An Urban Fantasy in Three Acts

The following is a work of fiction. It would be pretty stupid to say any resemblance to real people is coincidental, but any resemblance to real events, personalities and, yes, even sexuality of those involved most certainly is not based on fact.
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All Michael could do was stare at his hands, one wet and red, the other sticky with sweat.

It was insanity, pure and simple.

"Mike."

He didn't want to think about the dead man in the alley with them, or the fact that it was that man's blood on his hand. How random had that been? Who the hell had shot him?

"Michael."

Michael felt almost useless, if that was the right word for it. He stood with his breathing under perfect control, his hands up in a good position to defend himself, the right muscles for helping motion tensed and the wrong ones relaxed so as not to make his reaction time longer.

He had nothing to defend against, nothing to strike. There would be no gun to signal his leap from the starting block. It was only a complete absence of the combat he'd just been in up to his neck that kept Michael alert, his mind seeing nothing, but his body refusing to accept that it was all over with. He clenched his hands into fists, and then relaxed them, noticing only how absolutely vile the blood felt on his skin. He turned, intent on cleaning it off.

Except Ian put a hand up and grabbed his shoulder, stopping him. "Michael."

"One sec," Michael shoved right by him, towards the end of the alley where the scabbard for his sword had ended up. It wasn't until he found himself staring at those old paint cans that he remembered his sword was on the ground where he'd just walked from.

And then there was Ian. "Did you...were you...with the water...was that...was I seeing things?"

Twitchy or not, Michael still found the mental strength to realize that showing Ian this stuff was much less difficult than he'd thought it would be. Maybe it was because Ian had just watched him get into a knock-down, drag out slobberknocker with a guy who now lay dead, slumped against the club's wall, with a hole in his head.

"You want to see it again?" Michael didn't turn to face him, he kept focus on the cans, the few still filled with water and who knew what else. Lenny would have been able to separate the water from the excess crap just by lifting a finger. Not having Lenny's skill, Michael had to put more thought into it than 'separate from the excess crap.' Focusing on the idea, he raised his hands and then swung his arms down, bending at the waist so his hands clapped just above his knees and he pulled the water he sought up into the air. It required an immense amount of concentration to do it right, but it actually worked, and Michael couldn't help but be proud of himself. Very rarely did he ever have cause for trying anything beyond simple manipulation, and as such, very rarely did his skills evolve when Lenny wasn't around to instruct him.

He remembered watching Lenny's fluid manipulations, water obeying him in a ballet of motion or just forming entirely out of thin air, but Michael was too green for his talent to look at all graceful. He had to put all of his attention into it, his arms were shaking from the strain of keeping his hold on the liquid, as if he were squeezing something in his hands.

Straightening his back, he turned his hands over, palms up, in one sharp motion, and the water snapped towards him like a slow, cracking whip until he could reach it. Michael splashed it right into his own face. The blood on his hand came off easily enough. The dirt on his face felt like there was plenty left behind, but he couldn't complain, he was more refreshed than he'd been three seconds ago. Ian was silent as Michael contemplated the water being the same temperature as the air he was breathing. That little detail made Michael acutely aware of how much he was sweating right now, all worked up from the exertion and still wearing a thick coat. He flung the duster off and curled it up under his arm, grabbing the scabbard from the ground and then walking back to replace his sword inside of it. The evening air suddenly felt cooler on him...and it stung twice as much where his skin was broken. Ian wasn't oblivious to that, especially now that Michael's T-shirt hid his injuries much less obviously. His arm and face were bleeding, the arm more so, but his shirt was black and it was only visible because Ian knew to look for the slightly darker patches.

It took Ian a second to realize that Michael was leaving as soon as he had his sword sheathed and under his arm with the jacket. "Michael, wait a minute...shouldn't you..."

Having not actually realized Ian hadn't followed him, Michael turned around. The quick motion gave him yet another thing to flinch over, grabbing at his lower back as he felt it give and start to throb. "Christ, not again..."

Ian, to his credit, put concern for Michael's health first. "Your back just gave up?"

"It'll be fine," Michael groaned, trying to straighten up and succeeding, if not painfully. "Might've just landed on it wrong, might heal with everything else...Lenny can fix it, otherwise. Can we get out of here?"

"You're kidding." Ian stood and stared at him. Looking back on the scene, he waved a hand in the general direction of the very dead body and said, "You just...you just want to leave that here? We just watched a man get his brains blown out, Michael, I think that warrants a little consideration here. Not to mention..."

