Quite a Spectacle (4 page)

He had to shove his fist into his mouth to mute his shout as Max’s throat muscles worked around his cock.

“Fuck,” he groaned, teeth clenched tight, digging into his hand.

Fingers were running over his balls with light, teasing strokes. Max was bobbing up and down, taking him completely in on every other stroke. When he pulled back for a breather, a long line of saliva connected his mouth to Michael’s cock.

He licked his lips, severing the connection and looking all too tantalizing.

“Can I?” asked Michael, more than a little breathless.

Max nodded, taking just the head of Michael’s cock back into his mouth.

Michael brought the hand he’d been using to muffle himself to hold Max’s head still and began to thrust, holding nothing back. Max didn’t move at all, just moaned around the intrusion, as Michael’s hips snapped forward and back.

Max’s hands rested on his thighs. Michael could see him clenching his skin, the knuckles of his hands turning white. Michael’s breathing sped up as he got closer, and his hips snapped forward one last time. He held Max’s head still, Max’s lips stretched wide around him and touching his pelvis as he came.

He was just withdrawing, slowly, from Max’s mouth, stroking the side of his face and preparing to drag him up for a sloppy kiss, when they heard pounding on the door. Max dropped his head onto Michael’s thigh hard enough that he had to put a hand to the shower wall to keep himself from staggering back.

Michael looked down at him, mouthing, “What do we do?”

Wiping his hand over his mouth, Max stood. “You stay right here.” Max stepped out of the shower, and a moment later, Michael heard the snick of the door being opened. “Mum, what are you doing?”

“You need to hurry up. Your father wants to get a move on, and you haven’t even been down to breakfast.”

“I’ll be just a couple more minutes,” Max assured her. Michael fidgeted, his plans for reciprocation flying out the window.

“He’s going to be coming up here and if he sees the two of you leaving this bathroom together—”

“Mum!”

Michael dropped his head into his hands.

“I wasn’t born yesterday, Max.”

The door shut.

Silence.

“Did you just shut the door in your mother’s face?” asked Michael.

Max pulled the curtain aside and stepped back into the shower. “I was doing all of us a favor.”

Michael reached for the soap on the rack behind Max’s head, pouring a good amount into his cupped hand. “Think we can wash in under a minute?”

Max took the soap from him. “Don’t be silly. We’ve got at least two.”

T
HE
TREE
lot was packed. It was like watching an ant farm at work. Everywhere you looked someone scuttled about. You could barely hear yourself speak over the noise.

A lot of trouble could be saved if everyone just bought himself or herself a nice fake tree.

He’d never seen so many scandalized faces staring back at him at once, which was really saying something given some of the art he displayed in his gallery.

He dodged a manic-looking woman with her scarf flying behind her and her parka making her look like a giant pink marshmallow. In the process of dodging the marshmallow, he knocked into an overcoat-wearing, tight-faced gentlemen clutching his son’s hand and scowling fiercely at everything around him. Apologizing to that man, he insinuated himself between two bristling trees and resisted the urge to take a seat in the snow.

At least he was out of the way.

These people really took their tree buying seriously.

He watched as two women got in a fight over “the perfect tree.” He covered his eyes and minutes later peeked. It was still happening.

It wasn’t even noon and these people were on a rampage for a Christmas tree. He didn’t understand it.

“Are you hiding?”

He jerked, his shoulder swinging into the tree on his left. The whole thing shook. People turned to look. He spun around to face Catherine, who was wearing a big smirk on her face as she snickered at him.

“Give a guy some warning,” he said.

She flicked a snowflake from the tip of her nose. “Where’s the fun in that?” She reached out and brushed at his shoulder, pine needles fluttered to the ground. “Max is looking for you.”

“I don’t get why you don’t just get a plastic tree. We get a plastic tree. Max is perfectly content with that.”

Her eyebrows winged right up her forehead. “You
are
hiding.”

He leaned forward, getting close to her face. “These people,” he gestured around, “are insane.”

