Disclaimer: The characters and events portrayed thereinare mine. Mine, preciousssss ... and we hatess it when people stealsss. Unless they do nice things like write IC fanfic, haha.

Notes: Okay. This ... oh boy. This is gonna take some explanation. Paul was threatening me because I wasn't writing for him enough; he even locked me out of my storyblog. Jerk. So I thought I'd try writing him and Michael, and this is what happened.

I've been conversing with formerlydf about various things, and one of them is the fact that Michael and Paul come off as overly fluffy, but aren't. They have Issues. I just don't talk about them because I like them fluffy, and if I want angst then I'll steal piig's Hugo and Ellis and write about THEM.

However. This fic takes place about three weeks after Waiting for a Miracle ends. Herein we find the core Issue between Michael and Paul, one which, unfortunately, is not solved by the end of this and culminates in . . . well . . . February 3, 2005. Some people know what that is. Those who don't? Be happy. But it's not the end for them; never fear!

Okay, preamble complete; I guess we can start the show now.

Willing to Pretend

Michael awoke slowly; none of that movie nonsense about sitting up gasping and sweat-slicked. Granted, his heart rate was a little faster, and the rest of his body was awake even if his mind wasn’t yet, but overall, Michael just felt lazy and relaxed.

He did hope Paul wasn’t asleep, though.

Michael rolled off his stomach and onto his side, eyeing Paul’s sleeping form. He didn’t bother whispering the other’s name or anything; Michael tended to talk in his sleep, so if Paul was up, chances were he knew what Michael was thinking.

“Not tonight,” Paul said without turning, “I have an 8 a.m. class.”

That had never stopped them before, but Michael wasn’t going to be a jerk about it. “Fair enough,” he said, moving closer to cuddle with Paul.

Paul must really have been tired, because he didn’t turn to face Michael. “Do you remember what you were dreaming about?” he asked, and his voice dripped with faux-casualness.

Or, perhaps, Michael thought with an inner grin, his husband was merely being coy. “No,” he said, “But I’m sure I can guess,” he bent to kiss behind Paul’s ear. “You want to try”

“No,” Paul’s voice was sharp this time, and Michael drew back, surprised. “I already know.”

“Was I talking?”

“Yes.”

“Well, then?” if Michael was correct about the frosty tone of Paul’s voice, however, he had his suspicions. Already, his stomach was beginning to twist itself into something vaguely pretzel-shaped.

Paul wrapped his arms around himself. “Him,” he said, not angry anymore; just sort of lost. “I don’t know what you were doing, but I can understand his name well enough.”

Michael winced; this wasn’t the first time they’d had this particular argument, but if he had anything to do with it, it would be the last. It was too exhausting to continue. “I’m sorry,” Michael said, knowing this was the best way to start. “I don’t know why this happens,” Paul snorted; Michael ignored it. He had enough jealousy issues of his own to understand why Paul was upset. “I don’t! I don’t think about him anymore; not that way.”

“Well, obviously you do,” Paul made a motion as though to inch farther away, but he was on the edge of the bed as is. He settled for drawing further in on himself. “Your subconscious doesn’t make things up; it finds things you’ve repressed. Pete and all his Freudian psychobabble should have taught you that.”

Michael frowned and stopped himself from snapping just before the words left his mouth with a bite to them. “Even Pete knows Freud was cracked; he just doesn’t like to admit it.”

“Still.”

“Paul, you had a dream about Norman Bates last week and you don’t see me accusing you of being a psychopath,” some of the annoyance seeped through this time; Paul caught it, for he sat up, eyes flashing.

“Oh, that’s real funny,” Paul pushed his bangs out of his eyes forcefully. “You don’t think I have a right to be upset? My husband is fantasizing about other men!”

Michael freed himself of the blankets and leaned against the headboard. “I didn’t fantasize; I dreamed. There’s a difference. You can control what you fantasize about, but not what you dream.”

Paul folded his arms. “I can. I can change the channel on my brain.”

“Oh, for —“ Michael reined himself in, but visions of sleeping on the couch for the next month distracted him. “I didn’t even remember the dream! I wouldn’t even have known if you hadn’t said anything!”

Once again the indignation faded, replace with watering eyes and a trembling lower lip. “That’s even worse because we have no idea how much it happens! How often have we —“ he choked, unable to elaborate, “because you woke up all eager, except you’d been dreaming of him?”

The urge to clap his palm over his eyes was growing steadily more appealing. “Don’t do this. If you start questioning every time we made love and wondering —“

“Well, I wasn’t until you said that,” Paul said dryly, and Michael breathed an inward sigh of relief. If Paul could still use that tone then things were all right — for the moment. “No, what’s done is done. I just . . . I know it makes no sense, but it’s like you getting upset when people make passes at me at clubs. It just happens.”