Obviously, Ian was talking about the whole magic thing, Michael didn't need to find the words for it to realize that. "Look, Ian..."

"I want answers," Ian stood his ground, crossing his arms and staring Michael down. It worked pretty well. "The world can end this second, for all I care."

If Michael wasn't wilting under Ian's gaze, he came pretty close to it. "Drive first, then start asking questions," Michael said. "I'm not going anywhere, Ian. Damned if I'm going anywhere like this."

"But..."

"Ian," Michael near-snapped; he fully understood that Ian was simply being hit with a lot to take in, but if it took a few strong words to get his common sense working again, then so be it. "There is a dead man with a bullet in his brain over there, and I just got the living shit kicked out of me, and," Michael had planned on segueing into the whole magic thing. But another pang of discomfort from his back made him rethink that, as he leaned over and tried to rub at the offending spot. "And I'm really having trouble standing up."

"So," Ian drawled, looking like he was halfway between helping Michael keep on his feet and waiting to be prompted for it. "What do you suggest?"

And suddenly, Michael realized that he hadn't really thought that far ahead. "I'll think of that on the way."

"Okay then," Ian nodded, "Do, uh...do you need help?"

"I think I'll manage," Michael forced himself to walk, and while his back protested, it really just felt stiff and uncooperative more than painful. He tossed his duster into the back seat of Ian's car; it wouldn't be wearable until he could have it dry-cleaned. Aside from the bloodstains, it had picked up plenty of sweat and grime from rolling around in a dirty alley. Reluctantly, Michael hid his sword under it. He doubted it would look inconspicuous propped up near him on a car ride.

Five minutes into it, Ian finally decided to say something. "So...why are people trying to kill you?"

"Would you believe," Michael chuckled, "That I have no idea?"

"You're asking me, after what I just saw, if I know what I should be believing right now?" Ian retorted. "That guy didn't seem to like you very much."

"He also said it wasn't his motivation," Michael answered. "I don't know, Ian...I'm honestly clueless here...I," it was like the weight of what Michael was saying had hit him for the first time as well. He leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes, trying not to sound like a rasping old lady when he breathed. He wanted to cry, but he didn't think he'd actually feel any better for it. "I just don't know."

Michael stayed like that for awhile, until Ian said, "You hungry?"

"Very," Michael almost jumped at the thought... though he simply raised his voice. Getting in a fistfight was about as intense and draining as a few hours of swimming under Bob's watchful, DI-like gaze, and his body needed fuel.

"So," Ian began, trailing off into an awkward silence for a few seconds. "You still like McDonalds, right?"

If Michael hadn't been exhausted, he would have laughed harder. As it was, he found it painful just to chuckle, and he regretted letting his head tilt back to he could stare at the roof. "You fucking know it, man."

It turned out Ian had passed by the local Golden Arches establishment on his way to Michael's house when he'd arrived, so he didn't need directions. To say he felt safe parking at a public restaurant would have been a voracious lie. "You just want to go in there looking like that?"

"I'll be fine," Michael said. "The bathroom has a sink. Hopefully."

Nodding in understanding, Ian said, "You want something to drink?"

"Water," Michael said, getting out of the car. Once he'd closed the door, he thought his answer over for a second. "In a bottle."

True to his word, as soon as he walked in the door, he made a beeline for the bathroom. Mercifully, it was empty, and he went right for the sink to wash his face off. Clean of dried, caked-on blood, the gash on Michael's face looked much less frightening, perhaps caused by a particularly bad fall. He knew he had bruises everywhere, but Mack hadn't actually hit him in the face too much, so the black-and-blue marks there didn't seem too out of the ordinary for a regular human being having an unlucky night. In fact, once Michael had washed the remaining grime off of his hands and arms, he figured he could actually convince anyone who asked that he really had just tripped down some stairs. Lord knew, his public image was one of an imperfect human being, so why not take advantage of that? Only one thing really stood out anymore, even if his shirt being black hid the color of it. "God...smells like blood."

Unless Ian had a bottle of very strong cologne in his rental car, there wasn't anything he could do about it. Michael turned the cold water on full blast and dunked his head under the faucet, hoping to cool himself down a little. The cold water was like a knife going through his head, and yet, he couldn't help but enjoy the odd pain. It cooled him off, at least. Still, Michael only let the water run over his head and off his face for a few seconds before he turned it off. Straightening up, Michael tried to scrub his hair as dry as he could with his hands, but plenty still ran down his shirt where it made him look sweaty and spent all over again. Still, he felt better for it.

