Bone

Michael answered the door on the second knock.

He looked sleepy, disheveled, his hair more everywhere than usual, but his eyes were bright, alert. So despite the rumpled sweatpants and t-shirt, maybe Max hadn't woken him up.

"So," Michael said, leaning on the door like he needed it to hold him up. "Guess you weren't abducted by aliens."

"Very funny, Michael," Max said, pushing past him into the tiny apartment.

Looking around the dingy place, with its cracked ceilings and few mismatched pieces of furniture, Max wondered if Michael would ever learn to expect more from life, from himself. He deserved better than this place. But at least it was his, all his. Here, Michael was free as a bird, and more important, safe. And it meant that now they all had a place to go, out from under the watchful eyes of their parents, their teachers. Valenti.

"You gonna tell me what happened? Or do I have to guess?" Michael closed the door, leaving only dusty slants sliding in through the half-closed blinds to light the room.

Max reached in his backpack and took out the rock, or whatever it was, with the symbol from the caves etched in its surface. It no longer glowed, but its perfect shape, and the symbol in it, had to mean something. They'd been driven towards it, he and Liz; that much he knew. Beyond that, he had no idea.

Michael's eyes lit up and he reached for the stone, weighing it in his hand. "What is it?"

Max shook his head. Just looking at it filled him with both elation and dread. "I don't know. We found it out by the old radio tower, near the crash site. I think it's why…I think that's why Liz and I…"

Michael smirked at him. "Yeah, I can't think of any other reason why two healthy sixteen-year-olds would want to have sex."

That was so very Michael. Cut to the chase, Max. Pull the other one. Yes, he'd always wanted Liz. Before he even knew what that meant, he'd wanted her. Wanted to kiss her, hold her. And more. He definitely wanted more. But this…this had felt different.

He must have been quiet for too long, because Michael jumped in to fill the void. "Come on, Maxwell, sit down. You want anything? I think Isabel got some stuff we could heat up."

"No, thanks. Not hungry," Max said, and realized what a perfect lie it was. He was hungry. He was definitely hungry. He'd had a plateful in front of him, underneath him, wrapped around him, and he'd only gotten a taste.

He moved to the couch, walking in the careful way he'd learned over the last few days to avoid rubbing his seemingly constant erection against the crotch of his jeans. He used to have to actually see Liz to get that way. Had to get close enough to smell her, or at least close enough to see the look she got in her eyes when she saw him, but not this week. This week, just thinking about her was enough to get him hard.

Which could get old really, really quick.

He tried pulling his mind back to the room, away from memories of drugging kisses, the silk of Liz's neck under his tongue, her hair like water slipping through his hands. He dropped down onto Michael's hand-me-down couch and spread his legs wide, trying to give his cock a little extra room. Michael sprawled beside him, in a similar pose, and Max wondered if it could be for the same reason. Maybe Maria had him tied up in the same knots.

He looked. He didn't mean to, but before he realized it, the deed was done. Yeah, the sweatpants didn't hide much. Michael was packing, too. Max knew that was a pretty normal thing for teenagers, apparently even alien teenagers, but the whole week had been so weird, with every sensation so amplified, that it felt like more than just adolescent hormones freaking out.

Max put his head back on the couch and closed his eyes, trying to get his mind on anything except his body, and Liz's body, and that furtive, shocking look at Michael's body, but found he couldn't find anything else to focus on. Maybe the thing to do was just talk it out, get all his cards on the table. If anyone would understand, it would be Michael.

"You and Maria tried, right? When you were…did you ever see anything?" he asked.

Michael laughed under his breath. "Nothing important. Well, nothing like what Liz was seeing. I got pictures of her as a little girl, that's all. She didn't see anything."

"Why do you think it chose us?" Max asked, lifting his head and turning slightly on the couch, so he could see Michael's face.

"It? What it? What do you mean, it chose you?" Michael asked, running his hand through his hair, making it stand up even more.

"I don't know, but I think something was driving me and Liz to…I literally couldn't stop touching her, Michael. You know how long I've loved Liz, and I've never felt like that before," Max said. "It's like it had a particular purpose, more than just…Once we dug up the rock, the other stuff backed off a little. I mean, we just slept out there."

Michael watched him as he talked, listening hard, like he always did. "You don't want to…anymore?"

"Of course I want to," Max said. "I just don't feel like I have to anymore. I don't feel like I'll die if I don't. I can't explain it."

