Quite a Spectacle (7 page)

Laughing, Michael slowly hefted himself up and bent to retrieve his pants. Max managed to land one solid smack before Michael had them back in place.

They stumbled inside, arms wrapped around each other’s waist, feeling sleepy and slow and more than a little cold. Then they saw the light in the living room, and they stopped in surprise as Mr. Stewart looked up at them from the armchair where he was reading.

His eyebrow went up and he, oddly enough, looked amused. “You could have just used the bed. Unless hypothermia was something you were trying for.”

Michael’s mouth dropped open. Max’s face went red like a tomato. Neither of them managed to say anything.

Mr. Stewart flicked to the next page of his book. “You might want to shower,” he said. “You smell like a brothel, and it’s getting late.”

They went silently up the stairs. About halfway up they heard him chuckling.

“Oh my god,” breathed Michael as they shut the bathroom door behind them. “It’s exactly like being a teenager again.”

Laughter verging on the hysterical filled the bathroom as they fought to catch their breath. Max recovered first, turning on the shower and tugging Michael under the spray.

“At least my father won’t tell anyone.”

W
OLF
WHISTLES
and catcalls greeted them as they descended the stairs the following morning. Everyone else was already in the family room, stacks of presents neatly piled beside them. Michael made as if he were going to turn around and go right back to his room.

Max looked like he was considering it.

“I don’t think so, boys. Sit down,” said Mr. Stewart. He was sitting in his armchair, a stack of presents at his feet and a cup of tea in his hand. He primly took a sip, clearly watching them over the rim of the mug as they entered the room and took a seat side by side on the floor by Catherine.

Their presents were already waiting for them in two neat little piles beside one another. Michael looked at his personal stack and looked at Max. He knew for a fact they weren’t all from Max.

Catherine clapped her hands together and the children in the room wriggled in their spots. “Can we open them now?” she asked.

Mr. Stewart’s smile was fond as he nodded his head. “Happy Christmas everyone. Begin unwrapping.”

It was a bit like a race. Michael watched in awe as teacups and mugs were set aside, and wrapping paper went flying through the air. Even Max was tearing into his presents.

He pulled the first from his stack and set to unwrapping. Max gifted him a snazzy new watch, with multiple unknown dials and little buttons, and a cardigan in a lovely royal blue shade. He pecked him on the lips in thanks and continued with his pile.

Catherine had bought him a collector’s edition set of Lord of the Rings bobbleheads and a pair of padded black handcuffs. He stared down at the handcuffs for several seconds, and when he looked up, it was to find her smirking at him. She winked. He shook his head, laughing quietly, and tucked them back away in their box. They would definitely be of use in the future.

Most of the other presents in the stack were of the couple variety—little odds and ends for their house and such.

The very last present in the stack was addressed solely to him and the “from” bit of the tag read: Jonathon. He frowned. Who was Jonathon?

“That would be from me, Michael.”

He looked up in surprise at Mr. Stewart, then back down at the present. He bit his bottom lip as he tore into the wrapping paper to reveal a plain box. He worked through the packing tape holding the box together—Jonathon was an excessive tape user, it seemed—and flipped the top off.

“Oh my god,” he breathed, staring down at the custom paints. There were acrylics and watercolors and some of the nicest-looking brushes he had ever seen. “This is… this is so much.” Hundreds of dollars’ worth of art supplies. “I don’t know what to say. Thank you, Sir.” He dragged his fingers over the brushes and the paints, truly at a loss for words.

“You can call me Jonathon.”

His mouth may have dropped open a little, as his system took a minute to reboot from the shock. When it did he made sure to make eye contact as he said, “Thank you. Jonathon.”

Beside him Max was pressed tight to his side, and when he turned to look at him he was beaming. Michael kissed the side of his face, turning his head just the tiniest bit so he could whisper, “Did you hear that?”

Max nodded, reaching for Michael’s hand and clasping it tight.

Following the opening of the presents, pictures were taken, which everyone was forced to partake in, and then the rush to get the Christmas meal done was on.

Michael and Max refrained from going into the kitchen—from which quite a bit of shouting could be heard as everyone got in everyone else’s way. A good 70 percent of the shouting was coming from Jonathon and Felisha as they bickered back and forth.

Max looked mightily content with it all.

“I missed this,” he sighed, as a very loud and excessive amount of curse words flew from his mother’s mouth.

Darren snickered from where he was stretched out on the floor, playing a card game with one of the children and Catherine.

“Michael’s family does it, too,” Max said. “Michael’s father and his aunt spend a good portion of Christmas day yelling at each other. His mother doesn’t cook, which is probably for the best.”

“If my father yelled at her like that she’d probably knock him one with the skillet,” said Michael, musingly, as Jonathon cursed right back at his wife. “I can’t believe your father finally kind of likes me,” he added after another moment.

Catherine flicked a card down on the floor. “He just needed to actually see you with Max. He hadn’t really gotten that chance before. It was only just in passing when you guys first met, and then you were gone.”

Darren hummed in agreement. “And when you were around, you acted so docile it drove him crazy.”

