Kaleidoscopic
Oct. 25th, 2009 10:21 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
amfiguree[American Idol] [Jason/Michael Castro] [NC-17, for the incest]
I don't know, guys. I have no excuse. They're just - they're hot like burning, okay, and -- I'm just going to shut up now.
Kaleidoscopic
It starts the way things between them usually do: as natural as breathing, and too quick to catch.
(like the first time Jason takes him surfing, all smiles when Michael catches his first wave; Michael grins back, a momentary distraction, and Jason dives in after him when the tide swallows him whole)
That's how Jason remembers it, anyway.
It starts because Papi starts talking about college, the ones he thinks Jason should consider.
Across the table, Mama's passing the baked beans, and Jackie's separating her greens from the mashed potato.
"College," Michael says, blankly.
Jason grins, curly hair falling into his face as he flicks a pea at Michael's forehead. Michael flicks one back, reflexively. "Better start figuring out what you're going to do without me, Mike."
It starts because there's this girl in school, sandy blonde hair and the bluest eyes he's ever seen, who doesn't laugh at his burnt orange jacket, or at his glasses, or at the fact that he's sixteen and never been kissed.
"We can practice together," she says, eyelashes fluttering, and Michael flushes and grins and nods his okay.
It starts because there are three things in life Michael knows, like faith he was practically born into. One, you do things right, or you don't do them at all (he's waiting till he can commit to a diet without fast food to sign up for his bodybuilding classes). Two, he's a fast learner, always has been (he learned how to tie his shoelaces before Jason did, and then taught his big brother the secret in two minutes flat, Jason's big fingers warm and clumsy under his own the whole time). Three, Jason doesn't know how to say no to him (they'd wound up back at the beach again two days after Michael's accident, seven stitches still sewn into his hairline, like patchwork).
That's how they end up against their bedroom door, later. Jason leans into him, traps him against the wall with his slow smile and half-hooded eyes, murmuring instructions. "Here," he says, when Michael lifts an uncertain hand, and twines their fingers together, traps heat between their palms. "Girls like that."
Michael huffs out a disbelieving laugh, but it's weak, and Jason dips his head a little, tries to meet his eyes. "Hey," he says, quiet, when Michael swallows and won't look back. "Mike. You okay?"
The nerves are normal. He's never been kissed, after all, and maybe most people wouldn't look to their brothers to fix that, but most people aren't Jason's brother; they don't know. It's hard as hell not to notice the way Jason's been growing up lately, the way he's starting to fill out, the way his face is growing into his old-soul eyes.
The nerves are normal.
"M'fine, shut up," he mutters, and Jason grins. Michael rolls his eyes, but he's grinning too, now, a whisper of a curve in his lips, and it seems logical to lift his head, when Jason presses a thumb to his cheek. Seems logical to part his lips and inhale when their mouths meet, gently, like he can steal the oxygen from Jason's lungs.
Michael's throat is dry, and Jason is so careful, tongue warm and wet on his lower lip, in his mouth. He tilts his head for an angle, a lesson in geometry, an odd asymmetry in the way they fit. Michael's body hums with it, electric need buzzing deep in his gut, and he doesn't understand why he's waited, what he's been waiting for. He's dizzy with it, the realizations; how much time they've wasted, when they should have been doing this all along, could have been--
Jason's hand slips down, lingers at Michael's throat and curves around the back of his neck, his touch as scalding as a red-hot brand. Michael shudders, fire sparking into life in his stomach, his chest, like the heat of Jason's mouth is going to burn him from the inside-out. It's like being on the cusp of something, being here, all the could-bes and the what-ifs he's never thought about, because it - it's not enough, not like this, not without getting closer and, oh god, he wants--
But then Jason pulls back, away, and Michael's stomach clenches even harder. "Jase," he hears himself say. His throat feels like sandpaper. He realizes his free hand is fisted in Jason's shirt, a desperate, white-knuckled grip. His pulse is going so fast he nearly misses Jason's shaky exhale, breath wasted against his skin.
Then Jason tilts his head, watches him, his mouth, with pupils blown black, and there's a second Michael thinks he might--
"That wasn't so difficult, huh?" Jason says, instead, finally, disentangles their hands so he can cup Michael's face in his palms, rest their foreheads together.
Michael doesn't know what to do with the catch he hears in Jason's voice, or the chill of his skin when Jason walks away.
(What he doesn't do is call the girl, not even after Jason leaves for A&M. He turns his focus inward instead, spends time on school and homework and pulling up his grades.
Then, in January, Jason decides to do Idol. After, he decides he's never going to do anything else.
Michael never opens the early acceptance letter A&M sends him.)