“You know I’m not in love with him, right?” Michael put his fingers over Paul’s; when the other didn’t flinch, Michael slid his hand up Paul’s arm to his shoulder. “I’m in love with you. You erased anything I felt for him; it’s all gone. He’s my best friend,” the normal response would be to add ‘and nothing more’, but Michael couldn’t do that in good conscience. He and Pete had a bond that passed beyond friendship, but obviously wasn’t love or sexual attraction, either. Michael failed every time he tried to quantify it.

Pete had tried, once, half-jokingly, and had come closer to what Michael felt than Michael could. “Michael ‘n’ me?” he’d laughed, slinging one arm around Michael’s shoulders, “We’re soul mates. We’re just the wrong gender, that’s all.”

But how to explain that to Paul, who’d never had someone like Pete while he was growing up? It was next to impossible for him to understand.

“You can’t blame me for my mind wandering,” Michael settled for side-stepping the issue entirely. “Can you honestly say you never thought about anyone else? That way, I mean.”

The tone of the room changed then, somehow. It felt like the chills Michael would get when he walked by an open freezer door in the frozen section of the supermarket. Right when Michael decided that had been he wrong thing to ask, he realized he knew the answer. How could he not? There was only one possibility.

“Yes, I can,” Paul said deliberately, in the same kind of voice one might use to dictate to a secretary or something. “You know you’re my first for everything. I never had time to stop and think about anyone like that until I met you,” his breath hitched and he scrubbed at his eyes. The gesture suddenly made him look about seven years old, and Michael’s chest tightened. “Everything is you, whether it’s thoughts or dreams or —“ Paul’s voice lowered, sounding almost shy, “fantasies,” the tone hardened again. “So excuse me if I don’t quite understand.”

Michael wanted to hug him, but he recognized the set to Paul’s jaw and knew he’d be shoved away with more than necessary roughness, so he massaged his temples. “I’m sorry I can’t say the same,” he said, “But I can’t help it that we had different growing up experiences.”

“I know.”

He was treading on thin ice, as the cliché said, but land and safe footing were in sight. However, for whatever reason, Michael’s metaphorical self saw a large crack in the frozen water and strode toward it instead. “But this isn’t the problem, is it,” Michael tilted his head to one side. “You have an issue with Pete.”

Paul’s face flushed. They’d installed the night light beside the bed so Paul would stop tripping over things (never mind that he wouldn’t have anything to trip over if he’d stop leaving his stuff around, but that was another issue). Now the light served to show facial expressions that both parties preferred would remain shrouded. “I do not!” he expostulated, but his voice cracked.

“Yes, you do,” Michael pressed on, ignoring the crackling sounds and the water trickling up through the fissures. “I’ve had dreams about Nick Carter before and you just thought it was funny. You even offered, if I remember correctly, to help me ‘work off my frustration’.”

“That was —“

“Different?” Michael drummed his fingers against his knee. “I wish you’d explain how. I’m still having dreams about someone who isn’t you. Why didn’t that bother you?”

Paul gave him a Look similar to the one he would shoot Mitchell when the little boy asked if he could eat an entire tub of whipped cream before dinner. “Because Nick Carter is all the way out —“ he waved his hand airily, “wherever he is. He’s not even real, as far as we’re concerned. But Pete’s —“

“Straight,” Michael interjected flatly, “Painfully so, no matter how he acts.”

“I know that!” Paul fisted his hand in his hair. “That’s not the point! I’m not afraid of you two riding off into the sunset. I’m just scared that . . .”

“That what?” Michael touched his leg. Paul sniffled.

“That you like him best.”

Of all the hidden neuroses that could have been lurking in Paul’s mind, this wasn’t the one he was expecting. “I beg your pardon?”

Paul’s eyes widened almost desperately. “I just . . . he . . . I mean, if Pete had been gay, you would have picked him over me.”

Michael blinked, but he curbed his automatic ‘WHAT?!’ response and settled for a more neutral one. “Not over you,” Michael corrected him, “I never would have met you. There’s a big difference.”

“No, that’s not what I mean,” Paul’s hands were twitching now. “If something happened so you could have had Pete, and you met me after, I wouldn’t have had a chance.”

I don’t believe this, Michael thought. “You mean you’re upset over something entirely hypothetical?” Michael imagined several punctuation marks after the last word; he wondered if Paul could hear them. “I can deal with a lot of things, but that’s just weird. He’s straight!”

“But you would have!”

“But he’s STRAIGHT,” Michael raised his voice.

Paul matched it. “But you WOULD HAVE.”

Remembering that Miranda would be able to hear their yelling, Michael shut his mouth and climbed off the bed. “Where are you going?” Paul sounded scared.

“Just to the futon,” Michael sounded tired, even to himself. “I can’t talk about this anymore, and we aren’t getting anywhere anyway,” he reached for his pillow and Paul handed it to him wordlessly. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Paul still said nothing, but Michael felt his eyes on him long after he’d closed the door.

