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The Chair

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PC had a favourite chair. A horrible, tasteless abomination that sat conspicuously in the living room, drawing the eye with its sheer hideousness. It was a rocker, stuffed, covered in a material that changed colour depending on the angle of the light, but was usually a deep reddish-brown rust colour, reminiscent of the interior of a 1970's shag wagon.

Aside from being offended by the unrepentant ugliness of the thing, Mac feared for PC's safety whenever he sat in it. When PC leaned back and put his feet up on the coffee table, the rocker tilted so far back that the arms pointed nearly to the ceiling. He was sure one of these days the chair was going to go all the way back and dump PC on his head, and Mac would have a spontaneous heart attack and fry a circuit.

"It's comfortable," PC said when Mac tried for the hundredth time to get PC to let the chair go peacefully to the dump to die with its shag-carpeted brethren.

"It's ugly."

"Well, yes." PC patted the armrest affectionately.

"At least reupholster it." Maybe if it looked a little less like a thrift-store reject, Mac could overlook its deadly threat.

"I don't know how to reupholster a chair. How gay do you think I am?" PC frowned irritably.

Mac threw up his hands. "Very gay. I think you're very, very gay, and the fact that you're not as offended as I am by that thing is very, very offensive to me."

"Just sit in it."

"I'm not sitting in it." He scowled.

"Come on," PC wheedled, sliding out of the chair and advancing on him slowly. "Just try it. If you really don't like it, we'll get a new one, I promise." He wrapped his fingers loosely around Mac's wrist and tugged him over to the chair. "Sit down."

"You promise."

"Sit down," PC said, exasperated, and gave a little shove to his chest.

Gingerly, Mac lowered himself onto the cushion, careful to remain perfectly upright. PC rolled his eyes, and Mac loosened his grip on the armrests. He eased back fractionally, and when he didn't immediately do a backflip, eased back some more, until he could feel the stuffed back of the chair supporting him. It did tilt quite a bit, but it didn't feel as frighteningly unbalanced as it looked. He pushed off experimentally with his feet.

"See?" PC said, smugly.

"It is comfortable," he allowed.

"I told you."

"I don't like it."

PC's expression went from smug to crestfallen. Then, alarmingly, from crestfallen to thoughtful.

PC ducked his head to hide the shy little grin he got whenever he was thinking something dirty. Mac responded to that little grin the way he always did; his body went hard and his insides went soft. PC didn't often make the first move on him - usually Mac had to drop broad, inviting hints, like spreading himself naked on the bed, or walking in on PC in the shower. Mac didn't mind - he knew PC wasn't that confident when it came to sex. And seeing PC get all flustered and aroused - every single time - was gratifying and funny as hell.

The days when he saw the little grin, though, were gratifying in an entirely different way. His chest hurt and his processor redlined before PC even touched him, and he would be shaky and panting, hungry for it, before they managed to get all their clothes off. He didn't last long those days.

Looking at that shy smile now, Mac knew this time would be the same, even if his lover did have a horribly upholstered ulterior motive.

PC gave him a little wink and pushed his glasses further up on his nose. "Maybe you just need a new perspective. Sit right there," PC said, advancing on him in a way he probably thought was really sexy.

Mac sat on his hands to hide their shakiness and smiled helplessly. God, he loved him.

(PC got to keep the chair.)