i'm in the walls of michael misa's childhood home right now, lemme tell you what's going on. (inspired by @castratecapuchin's gay4pay sam idea) (i never write misa pov, i hope this is okay!!)
mis and dickie are sprawled on the floor of misa’s childhood bedroom, limbs tangled together, notes app open between them like they’re doing something serious. scheming. brainstorming, even.
or, well, sam is scheming and brainstorming. misa’s mostly playing clash royale, absentminded and along for the ride, unsure of the destination but not really minding either way. that’s how things usually are between them, and misa’s cool with it. like everyone says, he’s low maintenance. a chill guy.
they’ve been back from vancouver for five days and so far, sam’s spent two entire afternoons feeling victimized by the internet’s reaction to mack and will being paired together for a shooting drill at the barn.
“we just gotta, like, be more gay with it,” sam tells him, all certain sounding.
his thumbs tap rapidly against glass, and mis peeks over his shoulder, cheek pressed to sam’s bicep, sees a bulleted list containing points like kiss cam at SAP, #misamondays, matching chains?, and most confusingly, learn to write a sonnet.
sam always sounds certain, misa thinks, and usually he agrees that sam’s right. sam’s right about when misa’s hungry, what he’s hungry for, the perfect song for any given car ride, at least some of the defections of the big words he unnecessarily uses, and like, lots of other stuff.
sometimes, though, occasionally, sam is super wrong. he was wrong about how misa’s not a leather jacket guy, and also maybe about this.
“dickie,” mis whines, huffy and annoyed, back bare and rubbing against the carpeted floor as he tries to get a good scratch. “we’re not gay. we can’t just pretend.”
sam ignores his very valid point, drops his phone with a soft pat and says, “let me get you.”
misa rolls his eyes but flips onto his stomach anyway, arms crossed under his chin. sam’s blunt nails drag between his shoulder blades, hitting the spot mis couldn’t reach, and a pleased little “ooh” escapes between his lips and okay, fine, he’s willing to hear sam out. whatever gets him to keep doing this.
“see,” sam reasons, immediately too pleased with himself. “you’re making like, slutty little noises while i touch you. in a bedroom. that’s pretty gay.”
“we’re not like, gonna fuck though.”
“darn,” sam says, probably kidding. misa’s never been too good with tone though, so maybe he hears a little fraction of disappointment in that, or maybe he doesn’t. either way, it feels so fucking good, the way dickie scratches lower, presses the heel of his palm into misa’s tailbone and extending his fingers until they’re lifting the elastic waist of mis’ basketball shorts.
the room’s quiet for a bit, and sam’s nails are just grazing the gross band of skin around misa’s waist where sweat gathers on days like today, where even central air is hardly saving them from the heat.
“you’re so toned here,” sam remarks, pinching a bulge of muscle. he sounds kind of distant compared to how it was a minute ago. misa’s not sure if that means anything. “and like, if you think about it, you’re basically my girlfriend.”
misa thinks about all the ways this is mildly true. sam does drive him around, and order for him, and run him a bath when his muscles are all sore. he does know his chipper order, and what sweatpants misa likes best, and which side of the bed he sleeps on. he’s also, technically, watched misa try on jeans and said, “yeah, those ones, your ass looks crazy,” in this bored, factual voice like he was performing a public service. so maybe girlfriend isn’t the least accurate thing anyone’s ever called him. still.
“if i’m you’re girlfriend, we can’t be gay.”
misa grumbles into his arms, but it gets eaten up when sam’s hand goes flat against the small of his back, warm and heavy, then slides lower with the same absent confidence he uses for everything else. his fingers hook properly under the waistband this time, blunt nails scraping the sensitive dip right above misa’s ass before his palm drags over one cheek, slow enough that misa’s whole body gives this stupid little kick against the carpet.
“lesbians can do this,” sam argues, sounding totally stupid as fuck.
misa opens his mouth to tell him to fuck off, probably, but sam squeezes hard and then the words come out as nothing useful at all. the phone is still open beside them, screen dimming over kiss cam at SAP and #misamondays, but neither of them are looking at it anymore.
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