It ends the way it has to: with distance, and time, fading into a memory of something else he can ask that Jason won't say no to.
I don't know, guys. I have no excuse. They're just - they're hot like burning, okay, and -- I'm just going to shut up now.
Kaleidoscopic
It starts the way things between them usually do: as natural as breathing, and too quick to catch.
(like the first time Jason takes him surfing, all smiles when Michael catches his first wave; Michael grins back, a momentary distraction, and Jason dives in after him when the tide swallows him whole)
That's how Jason remembers it, anyway.
It starts because Papi starts talking about college, the ones he thinks Jason should consider.
Across the table, Mama's passing the baked beans, and Jackie's separating her greens from the mashed potato.
"College," Michael says, blankly.
Jason grins, curly hair falling into his face as he flicks a pea at Michael's forehead. Michael flicks one back, reflexively. "Better start figuring out what you're going to do without me, Mike."
It starts because there's this girl in school, sandy blonde hair and the bluest eyes he's ever seen, who doesn't laugh at his burnt orange jacket, or at his glasses, or at the fact that he's sixteen and never been kissed.
"We can practice together," she says, eyelashes fluttering, and Michael flushes and grins and nods his okay.
It starts because there are three things in life Michael knows, like faith he was practically born into. One, you do things right, or you don't do them at all (he's waiting till he can commit to a diet without fast food to sign up for his bodybuilding classes). Two, he's a fast learner, always has been (he learned how to tie his shoelaces before Jason did, and then taught his big brother the secret in two minutes flat, Jason's big fingers warm and clumsy under his own the whole time). Three, Jason doesn't know how to say no to him (they'd wound up back at the beach again two days after Michael's accident, seven stitches still sewn into his hairline, like patchwork).
That's how they end up against their bedroom door, later. Jason leans into him, traps him against the wall with his slow smile and half-hooded eyes, murmuring instructions. "Here," he says, when Michael lifts an uncertain hand, and twines their fingers together, traps heat between their palms. "Girls like that."
Michael huffs out a disbelieving laugh, but it's weak, and Jason dips his head a little, tries to meet his eyes. "Hey," he says, quiet, when Michael swallows and won't look back. "Mike. You okay?"
The nerves are normal. He's never been kissed, after all, and maybe most people wouldn't look to their brothers to fix that, but most people aren't Jason's brother; they don't know. It's hard as hell not to notice the way Jason's been growing up lately, the way he's starting to fill out, the way his face is growing into his old-soul eyes.
The nerves are normal.
"M'fine, shut up," he mutters, and Jason grins. Michael rolls his eyes, but he's grinning too, now, a whisper of a curve in his lips, and it seems logical to lift his head, when Jason presses a thumb to his cheek. Seems logical to part his lips and inhale when their mouths meet, gently, like he can steal the oxygen from Jason's lungs.
Michael's throat is dry, and Jason is so careful, tongue warm and wet on his lower lip, in his mouth. He tilts his head for an angle, a lesson in geometry, an odd asymmetry in the way they fit. Michael's body hums with it, electric need buzzing deep in his gut, and he doesn't understand why he's waited, what he's been waiting for. He's dizzy with it, the realizations; how much time they've wasted, when they should have been doing this all along, could have been--
Jason's hand slips down, lingers at Michael's throat and curves around the back of his neck, his touch as scalding as a red-hot brand. Michael shudders, fire sparking into life in his stomach, his chest, like the heat of Jason's mouth is going to burn him from the inside-out. It's like being on the cusp of something, being here, all the could-bes and the what-ifs he's never thought about, because it - it's not enough, not like this, not without getting closer and, oh god, he wants--
But then Jason pulls back, away, and Michael's stomach clenches even harder. "Jase," he hears himself say. His throat feels like sandpaper. He realizes his free hand is fisted in Jason's shirt, a desperate, white-knuckled grip. His pulse is going so fast he nearly misses Jason's shaky exhale, breath wasted against his skin.
Then Jason tilts his head, watches him, his mouth, with pupils blown black, and there's a second Michael thinks he might--
"That wasn't so difficult, huh?" Jason says, instead, finally, disentangles their hands so he can cup Michael's face in his palms, rest their foreheads together.
Michael doesn't know what to do with the catch he hears in Jason's voice, or the chill of his skin when Jason walks away.
(What he doesn't do is call the girl, not even after Jason leaves for A&M. He turns his focus inward instead, spends time on school and homework and pulling up his grades.
Then, in January, Jason decides to do Idol. After, he decides he's never going to do anything else.
Michael never opens the early acceptance letter A&M sends him.)
It ends the way it has to: with distance, and time, fading into a memory of something else he can ask that Jason won't say no to.