Catherine had the nerve to laugh at him, a deep-bellied laugh, before she grabbed his hand and proceeded to haul him from his little nook. “It’s a tradition! Take part, relax, let the arguments wash over you.” She turned to smile at him. “Just wait ’til we start decorating.”

“Oh god,” he groaned, “do we have to go shopping for those too?”

They zigzagged around a woman and her seven children. “No, but if you think this is the last bit of Christmas shopping you’re going to be doing, I feel sorry for you.”

Max came out of nowhere, walking right into Michael, and wrapped his arms around him. Catherine dropped his hand so Michael could hug Max back. “I’m so cold,” Max whined. “I’ve got snow in my shirt.”

“Why do you have snow in your shirt?”

He nuzzled his face into Michael’s neck. “Darren,” he grumbled. “Bastard thought it would be funny.”

“It’s impressive he managed to get through the layers,” Michael pointed out. He could barely feel Max beneath all the clothes he was wearing. He nudged his head up and kissed his nose, laughing at the way Max scrunched it up in response. “Did your father finally pick a tree?”

The man in question walked up just then, his wife’s hand tucked into the crook of his elbow. “I have not yet found a suitable tree.” He opened his mouth as if he was going to say more. Michael watched as Mrs. Stewart squeezed his arm, and his mouth snapped shut.

“Do you not pick out a tree back home?” Mrs. Stewart asked him.

Max turned his head so his face wasn’t smashed into Michael’s neck. “We don’t,” he answered. “We have a lovely fake tree. Less mess.”

Cue appalled looks.

They both chuckled. Max turned himself around so his back was to Michael’s chest. Since they were close to the same height, his hair brushed the side of Michael’s face and ticked his nose.

“We decided it was best to create our own Christmas traditions. Change it up a bit.”

Michael squeezed him, dropping his chin to rest it again Max’s shoulder.

“Well what do you two do?” asked his mother.

“We decorate the house,” said Max.

“Normally in a theme,” joined in Michael.

“And on Christmas Eve we have a picnic in the family room. We light the fire….”

“We have a plate of treats for Buddy.”

“We watch a film and play some board games.”

“We stuff ourselves with fatty foods.”

“It’s fantastic.”

Michael pressed a kiss to Max’s cold cheek, his lips curving up in a smile against the skin.

There was a shout for them right then, Darren signaling that he’d found a potential tree. They all clomped their way through the slushy snow to take a gander at the tree in question. Michael thought it looked a lot like every other tree in the lot, but Mr. Stewart was walking around it,
hmm
-ing and
ah
-ing.

“Good job,” Mr. Stewart finally said, slapping Darren on the back. “This is the one.”

Darren looked pleased as punch as he hurried off to find someone to help them with the tree.

“Who’s Buddy?” asked Mrs. Stewart.

“Theme?” questioned Mr. Stewart at the same time.

Michael blinked, a little taken aback since he’d thought that conversation was done with.

“Buddy’s our dog,” he said, “Our little pride and joy.”

Max snorted. He tugged on his scarf, resituating it as he huffed. “He’s our big pride and joy. He’s got us wrapped around his paw.”

Mrs. Stewart looked thrilled. “Oh, that’s just delightful! I didn’t know you two had a dog. How long have you had him?”

Catherine looked away, shifting awkwardly in the snow. She started playing with a tree branch near her. Max was fidgeting as well, looking at a point beyond his mother’s face.

“We’ve had him for about five years now,” Michael said. “Max got him for our three year anniversary.”

Her mouth formed a tiny little “O.”

Michael wasn’t sure if Max’s dad just really wanted to know or if he was trying to put an end to the awkwardness, but Mr. Stewart once again demanded, “What do you mean theme?”

Max looked at him, his face losing some of the blankness that had come over it. “You know,” he said, “we theme our decorations. Like… last year we had a Marvel Christmas. All our decorations were in superhero colors and we had superhero ornaments for the tree. The year before that we did Tim Burton.”

His father looked so confused.

Catherine clapped her hands, bouncing a little where she stood. “That sounds lovely. I would love to see Christmas at your home.”

Max tugged her into a one-armed hug. “You’re always welcome.”

Michael thought with their parkas and their beanies they looked like two clouds hugging.

