When A Hero Comes Along...

          “SO...where do I start?”

         James is staring down into the shot-glass of whisky cradled in his hands, like the amber liquid is going to answer the question for him.  Michael gnaws on his pizza crust and just waits, giving him time.  Finally, James drinks his shot and sighs, slumping back against the sofa.  

He looks at Michael for a second, then his eyes drift, taking on a far-away look. “It all came about because of the divorce,” James says, his voice quiet, more talking to himself than to Michael.  Then he laughs bitterly, “It all came about because of the divorce.  Well, that wasn't such a long story, after all, I suppose.” He holds his glass out to Michael.  “How about another shot?”

Michael continues gnawing on his pizza crust and just looks at him.  James snorts and grabs the whisky out of Michael’s hand and takes a swig from the bottle. “I suppose it’s the long, complicated version of the story you’ll be wanting, then?”  He up-ends the bottle.  “Well, that’s going to require more alcohol, you see? Much more alcohol.”  He takes another long swallow and hands the bottle off to Michael.  “Here.  You’re gonna probably gonna need a drink yourself.  After all, you figure into all of this, too.”

“Me?!” Michael says, surprised. “What are you on about, James?!”

James gives Michael a look he’s not sure how to interpret.  “You really don’t know, do you?”  Another of those bitter-sounding laughs. “Well.  I’ve not been giving myself enough credit as an actor, it seems.”

“I don’t understand you, James! What are you talking about?”

James rolls his eyes in disgust, snatches the bottle back, and takes another gulp.  “If you’re not gonna make use of this, then I fucking well am!  Now, sit back and keep your mouth shut, Fassy.  You want to hear the whole sordid, fucking story?  Fine.”  He waves the bottle whisky at Michael.  “I’ll tell all.  But I’m only telling once, so don’t interrupt me with any stupid questions.  If you miss anything because you’re running your yap, too bad.  I won’t go over it again.  Are we clear?”  

Michael nods in agreement and makes himself comfortable on the floor, pulling his legs up and resting his chin on his knees.  James takes another drink of whisky, and curls up in the corner of the sofa, and begins.  Well, first he takes another drink, sighs deeply, then he begins:

           “Like I told you earlier, it all came about because of the divorce. More accurately, it call came to fruition because of the divorce, or the aftermath, rather. To say that it’s been difficult—on both of us–-would be a bit of an understatement.”  James takes another drink.  “You see, Anne has been my best friend since the moment we met.  I’d never felt so comfortable with someone before, so in tune with another person.  I knew that it had to be love.  What else could it be? She’s kind and beautiful and I loved listening to her talk and I was truly was interested in everything she had to say.  We meshed so well, it only seemed natural that we should make a life together.  I was so happy when we got married.  And when she told me she was pregnant with Brendan, I was absolutely thrilled, Michael.  The day he was born, I don’t think I've ever been happier in my whole life.”

          “There’s only ever been one problem in our marriage.”  His face turning pink, James picks at the label on the whisky bottle as he continues, “And so what, if I wasn't quite as interested in sex as she, and preferred to just talk to her for hours, instead?  It’s not that I didn't like having sex with her, I did.”  He gives Michael a fierce look, as if daring the other man to deny it. “I did. It’s...it’s just...it’s just that she was always the one to initiate it.  It just wasn't that big a priority to me—it’s never been, not with anyone.  Why should sex matter so much?  Passion and desire are over-rated!  It doesn’t last anyway, does it?”  He looks up at Michael, anguished.  “Eventually you get old and sex doesn’t matter anymore, right?  Being able to just be together is what’s important, isn't it?  It’s having someone to talk to, to grow old with that matters!  I love her so much, and everything else between us was perfect.  Why couldn't that be enough for her?!”  James hangs his head, and whispers, “Why couldn't it be enough for me?  Why is it that I've never had the desire to just fuck her?”  

The way he growls out ‘fuck’ makes Michael break out in shivers.

Then James gives him that anguished look again.  “What’s wrong with me, Michael, that I don’t care to make love to my wife?”  Michael is startled when James jumps to his feet, swaying a bit, and points at him, shouting, “This is all your fault!  That’s right!” he slurs, sticking his finger in Michael’s shocked face.  “Oh, don’t sit there an pretend like you don’t know what I’m on about!  You’re not that good an actor!”

Michael is flabbergasted. “J-James!”

