Quite a Spectacle

by Meg Harding

  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.

  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 togethe
r—”

  “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.”

  THE 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 Mich
ael 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.