Looks like, no matter how much Mike wants to explain, analyze and intellectualize, it all boils down to basic instincts, needs and feelings.
“There is a girl...” Michael whispers between two tiny breath’s hitches.
That’s the good news, Lincoln thinks. He was starting to wonder if there ever would be a girl – or even a boy, for that matter. The bad news is that said girl seems to have broken his baby brother’s heart. At least, she’s inflicted a severe strain on his wavering ego. Michael is crying in this unique way of his: pretty tears running down the smooth skin of his cheeks and into his red mouth, almost silent sobs and roughened voice. If it wasn’t contrary to what Lincoln pegs as ‘man’s behavior’, he would advise Michael to put on the show for the subject of his non-returned affection and wait for the fallout. He doesn’t see how a normally constituted human being wouldn’t give in.
He doesn’t tell him that, of course. Instead, he throws an arm around his shoulders and pulls Michael into him. His stubbled cheek rubs against Michael’s soft and moist one, and he turns his head just enough to catch the salty tears with his lips and taste them on his tongue. Michael closes his eyes and leans into him, a figure of absolute trust. The corners of their mouths touch; it’s as close to a as kiss they’ll go. Someday they will, but for now, they don’t need more.
Lincoln feels bad for kind of liking this. Really he does. But as long as it alleviates Michael’s pain...
Michael watches the small beads of sweat form on Lincoln’s muscular chest and roll down. He observes them and chooses them carefully before bending down and chasing them with the tip of his tongue. He’s mesmerized by the thought that it’s him who causes this: he’s literally making Linc hot for him.
There is something in his brain about sweaty Lincoln that must be wired directly to his guts – and a bit lower, too, to his dick. It takes him back a few years, to a scorching and heavy afternoon when his brother was painting, fixing or maybe tearing down something. Whatever. All that he remembers are the strong and supple muscles rippling and covered in a shiny layer of perspiration. Even from across the street, he could imagine its scent, its taste. Musk and spice and salt. Mouth-watering. Before realizing it, he was doubling over, cupping himself and coming in his pants, his cheeks and head on fire from shame and arousal.
Lincoln growls under him. Here and now and wanting him.
Comes a moment when Michael can’t choose anymore. Absolute need blurs his judgment. As Lincoln’s desire goes higher and reaches its peak, too many droplets, too many delicacies surge on his skin. So Michael just flattens his tongue against Lincoln’s fluttering stomach and licks up, trying to catch as much of him as possible. The scent and the taste are always even more scrumptious than he’d imagined years ago.
Michael pretends he hates it when Lincoln does that; Lincoln doesn’t believe him. If he truly disliked it... there are those things called ‘locks’ on doors: he’d use them when he goes to the bathroom. But he just pushes the door shut, sometimes not even bothering to totally close it. So Lincoln sneaks in, sneaks behind him, sneaks a hand around him.
He bats Michael’s fingers away and wraps his own around the limp penis. He holds it, not too tight and not too caressing, wary not to arouse him too much – yet – and orders, “Come on.” Michael resists for a few seconds, just because he’s a little prick, but when you have to go, you have to go.
Lincoln carefully aims at the center of the basin and a grin breaks out on his face when Michael eventually releases himself. His brother relaxes and leans against him, then, head lolling back in abandon and mouth slightly agape. Lincoln loves the image, the sensation, the implication – the absolute openness. Sometimes, much to Michael’s phony consternation, he pushes it further. He reaches around with his free hand and places it under the golden stream; it’s warm and it flows smoothly on the palm of his hand and between his fingers.
“You’re gross,” Michael protests for the sake of it. His voice always lacks conviction at this point.
“Pee is sterile, princess.” Then, planting a sloppy kiss on his mouth, “Cleaner than spit, they say.”
By the time Linc’s forefinger wipes the last drop off the leaking tip, Michael is half-hard – and rubbing his bare ass against Lincoln’s covered hard-on. That’s another reason why Lincoln won’t believe him when he pretends he hates it when Lincoln does that.
It’s white and creamy on the skin of Michael’s stomach, sticky and still warm from both of their bodies.
He’d whimpered when Lincoln pulled out from him before either of them had come. He’d whimpered louder, appreciatively that time around, when he understood what his brother was up to.
Lincoln had stroked and sucked him until he came, generous drops of semen spurting across his own stomach, an errant one reaching his chest. He had milked him and waited for him to be worn out and mellow with contentment. Then, looming over him and looking into his eyes, a smug grin on his face, he had added to the wet mess. Michael would swear he’d experienced a second orgasm as Lincoln was spilling on him, if not physically at least mentally – which was as good.
He lowers his hand between them and draws lazy circles on his belly. Their releases mingle on his skin, under his fingertips. Lincoln watches him and licks his lips, knowing what he’s doing down there, what he’s going to do next. Michael lingers, making Linc wait for it just because he can and because the expression on the other’s man face, in his eyes, is too good to rush anything.
His fingers come up coated in semen. Resisting the temptation to taste the substance himself, he holds his hand out. Lincoln sucks on the proffered fingers; his thick lips work so greedily that Michael feels his spent cock twitch against his thigh. Absolute lust runs through him. He pushes his chin up, mouth open and begging for a kiss. He doesn’t ask out loud; it’s unnecessary. Lincoln fastens their mouths together in a blatant invitation to lick off his lips and tongue anything Michael craves for.
They never talk when they reach this stage. They don’t need to.