Between Friend

by a campbell

Michael Rosenbaum/Tom Welling NC-17

Thanks to myownghost for the beta assistance.

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Tom wore black jeans and a light navy jacket over a gray t-shirt, dark shadows under his eyes, and a film of stubble on his upper lip. Still gorgeous as ever, but his appearance set off Michael’s radar. Co-workers and friends for nearly six years, long enough for non-verbal communication to kick in.

With a grin, he stepped back and opened his hotel-room door wide.

"Welcome back to the Northwest, Buddy. And the Freak Show. You look wasted."

"Good to see you, too." Tom shook the hand held out to him with his customary engaging grin and a duck of his head. "Long hours. Laura’s having a little trouble getting acclimated to the set and the schedule, and--"

"And you’re being your typical super-self and helping her out." Michael knew Tom extended himself regularly to make new cast feel welcome on the set and on the program. As did he, but he was just naturally outgoing. Tom was able to make it seem more genuine, or something like that.

Tom shrugged as he stepped inside. "Someone has to. Can’t be easy, coming in this late in the game."

"Especially on a program as whacked as this one." With an exaggerated roll of his eyes, Michael flopped down on the couch, beckoning Tom to a seat as well . "I’d help, but it’s my last season, and I’m just gonna coast, even if she’s the hottest blonde chick on the show since Jessie and unattached. All yours, bud. Jamie won’t mind."

A wink, followed by a grin, but Michael noticed how Tom glanced away, thinning his full lips in discomfort as he tossed his jacket on one of the chairs. He covered his concern by continuing to babble, deliberately keeping his tone light.

"Besides, it’s your show, after all. How much screen time did you get this past year, what with my ‘love story’ gobbling up a good portion of the season? Until they decided to whack things up, and make it so Kristin never loved me at all. Thanks a lot, guys." He raspberried as he got to his feet, just to coax another of those priceless smiles from Tom.

It worked. Tom settled back on the couch visibly more relaxed as, with an obscure sense of relief, Michael leaned over and flipped open the door to the mini-bar.

"How about you? Good time off?" Michael couldn't help but notice the forced brightness of Tom's tone.

"Yup."

“How many trips to Orlando?”

"A couple."

"You staying over this weekend?" Michael spent a lot less time in Canada now that he had that big new place in L.A.

"Yeah," Michael twisted the cap off a cold bottle of Molson’s from the mini-bar. "Here, catch!" He pretended to throw. "Psych. Not sure for how long, though. Just needed a little break from the rat race." He bent to rummage for a beer of his own. "You and Jamie have a good summer?"

He stood up and turned back to Tom, who was already chugging his beer. Mouth open, Michael watched the bob of his Adam’s apple, impressed at the amount Tom was able to swallow before stopping to breathe. A little dazed, he dropped back down on the sofa and drummed slim fingers on the shiny kneecap peeking through the rip in his own jeans, waiting for an answer. When none came, he continued lightly.

"You both managed to stay away from the cameras, huh? The fans are desperate: all the pix of you two are from one, two years back, and no new pix of you solo, either, man."

Tom just shrugged and took another swig.

Michael raised one eyebrow. "Ah. That bad, huh?" Tom set his empty bottle down on the coffee table with a thunk.

"She’s been a little testy. Flipped out at me in Samy's back in May and all the sites got hold of it. That was all it took to start up the ‘divorce’ rumor mill again." His mouth settled into a grim line. "Luckily, it died down pretty quickly."

"All imaginary, then?" Michael didn’t want to admit that he’d gotten a huge kick out of the video-store anecdote when he’d read about it online--though his amusement was mixed with some sympathy for his friend. He liked Jamie well enough, but he’d had immediate doubts on meeting her as to whether she was really the girl for Tom. And the doubts had grown the longer he knew her, and observed the two of them as a couple, from engagement through the first years of marriage. A little too wired, too demanding, too short a wick. A little too prima donna--and Tom clearly spoiled her. Always ragging on Tom in front of everyone on the set. Tom. The most generous, good hearted and easygoing guy in the world, not to mention the most gorgeous, and she couldn’t be content?

