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Some studies show that one single burst of sound at around 175 decibels would be enough to tear one's eardrum and cause permanent hearing loss.
The hellish racket that bursts through the phone as Tom picks up on the third ring is nowhere near that, but it sure feels like it. He shoves the offending device under his pillow and buries his head back into the soft material with a groan. He can feel the bass pulse right through it, making his skull vibrate, burrowing into his brain.
There are people shouting and laughing, glasses clinking and music blaring, the typical uproar of a party that's well past out of control. It makes Tom grateful for small things- the comfort of his bed, the quiet of his dark bedroom, the light sheet twisted haphazardly around him as a slight end-of-summer breeze sneaks through the open window, cool on his warm skin.
A faded, familiar voice soon joins the cacophony of noise, prompting Tom to pull the phone out and cautiously bring it closer to his most definitely damaged ear. In for a penny… he thinks to himself with rueful resignation as Mike's cheerfully apologetic voice makes its way to him from hundreds of miles away.
"Shit, Tommy, I'm sorry, man. Didn't mean to call you at fuck o'clock at night on a- uuh on a Tuesday." The words are fast and slurred, skidding and crashing into each other, a pile up of stretched vowels and chewed consonants, spoken with the coked up cadence of someone toeing the fine line between boisterous and manic.
"It's Thursday, Mike." That's all he can think to say. A quick glance at the nightstand makes it easier for him to blame the lackluster response on his brain's utter refusal to do any work between midnight and six am on a week night. 4:13 am flashes red in the darkness, ominously reminding him of early starts on set and Greg Beeman's slight headshake after yet another botched line or missed cue.
"Fuck! Whadja say? I can't hear shit over here, hold on a sec, I'll try to find somewh-" The rest of the sentence gets lost somewhere between Mike's lips and the phone's speaker. For a while there is the rustle of clothing, people shouting Mike's name as he passes by. A couple of times he stops to exchange words Tom can't quite make out. He contemplates hanging up, but there is a nagging pull at the back of his mind that keeps his finger hovering over the button without actually pressing it.
Tom is dozing off when a clear voice startles him into dropping the phone. It lands on the soft rug with a muffled thud, making him swear under his breath. He blindly feels around for it and by the time he brings it to his undiagnosed but definitely ruptured eardrum, Mikey is already talking. The hubbub of the party has finally, blessedly faded away as the other man presumably made his way somewhere more private.
"Ok, this is better. Finally some fucking peace and quiet. What were you sayin', Tommy?" He sounds winded, voice staticky in a way that has nothing to do with the shitty connection of a long distance phone call.
"Nothin' important. That must be some party. Where are you?"
"I'm not sure, actually." A pause, the gathering of booze soaked half memories. "Started the night grabbing drinks with some people, then went to some fancy new club that just opened. Hopped from one place to another until we ended up at some girl's brother's best friend's house party or something. Not sure who, but this place is huge. Even managed to find an empty bedroom on the second floor."
Tom can clearly see him in his mind's eye, pacing around and gesticulating animatedly in the near darkness of a stranger's crowded room. Mikey has always had a fondness for talking with his hands and Tom feels like he's missing half of their conversation by not being able to see him. He lets out a puff of breath that must be interpreted as frustration if the response it prompts is any indication.
"Sorry again for waking you up, man. You're supposed to be on set tomorrow bright and early, huh? Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Fuck, goddamn butt dial. Should've paid more attention to the damn phone."
"It's fine, Mikey, don't worry about it. Really, shit like this happens. What are they gonna do if I mess up a line or two anyway, fire me?" Mike's laugh filters through the speaker, light and airy, the tension broken by their own little inside joke. They used to throw it around a lot during the long, cold Vancouver nights. Back when they were still working together. When they were still in the same country.
Silence settles over them like a weighted blanket. Mike stops pacing and Tom can make out the slight creak of the bed as he sits down. "Still, I should probably hang up, let you get your beauty sleep. Wouldn't want Al and Miles coming after me for ruining your devilishly handsome all-American good looks."
The words are said in jest, but Tom can feel the undercurrent of compunction dragging Mike's mood under. Reassuring him comes as easily as breathing. "Don't worry about it, I'll sic them on overly loud neighbours, you're good." Another puff of laughter and slight creak as Mike lets himself himself fall back onto the soft mattress.
"How very gracious of you, Tommy."
