This is why he ended up in Michael’s bed, in the nice cabin that Michael had rented for the holiday. Between a neatly wrapped gift and a sip of eggnog, Michael leant into him, hand on his shoulder and mouth to his ear, and whispered “All I want for Christmas is you...” The end of his sentence got lost in a barely-there kiss. He was half playful, half serious, one hundred percent focused on Lincoln who really didn’t know how to escape the damn attention that his brother was lavishing on him. He wasn’t at all sure that he wanted to.
He cautiously put his mug on the coffee table and answered, “You can have me.” Then he watched – with no small amount of satisfaction – Michael’s eyes widen a bit. There was a somewhat perverse fulfillment in surrendering a lot earlier and easier than Michael would have ever imagined.
“What about... tomorrow?” Michael asked him.
“We can worry about tomorrow when we get there.” He smiled ruefully. “You’re not chickening out on me, are you?”
So he’s now lying on his stomach in the middle of Michael’s bed, in the small bedroom lit up by the fire in the grate. The lights of the tree in the living room a few feet away regularly blink through the open door, and the rhythmical flickering gives him the impression that everything is almost surreal. He feels like a fricking Christmas present waiting to be unwrapped, and of course Michael is so careful and thorough with the unwrapping business – always has been. He’s running soothing hands and showering wet kisses on his shoulders and back, and Lincoln can easily guess where this is going. He hadn’t quite pictured things that way, but all right, he can deal with it. The whole thing is already insane anyway. He tugs his hands under the pillow and braces himself for the next step.
“What do you want for Christmas, Linc?” Michael asks, his lips brushing the small of Lincoln’s back.
“All I want for Christmas is you to be happy.”
“I’m getting there,” he assures him. He means it. He probably shouldn’t be enjoying Michael’s ministrations that much – scratch that, he shouldn’t be enjoying them at all – but well...
There’s a sharp pain when Michael slides into him as cautiously as possible. Not a physical one though – it comes from everything they lose, exchange and gain, and maybe he says that aloud because Michael whispers that everything comes with a price. Then he asks again, tantalizing, “So what do you want for Christmas?”
“Just fucking move!” Lincoln grouses in response.
Michael complies, panting and mumbling words that Lincoln would never have imagined he knew – let alone uttered. He rolls on his side until he’s leaning on his hip; he pulls Lincoln with him, against him. He wraps his arms around his brother’s chest, and lets a hand trail down, so slowly and teasingly that Lincoln grabs his wrist, firmly places the fingers right where he needs them to be and closes his own fist around them. Michael gasps and bucks unevenly; it’s quite pleasant to feel him losing it, being undone and capitulating. He blindly seeks for skin to lick and kiss, and Lincoln suddenly realizes that they’re doing that but haven’t even kissed properly.
He slightly arches backward and makes a mental note to kiss him properly at least once.
He wakes up in the warmth radiating from Michael, under the scrutinizing gaze of Michael, in the clear morning light. He has to blink a few times before the memories of the night come back and hit him – hard – and...
“Fuck!” he blurts out.
“Yeah,” Michael approves. He snuggles in the blankets but doesn’t touch Lincoln. “So... we’re tomorrow.”
“I think I got it the first time.”
Lincoln glares at him. Smart-ass little fucker. Not even freaking out – unless he freaked out earlier, when Lincoln was still asleep, of course. Images, sounds and sensations flood back and wash over him. They have lost their dreamlike quality and appear to be a lot more graphic and a lot less casual in the daylight. They also arouse him a little bit, if he has to be honest, but he won’t go there. He feels like burying his head under the pillow and sleep ‘til the New Year, but of course Michael won’t let that happen: he’s talking, talking, talking. Lincoln wonders what it would take to make him shut up and... yeah, he won’t go there either.
“... so what is it?” Michael asks, his tone suggesting that Lincoln blanked out and missed a fair amount of his monologue. “A Christmas fuck? Just like there are pity fucks or comfort fucks?” He lets out each ‘fuck’ like a kid enjoying a forbidden word, hoping to get a reaction from a parent. But then, Lincoln could hardly tell him to watch his language, could he? “Something we get to do once a year?”
Now, Lincoln can’t help but laugh. “That question is wrong on so many levels that I don’t even know where to start.” Michael looks at him with heavy lidded eyes and purses his lips in a pout reminding Lincoln that... “I figured out what I want for Christmas.”
“Really? And what would that be?” Michael asks with interest.
“A proper kiss.” The answer makes Michael sag into the bed and smirk with obvious satisfaction – smart-ass little...
Lincoln grabs him by the neck and rolls him over. Michael keeps smirking but surrenders almost graciously. He gives into Lincoln’s embrace and murmurs right against his brother’s lips that surely they can worry about tomorrow when they get there.