Quite a Spectacle (5 page)

He beamed at her. “Thank you, Felisha.”

She winked at him as she moved past them to go inside.

Max felt his head. “Am I hallucinating? Did the fall concuss me?”

Grabbing both sides of Max’s face, Michael smacked their lips together—to the chuckles of Max’s family as they filtered past. “Your mother likes me!”

Max’s expression was all scrunched up in his grasp. “She gave you money,” he muttered. “Why did she give you money?”

Michael kissed him again, deeper this time. Max was unresponsive at first, but he got into it after a moment, wrapping his arms around Michael’s neck. He pulled away a minute later, lips trailing up to Michael’s ear. “I want to know why she gave you money.”

“If it’s any consolation, I wanted anyone but you to fall,” Michael said.

Max shoved him away, lightly. “You tosser! Making money off my pain.”

Michael laughed, reeling him back in. “Tosser, huh? We’re back for a day, and you’re using their slang already.”

“God, you’re a pain in my arse,” Max muttered.

F
OR
SUCH
an uptight, stuffy person, Mr. Stewart sure did love his Christmas decorations. There were boxes filled with ornaments for the tree and boxes more filled with tinsel and lights. There were containers stuffed to the brim with Christmas knick-knacks and odds and ends to be placed throughout the house.

Max, Michael, Catherine, and Darren were on tree duty. They each got their very own portion of the tree to deck out however they pleased. Michael had Felisha to thank for his tree decorating status, as she had insisted he take part in the task previously only given to her own children.

Catherine had nudged him, wrapping an arm around his waist and squeezing. “One down, one to go,” she said, going up on tiptoes to peck his cheek.

“Who knew,” Michael had muttered to Max as they helped bring the boxes down from the attic, “that your mother would be swayed by a bet.”

“She just wanted you to show some cheek. You’re always so demure. She thought I married a mouse.”

“Will your father be won over so easily?” he had asked, pausing in the act of lifting another box.

Max set the box he was holding down, frowning at him. “You know, she heard you this morning, standing up to him—which we’re going to have a talk about. I can’t believe you didn’t tell me you yelled at my father. She was very proud, though. It earned you an inch with him, but an inch isn’t all you’ll need. He’s a lot harder to crack than my mother.”

Michael thought that was the understatement of the century, but he chose to focus on the immediate problem. “I didn’t think it was necessary and I can’t believe your mom heard.” He couldn’t contain his groan of embarrassment.

Max shot him a stern look that clearly implied they would be discussing it later.

Once the lights were on the tree, they were free to begin decorating, and Michael rubbed his hands together in glee as he dug into the box. If Max’s parents were anything like Michael’s, there would be childhood gems stashed within these boxes: pictures of them as babies and little trinkets they had made in art classes.

The first baby picture he found was of Catherine, in a frilly little red dress, looking all kinds of angry as she screamed at the camera. “I can see nothing has changed there,” he said, laughing as she tried to swipe it away from him.

“Give that here, right now!” she yelled, smacking at his arm.

Max snuck around behind him to take a peak. “That’s Mum’s favorite,” he said, “She has it hanging in their bedroom too.”

Catherine groaned the groan of the defeated and flounced back to her portion. “I’m going to come to Toronto and find all your shameful baby photos,” she swore.

“He’s got some priceless ones,” said the traitor Max.

“All my baby photos are perfection,” Michael harrumphed.

Max shook his head all exaggerated-like, and when Michael turned to scold him, Max quickly changed it to a fast nod.

He tossed a strand of tinsel at him, but a sharp call of “Children, behave” had him turning sheepishly back to the box.

The tree was filling up quickly, and Michael was convinced by the time they were done there would be an ornament on every branch. He’d stopped looking for specific ornaments and started just reaching in and grabbing the first thing he found not long after they’d started.

When he did finally pull what was clearly another photo from the pile, he was looking forward to finally getting that picture of Max as a baby. He flipped it over, all excited, and froze at the image before him.

His thumb stroked over the picture as a soft smile crossed his face.