Tom deserved better.

Tom deserved the best. Not a peep from the media regarding Tom for the rest of the summer. Things had been quiet. Too quiet, eerily so. And Michael beat down at once the unbidden realization that he’d hoped the rumors were true and that Tom--

He swiped his mouth with his wrist as he set his own bottle on the table, not bothering to hunt for a coaster. Said casually, not looking at Tom, "She come back up with you?"

"Next question."

"Oh, man."

"She said maybe we needed more time apart. To think things over."

A pause. Michael whistled, low. "That doesn’t sound good."

"We’re apart so much already." Tom sighed. "I don’t know, Mike. Maybe you were right back in ‘02, when you said I was an idiot for getting married so soon, just when we were getting famous."

Tom didn’t know that Michael had cracked that comment back then with a touch of envy. Sure, playing the field was a blast for someone like Michael who couldn’t get a girl to look at him twice in high school. Not like Tom had ever had that problem, even during his "Leave It To Beaver" years. It was clear he’d found the love of his life, and who could really blame him if he chose to forego the seductive beckoning of the glamorous party life that Michael found impossible to resist? He knew well enough that he couldn’t expect to find the forever-girl of his dreams while dedicated to cutting a swathe through the gigantic gaggle of supermodels in California, but he couldn’t help it: he was a Cancer, and it was All About Him. He wanted it all.

Tom was different, and, again, who could blame him?

Michael certainly couldn’t, even though he’d belted out "Brown-Eyed Girl," at the reception while wrestling with a complex tangle of emotions: disgruntled yearning for the same sort of happiness himself, which seemed so long in coming, and, incredibly, a sharp twist of jealousy of Jamie for bagging Tom.

Tom was clasping his hands, kneading them as he talked. "It’s just: I never wanted the party life. Just wanted to settle down with the right girl. Woman," he corrected himself hastily. "Have a family, and a normal life like my parents. I was so sure she was the one."

Michael passed him another beer, and Tom popped off the cap, which sprang into the air and rolled off somewhere unknown. "I’ve been trying so hard to make it work."

"I know you have, man." Probably best just to let him talk, thought Michael.

"Now, she says she’s sick of the separations. Says we haven’t been able to commit to having kids because I’m away so much, and that her biological clock has been ticking so long that the batteries have worn out." A grim chuckle, and Tom took a deep breath. "She says it’s all my fault. And, Mike, I know my acting career is hard on her, but it would really be great if she’d support me instead of tearing me down all the time."

Michael thought a moment. "Let’s face it, Welling: neither of us can deny there are sucky things about being a celebrity, but there sure as hell are benefits, too. The income, for one. The invitations to special events, the freebies, all the attention--yeah, I know you don’t care much about that, but for someone like me who’s always craved the spotlight? Definitely a perk."

Tom nodded, and cocked his head toward the mini-bar. That was fast, thought Michael. He yanked open the door and tossed Tom another bottle as he continued.

"Besides, if it weren’t for your acting jobs, she wouldn’t be able to go to all those riding competitions, shop at all those fancy stores for great clothes, take trips…she’d still have to do her modeling gigs or maybe wait tables to help pay the bills.” Michael had done enough slug jobs--telemarketing, cleaning cages in a pet store, you name it-- back when he was trying to break into acting to know what reality was for the non-rich and famous.

"Somehow I doubt she sees it that way. Maybe she should have married an IBM exec or a lawyer. Had a more normal life."

Michael shrugged and raised his eyebrows. "Or maybe she’s just impossible to please."

Tom glanced at Michael with an expression of what looked to Michael like startled relief.

"’Bout time someone put it into words, huh?"

Tom grinned. "So you don’t think it’s me?"

"Takes two to tango, buddy. But you’re putting food on the table and then some. A lot of other professions involve long separations and don’t pay near as well. Look at the Army--"

"I know," Tom broke in. "My dad. Ex-military, remember?" A heavy sigh, and Tom seemed to be wondering whether to continue. "Anyway...with me tied into this damn contract for two more years--what they’re doing to the show sucks dick--"

“Dick,” Michael echoed with a nod.

