Michael Finally Grows Up © 2006 by Rowan McBride. All rights reserved. This story may not be reproduced in whole or in part without author's permission.

*****

"Avery."

My paintbrush paused at the sound of that baritone voice. It was such an alien presence in my home—I think I preferred the cracking—so this time I chose to ignore it as I spread more silver onto the canvas.

God, I was so sick of this black, red, and silver phase.

Last one, I swear.

Of course, that's what I'd told myself three paintings ago.

Swearing, I glanced up. "What?"

"Your show is tonight."

"So?"

Michael spread his arms, wearing nothing but a pair of snug boxer shorts. "I need to buy a suit. None of the ones I have fit properly."

"How's that my problem?" I snapped, pissed now as I went back to my painting. But it was too late—the image of his body was seared into my mind's eye and it was all I could see. Strong, sleek. Light feathering of hair over the swell of his chest and down his six pack abs. What the fuck was the deal with that? Who looked like that after three weeks of exercise? "Just go and buy yourself some new clothes. You've got plenty of time."

I heard a frustrated sigh come out of him. He never made that sound before he got sick.

Stop it, he's not sick. It's just puberty and hormones and all that shit.

It was like living with a god-damned teenager.

"I want you to come shopping with me."

"No."

"Please."

Even though I wasn't painting, I kept my gaze locked onto my canvas. "You're a," I smirked, "grown man. And I hate shopping."

"I know you do, but I need you to pick something out."

"Why?"

"Because you're an artist."

I chuckled and dragged a line of crimson down the center of my canvas. "Have you seen what I've been painting for the last month? I'm beginning to wonder if I can even recognize other colors anymore." My voice dropped as I stared at that line of red. "Besides, you have the type of body male mannequins are modeled after. You'll look good in anything."

"I need you to pick something out," he said again.

Ready to light into him, I snapped my head up. But all my irritation vanished when I saw him standing there, his fists clenched and shaking, his eyes bright.

Was he about to cry?

For a split second, I saw myself through his eyes, understood how I'd been treating him this past month. It wasn't pretty, and I tried to rein myself in. "Why do you need a suit, anyway?" I asked him, my voice soft. "Plenty of your other clothes fit, and it doesn't matter what you wear to those things."

"It does matter," he whispered.

"Bullshit." I forced a grin. "I'm going in jeans and an old dress shirt."

Michael's jaw ticked. "You are Avery Scott," he told me, his face dead serious as he closed the distance between us. "Whatever you do, wherever you go, you are always wrapped in mystery and smoldering sexuality. You are always the charming rebel." Crossing his arms over his chest, he lowered his head, got into my face. "None of that extends to me. I have to choose what I wear very carefully, because with me it matters."

He'd never invaded my space like this before, and I instinctively leaned away from him.

Michael's arms dropped, and he caught the edges of my stool before I could tip it over. Without thinking, I dropped my brush and grabbed his biceps to keep my balance, shocked by how hard the muscles felt as they flexed under my fingers.

"Help me, Avery," he murmured, touching our foreheads together.

Help me. Not hurt me. My lips parted, and I tried—really tried—to understand. "You never cared about what you wore to my shows before. What's different?"

"I am." One of his hands slid to my thigh, skimmed upward to curve over my waist. "Everyone around you is always wondering what the hell you see in me and how I could possibly keep your interest. They stare, they whisper to each other and pretend they don't know I can hear." His grip on my waist firmed. "This is the first time in my life I've ever looked good. It's my chance to show them I actually belong with you."

I frowned. Why the fuck was he worried about what a bunch of idiot posers thought? Wasn't my opinion the one that mattered? Didn't he care that I'd thought he was sexy as hell the way he used to be!

His hand floated up to my face when I looked away. "You always wear black and most of the time it's just jeans and a comfortable shirt, but you break everything you see down into colors, shapes, compositions. Then you make something radiant out of it. I need you to do that to me."

Glancing at my painting, I barely restrained myself from kicking it over. "Radiant, huh?"

Michael's mouth found its way to my cheek. "Even the scary ones are beautiful."

Surprised, I turned my head. My lips brushed against his, and I shivered.

Strong arms wrapped around me as he leaned in, his tongue teasing my upper lip with tiny licks before he dipped lower to nip at my bottom one.

Shit. One thing about the crazy thing happening to him—he'd up and developed fabulous technique.

I groaned, raking my fingers down his back, sucking his tongue into my mouth. Lifting my thighs, I wrapped my legs around his waist, stifling the tremor that went through me because it felt like I had a stranger in my arms.

Relax. He's still Michael.

Needing to be sure, I bit his tongue.

Michael stumbled forward, nearly knocking us over as he thrust his tongue deeper into my mouth.