“Don’t interrupt me, I told you!”  James falls to his knees (or collapses, it’s even odds at this point) in front of Michael.  “I was perfectly fine to go along pretending that it didn't matter.  I could have had a happy...a content...life with Anne and eventually everything would have evened out.  But, noooo,” he places his hands on Michael’s knees and leans in, staring into his eyes.  “Oh, no. You had to come along.  You.”  He creeps ever closer.  “You, with your perfect jaw, and your eyes,” he’s practically in an astonished Michael’s lap now, slowly pushing him backwards, sliding his hand under Michael’s t-shirt, “and your perfect abs and that smile.”  James groans and rolls hips against Michael.  “Do you feel what you do to me?”

Oh, yeah.  Michael can feel, alright.  He feels like he just wandered onto the set of a cheesy, but really, really awesome porno.  The part of Michael that is an utter bastard wants to fuck James right here on the floor of the hotel suite.  The decent part of him...well, that part of him also wants to fuck James right here on the floor of the hotel suite, but thinks it would be more romantic to do it on the sofa.  It doesn’t help that James still has a hand under his shirt and now is nuzzling and kissing his neck, too.  He’s drunk.  He’s drunk.  Remember, Michael, he’s drunk.

“You make me feel like I’m burning up from the inside out,” James whispers.  Then he does a slow grind against Michael’s hips, and growls, “I want you more than I ever wanted my wife.  I never felt like this with her!  With anyone!  I want to fuck you.  I want to know what it’s like to be inside you.”  He kisses Michael’s neck again, and moans, “Suck my cock, Michael.”

'Oh my God! The shit he’s saying ! This is better than anything I've fantasized!’  Michael is rapidly losing his battle to not take advantage of James’s drunken state.  ‘Holy fuck, he’s a bossy little thing! I’m not sure how much longer I can hold out,’  Michael thinks desperately.  He’s already slid his arms around James’s waist without even thinking.  “James—”

“That’s it!” James moans.  “Say my name!”  James is kissing his way along Michael’s jaw and his hips are rolling smoothly and steadily against Michael’s.  "Say my fucking name again!” he growls.  “I want to hear you say it!”  James is still grinding on him breathing filthy words into his ear and Michael is close to the breaking point.  If James had come onto him like this sober, it would all be over but the after-glow.  It has to be obvious to James that, in addition to sporting a rock-hard erection of his own, Michael hasn't exactly been fighting him off.  He’s wanted this for so long, it’s all he can do to keep from coming in his pants. The only thing keeping his clothes on is that James is so drunk.  He doesn’t want to take advantage of his friend, then in the morning see those beautiful blue eyes looking at him with shame or hatred.  He has no clue how to handle this.

“...so fucking sexy,” James is moaning softly into Michael’s neck.  “So fucking...hot.  So.  Fuck...ing...ZZzzzzzz...” his body slumps against Michael’s. "ZZzzzzzzzzzzzz...ZZZzzzzzzzzzzzzz..."

“Well,” Michael huffs out a laugh, and let his head thumps back on the carpet, not sure whether to be pissed or grateful.  “That’s one problem solved.”

          "Alright, now James.  Up you get.  Let’s get you into bed, so you can sleep this off.”  After indulging a moment of guilty pleasure at having James draped over him, Michael finally sets about heaving him off and maneuvering him into a sitting position.  He's not having much luck.  

“Jesus fucking Christ, James!  How could you be so fucking heavy!?” Michael pants, as James slides out of his arms for the nth time.  “Here I was thinking you were looking a bit thin, but now I do believe you could stand to lose a couple of stone!  You’re like a boneless chicken!”  Finally, he gets James propped up against the sofa and is able to get him over his shoulder in sort of a modified fireman’s carry and manages to stagger with him to the bedroom.  Michael is very proud of himself for not copping a feel of James’s arse (which would have been perfectly justifiable, all things considered) as it was right there and looked just like it was made for Michael’s hands.  He winces, feeling a little guilty when he drops James on the bed and sees how hard he bounces.  ‘But he is much heavier than he looks,’ Michael placates himself, ‘It could have been worse.’

He shoves James over to the edge of the bed and rolls him onto his side, in case he gets sick.  For some extra insurance, he grabs the rubbish-bin and places next to the bed by James’s head.   Then Michael climbs in next to him and pulls him close to keep watch while he’s passed out.

"SSnnnZZZzzzzz...Snnnzzzz...ZZZzzzzz..." James snores.

Jesus.  Stifling a laugh, Michael looks down at the top of James’s head where it’s resting against his chest, and drops a soft kiss on his hair, whispering, “You may be adorable as fuck, but don’t think for a second, you sneaky little bastard, that this is going to get you out of telling me how you became Amore`.”