Quite a Spectacle (3 page)

They all laughed, while Michael elbowed him and softly exclaimed, “Hey!”

Eventually they all migrated to the couches as conversation flowed and everyone got caught up on everyone else’s business. Joe and Mary took turns asking Michael about what he did—he owned and operated an art gallery in downtown Toronto—and how that was going. They asked him about his favorite artists and about the type of people who wandered through the exhibits.

He told them stories about opening nights he had hosted and about the antics some of the artists engaged in. He had them both laughing—at one point they even laughed so hard they were in tears. Joe, it turned out, was pursuing an art degree of some kind that he had yet to determine.

“Did you get an art degree as well, then?” Joe asked him.

Michael shook his head. “No, no. I’m afraid not. I went the stodgy route and got a bachelor’s in business. I’m thinking about going back, though.”

“To get a higher level of education?” queried Max’s father, joining in on the conversation for the first time.

Max put a hand in the middle of his back and rubbed encouragingly. Michael shot him a small, grateful smile and shook his head at Mr. Stewart. “Um, no. I’m considering Art Education. I’d like to expand the gallery, and I think having classes there could really add something to it.”

“Why not just hire someone who already has the qualifications? Seems like that would be a lot of money spent unnecessarily.”

Says the man who bought a Jag because of a dent in his previous luxury car
. He didn’t voice those thoughts. Instead, he said, “We can afford it, and it’s something I would enjoy. If I were to start teaching classes, I would hire another manager to pick up the slack.”

Everyone had gone silent, gazes pinging back and forth between them like they were watching a tennis match.

“You can afford it, or the both of you combined can afford it?” he asked.

Michael blinked at that, taken aback. Max jumped in before he’d got himself together to respond. “You know Michael makes more money than me,” he said, his voice tight. “A lot more money. His salary is double mine.”

There was silence. Michael cleared his throat, looked away at a blank spot on the wall. Max appeared to be waiting for something, some kind of response. Michael thought Max was delusional if he thought his father was going to apologize.

The silence dragged on. Michael scratched absently at a spot on his arm, watching the skin splotch and turn red. Max stood up abruptly, snatching Michael’s hand in his own and tugging him up. “We’re going to bed,” he said. “Long day and all.”

He hauled him up the stairs, taking two at a time. When they got in their room, Max whirled to shut the door, but Michael put one hand to his chest and pushed him back. “I’ve got it.” He shut the door quietly while Max collapsed on the bed, both hands covering his face.

Michael sat next to him, resting a hand on his stomach. He drummed his fingers. Max twitched beneath him. “You know we left our luggage downstairs,” Michael pointed out.

Max groaned.

“I could have handled myself. I was handling myself.” He didn’t mind Max sticking up for him, but he hadn’t needed it. He’d been doing a perfectly fine job of it.

“I love you,” said Max.

He didn’t say anything, just tugged Max’s shirt up so he could feel the warmth of skin.

Max slid his hands from his face, wrapping one loosely around Michael’s wrist. “I know you can defend yourself. I do. But that was rude. It wasn’t right. He had no right to say those things to you. None at all.” His voice cracked, his frustration leaking through. “I want to be able to come home for holidays. Is that too much to ask?”

Michael lay down next to him, curling around him. Max shifted so he was on his side, curled toward Michael. Their noses were a mere inch apart, their breath huffing in each other’s face.

“You are home for the holidays. So it’s not as perfect as you pictured, but we’ll make it work. Your aunt likes me, yeah? That’s something. It’s not a complete bust.” He brushed a stray strand of hair from Max’s face. “Maybe next year you can talk your family into coming to us? Then my family can be a bit of a buffer?”

“They haven’t visited us once since I moved to Toronto.”

Michael scooted closer, entwining their legs and nuzzling his nose again Max’s. “What happened to Mister Positivity?”

Max’s eyes fluttered shut, and he released a halting little laugh. Michael kissed his nose and then his closed eyelids. “We’ll figure something out,” he assured him. Michael may not like the situation, he may have been the one who’d declared it doomed from the start, but Max wanted a nice holiday with his family and Michael was going to do his damnedest to make sure Max got it.