I grinned, relieved.

His body stilled, and he hugged me close before straightening just enough to look into my eyes. "So will you?" he asked softly, threading his fingers through my hair.

For a second I thought he was asking me to hurt him, then I remembered what started all this.

Michael needed my help.

Being that I'd been pretty useless for the first five years of our relationship, I supposed I owed him this. "Sure," I told him reluctantly, sliding off the stool. "Let's go."

He laughed, wrapping me in his arms and hugging me tight. My face pressed against his chest as I was surrounded by hard curves of muscle where I was used to feeling sharp angles. Squeezing my eyes shut, I tried not to shudder in his embrace, tried not to see the trickle of crimson at the edges of my consciousness.

"Thank you, Avery."

A breath of gold whispered through me, swept everything else away. "Get cleaned up. I'm sure I got paint all over your back just now."

He cupped my face in his hands, kissed my cheek, my mouth. Then he spun around and raced into the bathroom.

It was cute to see him so excited. I actually grinned, glad to have that whisper of gold, willing to give him whatever he wanted in return.

But fuck, I really did hate shopping for clothes.

*****

I stood stiffly at Michael's side, staring in horrified awe at the dozens of stores lined before us. "The mall?"

Michael practically bounced on the heels of his feet as he surveyed his choices. "Where do you think we should go first?"

The exit! I nearly snapped, but then I tried to put myself in his shoes. Michael wasn't exactly a shopper, either, and he didn't come to the mall all that often. It was just now occurring to me that his reasons weren't my reasons—that maybe he didn't go out because he was self-conscious about his body. For someone like him, the mall was a different kind of hell.

I glanced at him, wearing a tight t-shirt and a pair of khakis that accented a surprisingly round ass, and jerked my thumb at a store to our right. "That one."

He looked in that direction. "Why that one?"

Because it didn't matter which store we went into—they were all the same. "Might as well start at the beginning."

Michael grinned. "Okay," he said, catching my hand and leading me there.

I let him drag me along, staring at our linked hands. We never held hands in public, and I guess this was proof of his excitement.

My fingers curled tighter around his.

He'd always wanted to blend, to fit in. Even though it was killing me, I should support him in that, right? I could easily make him a cardboard cutout if that was what he wanted.

I could stop being a selfish bastard, for once.

*****

Three hours later, I was praying for a bolt of lightning, a gas leak, fire from heaven. Anything that might blow me to kingdom come and put me out of my misery.

"What do you think of this one, Avery?"

Biting back a sigh, I dutifully tugged at the hem of his suit jacket, brushed my knuckles over one of the lapels. "Good fit," I murmured, walking around him as he stared at himself in the mirror. "Accents the width of your shoulders, tapers nicely to your waist." I looked up at his face. "Navy's a good color for you. Brings out your eyes."

A blush crept into his skin as he handed his check card to the sales guy standing nearby. "I'll take it."

"That makes three," I said, glancing at his watch. Two o'clock. "We done now?"

He stopped short, then unbuttoned his jacket. "I was thinking that all these are great for work, but not so great for your show."

Shit. We weren't done. "Oh? What's the problem?"

"I don't know." He disappeared into the dressing room. "Can't put my finger on it."

Blowing out a long breath, I leaned back against the wall beside his door. "Maybe you want a less conservative shirt? Tie?"

"Could be," he said, hesitant.

The sales guy came back with a receipt and a bag. "He can tuck his clothes into this. Don't worry about the security device—already removed it."

"Did you?" I said, taking the bag and letting him drop the receipt into it. "I didn't even notice."

"Oh yeah." His gaze slid down my body as he gave me Michael's card. "I've got great hands."

I cocked an eyebrow.

The other man grinned, and I had to admit he was hot in a GAP commercial kind of way. "So," he said, easing closer as he nodded toward the dressing room. "Is that your brother? Helping him get ready for some formal event?"

"I'm his boyfriend." The dressing room door swung open and Michael stormed out. "We're going to the event together."

I took a step back as Michael wedged himself between us. Every muscle in his back was drawn tight, and his fingers were already curling into fists.

Was that... Was that jealousy?

But Michael never got jealous.

The sales guy raised his arms in surrender. I absently took note of his long fingers, his wide, square palms. They actually were great hands.

"Relax, man," he said, chuckling. "It's just that it was obvious he wasn't having a good time and was here strictly because he dotes on you." He leaned to the side and winked at me. "It's seriously cute."

Me? Dote?

Michael made a noise that sounded weirdly like a growl before grabbing his other two bags and taking my hand. "Thanks for your help," he muttered, leading me out of the store.

I followed him, wondering what the hell had sparked this. People hit on me all the time, and in the last five years Michael never even blinked. All that surging testosterone, maybe? Was it changing his personality so much?