"I know, I'm a saint. Your knight in shining plaid, on and off screen. Anyway, it's not like you meant to do it." He's not sure what possesses him to add the near non-sequitur. It rises from a hidden, murky swamp in the back of his mind like a sentient entity, the creature from the black lagoon in all its wicked glory.
The horror fan in his friend must sense the uncomplicated intricacies of Tom's train of thought, because he pounces at the opportunity to explore it. To go looking for monsters to be brought into the spotlight. To move things along and reach the end of the movie, satisfying conclusion be damned.
"What if I did?"
"I'm sorry, what?"
"What if it wasn't an accident. What if I got fucked up and did it on purpose. What if I never forgot the rasp in your voice right after waking up and wanted to hear it again." He pauses, breathing slowly and deliberately, trying to get himself under control. "Fuck, Tommy, what then?"
"Mike…" Suddenly he's wide awake, sleep rolling off of him like a boulder down a steep hill. Was Sisyphus ever surprised when his destiny kept slipping through his fingers? Will Tom ever learn that some things cannot be changed?
This… whatever it is between them has always been a boomerang- no matter how hard he threw it and how it disappeared into the horizon, it always sailed through space and time to land back at his feet. Maybe it is time to end the endless pushing, to cease the ceaseless throwing. Perhaps this is what it feels like when things fall into place.
"Shit! Know what? Forget I said anything. Let's say I'm wired up and don't know what I'm talking about, how about that? You'll hang up and in the morning we'll pretend that none of this ever happened."
Damn Mike for always giving an easy way out. Tom doesn't need to be in the same room to know that the older man is fidgeting, anxiously running a shaking hand over his scalp in a gesture so reminiscent of the past that it's sepia coloured. If it weren't for the short hair now hiding the perfect shape of his skull, this could be a take right out of the show. Someone at any moment would yell cut! and they could tear through the heavy unease of the scene and step easily into the effortless workings of the real world. But it isn't and they can't. The night is endless, the silence harrowing, and Tom is sick and tired of taking the easy way out.
"Don't!" The word is a bullet ricocheting inside a solid steel room. "Don't hang up."
"Why?"
There are about a million reasons flighting through Tom's head, a dizzying murder of crows clouding his mind and slowing down his thought process to a dangerous degree. He desperately reaches, trying to catch the tail end of a thought, but comes up empty. So he says the first thing his broken brain-to-mouth filter will allow through and prays it's the right one.
"I'm glad you called."
The words have their desired effect as far as convincing Mike not to end the call. Now for the hard part, Tom thinks as he goes in for the kill.
"Lock the door." He brings forth the confident, easy going tone he used to channel for Clark's red kryptonite Kal-El persona, lets it slip into something a little more commanding, a little more dangerous- cold steel sliding out of a jewel encrusted silk sheath.
There is a sharp intake of breath from the other side of the phone, followed immediately by the rustle of fabric and quick footsteps. The click of the lock sliding into place makes him shudder. Tom closes his eyes and he can see the scene unfolding before him.
The room is dark, the only light sneaking in through the half closed blinds from the street lamps below. It casts Mike's body in haphazard shadows, an enchanting juxtaposition of sharp angles and soft features. It makes him appear surreal, like something out of a forgotten dream. Tom's had his fair share of such dreams to know exactly where this is headed.
"What now, Welling?" The words drip with faux confidence, but the cracks in his facade have already started showing, propagating and widening until they've become the size of canyons. They're clutching onto each other, precariously balanced on the precipice of a thousand foot sheer drop straight into nothingness. They might survive the fall, but not the landing.
"Now I want you to tell me exactly what thoughts have been filling that pretty little head of yours, Rosenbaum." Tom pushes them over the edge with reckless abandon.
"Fuck." The expletive would have been lost in the static of the soundscape had Tom's senses not been so well attuned to Mikey's voice. He could pick that voice out of thousands, blind, dumb, and deaf. He could tell him apart from anyone else on earth by the way the air from his lungs moves across Tom's skin as he's panting into his neck.
"Come on now, I know you can do better than that, Mikey. Put your money where your mouth is. You must have some ideas stashed aside for rainy days. Tell me."
"Yeah, I bet you remember everything about my mouth, don't you, Tommy?"
"Hmm, you bet I do, sweetheart. I remember how amazing it feels wrapped around my cock, how wet and hot. How perfect you look down on your knees for me. Gagging for it. Like you were made to be there."