Ian had already found a table and ordered food, not just water. The place hadn't been very busy, it seemed, but Ian took the most isolated seat in back anyway. "I didn't know what you wanted, I just got you a double-quarter...pounder..."

About three seconds after he'd sat down, Michael was already the same number of bites through his sandwich, half of it gone in one fell swoop before Michael put it down and attacked the french fries. If the complete lack of manners didn't mortify Ian, Michael's eagerness certainly did. "For crying out loud, Michael, chew your food."

So, Michael chewed. And eventually, he swallowed. It didn't seem like Ian really influenced his method of eating, however. "Oohhh...calories..."

Michael wasn't the best in the world at keeping a good, stable weight. But his problem was losing, not gaining, so Ian didn't really feel a need to chastise him for horrible eating habits. Of course, failing that, it left an uncomfortable silence over both of them. Ian had too much to demand answers for, none the least of which was how Michael made water obey his commands.

Finally, though, Ian broke the ice. "Michael?"

"Yeah?" Feigning ignorance seemed silly, but Michael did it anyway. It wasn't like there were many topics Ian could want to talk about.

But he expected Ian to go for the more life altering topic. After all, the revelation that magic was pretty damn real was more important than some punk kid coming out of the closet, wasn't it?

Ian chickened out, though. "You know, uh, the whole...I can't say I expected it, but the way you wear your pants...well, it's not so surprising, either."

"Wait," Michael blinked. "What?"

And Ian just shrugged, like it should've been obvious. "I've never seen a straight guy with low-rise swim trunks."

Michael was so shocked he actually dropped the french fry he'd been perfectly set to eat. "You ass."

Ian turned a little red at that, and he looked away. "Yeah, I guess that was kinda silly...so, uh...how long've you...when did this happen, man?"

"When did this 'happen?'" Michael raised an eyebrow, "Ian, please...that's like asking me when I turned white."

"Hey, I don't know how these things work," Ian turned away again. "I mean...I try to stay a few feet away from the fence, never mind on the other side. If you know what I mean."

"Yeah," Michael deadpanned. "I know what you mean."

If Ian had been anyone else, Michael would've wanted to slap the ignorance out of him. But with Ian, that was part of his charm, that annoyingly cute personality that just sent the butterflies in Michael's stomach up into a frenzy. Then again, the way Ian kept blushing and looking away when he realized he'd said something embarrassing was also pretty endearing. "Ah, sorry..."

"S'okay," Michael told him, talking around the latest bite of his burger before he put it down and reached for the bottle of water. He peered inside of it with one eye before taking a swig.

"I gotta ask," Ian sighed, "Why me, dude? I mean...c'mon, there's gotta be someone you know that's...you know, like you...when did I happen?"

"It's not about that, Ian. It's...I don't know, it's everything. It's nothing. It's just because you're you and you...you're the perfect guy, you know?" Michael never let go of the plastic bottle in his hands, he just wrapped his fingers around it, not quite hard enough to dent it in, just enough so it was interesting to stare at while he talked. His hands still shook, he noticed, and he didn't look up. "You're smart, you're good looking, I feel like my life means more when you're in the room. And hell...you have a really cute butt."

Unfortunately, when Michael finally looked at Ian, it was just in time to see him choke, making a wholly unnatural noise while he spit half of the chicken nugget still in his mouth back onto his tray. His attempt at a good-natured joke to break the tension, it seemed, had been too tactless to work. "Michael, for the love of...I don't believe you, I'm just...what the hell, why can't you lust after Ian Thorpe? Why me?"

That was a scary thought, as far as Michael was concerned. "Ian Tho-have you seen what he does to his hair lately?"

"Honestly?" Ian looked at Michael with a blank stare, "That's why I think you should hit on him. He's either a completely backwards stereotype or he'd...you know. You'd have a chance."

"Yeah, and if I fell in love based on logic," Michael snorted, "I'd have it made."

"Oh, God." Ian's face fell into his palms, and Michael knew, the instant he started chuckling, that he'd finally said something to send him off the deep end over this entire thing. "You...you...oh God."

"What?" Michael blinked.

"Jesus, Michael, I thought...I don't know," Ian laughed again, but it was certainly a very pained laugh. "When you called me...I guess I just thought you wanted to mess around or something, you know? I mean, isn't that what gay guys do with guys they 'like?' It's just...love? You love me? It's just...two guys, love...it just seems like pieces of a puzzle that don't fit."