Darren came back just then, lot attendant in tow, and all further conversation was derailed in the wake of trying to figure out what to do with the tree. Joe appeared from who knew where, offering his car as the tree couldn’t go on the Jag.

That decided, it took quite a bit to get the tree onto his car and secured. Couldn’t have the tree flying off into the road, now could they? Michael snickered at the image that brought to mind, and Max elbowed him, as if he knew exactly what Michael was thinking.

The two of them drove back with Joe and Mary, for which Michael was incredibly grateful. They were forced to listen to Christmas music thanks to Mary, but it was still better than getting in the Jag under Mr. Stewart’s judgmental eye.

As they drove little pine needles floated down past the window, and Michael watched London flash by. People were everywhere, swarming over the city in their last-bid efforts to secure presents or decorations. He was honestly baffled that so many people put off everything until the last minute. Christmas was the next day, it wasn’t a changeable day; they had plenty of time to secure everything they needed beforehand.

Lights sparkled from storefronts and a light snow fell from the sky. He’d been told it would most likely turn to slush as the rain came later in the day once more.

Everyone was bundled up tight, big parkas and scarves all but obscuring them. That at least was a familiar sight. This London winter had nothing on Toronto as far as Michael was concerned.

Getting the tree up into the house was another challenge. Michael was left to supervise—in other words, stand there and be useless—as the Stewart men set about trying to maneuver it. It was so large the only way to fit it through the doorway would be to shove it. But then the branches might break.

He stood, his back to Joe’s car, with the ladies standing next to him. They watched as the men staggered under the weight of the tree. Michael was counting down the time ’til one of them slipped and fell on the slick ground.

While they were watching the spectacle in front of them, three cars pulled up to the curb, and people began to unload from them like clowns from a clown car. Little kids were spilling onto the sidewalk and adults were hurrying out after them. A few of the men went right for the tree, joining in on the planning, while everyone else came to where Michael was standing with the ladies.

Pleasantries went round as he was introduced to all of Max’s family, none of whom he had met before. Lots of handshaking and stilted hellos, as he tried to figure out who was who and keep up with the rush of information. He had had no clue Max’s family was so large.

They were all, for the most part, warm and welcoming. Oh, they had heard such wonderful things from Max and Catherine, and oh it was lovely to place a face to a name. He smiled as wide as he could and tried to keep up with everything, which was quite difficult as they all tried to talk over each other.

The sounds of a countdown brought a halt to the introductions as everyone turned to watch the tree get ready to make its way through the door.

“Five pounds says someone goes down,” said Michael.

“I’ve got ten on that,” joined in a cousin.

“Twenty,” said Mrs. Stewart.

Michael turned to look at her, surprised. She smirked cheekily up at him and winked.

Catherine was laughing as Michael turned to her and mouthed, “Oh my god.”

The first part of the tree, the narrowest, cleared the door. The middle section was coming up, hands trying to lightly bend the branches and keep all the needles in place. They were wiggling it through the door, shaking it this way and that. Michael was reminded of a corkscrew.

Catherine saw it at the same time he did, and they both were already braced to wince.

Mr. Stewart moved to the side while Max was in the middle of trying to rescue a branch. His hip bumped Max. Max’s head bumped into the doorframe, and as he jolted back, his feet went out from under him.

Down he went.

Michael was at his side in an instant, hand under his head, grimacing at the wet feeling of his beanie. “Are you okay?”

Max groaned. “I think I broke my ass.”

Michael smiled down at him reassuringly. “I doubt it. You’ve had worse ice skating.”

He helped him up, dusting snow off his back and the seat of his jeans.

The tree had cleared the door, his family not stopping their efforts to see if he was okay. Michael was going to give them the benefit of the doubt and believe they’d figured Michael was enough help.

Mrs. Stewart came over, stuffing notes in her pocket. She held some of them out to Michael. “Here you go, Michael.”

Max’s eyes narrowed. Michael ignored him, taking the notes with a smile and sliding them into his pocket. “Thank you, Mrs. Stewart.”

“Felisha,” she said. “Let’s lay off the Mrs.”