"Holy, shit! Since when are you so fucking good at-" More rustling and clothes tugging, the sound of springs groaning as Mike flings himself on the bed and the rushed zippp of a fly being lowered. Tom's hand slides down, grabbing his cock where it's resting on his stomach, already leaking, and starts up a slow rhythm.
"Since I've had enough time to think about all the things I wanna do to you."
"Like what, Tommy? What would you do if you were here, now?"
"Not sure, guess it depends. How's L.A. been, Mikey? Have you been good, had any fun?" He's teasing and he knows it. A thrill goes through him at the thought of Mike splayed out on the bed, pale skin against dark covers, jeans undone and shirt riding up to reveal a sliver of toned muscle, left hand clawing at the waistband of his boxers as if stopped by the force field of Tom's voice.
"Fuck, Tom. Come on, man, you know how it is. It's been alright, I've just been busy- it's been busy. Overcrowded and hot as balls. Nothing like Vancouver."
"Oh?" Being Clark for so long must have rubbed off on him because playing coy comes as a second nature. "Wonder what's so special about Vancouver. Must be the weather."
"Yeah, sure, the fucking weather, always cold, damp, and stormy. Wearing three layers of clothes not to freeze my dick off in the middle of winter." The slight growl in Mike's voice makes Tom's dick twitch with interest.
"That would be a real shame. W can't let that happen now, can we? I'd have to warm it up, make sure it stays where it is. You've always said I run hot, didn't you, Mikey? I bet you'd like that- my big, warm hands unbuttoning you jeans, sliding down you underwear, reaching into to touch you, to feel you."
"I ain't wearing any."
"What?"
"I ain't wearing underwear. Going commando, letting it all hang loose or whatever it is the kids call it these days."
This time it's Tom's turn to growl, primal and possessive, the sound starting in the part of his hindbrain inhabited by a caveman beating his fists across his chest, brandishing a club in an overly aggressive display of ownership. Mine mine mine mineminemine it protests its dominance. He's not aware that he's been voicing the mantra out loud until Mike replies.
"Of course yours, Tommy. Fuck, you've already ruined me for anyone else. Who's gonna want a crass, loudmouth, has been who's still mooning over the golden heartthrob like a bitch in heat?" Mike's laugh is one part self deprecation and two parts heartbreak.
Molten lava flows through Tom's veins at the words, righteous fury ready to strike not at the man himself, but at everyone who's ever dared make him believe that such awful things could ever be even remotely true.
"Shut the fuck up, Mikey. They're all morons. You're worth the whole damn rotten bunch put together. And you're mine. My good, perfect little slut."
The whine that floats through the phone is high pitched and needy, and it goes straight to Tom's cock. He tightens his grip, pickes up his pace, adding a twist on every upstroke. Just like Mikey, his treacherous mind supplies helpfully. "Say it. Tell me who you belong to, who takes care of you. Who makes you feel good."
"Holy fuck! You do, Tommy. You're always- oh,shit! Taking care of me, making me feel amazing you're- fucking everything."
"I wanna give you everything. Touch yourself for me, baby. Lick your palm and stroke that pretty cock. Nice and slow." Permission granted, the sounds Mike makes are downright pornographic.
Heat pools in the pit of Tom's stomach, heavy and constantly rising, an impending tidal wave ready to crash over him and wash away every last remnant of common sense left in his body. He is throbbing and pulsing, writhing and tangling the sheets around his legs in a hopeless inescapable knot. Eyes screwed shut, he can see Mike too, hand moving up and down his length, head thrown back, spine arched as he fucks into his fist with reckless abandon.
Not before long Tom can make out the tell tale signs of Mikey's impending orgasm, the wet sounds of flesh against flesh, the hitch in his breath as if he's underwater trying to suck in air. An idea appears then out of nowhere. In the middle of the tremendous storm of soundmemorysensation raging through him, a bolt of electricity strikes at just the right time, hitting area of his brain responsible for coming up with brilliant ideas. Lighting hitting a lighting rod, all that kinetic energy seeping into his psyche and coalescing into what he is sure is a one in a lifetime genius plan.
"Stop!"
The word barely has time to make it past his lips before Mike obeys. Tom knew he would just as well he knew that the sun rises in the east and sets in the west. That Sunday comes after Saturday, spring comes after winter, and Mike comes when Tom tells him to. He understands him more deeply than he's ever understood anyone in his life, can read every minute shift in his mood and slight waver in his voice.
