, the constant, gnawing pressure—it all seemed to vaporize in the shared exhalation that followed. A slow, unstoppable smile spread across Michael’s face, transforming his features from guarded beauty to open joy.
“It smells like you,” he said, his voice a soft wonder.
“Is that good?” Nathan asked, finally unlocking his feet, taking a step forward.
“It’s the best smell in the world.”
And then Michael was crossing the room, not with his iconic, gliding stage walk, but with a simple, purposeful stride. He walked right into Nathan’s space, wrapped his arms around Nathan’s neck, and buried his face against his shoulder. Nathan’s arms closed around him, hard, pulling him in until not a sliver of light could pass between them. He breathed in the scent of Michael’s hair, the travel, the faint, enduring sweetness of sandalwood beneath it.They stood like that for a long time, saying nothing. The only sounds were the wind sighing in the tall pines outside and the slow, syncopated beat of their hearts.
“I feel like I can finally hear myself think,” Michael murmured into Nathan’s shirt.
“Yeah.” Nathan kissed his temple.“Me too.”
They unpacked with a quiet, domestic ease. Michael, with fastidious care, hung a few shirts in the small closet and lined up his toiletries on the bathroom shelf next to Nathan’s. Nathan finished laying the fire, balling up newspaper and arranging kindling in a precise lattice.He struck a match. The flame caught, licked at the dry wood, and began to grow, casting a dancing, orange glow across the darkening room.Michael came to stand beside him, watching the flames awaken. The firelight painted his profile in gold and shadow.“It’s so quiet here,” he said. “Not just no-people quiet.A deep quiet.”
Nathan put an arm around his waist, pulling him close. “Sometimes it’s too quiet.My thoughts get loud.”
Michael leaned into him. “Then we’ll have to make our own noise.”
The look he gave Nathan then was unmistakable—a soft, smoldering invitation that had nothing to do with the crackling fire. Nathan felt a familiar, warm current stir low in his belly. He slid his hand from Michael’s waist to the small of his back, fingers splaying against the soft cotton of his shirt.
He leaned in and kissed him, not with the frantic hunger of their secret city meetings, but slowly, deeply, a rediscovery. Michael’s lips parted, yielding, and a soft sigh escaped him, a sound that was pure, unguarded pleasure. Nathan walked him backwards, step by gentle step, until his calves hit the edge of the worn leather sofa. He broke the kiss, guided Michael down onto it, and then knelt on the rug before him.“Let me,” Nathan said, his voice rough.
Michael’s dark eyes were wide, his breath already coming quicker.He nodded, a tiny, trusting movement.
Nathan’s hands went to the buckle of Michael’s belt. The clasp opened with a soft click that seemed enormously loud in the quiet cabin. He drew the leather slowly through the loops, letting it fall to the rug.He unbuttoned the jeans, easing the zipper down. Michael lifted his hips, helping him, his gaze never leaving Nathan’s face.
Nathan pulled the jeans down and off, followed by his underwear. The firelight played over the smooth, pale skin of Michael’s thighs, the elegant lines of his body finally laid bare before him. He was already half-hard, beautiful and vulnerable. Nathan ran his hands up the insides of Michael’s thighs, feeling him tremble.
He bent his head, and when his mouth made contact, Michael gasped, a sharp, startled intake of air. His hands flew to Nathan’s hair, not pushing, but gripping, anchoring. Nathan took his time, exploring with lips and tongue, learning the sensitive skin, the weight and shape of him. He loved the sounds Michael made—the hitched breaths, the broken sighs, the way his own name became a whispered prayer.
“Nathan… please…”
The plea, so soft and desperate, undid him. He increased the pressure, the rhythm, his own desire a tight, hot coil within him. Michael’s back arched off the sofa, a taut, graceful curve.His fingers tightened in Nathan’s hair. The gasps turned into low, choked moans, music more honest than any studio could produce. Nathan felt the tension building, the gathering wave, and he stayed with him, swallowing him down until, with a final, shuddering cry, Michael came apart.
Nathan stayed crouched before him as the tremors subsided, gently kissing the inside of his thigh. Michael’s body went limp, his hands falling from Nathan’s head to rest on his own stomach, rising and falling rapidly.After a moment, Michael opened his eyes. They were hazy, satiated, but held a new intensity. Without a word, he slid off the sofa onto the rug, onto his knees in front of Nathan. His hands went to Nathan’s belt, mirroring the earlier actions, but with an urgency now.
“My turn,” Michael whispered, and there was a spark of playful defiance in his voice.
He made quick work of Nathan’s jeans, freeing his erection. He didn’t hesitate, taking Nathan into the warm, wet heat of his mouth with a confidence that stole Nathan’s breath. Nathan’s head fell back, a groan tearing from his throat. He looked down to see Michael watching him, those dark eyes seeing everything, accepting everything.It didn’t take long. The sight, the feeling, the sheer forbidden reality of it—Michael Jackson on his knees before him in a remote cabin—was too much. He came with a rough cry, his hands cradling Michael’s head.
When it was over, they sat together on the rug before the fire, legs intertwined, shoulders touching. The sweat on their skin cooled in the cabin air.After a while, Michael rested his head on Nathan’s shoulder. “I didn’t hear a single thought in my head the whole time,” he murmured. “Just you.”
Nathan kissed his hair. “Good.”
They were quiet again, watching the flames consume a log, sending a shower of sparks up the chimney.
“Alistair never showed,” Michael said, his voice drowsy with contentment.“Probably saw the car and got shy. Smart dog.”
Michael chuckled, the vibration soft against Nathan’s skin.The fire popped. Outside, the first few fat flakes of snow began to drift past the windows, silent and slow, beginning to blanket the world in a clean, forgiving white.For now, the machine was silent.For now, the sanctuary held. Nathan pulled a crocheted blanket from the back of the sofa and draped it over them, sealing in the warmth, holding the moment close.