The couch lurched as Michael shifted, then Max felt a hand graze lightly over his groin. The shock didn't register at first—Michael touched him all the time. An arm around him, a hand at his back, like it grounded him to do it. But he'd never touched him…there. And even there, it felt like another Michael touch—matter-of-fact, almost casual.

"Really?" Michael's voice had dropped in pitch, roughened. "I don't think you know what you want."

Max looked at him, saw the sadness that always lived just under Michael's surface slide out into the open for a minute, then submerge again. Max wondered if Michael wished it had been him and Maria out there searching, feeling all those incredible, overwhelming things.

Then Michael's hand pressed down, squeezed briefly, and the stray thoughts Max had managed fled, leaving only an ache behind.

"I wonder…" Michael murmured, "if we would see visions."

Michael kept his hand between Max's legs, his touch firm, easy, and Max found himself sliding down the couch, opening further. He could feel each individual finger against him, not too light, not too heavy, just…right. He could feel his pulse beating there, against Michael's hand. Heat rushed up his body, and he felt sweat bead on his upper lip.

"We…you and me?" Max heard himself gasp out, and wondered what had happened to his voice.

"Yeah," Michael whispered.

"Do you really think—" Max started to say, but Michael cut him off with one long stroke down his starved penis, and even through the layers of his jeans and boxers, it felt…wonderful.

"I think you need this taken care of," Michael said, moving closer, stroking again. "And anything else would be a bonus."

Michael's hand was big enough to stretch the entire length of him, Max discovered. Fingertips at the top, palm at the base, the whole hurting length of him fit right into Michael's hand. They fit. Of course they fit. They were the same, just alike. Just the two of them, like no one else.

Hell, maybe they would see visions.

He couldn't bring himself to actually say yes, but his body knew how to get the message across. Max shifted on the couch, stretching out, and then it wasn't just Michael doing the work because Max reached for him, drew him down beside him. Not underneath him, not on top, but at his side, where he'd always been.

"Tell me about Liz," Michael said, leaning in to bury his face in Max's neck.

Max felt the soft spiky hair brush against his skin and shivered. So different from the smooth fall of Liz's hair, so different. He thought if he concentrated, he might be able to feel each individual strand, but that wasn't what he felt like concentrating on. Not with Michael's big hand still pressing against him. He swallowed hard, closed his eyes and let himself drift on the feel of Michael's warm body against him, on the heat of Michael's hand through his jeans.

"It was like…nothing else mattered," Max said. "Like we were touching even if we weren't."

Against his neck, Michael sighed, and Max could feel soft breath sneak under the collar of his shirt, damp and warm. Max wrapped his arm around him, sliding his hand down Michael's back, feeling the strength there, the cord of muscle and the heft of bone. Big. God, Michael was big. Bigger than him. Twice Liz's size. He moved cautiously, pushing his hips up a little, and Michael pushed back, with his hand, and with his own hips.

How could this be so easy for them, when they'd never ever done anything like it before? Maybe it helped to love the person. He loved Liz. He loved Michael. Maybe it didn't matter what kind of love it was. Maybe love itself was the only requirement.

"Tell me some more," Michael said, finally moving his mouth on Max's skin, mouthing the words against him, then staying to nuzzle there, his tongue spreading tingling trails up Max's neck to his ear.

"She just…melted," Max said, and felt Michael relax into him. He wondered if Michael done it consciously, then wondered if it mattered.

Then Michael rolled his hips against him again, and suddenly nothing mattered.

Like those last few days with Liz, Max felt everything else disappear. It didn't matter that it was daytime, that the couch smelled like gym socks. Nothing mattered except the pleasure spreading out from his groin, shocking, desperate, and this time, he didn't have to stop. He didn't have to stop, or worry, or be the sensible one. This time, nothing could stop him.

"What was the best part?" Michael muttered into his ear, and the images began. Not visions of their past, but visions of Liz with her head tilted back, her mouth open on a moan, giving him the whole weight of her head, her body, as if the feeling inside couldn't be borne alone.

Max let his hips thrust, hard, and felt himself start to writhe against the firm bed of Michael's body. "The sounds," he breathed. "The sounds she made."

He couldn't hold back anymore. He'd been stretched to the breaking point and, thank God, had someone to catch him when he fell. He let himself go, for once, for blessed once, knowing nothing he did could hurt Michael; he couldn't hold too tight, squeeze too hard.

"Okay, Max, okay," he heard Michael moan against him, then felt those long, nimble fingers reaching inside his jeans, inside his boxers. That hand, that had felt so good from the outside, felt even better on the inside, right there, skin on skin. Max couldn't stand it; he had to have more. He slid his hand up Michael's back to his neck, pulled Michael's face up from the home it had made against his shoulder, opened his eyes and …

…stared…

…for one electric second at the stunned, stunning look on Michael's face. He looked lit up from inside, flushed, incandescent. This was Michael.