His knowledge of Mike feels ancient, carved into his bones, nestled among his heart muscles, written in his DNA. They are interwoven down to the very last atom, the fabric of their being turned into one big tapestry spanning millennia. Tom no longer knows where he ends and Mike begins, which is just as well, because behind closed eyelids he can see the other man as if they were in the same room. Can read his thoughts as if they were spoken aloud.
He can feel his own throat vibrate as Mike makes a strangled sound in the back of his throat, squeezing at the base of his cock hard, trashing and writhing against the mattress like a fish on land. He knows that everything in Mike tells him to keep going, to chase his release and damn the consequences, instincts screaming and howling with rabid disregard. But Tom told him to stop, so he does.
There are tears in his eyes, gathering at the corners and sliding down his temples to the dark blue bedcover, and Tom can taste the salt in the air. Mike's wet all over, with spit and cum and sweat and tears, a sheen of bodily fluids making him shiver in the cold room. And it's all for Tom. He'd given himself over a long time ago, whether the other man realises it or not. Body and soul, he belongs to Tom, an offering made in good faith to a deity whose moods are as steadfast as the tides. He'd goddamn bleed for Tom if he asked him to.
So he slumps against the mattress, holding on for dear life and praying to whoever isn't listening that his will be stronger than his animal impulses. And he waits.
"Ask me again." The words are startling in their clarity, coming from some secret area of his brain where coherent thought can still be scrapped together through the haze of lust need more more more. Tom can barely recognize the commanding timbre of his own voice, but given the way Mike's breath stutters and chokes it must be doing something for him.
"What? Come on, Tommy, don't pull this shit now. What the fuck are you even talkin' about?" The low whine is just slightly on the wrong side of begging and Tom has to squeeze the base of his cock to stop himself from coming from that alone. He's finally realized what needs to be done and he'll be damned if he lets it slip through his fingers just because Mike sounds absolutely obscene when he's close and needy.
"When we talked on the phone couple of weeks ago. That thing you asked me. Ask me again now." It's a gamble, Tom knows, but he's feeling lucky. Maybe that's what boundless confidence is like, a solid warmth that starts a little to the left of insanity and spreads through your body like the highest of highs. But right now he's going all in on Mikey and deep down he knows it's the safest bet he's ever made. The house has no way of conning him out of this one.
The silence has no time to thicken between them before-
"Come to L.A."
"I'll be on the first flight over after we wrap up the season."
There is a clatter on the other end of the line, then Mike's voice comes through the speaker clearer than ever. "Fuck, you bastard, fucking fuck you! I need it, please. Come on, Tommy, please!"
The cards are all down on the table now and Tom's got a royal flush. It's a serendipitous coincidence seeing as he can close his eyes and see Mike as he is now- jeans unbuttoned and halfway down his thighs, shirt unbuttoned, pebbled nipples begging for attention, a beautiful crimson flush spreading from the dark hair on his chest to the top of his ears. His left hand gripping tightly at the base of his cock, waiting on Tom to say the word and give him release.
"Hmm… Sounds tempting. Maybe when I come over we'll see what we can do about that." He knows that Mike can hear the smirk in his voice, would probably give him shit for it if he weren't too far gone for any words over one syllable.
" Bastard." Okay, so he was wrong, the attitude is still there and it makes Tom smile. He guesses he'll have to remedy that sooner rather than later if he plans on making good on his implied promise.
"I'll count you down, so be good and you'll get exactly what you called for."
"You." That's enough for Tom to start stroking again, slow movements that end with his thumb swiping head of his dick on the upstroke, smearing the overabundance of precum all over his length, feeling it drip on the taut muscles of his abdomen.
"Ten." The phone creaks in his grip.
"Fuck, it's you, Tommy, it's always been you."
"Nine."
"Shit! Come on, please, ple- aah!" With a voice like that, Mike would make millions on a phone sex line. Enough to never work another day in his life. Too bad Tom doesn't like the idea of sharing.
"Eight."
"What you're doing to me… Hurry up, please, I can't-"
"Yes, you can. I know you can. Be good for me and hold on a little while longer, sweetheart. Seven."
There is panting from the other side of the continent, ragged breaths expelled from Mike's lungs like he's just now learning how to breathe.
"Six."
"Need- you- I just..." His words dissolve into a choked sound, the chimera of a moan and a sob, Tom's new favourite thing in the whole world. He wants to keep Mike making that sound for the rest of their lives.
