Michael took the permission, stripping Alex's shirt off and tossing it beisde the bed, then tugging his off and sending it after Alex's. He settled back down, tracing his fingertips slowly over Alex's skin--the line of his collarbone, the hollow at the front of his shoulder, over the swell of his deltoid and down his arm, then back up.

It was a simple movement, but he enjoyed the feel of Alex's skin under his fingertips, the sleek tautness of muscle, the soft, suppleness of the skin itself, the way goosebumps sometimes broke out on it when he did something just right. Details were one way Michael focused, when emotions welled up too high, and studying Alex was something he loved. It kept him from having to think too much.

Ducking his head, he let his lips follow his fingertips, brushing over Alex's collarbone, a flick of his tongue into the dips and hollows, trying to figure out how to say all the words he never knew how to, or at least not without making it worse.