On their knees on pillows beside the bed; the bed is old, and creaks
alarmingly.

Sammy biting at the fingers of the hand Michael is holding across his mouth;
Michael can hear the faint groans muffled in Sammy's throat.

He himself is biting hard at his own lip, wondering just how loud his
laboured breathing really is, whether anyone else can hear the raw
unavoidable sounds their bodies make together.

They've learned to be as quiet as they can, knowing Mom and Granddad could
come upstairs at any time. But sometimes Michael wonders if the straining
urgency of their silence isn't more obvious, if it doesn't emanate from them
as unmistakably as the loudest of grunts or cries.

Sammy is leaning forward, braced against the edge of the bed, his hands
clutching at the sheets. Michael watches the knobs of his spine as he flexes
into Michael's thrusts, feels the breath against his hand come fast and
erratic. He wants to say Sammy's name but instead he leans in against him,
chest to his back, burying his face in crook of his neck, hand still pressed
firmly over his mouth. It slows him - there's almost no leverage like this -
but it's worth it to feel this, feel himself inside Sammy, against him,
around him, both of them moving in the same seeking rhythm. He wants to bite
him but knows he can't, obvious marks another risk they can't afford.

So he licks a hard swipe up the side of his neck instead, feels Sammy shiver
and clench tighter around his cock. For a moment he stops moving entirely,
just feeling it, Sammy's pulse and his own, all the places where they touch.
Then Sammy bites insistently at his fingers, and he leans back and starts to
thrust again, harder this time, feeling the buzz build along his spine.

The clock on the bedside table reads just past noon. He can hear Mom in the
kitchen downstairs, and he knows that any moment she'll be calling them for
lunch.

He lets himself say Sammy's name just once before he comes.