Then Max nudged his face forward, tilted his head, and took the lead, closing his mouth over Michael's, plunging his tongue into Michael's mouth in the same rhythm he plunged his penis into Michael's waiting hand. Michael's mouth opened wide at the same time his hand clenched tight around Max's erection. Max's tongue went deep, his penis jerked hard against the heat that caged it, and he tumbled, exploding into Michael's hand, groaning into Michael's mouth, feeling spurt after spurt, days' worth, pumping out over his stomach, drenching Michael's fingers.

Max thought his heart might beat out of his chest. He couldn't breathe, couldn't speak, couldn't feel anything beyond indescribable relief. For the first time in days, he didn't have that awful, heavy ache in his groin. He felt light, light-headed. For long, languorous seconds, he basked in that light, in the absence of worry, of need, feeling Michael's hand continue to cradle him, squeezing lightly, sliding in the wet, and he wanted to just stay there for an hour or so, do nothing but feel that feeling.

Then he felt Michael shaking against him. He made himself lift his head, look at Michael's face, now drawn tight. He was breathing fast, shivering lightly against him. His eyes looked fever bright now, full of the same need that had just washed through Max. Need Michael had filled.

Michael looked away, then back at him. If Max hadn't known him so well, he might have thought that look was defiance, but he knew better.

Michael would never ask. Michael never asked for anything. Michael, who needed…everything.

He pushed Michael further into the couch, turning him so he was lying more on his back, and said, "Lift."

Michael just stared at him for a minute, then lifted his hips a little, just enough so that Max could push down his sweatpants and free his erection. Max looked again, seeing him bare for the first time, the size of him surprising, bigger than he'd looked seeing him through his sweats.

Michael squeezed his eyes shut, his mouth open on a rush of breath. He looked as desperate as Max had felt, as out of control.

Max gently reached down and pulled Michael's hand from inside his damp boxers, and saw that his hand glistened with Max's come. Perfect. He took that hand, which had given him so much pleasure, and he wrapped it around Michael's straining erection, curving his own hand on top, but letting Michael set the rhythm he needed.

One stroke. Two. Three. Max could smell the residue from his own arousal, smell the spike in Michael's. He liked the smooth, wet slide of their hands on Michael's penis, how easy it was, how good it felt. He listened as Michael's breath moved from gasps to moans, watched as his back arched and his hips thrust high, and at the last possible minute, Max clamped down, tightening their hands together, and Michael shouted something at the ceiling and shot hot sticky strands all over his stomach and bunched-up shirt.

It took awhile to calm down. Max watched the lines of light from the blinds start to crawl across the couch, and knew the morning was passing as they lay there, quiet for once, relaxed. Their small world was waiting, and their greater universe, but it felt so good to just be for awhile that Max didn't move until Michael did, and even then, it was just to shift around until they could both fit better on the couch.

Finally, Max took a deep breath, and heard Michael echo it beside him. Time to talk a little.

"You see anything?" he asked, a half-hearted effort to keep the pretense up.

Michael nodded drowsily. "Fireworks. Not stars."

Yeah, that about covered it. He envied Michael his ability to say whatever came into his head like that. He wished he could live that way, so close to the edge.

"What do you think this means?" Max asked quietly. He could hear the uncertainty in his voice.

"You mean, like, does this mean we're gay?" Michael answered, wiping his hand down his sweatpants.

Max nodded.

"Max, I don't think getting off on remembering the sounds your girlfriend makes while you're making out makes you queer," he said matter-of-factly.

Trust Michael to give him a way out.

Max trailed his hand across Michael's stomach, watching as a faint white light followed the movement. Honesty, right. They had to be honest with each other, if no one else. "It wasn't just that, Michael," he said, and watched a shiver dance through him.

Michael took another deep breath, then relaxed back against the couch, seemingly content to stay there with his sweatpants pushed down and his shirt pushed up, comfortable in a way Max didn't often see in him.

"It's just one more secret, that's all," Michael said under his breath.

"No," Max said, turning Michael's head, gently forcing him to look at him. "It's just one more connection."

One more tie between them. One more reason they had to stay together. They belonged together. In their world of unknowns and confusion, it was the one sure thing, the only thing about which Max had no doubts. Whatever else happened, he'd find a way to make sure Michael knew that, too.