by Meg Harding
“I threw up in his luxury car.”
“It’s not like you did it on purpose.”
“He’s going to have to upgrade again. He’s going to have to get a million-dollar car to top this one.”
Max’s legs squeezed him where they bracketed his hips. “Don’t be absurd. You know he sent me in here to ask if you were okay.”
“No, he didn’t.”
Max huffed, ruffling Michael’s hair with his breath. His scalp tingled. “He would have if I hadn’t been going to do it anyway.”
Michael snorted into his neck, and Max wiggled. “Gross,” he said, “I can feel where you just spit on my neck.” Michael kissed his neck. “That’s better.” Michael held tight to him.
“We can’t hide in here all day,” Max said.
Michael didn’t say anything to that.
Max forced Michael’s head back and held his face, framed by both of Max’s hands. He waited ’til Michael reluctantly opened his eyes. Slowly he leaned forward and kissed his forehead, then both his cheeks, the tip of his nose, and his lips, just a quick brush.
“I love you,” Max said. “I love you, and it’s all okay.” He smiled a bit. “Technically this whole thing is my dad’s fault for driving like an asshole. He knows it; I know it; my mum knows it. Nobody is mad at you.” His grin broadened just the tiniest bit. “And your aim was superb. All on the floor mat. He can just toss it and buy a new one. No damage to the car.”
Michael groaned.
“It’s Christmas,” whispered Max. “I want to enjoy it. Where’s the spirit, huh?”
“I threw the spirit up,” said Michael.
Max rubbed their noses together, then shoved him back, hopping down from the counter. “Come on, Mr. Mopey. You’re going to go out there, and you’re not going to apologize anymore, and my father isn’t going to behead you. We’re going to go home and sleep, and tomorrow will be a brand new day, yeah?”
Michael stared at Max’s earnest face and his hopeful smile, the dimple on the left side of his mouth, and the crooked incisor on the right. He looked at the crinkles around Max’s eyes and the wrinkles in the skin on his forehead. “Yeah,” he said, grabbing hold of Max’s hand.
This was just one blip. A tiny little thing. His stomach was much better now, and he doubted Mr. Stewart would be driving so crazily again. He could do this. He could give Max the Christmas he wanted.
They left the restroom hand in hand and made their way out to where Max’s parents were waiting for them by the curb. Michael could see the floor mat poking out from the trashcan on the corner of the street. He turned his gaze away and fought down the apology he could feel rising in the back of his throat.
He had already apologized. Another one wouldn’t fix anything.
He couldn’t stop the blush, though. He could feel his cheeks heating right up, the warmth suffusing his face. A speck of snow landed on his face, and he could feel it melting, the little drop of water sliding down to his jaw.
There wasn’t any chitchat, no exchange of pleasantries. Max’s parents got right in the front seats and the two of them in the back. The drive was silent; the faint sound of the radio on some talk station filtered through the car, but Michael wasn’t paying attention.
He curled up on the back seat, his head in Max’s lap, and closed his eyes. He made sure to kick his shoes off before he put his feet on the seat. Max’s hand burrowed into his hair, alternating between lightly tugging on the strands and scratching his scalp.
Michael had to keep shifting his body, as it was a tight fit. He was tall and the backseat fairly cramped. His head never left Max’s lap, though.
Despite the ache in his body from the weird ways he was contorting himself, he felt much better, and the drive passed much more quickly. He waited to sit up ’til after Max’s parents had vacated the car.
“Are you ready?” asked Max, moving his hand to rest on Michael’s shoulder.
Was he ready to greet Max’s siblings and other assorted family members? No.
“Yes,” he said, smiling tightly. “Who all is in?”
“Just my brother and sister, and my aunt and cousin. Everybody else is coming tomorrow.”
Doable. It was all doable, he told himself as he slid from the car after Max. They grabbed their bags from Max’s father, and Michael made sure to thank him as he took his. Mr. Stewart nodded at him and led them inside.
They had to stop in the entryway to wipe their shoes off and set them aside. Coats went next and were shaken under the doorstep awning to remove any snow that lingered on them. They were hung on pegs in the wall.
The Stewarts’ house was large and spacious and not at all decorated for Christmas. As they made their way into the family room, Michael could see there wasn’t even a tree.
Mrs. Stewart must have seen the question on his face, because she said, “We were waiting for Max to get here. All the children can help decorate. It’ll be like old times.”