R
AIN
PINGED
against the window, sharp little tapping sounds amplified by the glass. Michael stretched, his back popping with the movement. Beside him Max was dead to the world, sprawled out with one arm thrown over Michael’s chest and the other one touching the bedpost. His face was lax in sleep, his lips parted, and the faintest of snores coming from them. He had most of the covers bunched around him, only his head and splayed arms showing.

Carefully Michael extracted himself from the octopus that was Max and slid from the bed. The floor was cold beneath his feet, and he flexed his toes. His socks were down in his bag.

He tugged on his jeans from the previous day and the shirt as well before he quietly left the room. They’d fallen asleep curled together the night before, right after their brief conversation. He hadn’t made it to the shower, and he felt dirty and gritty from travel.

They hadn’t made it down to retrieve their bags, either, and no one had brought them up. Michael wasn’t sure when everyone else had gone to bed, but he was sincerely hoping they were all still in it. He needed a shower before he could be at the top of his game. He knuckled sleep from his eyes as he descended the stairs. His hair, when he ran his hand through it, felt lanky and greasy.

The stairs felt like ice against his feet, and he hustled down them as quickly and quietly as possible. As he grew closer to the ground floor, he heard voices and the clang of kitchen items being moved about.

He slowed down.

“I want a Christmas like old times,” said Mrs. Stewart. Her voice was tense and sharp like a whip. Michael froze, glancing behind him cautiously and then settling against the wall just out of sight.

“They’re not children anymore.” The voice was deep and exasperated sounding. Definitely Mr. Stewart.

There was the crash of some kitchen item being slammed down. “That’s beside the point! You need to go easier on Max’s fellow!”

“I’m already going easy on him.”

“You insulted him last night. And you insulted Max.”

“I was asking a valid question. I’m allowed to be worried about the state of my son’s finances. What if he spends all of Max’s money?”

“That’s not for you to decide.” Another slam, this time of a cabinet door, going by the thud.

“He’s my son, and it’s
his
money. I have a right to voice my opinion.”

Michael could hear Mrs. Stewart’s heavy sigh all the way from his position. “Jonathon,” she said, sounding rather cranky, “Max told you that Michael makes more money than him. He might not even touch what Max makes to get this new degree.”

“I don’t believe that,” he said, stubborn to the core. “There’s no way he makes more money when my son is a doctor for God’s sake!”

Michael rolled his eyes. Max worked in a morgue. Yes, technically he was a doctor, but city medical examiners weren’t the big buck making type of doctors. Going by the newest slammed item and the resounding bang, Mrs. Stewart had had a similar thought.

“You need,” she finally said, after several moments of silence, “to get over this. You don’t have to like him, though that would make our son very happy, but you need to be polite. He’s a member of this family. Do you want Max to never come back again? You’re going to drive him away by acting like a prat.”

Mr. Stewart harrumphed, but he didn’t say anything else.

Michael waited another minute, feeling vaguely guilty for eavesdropping, before he continued on down. He could see their bags sitting by the entryway and made a beeline right for them.

He had just hefted them up and started to turn when Mr. Stewart came out from the kitchen area, newspaper in his hand and frown on his face. Michael hesitated. Mr. Stewart stared.

“Good morning,” Michael said.

He looked reluctant about it, but he did grudgingly say, “Good morning,” back. He paused and then added, “Your clothes are quite wrinkled.”

Michael smiled tightly. Clearly Mrs. Stewart hadn’t gotten through. “Yes, well, our bags were down here, so they’re not exactly fresh.”

He moved as if to go around Mr. Stewart, but the man held an arm out to block him. Michael paused, he sighed. “Yes?”

“I apologize for my behavior last night.”

Michael blinked several times as he tried to process what he had just heard. His mouth was hanging open. Nervously he licked his lips. “Thank you,” he said, “but I really think you should apologize to Max.”

Mr. Stewart looked taken aback.

Hitting his stride, digging down into that well of confidence he had when he was at work, he said, “He’s your son. He loves you and cares quite a lot about what you think.”

“And you don’t?”