Michael had been in London for several months helping a friend get their gallery up and running, and he’d met Max getting coffee one morning. Max had walked right into him and spilled his latte all down Michael’s pants. Michael had asked him on a date, because that’s what you did when handsome men spilled their coffee on you.

This particular picture was from their third date, when Max had scored them front row seats to see Blink-182. They were sitting in their seats, Michael’s head tucked down into the crook of Max’s neck. Max was laughing and Michael had his head tilted so he could bite at Max’s jaw.

Max had the ridiculous scraggly beard he had been trying to grow at that point and his green eyes were an alarming shade of red from the flash. Michael’s lip ring he’d sported at the time was glinting. His own eyes had somehow missed the demon coloring and remained a clear blue.

They’d lost the facial hair and the piercings, and they were a wee bit older, but nothing really had changed. Nothing that mattered, at least.

“What are you looking at?”

Max hooked his chin on Michael’s shoulder to peer down at the picture.

“Oh my god,” he said, “I didn’t know they had this.” He made a grabby motion with his hand, but Michael shook his head and didn’t let go.

“Look at that beard thing you’ve got going,” Michael laughed. “It took me weeks to convince you it needed to go.”

“How did they even get this?” Max wondered aloud.

“Get what?”

Michael started a little as Mr. Stewart came to stand beside them and look down at the photo. He reached his hand out for it, and Michael obligingly handed the picture over. Oddly enough the man smiled just the tiniest bit as he looked down at it. “Your mother found a copy on the computer and had it printed. She said she’d never seen you look so sappy.”

He shook his head and handed the photo back, trailing off to hang the garland he had slung over his shoulder.

Michael blinked after him, but quickly turned back to Max. He brandished the picture. “Your parents have a copy of this for their Christmas tree,” he said. “Do you know what that means?”

Max arched a brow. “That they like the picture?”

“But it’s us! On their Christmas tree! I make you look sappy!”

Leaning forward, Max kissed him. He brushed their noses together as he pulled away. “Hang it up, love.” Michael did, hanging it at eye level. Max bumped his shoulder and dropped the snowflake he was holding into Michael’s empty hands. “Get working, soldier; lots to do.”

Felisha wandered by with a bunch of paper crowns in her hand. Michael frowned, distracted from his task. “What are those?” he asked, curious.

“We wear them on Christmas.”

He turned to look at Max and Max nodded along. “It’s tradition,” he said.

“Like… birthday hats?”

“Close enough,” said Catherine, going up on her tiptoes to hang a bright green orb.

Michael tried to picture all of the men and women in this room wearing the flimsy paper crowns. Mr. Stewart especially came to mind. He couldn’t help the smirk that curled up his lips.

“What other traditions do you have?” he asked.

Max’s uncle, William, answered him. “We pull crackers, and we do Boxing Day.”

“Crackers?”

Darren was riffling through his box when he answered. “Little tubes, you pull and treats pop out. We stuff the crowns in them, too.”

Catherine grabbed his arm and beamed up at him. “And you know what Boxing Day is, right?”

“I do, actually.”

Her smile grew wider. “Good, cause I’m taking you with me.”

Max leaned forward so he could clearly see her. “We were going to go anyway.”

She rolled her eyes. “I know who buys my presents out of the two of you. Michael is staying with me.”

Michael smiled at that, gently shaking her loose and resuming his decorating of the tree. Max dressed himself quite well, but when it came to picking out clothes for his sister, he seemed to think she was an old lady with a dozen cats. Michael had quickly taken over the task.

“So does everyone do Boxing Day?”

Mary answered from the other side of the room. “We all do.”

Joe piped up from where he was trying to sweep up all the pine needles, “It’s a good way to spend all the money you got on Christmas.”

Felisha stopped between Max and Michael to regard the tree. “If you’re my husband, it’s the day you go and return ninety percent of what you were bought to use that money to buy something else.”

The whole room erupted in laughter, and Michael turned to regard Mr. Stewart, who was stoically staring at the mantel as he tried to arrange the garland artfully. His cheeks were looking slightly flushed.

“Do you really do that?” he asked.