My steps slowed, eventually stopped.

Would the Michael I knew disappear entirely?

Michael turned, moved close. "I'm sorry. I don't know why I lost it back there."

I looked into his wide eyes. He was so sincere, and I didn't think anything could change him enough to erase that. "Okay."

He caressed my cheek. Light. Gentle. "Are you really having that bad a time, Avery?"

"Of course not," I lied, smiling up at him. "Don't listen to that asshole."

His gaze dipped to my mouth, and the pad of his thumb brushed over my lips. "I'm glad," he murmured, leaning down.

Just as I thought I could get used to him being a full head taller than me, he snatched himself away, looking around to see if anyone had been watching.

Knew that had to be too good to be true.

"So where to now?" I asked, tucking a hand into my pocket.

Blushing scarlet, Michael rubbed at the nape of his neck. "Maybe you were right." He cast me a sideways glance. "Maybe I should try for something more casual?"

My brow furrowed. "So we're going home?" We came to this sheeple pen for nothing?

He shook his head, gesturing to a store behind him. "Thought we could try one more?"

I looked at the store, knew instantly what type it catered to. Young, club hopping frat boys. Not Michael at all.

But his body would look good in those clothes, and this was what he wanted.

"Sure."

Smiling, he slid his palm between my shoulder blades and gave me a gentle push toward the store. I went inside, ignoring the boring music that presented itself as cool by playing itself two levels too loud. Michael handed me the clothes he'd bought and started flipping through the racks. I stared at the bags in my hands, none of which actually belonged to me.

Terrific. I was that boyfriend.

I spotted a bank of chairs next to the dressing rooms and headed that way. Taking a seat, I dropped the bags onto the floor and stretched my legs out, crossing them at the ankles.

Not bad. If this place served liquor it could be halfway tolerable.

Michael appeared in front of me a few minutes later, holding an armful of shirts. "I think I'm going to try these on."

A couple of polo shirts, some vintage tees, a few pseudo-rugged button downs. "Why are they all the same color?"

That claret blush I liked so much spilled into his skin. "You said I looked good in blue."

Because I'd said...

The first genuine smile of the day shaped my mouth. "Ah. You look good in other colors too, you know."

He hugged his shirts closer to his chest. "Really? I'm not sure how to—"

"Why don't you try these on first," I suggested, propping my cheek against my fist, "and afterward I'll go with you to help pick out more."

His entire face softened. "Thanks, Avery."

I loved that look. I'd probably get more of it if I made a habit of being nicer to him.

"Get your ass into the dressing room."

But then I wouldn't be me, I guess.

Michael didn't seem to mind, though. He even bent down and kissed my forehead before going to try on his shirts.

This new affection... out in the open and without reservation... I liked it. It made my fingers itch to pick up a paintbrush, capture swirls of gold. I rolled my eyes at my own thoughts.

What sappy sentimental shit.

I remembered how he looked, holding all those blue shirts, and a fresh smile tugged at my lips.

The dressing room door opened. "How's this?" asked Michael, nervously brushing his palms down the polo shirt he wore.

I blinked, taking in the blue and gray horizontal stripes, how they stretched over his shoulders and chest, making them look ridiculously broad compared to the body I was used to seeing, compared to the body that shared my bed just last month. The sleeves hugged his biceps and triceps tight, and for the first time I could really see how much those muscles had grown. They were round and hard, and my gaze was naturally drawn to the vein that traveled up the crest of each arm. The shirt's hem hung loose just past his waist, accenting his narrow hips, his long legs.

Hot, in a GAP commercial kind of way.

My stomach twisted.

"Avery?"

He looked like all the boys plastered on the walls around us, and that wasn't a bad thing. So even though I hated what he was wearing, I chose my words carefully. "You look like an Abercrombie & Fitch model."

His face lit up. "Really?" And, just as suddenly, his shoulders slumped. "Wait."

I tilted my head. "What's wrong? Isn't that what you wanted?"

"You said I looked like the models, but..."

"But what?" I caught his gaze. "You really do look like them."

He fingered the logo on the polo shirt. "I... I don't want to look like them. I want to look like me."

Relieved, I broke into a grin. "You're sure?"

Surprise flickered over his face as he stared down at me, nodding.

"Then get dressed so we can get the hell out of here."

Michael chuckled, not even bothering to close the dressing room door as he peeled off the shirt and put on his own. "Where are we going?"

It threw me off, seeing him change clothes in the open like that. Someone even whistled at the show from behind me. "I know a guy," I said distractedly.

"You know a guy?" He smiled, his gaze never leaving mine. I don't think he even heard the whistle. "That almost sounds shady."

Oh, he had no idea.