“And then you crashed his car,” chipped in Catherine.

“Still it seems so abrupt. Can he really change his mind that fast?”

Max leaned into him. “Do you really want to look the gift horse in the mouth? You impressed him enough yesterday for him to give you some room. Keep doing what you’ve been doing, and you’ll be set.”

Mary popped her head around the corner of the door, “Food’s ready. Everyone wash up.”

It was a scramble to the dining room, and Michael really had to marvel at the set up this family had. It was elegant looking, with fancy cutlery and plates, and the tablecloth was a cheery red and green. And there was so much food. They could feed an army.

In between every plate was what he guessed were the Christmas crackers. Three little wrapped rolls, each one with a bow separating them. They took their seats and everyone took a hold of the end of the cracker on either side of them.

Felisha counted down from three and then they pulled. The cracker came right apart and out spilled the paper crowns from the day before as well as several pieces of holiday candy.

Everyone began donning the crowns, and Michael followed suit even though he felt silly doing so. They were an array of colors, and the picture they all presented, sitting there at the dinner table with these colorful paper crowns perched on their heads, was an amusing one.

The children’s crowns were slipping down over their ears, and others wore theirs perched on the very top of their heads. His own was resting against his forehead as he had it completely around his head. He was pretty sure, if he were to rest it on the very top of his, he’d have it tossed off in seconds.

Max looked ridiculous with his bright orange crown, the tips of his ears tucked underneath. Michael adjusted the crown for him so he his ears supported the crown and poked out endearingly from his head. He got a tongue poked out at him for his effort. He shoved a bit of roll into Max’s open mouth and laughed at his affronted look.

“I’m going to get you back,” Max mumbled around the mouthful of roll.

“Max!” his mother scolded. “Manners!”

He chewed and swallowed, shooting Michael a glare as Max apologized to his mother.

Michael stuffed himself full, and he wasn’t the only one. Within the hour almost everyone was leaning back in their chairs, rubbing their stomachs and groaning. And then Felisha brought out the desserts. One was a pudding dish, “Yorkshire Pudding” she told him when he asked, and the other a massive trifle that looked absolutely delicious.

He groaned. “How am I supposed to eat all this?”

She laughed, cutting delicately into the desserts and dishing out pieces to those with their plates held eagerly out. “I’m sure you’ll manage somehow. Now put your plate out for a slice.”

He obliged and she dropped one tiny slice of each dish onto his plate. He was immensely grateful for how small the slices were.

Max held out his plate next to him. “Don’t worry,” he said, “You’ll be hungry again by dinnertime, and we just eat the leftovers. You’ll get more than enough.”

Michael moaned around his bite of the trifle. “You can bet I’m eating that whole thing later. Is this how you make sure there’s no leftovers? Eat at noon and then everyone polishes it off later?”

There was laughter around the table, and Jonathon admitted they did normally have very little left over the following day. In Michael’s family the leftovers from Christmas dinner would, on average, last them somewhere around a week.

It was a lazy and food-hungover group that made their way into the family room once the plates were all stashed in the kitchen. Felisha had waved them off saying they’d wash them later. No one was in a hurry to argue with her.

Michael had moved just fast enough to claim the couch, and Max collapsed in his lap, draping himself over him like a blanket. “Oof,” Michael groaned, trying to shove him off. “I don’t think so.”

Max hid his face in Michael’s neck. “Rub my back,” he said, “I feel sick.”

So despite the ache in his own stomach, he did just that, wrapping his arms around Max and dragging one hand up and down his back in little circles.

Around them everyone was chatting in quiet voices, the television got turned on, and David Tennant’s voice joined the mix as the Doctor tried to save the day. Max started to snore, and Michael shifted him in his lap so he was the tiniest bit more comfortable. He rested his head on top of Max’s and let his own eyes droop.

A blanket settled around them, and he opened his eyes enough to see Jonathon tucking the blanket in on Max’s side.

“Thank you,” he mumbled.

“Happy Christmas,” said Jonathon, moving back to sit in his chair and tug his wife into his lap.

Michael let his eyes close completely and drifted off to the noises of what was now his family.

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M
EG
H
ARDING
is a graduating senior at UCF, and will be starting a Masters program for Publishing in the Spring. For as long as she can remember, writing has always been her passion, but she had an inability to ever actually finish anything until recently. She’s immensely happy that her inability has fled and looks forward to where her mind will take her next.

The Healing Power of Eggnog

By Jamie Fessenden

Will Sutherland hasn’t been home to see his parents in four years—not since they reacted badly when he came out. This Christmas, he’s finally worked up the courage to go home, where he’s surprised to find they’ve taken in a boarder. Ryan Bennett is just a couple years younger than Will, cute, sweet… and openly gay.

As Will deals with his jealousy of the man who’s been receiving the love and acceptance he was denied, Ryan finds himself falling for Will’s brooding good looks. But Ryan also suspects the Sutherlands may be using him as a pawn in their long-standing conflict with their son. Will this Christmas finally tear the family apart, or is there a chance they can put their hurt and anger behind them?