That wasn't a new idea. Michael said, "Really, Ian...you'd be surprised."

"It's just," Ian went on, "How...how do you even know? How can you know?"

"Because, being around you distracts me, makes me wish you were like me," Michael thought about it more. No, those were things that probably could've fallen under Ian's 'fooling around' category. He stared at his water again, unblinking. "Because I'd get on my knees and kiss your feet if you asked me, because I wonder what it'd be like...if we could be, y'know...together? Because honestly? I'd die for you without question."

Ian stared at him, pretty close to being in complete shock. "Don't bullshit with me, Michael...not over something like this."

Michael tried to sound authoritative. But he sounded desperate, instead. "I mean it...it is possible for a guy like me to want that special someone instead of a quick fling. We're not all stereotypes, Ian."

"Hey, I never said you were," Ian defended himself, "But you gotta admit, man, you are a little fruity sometimes."

"I am not," Michael almost shouted. Indeed, he had sometimes wondered what he'd put on a personal ad, but fruity behavior wouldn't be anywhere close to it.

"Your pants," Ian started ticking off on his fingers, "Wanting a hetero guy... for whatever reason. Your Escalade..."

"That's not so bad," Michael protested. He really missed his car.

"With spinners. Your tattoo is on your hip, and," Ian paused while Michael slinked back into his seat and shoved a lone french fry into his mouth, "You know, in all honestly, the way you frequently seem to have a little rain cloud floating over your head sometimes..."

"Yeah," Michael couldn't argue that one. "You know all about that, huh?"

"It sucks," Ian nodded. "But I doubt I know how you feel. Mine went away with pills, after all...or at least, it held off until I got my head back in the pool."

"Oh," Michael chuckled, feeling oddly calm now that the topic had gone to something they both had in common. "The pool's pretty damn good therapy. I like water."

"Really, I couldn't tell," Ian seemed like he was going to keel over, right out of his chair.

And Michael realized he'd forgotten, for a moment, that there was more Ian would ask him about later. He reached for his burger again, only to realize that he'd already finished it. So he tackled what was left of his fries instead, in silence.

"So," Ian finally said.

"So," Michael answered.

Seeing he wasn't getting anything, Ian added, "Getting off the topic of how you want to get in my pants...would you mind explaining that...that little trick you do?"

He waved a hand around, pantomiming what he'd seen Michael do in the alley, and it almost made Michael chuckle. For all of his willingness to flat-out talk to Ian about being gay in public while reasonably sure no one was around to hear them, it just seemed downright dangerous to start talking about magic in such a manner. At least, with what was going on at the moment. "Not here."

Nothing could've made Ian more eager to get a move on. Michael knew of nowhere else to go, so he directed Ian back to his house once they were on the road again. He wasn't sure if it was safe or not, but if someone tried anything there again, he was positive the sheer annoyance he would feel at the intrusion would motivate him to kick some serious ass.

That was most of what Michael thought about on the way; he didn't speak, almost daring Ian to open his mouth instead, to ask another question, to raise another doubt. The word 'love' suddenly stuck out in Michael's mind about as much as it probably did in Ian's. Funny, h'ed never really thought of his feelings for Ian with that word, until he had a reason to say it.

And now that he'd said it, Michael knew why he'd kept it at arm's length; it was fucking scary.

Michael wasn't forced to talk again until Ian parked and got out. Opening his door was all he could manage; his body finally put the proverbial foot down and just said 'no' to his brain. Reaching around the seat to grab his sword had done it, the twist he had to pull gave Michael the distinct sensation that his back did not appreciate it. "Ian?"

"Yeah?"

"I can't get up."

Even with Ian throwing Michael's arm around his shoulder and heaving him out of the car, it still hurt like a bitch. Michael's joints had the stiffness of hard plastic and bent just as easily. Every square inch of his upper body throbbed with bruises and welts, and if nothing else, the knowledge that he'd gotten off without broken bones made him feel a little better.

It was still humiliating, having Ian haul him across the front yard, fumbling his keys around because his fingers just wouldn't get a good grip while his other hand held his sword so tightly the knuckles were white. It was sweet relief to get inside, hear Ian close the door behind them, and be unceremoniously deposited on the couch. He managed to hug his sword close and kick his sneakers off as he lay back, feeling the soreness change back to the dull throbbing. "God, I'll never take putting my feet up for granted again."

"You want anything?" Ian chuckled.

"Water," Michael groaned. He had a feeling he was going to be drinking a lot of it over the next few days. "Should be a few bottles in the fridge."