Maybe Michael was paranoid, but it felt like there was an unsaid “before you took him away” tacked on there. He smiled despite that, making a little “ah” sound. Max beamed at his mother though and dropped his bag to hug her. “What a lovely idea,” he said, “We can introduce Michael to all the old family traditions.”
“Yes, won’t that be interesting?” muttered Max’s father.
Michael looked the other way as if he was examining the wall. “Are we staying in Max’s old room?” he asked after a moment.
“Yes,” answered Mr. Stewart. He looked like he was about to say something else, but footsteps thundered down the stairs and suddenly Max was being lifted into the air in a tight hug.
“Oi!” he shouted, his hands clapping down on his brother’s shoulders. “Put me down, wanker!”
Michael smirked, watching the two of them tussle like children. Max’s sister, Catherine, came to stand by his side. Out of all the Stewarts, other than Max, she was the one Michael was the most comfortable with and the only one he really talked to.
She nudged his side with her elbow. “I’m surprised to see you here.”
He nudged her back. “You’re not the only one.”
They watched as Max moved on to greet his aunt and cousin. Their voices were loud and bouncing off the walls in their excitement. Max’s brother—Darren—came over and thrust his hand out. “Michael,” he said.
Michael shook his hand, well aware of just how much Darren resembled Mr. Stewart. “Darren,” he said, “Good to see you.”
Darren dropped his hand, looking him up and down. Michael withheld his sigh and let him look. “Dad said you threw up in the Jag,” Darren finally said.
Michael closed his eyes. Catherine hissed, “Darren!”
Rubbing his temple Michael was about to try and defend himself when Max came over and joined their little group. He shoved Darren out of the way with his hip and gathered Catherine up into his arms. “How’s my favorite sister?” he cooed at her.
She snorted, squeezing her arms tight around his neck. “I’m your only sister.”
Max slanted Darren a look and pressed a kiss to Catherine’s forehead. “You’re right. I should have said favorite sibling.”
“Hey now!” Darren whacked Max’s arm, causing Max to jump away and chuckle.
He maneuvered himself so he was between Michael and Catherine, an arm around both their waists. “Were you bothering my man?” he asked Darren.
Darren had the grace to look sheepish as he rubbed his fingers along his jaw. “I asked him about the Jag. Dad said something….”
Michael watched as Max’s eyes narrowed and his lips pursed. “Dad said something? When did he even have the time?”
Darren shrugged. “He texted me. Let me know you were running a bit behind.” He turned more toward Michael. “He didn’t mean it in a mean type of way or anything.”
Michael waved his hand carelessly through the air, doing his best to keep his face blank. “It’s all fine.”
Going by the tightness in Max
’s face, it wasn’t all fine. Michael squeezed Max’s side and leaned his hip into him. Catherine was looking at them both with concern, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth.
Oblivious to the tense atmosphere, Max’s aunt and her son made their way over. His aunt was beaming wide as she went up on tiptoes to bestow a kiss on Michael’s cheek. He blinked in shock, his hand coming up to touch the skin of his cheek briefly.
“Hello,” he said, surprised.
She was still smiling widely up at him. “You must be Michael,” she said. “It’s so good to finally meet you.”
Max withdrew his arm from around Catherine so he could motion with it. “This is Mary. My mum’s sister.”
Michael was more than a little relieved he’d never met her before. Here was someone whom he could make a good first impression on. He took her hand and brought the back of it to his lips, pressing a brief kiss to the slightly wrinkled skin. “Pleasure to meet you,” he said.
Beside him Max was rolling his eyes and Catherine looked amused, but Mary was blushing and her eyes were crinkling at the corners with her smile.
Michael beamed at her, and her blush grew even darker as he let her hand go. She swatted at Max. “You’ve got yourself a charmer there,” she tittered.
Max shot him a sidelong look. “Yes,” he said, “I apparently have.”
Her son stepped forward, his lips quirked in amusement. He held his hand out for Michael to shake. “I’m Joe. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
Michael shook his hand, chuckling a little bit. “All good I hope?”
“Max sings your praises,” Joe assured.
Turning to Max, Michael pressed a kiss to his cheek. “You sing my praises, huh? That’s good to know.”
Groaning, Max clapped his free hand over his eyes. “God, why did you have to tell him that? Now his ego is going to be massive!”
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.
Chapter Three
RAIN 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 possi
ble. 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.