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June
It's hot as hell and the air has this nasty sweaty feel to it. The ceiling fan is on, but even the wind feels thick and sluggish. Michael is sleeping on the couch, belly down, spread-eagled, long arms dangling off the side and onto the linoleum. He's wearing a pair of thin cotton shorts. The noontime sun goes right through it, and it looks like he's got nothing on at all, just miles and miles of smooth golden skin.
There's a piece of newspaper draped over Michael's dark shaggy curls. Eli put it there when Michael complained that it felt like his hair was on fire.
"Just close the fucking blinds," Michael had said earlier, grumpy as hell.
"No." Eli said. "It's hot."
"So let's make you feel better by giving me a heatstroke?"
Eli smiles. "The draft will make it better."
"What draft?" Michael raises his head. His grey eyes are bright like new steel. "The air in this city hasn't moved in fucking weeks."
But Michael manages to fall asleep anyways.
Eli tries not to stare, but Michael has two perfect dimples in the muscles of his lower back, right above the swell of his buttocks.
He's filled out since Eli first met him, but he has yet to lose the gauntness that haunted his features when Eli rescued him from the pack of werewolves that almost ripped him up into pieces.
