Chapter 27: The Kitchen Floor
The silence after the studio door closed was a living thing. It followed them up the stairs, a dense fog of spent energy and unsaid words. The kitchen greeted them with its false order, every surface wiped clean, the floor gleaming where the mess had been. The sterile perfection of it felt like a slap.
Nathan went straight to the sink, turning on the tap, scrubbing his hands though they were clean. The scent of lemon soap cut through the air. Michael lingered in the doorway, watching the rigid line of Nathan’s back. He could still feel the ache, the deep, pleasant soreness that was a fingerprint on his insides. But Nathan’s silence was a different bruise.
“You’re angry,” Michael said, not a question.
“I’m not.” The water shut off. Nathan dried his hands with meticulous care, folding the towel before hanging it. “I’m figuring out what to do with you.”
The words were cold, clinical. They made Michael’s chest tighten. He took a step into the room, his eyes catching on a single, tiny sliver of porcelain that had skittered under the edge of the refrigerator, missed in the purge. A relic. A proof.
“You don’t have to do anything,” Michael whispered.
Nathan turned, leaning against the counter. His eyes were dark pools, impossible to read. “That’s the problem. You just… appear. You break things. You say things that get inside my head. And then you look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like I’m water in the desert.” Nathan pushed off the counter, taking a step closer. “You’re a fucking supernova, Michael. And you’re sitting in my kitchen acting like a stray kitten. I don’t know which one is real.”
“They’re both real.” Michael’s voice broke. The confession was terrifying. “The stage is… it’s a shell. It’s a beautiful, loud, empty shell. This,” he gestured between them, at the space humming with tension, “this is the first real thing I’ve touched in years. And it’s messy. And it hurts. And you want to clean it up.”
He moved then, crossing the space between them. He didn’t touch Nathan. Instead, he slowly lowered himself to his knees on the cold tile, the hard surface a shock through his thin pants. He looked up, his eyes swimming, allowing Nathan to see every wretched, grateful, desperate ounce of it.
Nathan stared down at him, his jaw working. “Get up.”
Michael didn’t move. His hands came up to Nathan’s belt, fingers fumbling with the buckle. The leather slipped free with a soft hiss. The button of his jeans popped. The zpper teeth parted slowly, a vulgar sound in the quiet.
“Michael.” Nathan’s voice was a warning, but he didn’t push him away.
Michael reached into the open fly, wrapping his fingers around Nathan’s softness. He leaned forward, pressing his face against the cotton of Nathan’s briefs, inhaling the musky, intimate scent of him. He nuzzled, lips brushing the fabric, feeling Nathan stir against his cheek. A low, helpless groan vibrated in Nathan’s chest.
That sound was all the permission Michael needed.
He tugged the waistband down, freeing Nathan’s cock. It was thickening quickly, filling with blood, a heavy, flushed weight in his hand. Michael didn’t hesitate. He opened his mouth and took the head inside, running his tongue over the slit, tasting the pre-come that had already gathered.
“Fuck,” Nathan hissed, his hands coming down to tangle in Michael’s dark hair. Not guiding, just holding on.
Michael worked him slowly, using his tongue, his lips, hollowing his cheeks. He took him deeper, feeling the velvety hardness press against the roof of his mouth, then further, touching the back of his throat. He relaxed, swallowing around him, letting his body accept the invasion. He looked up, tears blurring his vision, letting Nathan see the strain in his jaw, the wet stretch of his lips.
“You’re insane,” Nathan breathed, but his hips gave a tiny, involuntary thrust.
Michael welcomed it, taking him deeper until his nose was buried in coarse blond curls. He gagged, tears spilling over, but he held, breathing harshly through his nose. This was the truth. Not the lyrics, not the melody. This choking, physical submission. This was where the shell fell away.
Nathan’s control snapped. His grip in Michael’s hair tightened, fisting. He pulled out almost completely, then pushed back in, setting a rough, rhythmic pace. He fucked Michael’s mouth with sharp, punishing drives, using it.
“This what you need?” Nathan grunted, his voice raw. “This make it real for you?”
Michael could only gag and suck, saliva slicking his chin. Each thrust jarred his skull, but a profound calm settled over him. This was a commandment written in flesh. You are here. You belong.
Nathan pulled out abruptly, his cock glistening and hard. “Turn around. On the counter. Now.”
Michael scrambled up, his knees protesting. He bent over the cold marble, pressing his chest to the surface. He heard Nathan spit, a wet, deliberate sound. Then cold, slick fingers were pressing against him, circling, before one pushed inside without ceremony. He was still loose, open from earlier, and the finger slid in easily, a crude preparation. A second joined it, scissoring, stretching.
“You’re still so open,” Nathan muttered, his voice thick with lust. “Still mine from this morning.”
He removed his fingers. The broad, blunt head of his cock nudged at Michael’s entrance. Nathan leaned over him, his chest hot against Michael’s back, his mouth at his ear. “Tell me.”
“I’m yours,” Michael choked out, pushing back against him.
Nathan sheathed himself in one brutal, perfect thrust. The air rushed from Michael’s lungs in a punched-out moan. Nathan didn’t wait, didn’t build a rhythm. He set a hard, desperate pace, his hips slamming against Michael’s ass, the sound of skin on skin echoing off the cabinets. Every drive pushed Michael up the counter, his fingers scrambling for purchase on the smooth stone.
“They think they know you,” Nathan growled, his breath hot. “They have no fucking idea. This is you. Taking my cock like you were made for it. Crying for it.”
Michael’s moans were broken, muffled by the granite. The pleasure was a white-hot wire, pulled taut from his ass to the base of his spine. He was hard again, leaking onto the cool stone beneath him. Nathan’s hand snaked around his hip, rough fingers wrapping around his length, stroking him in time with his thrusts.
The dual sensation was too much. Michael’s body coiled, teetering. “Nathan… I’m gonna…”
“Come.” The command was a guttural snap. “Come all over this clean fucking counter.”
The orgasm tore through Michael, violent and convulsive. He cried out, his body seizing as stripes of white shot from him, painting the gray marble. The clenching of his muscles pulled Nathan over the edge. Nathan buried himself to the hilt, his own shout ragged as he emptied, pulse after hot pulse filling Michael up, marking his insides all over again.
For a long moment, the only sounds were their ragged breaths and the soft drip of come on the floor. Nathan slumped over him, his weight a solid comfort. He slowly pulled out, and Michael gasped at the loss, at the sudden, shocking emptiness.
Nathan stepped back. Michael heard the rustle of clothing, the zip of a fly. He didn’t move, spent and sticky against the counter. A damp cloth appeared in his field of vision. Nathan began to clean him, his touch now oddly gentle, wiping his stomach, his thighs.
When he was done, Nathan pulled Michael upright, turned him around. He cupped his face, thumbs brushing away the tear tracks and saliva.
“The track is real,” Nathan said, his voice quiet, final. “We’re putting it on the album.”
Michael searched his face. “They’ll know.”
“Let them.” Nathan leaned in, resting his forehead against Michael’s. “I’m not hiding you in my basement anymore.”