Once Ian had brought Michael the aforementioned bottle, he sat down, tired himself, on the nearest chair. "So...uh...Mike...the water thing?"

"Right," Michael answered, unscrewing the cap and taking a drink. He paused. "What were we talking about?"

"What were we talking about," Ian threw his arms up, "Oh, nothing, just, y'know...watching you make water fly through the air."

"Yeah, that," Michael sighed. He was so totally drained, and it wasn't fair. Having that little heart-to-heart with Ian had been terrifying and, in some ways, oddly liberating. That didn't mean it was easy. This would be even less easy, Michael thought. Nevertheless, he decided to get it over with, and put the bottle of water down on the coffee table.

Leaving the cap off, he let Ian watch as he strained his hand, fighting the bruises on his knuckles from throwing punches so he could yank the water out of the bottle and form it into a ball.

A ball that he promptly held a few inches over his hand, keeping its impossible shape. "Pretty cool, eh?"

Dumbfounded, Ian waved his own hand between Michael's and the water a few times. "How...how are you doing this?"

"It's a kind of magic," Michael grinned a little. He couldn't help but feel proud of his talent.

"But how does it work?" Ian shook his head.

"No, Ian," Michael said, "Not magic trick. When I say 'magic,' I mean magic. Sorcery, wizardry...witchcraft, whatever you want to call it."

"You're kidding, right?" Ian chuckled. "There's...dude, you're sitting here and telling me you're doing magic. There's no such thing."

"And yet," Michael let the thought hang, dropping the water so it fell and splashed over Ian's hand and the carpet in a most unspectacular fashion.

"Holy shit," Ian blinked. Michael could see it in his eyes, it was the same look he had when Lenny had introduced him to this, by splashing him with pool water. When neither of them had been within arm's reach of the pool. "Holy shit...you're not kidding."

"Of course not," Michael answered. Thinking about Lenny made him really wish Lenny was around, he would've felt a lot safer. "Hey, uh...can you find my phone? Should be up in my room."

Ian complied, rather numbly as he rolled the whole magic thing around in his head. When he handed Michael his cell phone, he sat back down and promptly dropped his face into his hands.

Michael dialed, and listened to the line ring exactly three times. "You have reached the voicemail of Lenny Krayzelburg. Obviously, I am either in the pool or crunching numbers. Please leave a message, and I will return your call when you become more important than either of these things."

"Fuck, Lenny, get a cell phone for crying out loud," Same old Lenny, Michael thought. He waited for the obligatory beep. "Lenny, it's Michael. I have problems, get back to me as soon as you can."

He hung up, wondering if Ian had enough to put two and two together about Lenny being magically inclined, as well.

"Do you cheat?"

Michael was so unprepared to hear that very question from Ian Crocker, of all people, that it simply knocked the wind out of him. He dropped his phone, and he didn't hear it thud quietly on the carpet. "What?"

Ian didn't hear the anger in Michael's voice, it was masked too well by shock. "Do you..."

"I don't cheat!" Michael tried to yell, but he didn't have the strength and he ended up just speaking it somewhat strongly. In protest, he tried to throw his sword at Ian, but he was too tired for that, as well, and he ended up dropping it to the side of his couch and nothing more. That venting accomplished, Michael calmed down...and then he realized how much it really hurt for Ian to think something like that of him. He tried to hug his arms around himself, and found he could actually do that without aggravating any major bruises. "I don't cheat...I don't. I can't, anyway, even if I wanted to, not so it wouldn't be noticed, anyway. Lenny...Lenny could probably do it, if he wanted to."

What Michael had been thinking of as a comparison of skills, Lenny's skill being much greater, Ian thought of as a complete surprise. It was his turn to be caught off guard again. "Lenny? Lenny...Krayzelburg? Lenny knows about this shit?"

This was suitable payback, Michael thought. He couldn't help but grin. "Well, who do you think taught me?

"What the fuck," Ian just slumped further into his chair, his entire world turning upside down over the things he was learning. "And neither of you ever brought me in on this? Why, what, you think you can't trust me or something?"

"Hey," Michael said, "You're here right now, aren't you? And for the record, it was a hell of a lot harder to come out to you than it is to tell you about this stuff. It's not about trust, look at me, god's sake, it's just not safe. And I have the innate talent for it."

"And I don't?" Ian demanded.

"No, you," Michael started. And then he realized what was throwing people off. "Oh...you think me and Lenny can do this because we swim our asses off all the time."