He scratched at his morning stubble, trying to think of how to go about wording it. “I care about what you think only in how it pertains to Max.” He decided honesty was the best way to go. “I like Christmas in Toronto. I like spending the holiday with my family. If this,” he motioned around the room, “doesn’t work, then the only person that’s going to be hurt is your son.”

It was Mr. Stewart’s turn to look stupefied. “That’s very blunt,” he finally managed.

Michael moved around him and paused on the bottom step of the stairs. “I’ve spent the entire time I’ve known you biting my tongue. That hasn’t been working so well.” He didn’t wait for his reply, but hurried up the stairs. He had a warm and sleepy partner waiting for him in his bed.

Max was stretching as Michael came into the room. His arms were up over his head, his head buried in his pillow, and his back not even touching the bed. His jaw cracked as he yawned. Michael dropped the suitcases by the door and crossed the room to kneel on the bed beside Max.

“Morning,” he said, bending and pressing a kiss to Max’s slack lips. Max responded languidly, flicking his tongue against Michael’s upper lip.

Max was giggling as he pulled away, licking his lips and scrunching his nose up. “You have horrible morning breath.”

Michael lay down on top of him, resting his head beside Max’s on the pillow.

“Oomph,” Max groaned. He spread his legs so Michael rested in the cradle of his hips.

“Your breath isn’t so fresh either.”

“My mouth feels like cotton,” Max admitted. He ran the arch of his foot up and down Michael’s jean-clad calf. “Why are you dressed?” he muttered, burying his hands under Michael’s shirt and kneading at his back.

Michael lipped at his earlobe, tugging on it for a second. “I went and got our bags. Didn’t want to walk round in shorts with your family in the house.” He thought about letting Max know what he had overheard, but decided against it. He didn’t want to ruin the moment.

He kissed him again, sloppily moving his lips over Max’s. They rutted lazily together, soft rolls of their hips and languid strokes of their tongues. Michael rolled so Max was on top, drawing up his knees to bracket his hips.

“We need a shower,” he said, mouthing the words into Max’s jaw line as he pulled away. “I feel gross.”

Max pinched his side. “Words everyone wants to hear when they’re kissing someone.” He pulled away, kneeling between Michael’s thighs. “You want to shower together?”

“Is that a rhetorical question?”

Max rolled his eyes, but he scrambled up from the bed. “Come on, up, up!”

Michael rolled off the bed, glancing at their suitcases as Max tugged him out of the bedroom. “Don’t we need…?”

“Nope. I just need to grab towels.”

He snagged towels from the linen closet beside the bathroom and tossed them on the sink. The bathroom was decent sized for a guest bath and only required the tiniest bit of maneuvering around each other.

Max crouched and rummaged through the bin under the sink, pulling out two toothbrushes and tossing one to Michael. “Teeth first if I’m going to be kissing you more.”

Michael finished first, disappearing into the shower and letting the hot water cleanse his skin and relax his muscles. He closed his eyes at the water dripped onto his face. The curtain rustled as Max entered, wrapping himself around Michael from behind. He started mouthing at Michael’s shoulder, teeth working at the muscle.

His hands were running over Michael’s stomach, down his hips and over the tops of his thighs. Michael swayed back into him, rubbing his butt against Max’s thickening erection.

The shower was a little bit cramped, not really made for two grown men of their size. Michael was pretty sure if he were to grip the shower rod and apply even the slightest pressure the whole thing would come tumbling down.

Max turned him around, dropping to his knees rather quickly and wincing as they made contact with the porcelain. Michael dropped his hand to Max’s head, fingers running through the soft golden strands. His back blocked the water from hitting Max, his broad shoulders taking the brunt. He spread his legs to better brace himself.

Lips quirked, Max stared up at him from lidded eyes. “All prepared?”

“Ready for takeoff,” Michael rejoined.

Max snorted, moving forward and taking the head of Michael’s cock into his mouth. He swirled his tongue around the sensitive flesh, teasing, before he took it further. He stopped when Michael tapped the back of his throat. Michael’s fingers clenched in Max’s hair; he had to resist the urge to thrust.

After a moment to get used to the sensation, Max moved his head forward and swallowed around Michael.