He cleared his throat, sighed, and turned to look at the room. “Yes, I do. I’ve been told I’m very hard to gift for.”

That led to more laughter. Clearly his family was used to it and not at all insulted.

He thought of what Max had picked out for the man: an elegant tiepin in the shape of a dragon. He wondered if that would somehow make it back onto someone’s shelves.

Max nudged him. “He can’t return ours. They don’t have the same store.” His grin looked smug, and Michael couldn’t help but laugh.

Mindy, Max’s teenage cousin, asked, “Did you two already give each other your gifts?”

“Some of them,” Max said. “We’ve got one each for tomorrow and then a couple left for when we’re back home.”

“What did you get each other?” piped in Felisha.

Michael could feel the gazes of everyone in the room zooming in on him and Max. He made sure to keep hanging ornaments as he answered. “Max got me a gorgeous new coat, the newest model of the Kindle, several films, and—my personal favorite—an Iron Man bobblehead signed by the man himself.”

Catherine gasped from beside him. “How the hell did you manage that?”

Max wore a smug smile, making his dimples look very prominent. “New York Comic Con. Michael couldn’t go this year ’cause he had a show. I felt bad leaving him behind, but seeing his face when I gave him Iron Man was priceless.”

Joe called from across the room where he was trying to center a wreath over the fireplace, “How did you manage to top that Michael?”

Michael shook his head, fond smile twisting his lips up at the corners. “I didn’t. I don’t think anyone could top that.”

Max plopped himself down on the floor to fill up the bottom of the tree, which was all he had left to cover in his section. He chuckled and shook his head. “Michael is a fantastic giver. He got me tickets to see Green Day and a weekend spa getaway.”

Mary whistled. “I would love to be in your relationship. Who gifts like that? Really?”

Her husband, Ryan, a big lumberjack-looking fellow, gave a gruff, “Hey!”

She shushed him.

Michael and Max both laughed, shrugging it off. They had always gifted a little bit extravagantly, but it worked for them. Besides, who didn’t like extravagant gifts?

The room around them devolved into everyone guessing what everyone else had gotten them. Michael finished his bit of the tree a little after Max, and they collapsed together onto the sofa, watching the people around them decorate.

Max tilted his head back on Michael’s shoulder, nose grazing his jaw. “My dad’s going to yell at us in a couple minutes and give us a new task.”

“I figured,” Michael whispered. “I just want a moment.”

His family wasn’t like this. Christmas was a small affair of maybe ten or so people. They didn’t help decorate, and while they were loud, they had nothing on the volume being reached by Max’s family.

He liked it. It was different and new and more than a little exhausting.

It made Max so happy.

Max was completely relaxed against Michael, a little smile on his face and his eyes crinkling at the corners. He was laughing frequently at the antics of his family, little huffs that jolted his body against Michael’s. Michael rubbed Max’s side, fingers drumming a random pattern. If he did it for long, Max would start to feel ticklish and begin to squirm.

A rain of tinsel fell over their heads, and Michael spluttered as one strand ended up in his open mouth.

“Thank you, Catherine,” Max said wryly, pulling strands off his face and feeling around in his hair for the rest.

Michael helped him, fishing out strings of tinsel and tossing them toward the tree.

Mr. Stewart made his way over and stared down at them. Michael resisted the urge to squirm. “Why don’t you two pick two people and go outside and string up the lights.” He hesitated. “Michael,” he said after a moment, “you can be in charge. Make sure it looks decent.”

He couldn’t help the grin he directed at Mr. Stewart, and he practically shoved Max off of him in his eagerness to get up and on with the task given. This was an olive branch, and you could bet he was going to take it.

“I
HATE
you,” Catherine yelled at him, clinging to the top of a ladder and trying to pin the lights around a window frame.

Michael took several steps back to see more clearly how she was doing. “You’ve almost got it,” he said, “drape it a little more on the bottom and make them tighter on the top and then you can come down.”

Joe came to stand next to him. He stared up at Catherine. “I don’t think you’re her favorite anymore.”

“She’s going to get over this.”

“I heard that,” Catherine called down. “I can assure you I won’t.”