Calming down now, Ian could see what Michael was getting at, and he felt silly for letting himself get angry over it. "Uh...that's not it?"

"No, you're born with it," Michael said. "You can learn any element, but you're born being able to handle one more naturally than the others...Lenny's been doing this for awhile, he can tell if someone around him has the gift for water...so to speak. If you did, yeah, he'd have brought you in on it like me."

"Why do this at all?" Ian just kept staring at Michael, in some ways just as confused as when he'd started asking questions. "You just said yourself, about how other guys don't play nice with it."

"Because Lenny's not the only one who can see it in others," Michael shrugged. "And I'd rather be able to defend myself than not have a clue if someone comes for me. Kind of like what's going on now. And to tell you the truth...it's kinda fun."

"Fun, sure," Ian deflated even more, if that were possible. "It's fun to mess with things you obviously couldn't hope to understand."

"Hey, our history goes back three thousand years," Michael protested. "And we've only had one war the entire time. I'd say we're pretty good at living."

"You talk like you don't think of yourselves as human anymore," Ian said.

He was wrong, of course, but Michael knew he had a point. "Hey, what do you want, perfect English? Talk like Yoda, I could."

Staring at Michael like he grew two heads for a second, Ian eventually broke down laughing, unable to stay tense and wary despite his best efforts. "Geez, Mikey, you're such a moron." At that, Michael tried to throw a pillow at Ian, and had much better results then when he'd tried to toss his sword. But he couldn't make much of a throw, and Ian simply caught it, using it to rest his elbows on his lap before he went on. "I just...I feel like I don't know anymore...did I ever know you?"

"You did," Michael said. He felt sorry, and a little surprised, that Ian would think such a thing. "I swear, Ian...me and Lenny, we've never...yeah, I guess it's stupid to say we've never 'lied' to you. But it wasn't to hurt you, it's not about you...you're not the only one, you know. Aaron, Brendan, neither of them knows...my mother doesn't know, imagine what that'd do to her?"

"Does she," Ian started, sounding awkward. "Do any of them know, um...your other...thing?"

"God, no," Michael sighed. "Well, Lenny does. I felt safe telling him after he started teaching me, and I needed someone to at least talk to before I went crazy. I don't know...Aaron and Brendan might not mind, but...still, I just can't do it."

Ian snorted, sounded more than a little embarressed. "Well, you didn't seem to have a problem when you called me and blurted it out like a soap opera character..."

And Michael found the mention of this a little embarressing as well. Especially hearing it from Ian himself. "Yeah, I guess that was kinda silly...I think I was justifed, though, can you blame me? I just...wanted you to know in case...well, in case."

"Yeah, well. Fuck 'em, I came up here to make sure you're okay, I'll be damned if...I'm not gonna let anything happen to you, Michael."

"Thanks, Ian," Michael managed a smile, "That means a lot to me, it really does."

Michael didn't add that he was pretty sure Ian was even less prepared to deal with life threatening situations than he was. It just seemed tactless. "You want to get some sleep? You can use my bed, I'm not getting up, I can tell you that."

"Is it safe?" Ian asked. "Do you think it's safe to stay here, I mean."

"Better here than a motel with questionable locks on the doors," Michael shrugged. "It doesn't matter, I couldn't move to save my life right now. Literally. I'll have better luck when I get some sleep."

Hearing that, Ian's eyebrow went up. "Won't you just be more sore?"

"I'm not sore now," Michael laughed. "I'm just hurting...once I'm sore, I can be hurting while I'm moving, too."

"Michael," Ian deadpanned, "We are talking about how you got beat up, right? With the whole soreness thing, I mean?"

"Of course," Michael blinked. "What else would we be talking about?"

"Nevermind," Ian shrugged.

And that was that. Ian dragged the nearest blanket he could find to Michael (and Michael didn't ask where he found it,) made sure he wasn't on the verge of falling off the couch, asked him several times if he was sure he was fine before heading off to get some sleep himself.

It occured to Michael that he probably should've asked Ian to fix a few pillows behind his head, as he had trouble doing so. But he couldn't complain, the attention Ian had given him was above average and made him feel all warm and fuzzy inside. So warm and fuzzy, he even pulled his covers close and just thought, Ian did this for me.

It was a nice thought to fall asleep by. Michael relaxed as best he could, trying to keep Ian in his mind as a sane thought to stay calm to.

He took a deep breath. And then he realized there really was something he should've asked Ian to do for him, because he couldn't raise his arms high enough to take his shirt off. "Still smells like blood..."