"What's the magic word, Mikey? Five."
"I don't- Please, fuck! Jesus, I'm so close- please, Tom, please I'm begging, I need- "
"Four." Tom's entire body is kindling in the middle of a drought, Mike's obscene moans the reckless spark about to turn the whole thing into a burning inferno.
"Good guess, wrong answer. Wanna try again? Three."
There is a rustle of sheets and a dull thump as Mike drop his phone on the comforter near his ear, shoving his fist in his mouth to trap the whimpering mewls where they're trying to crawl out of his throat and make their way to Tom all the way in Vancouver.
"Come on, Mikey. You're too clever for your own good. You know what I want. Two."
"Yours! Fuck, Tommy, all yours, always yours, only yours. Please!"
"One. Come for me, Mikey. Come on, beautiful, I wanna hear you cum for me. Let me know how good I make you feel."
Mike makes a noise as if he's dying. A high pitched whine that starts at the core of his being, his soul being mercilessly ripped out of his body and propelled up to the heavens to gaze upon the face of God. Tom bucks into his tight fist one last time, body arching off the mattress in an impossible arc as wave upon wave of hot liquid paints his hand, his stomach, the sweat soaked sheets beneath him. His vision whites out and he knows no more.
His consciousness returns gradually. First the jackrabbiting pulse and the panting breaths, the breeze gently rustling the white drapes and cooling his feverish skin, then the sticky pearly white mess smeared all over him and the ragged breathing coming from somewhere to his left.
For a while they just lay there, breathing in tandem, content to bask in the tranquil warmth of post orgasmic bliss. It stretches between them like molasses, sweet and thick and making any suggestion of movement unbearably arduous. With colossal effort, Tom brings the phone that he's surprisingly still holding to his ear. There's a crack in the screen and he pretends it's been there all along.
"You good there, Mikey?"
"Mmm hmm," comes the delayed answer, a sated big cat purring with satisfaction as it stretches languidly after a copious meal. It nefariously creeps through Tom's busted eardrum, descending into his chest, settling behind his ribs and tugging at his heartstrings. So do his friend's next words.
"How 'bout you? You feeling alright?" The smile that hooks the corners of Tom's mouth at Mike's earnest tone could power the whole world for millennia. The genuine, unfiltered care colouring each syllable forms a small ball of light that moves through the speaker, growing and morphing until it covers him from head to toe, making his bare skin buzz and hum pleasantly.
"Yeah… Couldn't be better. Mikey…" A split second decision propels him forwards. "I meant what I said, you know that, right?"
"Hah! If i remember correctly, you said a lot of things. Truly an astounding amount of things." There is an apprehension that he's trying to cover up with humor, but after nearly a decade of sharing the same space and breath, Tom can see right through the facade.
"What I said about coming to L.A. I meant it, Mikey, I did. I do. That's if you- if I'm still welcome, of course." He hates how unsure he sounds all of a sudden, how small. He already knows the answer yet he's still holding his breath to hear Mike say it.
"Of course, Tommy. You know you're always welcome here." He hears the words for what they really are. You're always welcome wherever I am.
"Good."
"Good."
A minute passes, then two, and Tom is suddenly chuckling at the ludicrousness of the whole situation. It picks up in intensity and soon they're both laughing, the uncontrollable dizzying sound that would sometimes come over them in the middle of a take and garner fond headshakes and a five minute break. They're finally in sync again, atoms vibrating at the same frequency despite such mere limitations as time and space.
As they settle down, Tom is absurdly, outrageously happy. He's once again a little kid before his first class trip to somewhere new and exciting, his mind woozy with possibility. His tired brain is trying to put together plans that he won't remember come morning- flight schedules and car rentals, courtside seats and dinner reservations.
He can hear Mike's breathing even out, now coming slow and steady through the speaker. Setting the phone on the pillow next to him, he mumbles a "Goodnight, Mikey" before drifting off himself. Sleep claims him as soon as his eyelids drop.
When Tom wakes up a little over one hour later he is more rested then he's been in ages. The sun is painting the horizon in shades of purple-red-orange and somewhere a bird is chirping. The morning air is crisp, daybreak ripe with raw potential waiting to be seized.
Not knowing what the future held used to fill Tom with inarticulate dread, swarming under his skin and pressing down on his lungs. He inhales deeply and lets the air out gradually before getting out of bed.
It doesn't anymore. Because he knows that whatever it is, there is only one place he needs to go to find it.