how to make a mixtape :: mgc (fin.)

20. hard things & investigation

"Last night was good," Michael says softly, drawing a circle on the side of my arm with his finger. "Was it good for you?"

"It was fantastic for me." I move my arms tighter around him. We're both tangled together on his couch, listening to one of his oldest vinyls. Cobain – as always, when Michael is around – is lying down at the arm rest of the sofa, purring. Michael's fingers slip up the hem of my loose shorts and rub my thigh gently, his other hand playing with the lace of my old bralette. "Lucky the power came back on by this morning."

"Or we'd be freezing." He tugs me up to him, so my head isn't resting by his stomach anymore but next to his. His torso presses onto mine as he hides his face in the crook of my neck, keeping his warm arms around me. "I wanna cuddle."

I run my fingers up his hair, hanging a leg loosely over his and closing my eyes. I can feel him breathe into my neck, the gentle rise and fall of his back and quiet whines every time I move. Being with Michael feels different -- especially after last night. Each moment he smiles, each moment he talks -- it's different. It makes my heart swell and my throat tight and nearly knocks me off my feet. His embraces feel safer and his lips taste sweeter. I push my hair from my face when he pulls back slightly, facing me with his fingers moving across my jaw. I kiss his wrist.

"We're so sappy," I tell him, and he laughs.

"It's so weird to see you with clothes on."

"Do I take that as a compliment?"

"Just an observation from a virgin."

"Not anymore." I lean closer, kissing his neck. He rubs the small of my back. "I hope you won't regret being with me."

"I could never regret that." He cups my face, bringing his mouth on mine. "Never."

We kiss for a while, desperately pulling each other close. His palm sits on my back, sliding his middle finger through the buckle of my bralette and then out again. Whenever he parts from my lips, I see how shiny his are; red and shiny and -- they're on mine again. I tug him down further, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up and tickling my hand. He's so warm, I muse, lifting my head so he can kiss my throat. Warm and touching me -- touching me when he could be touching anybody else, but, no -- he wants to touch me, and he is touching me. I shrink back into the couch, whining as Michael lightly climbs on top of me. His forearms prop him up so he's looming above my head.

He goes to kiss me again, but stops midway.

"Your eyes," he says quietly, "are some of the most gorgeous things I've ever seen."

What about yours? I'm about to say.

"They're just plain brown." I move his fringe from his eyes.

"But when you're this near..." He leans forward, so his breath fans over my face and nose nudges mine. "...You can see every shade in it. The flecks of hazel around your pupils, and the shape of them..."

He kisses my jaw and I sigh contently. This feels right. Not a long of things have been going right for me, but this feels right. And that's all I care about.

"I want to stay with you and do this the whole day," I mumble, slewing my fingers into the pockets of his grey joggers. His hips move steadily on mine, and my stomach tightens. "You're making it so hard for me to get up."

"You're making other things rather hard for me."

I pat his chest and we both sit up. My legs are crossed over his and his hand remains on my waist. He doesn't drop it, and I smile, pecking his cheek.