"--But I can’t get out--I just don’t know how long it’ll be before she runs out of patience."

"That’s stress you don’t need." Michael was well aware how much pressure Tom was under, with all the recent tension between the Smallville execs and him. The show was crap now and everyone knew it, but Al and Miles and the other guys in charge had to pay for all those nice things--boats, cars, vacations-- somehow, so they kept it going, kept pretending Smallville was still a good show, kept holding Clark back from being very super, because once he was super, that was it. So they kept making him act like a complete dunce who just couldn’t get a clue. Tom had tried to talk to them about it, and was roundly ignored. He fought back by staunchly refusing to do press for the upcoming season, which pissed off the bosses even more.

Now the show was crowded with guest stars and he and Tom were shoved into the background. Bad enough for him, but at least he was getting out come April. Despite how level-headed Tom was, it had to be draining and depressing for him. And now, with all this--and if Tom said "sucks dick" one more time--well, he wasn’t sure what might happen.

"I still love her, but--I can’t seem to keep her happy. I just don’t know if I can do this any more."

"Well," said Michael. "Things keep going the way they have and the show's gonna tank big time before this season's through." When Tom didn't respond,
Michael sighed, and clapped a hand on Tom’s knee. "Tell you what, big guy. How ‘bout we hang out for a couple of days. Go out tomorrow night, have a few beers--maybe get laid--"

Tom shook his head. "I can’t."

How ‘bout stay here, have a few beers, get laid? Michael thought, but didn’t say. He knew he should try to steer his thoughts in a different, more innocent direction, but he wasn’t positive he had the superhuman mental and emotional strength required for that sort of maneuver.

"So, you’ll just go back to your place and keep running over this in your head? And get even more depressed? Crash here, man. Things’ll look better and brighter in the morning."

"Not if we keep going this way." With a wink, Tom held up his empty bottle, and Mike chucked him another as he slid a DVD into the player.

**

Tom woke up, still sprawled on the couch, groggy and alone. He ran a palm through his damp, tousled hair and glanced down at his watch: 2.25, and he tried to shake off the crushing loneliness that began immediately to descend again. He should have gone back to his own place hours ago.

His mouth felt dry and he was desperate for some ice water to quench his rabid thirst and rinse the stale taste of beer from his mouth. The lamp on the end table was still burning and snow on the tv screen made him blink. Where was Rosenbaum? He should at least say goodnight before he left.

He heard the water go on in the bathroom behind the closed door, and the faucet shut off with a squeak a moment later. He struggled to sit up on the stiff and scratchy hotel couch as the door opened and Michael came out, wearing only pajama bottoms, unclothed from the waist up.

"Look who’s awake," Michael said with a sleepy grin, buffing his face dry with a white hotel towel. Tom’s gaze fixed on his angular shoulder blades and followed the dip of his chest to his navel, peeking at him just above the elastic waist of Michael’s pajamas. "I thought you were out for the night.”" He padded over to the bed in his bare feet and flicked on the bedside lamp, then turned and gestured to Tom. "Come on. Let’s hit the sack."

"I should go," Tom muttered. He fumbled for his jacket, trying to ignore the rush of blood to his cheeks, and, incredibly, his groin--the confused sensation of warmth and desire kindled by the sight of his friend’s bare chest and slim body. Lack of sex must be getting to him big time.

He rose to his feet.

"Will you stop with the playing it coy, already?" Michael moved nearer, and Tom couldn’t help but notice the softness and warmth of his voice. "I’m alone. You’re alone. We’re friends, and here in a city that still feels strange and cold after six years. It’s Saturday night and nothing’s going on till Monday. Stay."

Tom paused, awash with unaccustomed feelings and a keenness of desire that almost frightened him. He stared at his friend, swallowing hard. "I...uh...I just--"

"Now you’re channelling Clark," Michael pulled a wry face and stepped even closer, so close that Tom could smell the Molson’s on his breath. "And if that's the way you like it, I'll be Lex." Slim fingers crept around, then grasped Tom’s waist as Michael’s eyes dropped closed. He raised himself on his toes to whisper in Tom’s ear, in Lex's sleek, smooth voice:

"You knew it'd come to this eventually." Tom just listened, dazed. "We both knew. So let’s get this show on the road."

Defeated, Tom gently freed himself from Michael’s arms, smiled, reached up and began unbuttoning his shirt.

**
About an hour later, Michael, naked and curled between Tom’s spread thighs, raised his head from Tom’s chest. Tom’s eyes were nearly closed, but glazed with satisfaction, even the little bit Michael could see. He let one hand wander up to grasp the back of Tom’s neck, moist with perspiration, pulled himself further up for an open-mouthed kiss.

"That was--ahhh, yeah..." Tom shifted on the too-firm motel mattress with a sigh. They were pretty much stuck together with the mix of sweat and come that plastered both their stomachs, halfway up Tom’s chest, where damp tufts of hair curled around nipples wet from Michael’s sucking.

Intense, that was for sure. Michael rolled off and grabbed one of the hotel towels. "How long since you got off, buddy?"

"Don’t ask." Tom crooked an elbow and slid a palm behind his damp ebony locks as he spread his legs wider, smiling as his gaze darkened.

A delicate snort from Michael as he glanced down. "Like I have to." Ten minutes at best, and Tom was hard again.

"All that matters is tonight." That soft, dusky voice and casual smirk, followed by that devastating grin. "So touch me again."

No mistaking the invitation. Michael slid down on the mattress and reached down to grab Tom’s cock, an ivory, veined pillar jutting from the nest of moist hair in his crotch. He leaned in, savoring the heat that emanated from Tom’s body, blowing a soft, cool breath into the tangled warmth around Tom’s balls. "Know how crazy you make me?" He licked up the length of Tom’s cock with the pointed tip of his tongue and traced around the head, stopping at the base to press and look up in time to catch Tom’s twitch and groan.

"Likewise." Tom raised himself on an elbow. He placed both palms on Michael's naked-again scalp and gently pushed his head down.

"My turn now. Suck me."

**
Over a sack of Duffins’ best jelly doughnuts the next morning, Michael hastened to assure Tom he had no cause for concern.

"Nothing’s changed between us, Tom. I’m not going to interfere with your life." He sipped coffee from the plastic-lidded paper cut and shoved the sack across the table.

He hoped Tom wasn’t having an attack of conscience. Because last night didn’t mean anything other than that Tom was scared, and lonely, and horny, and that his best friend was trying to help him out.

Tom set his half-eaten donut down on the napkin with a long sigh. Oh, boy, thought Michael. Here we go. Here comes the guilt. Michael spoke again before Tom could open his mouth.

"Last night was just between friends."

"I know that." Tom pitched his paper cup into the wastebasket and rose to his feet. "I should go."

Michael pondered. "Just tell Jamie to hold on for another year or two. The show’ll definitely be over by then and you two can live happily ever after."

"Yeah," Tom agreed. He reached down to gather his jacket from the chair.

Michael stood up and shoved hands in his jean pockets. So much between them that hadn’t been said, couldn’t be said. But he was going for it. "Just promise me one thing, buddy. If she keeps treating you like crap, give her the divorce."

Tom crumpled up the doughnut sack and Michael thought for a minute that he’d made him angry. He passed the wad of paper from one palm to another but didn’t speak, looking over Michael’s shoulder and out the big window at the city and the gray Vancouver dawn.

Michael followed his gaze out the window and then looked back at Tom. He kept talking. "Because you deserve to be happy." You’re the greatest, man.

After another moment or two, Tom said slowly. "See you on set?"

"Yeah. Take care." A wink. "You know the Clex lives, man." Mike waved one hand toward the door. "Catch you later."

"Yeah, later."

When Tom reached the door, he turned back. "After a year or so. When the show ends. Then we’ll see what happens."

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