Sleep was out of the question now, no matter what he’d said to Paul. Michael hefted the pillow into the crook of his arm and padded into the living room. The television was on, volume low, and Michael looked around, surprised. He finally saw Miranda, curled up in the overstuffed armchair as much as her bulging stomach would allow.

“You’re up late,” Michael remarked, settling down on the futon without bothering to pull it out.

“You’re fighting,” Randy said back, one eyebrow raised. Her bangs were sticking to her forehead and she’d rolled up the sleeves of her nightgown.

“Not fighting,” Michael said, standing up, “Discussing. And I’ve had about enough of that for one night, so let’s not you and I start. I’m going to get you some water.”

“You don’t have to,” Miranda protested, and Michael heard the springs squeak as she tried to get up and fell right back down again.

“It’s too late now,” Michael rummaged in the kitchen for a glass, a bowl, and a washcloth, filling the two with cold water and tossing the other over his shoulder. “Besides,” he said, coming back into the room, “I like mothering,” he set everything down on a small table and dragged it over to the futon, then crossed the room and helped her stand.

“What are you doing?” Miranda protested as Michael led her to where he’d set everything up, “I can drink just fine over here.”

“Don’t be silly,” Michael eased Randy down and sat behind her, positioning them so she reclined between his legs, her head on his chest. “You don’t look comfortable at all. Now be quiet and drink this.”

While Miranda obediently finished off the water, Michael soaked the cloth in the bowl, squeezed out the excess, and ran it gently over the girl’s face and neck. It was a little tricky from his vantage point, but he managed. “Doesn’t that feel better?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Randy let out a happy sounding sigh and relaxed back against him. “You don’t . . . you don’t mind if I, y’know, pretend you’re someone else, do you?”

“Go ahead,” Michael felt a stab of pity for her; she was too young for all of this. At her age, she should be worried about nothing more strenuous than pimples and finding a date for the Valentine’s Dance, not dealing with abandonment and quitting school and raising a baby on her own. Well, Michael thought, a surge of protectiveness washing over him, not alone. Not if he could help it.

“Not that he’d’ve done this for me,” her voice went brittle like she was trying to be flippant and show she was okay with things but the hurt she’d held back wouldn’t let her. “I mean, I always imagined he would, but . . .”

Michael tucked her hair behind her ears and set the cloth on the rim of the bowl. “Don’t think about it,” he said, lacing their fingers together and bringing their hands up to her stomach. He started the massage they’d learned in one of their first pre-natal classes, slow circling movements designed to ease the pain of carrying all that weight around. “You’ve got us now.”

“Thank God for that,” Miranda tilted her head, and Michael assumed she was watching their hands. “I really would’ve been screwed if I hadn’t seen that ad.”

“Well, you did,” Michael squeezed her fingers.

It was amazing, really, being able to sit with her like this. The day Michael realized that he really was gay and there was no changing that, he’d cried for hours. At the time, knowing he could never have children — or, if by freak chance he adopted, he could never witness the miracle of its birth — had hurt more than anything else. In time, the pain had faded, replaced with a resigned acceptance.

And then, Miranda had come, offering Paul the chance he’d always yearned for and Michael the ability to have something he’d almost managed to forget wanting. Paul called it a gift from God; Michael was inclined to agree.

“I don’t like it when you two fight,” Miranda’s voice was drowsy but still had the prickings of alertness. “I mean, I know couples fight, right? And it’s a good thing. Nick and I never fought and I think that’s why — well, never mind. I just don’t like it.”

Michael laughed a little, and the rush of air lifted the tiny curls on the top of her head. “I don’t like it, either.”

“You guys are okay though, right?” she played with Michael’s wedding ring, twisting it around on his finger. “You . . . you’re not splitting up or anything?”

“We’re fine,” Michael said quickly, not wanting to consider the possibility. “And, um, I don’t want to sound like a jerk or anything, but can we not talk about it?”

Miranda nodded vigorously. “Sorry, sorry. It was a stupid question anyway. It’s just, like, y’know, I want you guys to stay together. And I think it’ll be okay. Really. I mean, you two obviously love each other, right? So everything will be okay.”

Even later, he didn’t know why he said it. The girl was doing her best to help him feel better, she was pregnant with the child of a man who’d gone and left her, for heaven’s sake, and she’d had enough trouble adapting to her new life with Michael and Paul as is. There was no excuse for it, but the conversation with Paul had messed with him just enough that, for a few seconds, it seemed like the logical thing to say.

“Isn’t that what you thought about you and Nick?”

It was like watching a movie of himself, screaming at the screen but knowing it wouldn’t change the outcome. Randy froze in his arms and Michael could have cried. “I’m sorry!” Michael burst out before she could say anything. “I didn’t mean it! I’m sorry!”

“No. It’s fine,” Miranda’s voice sounded like she’d run an iron over it to get rid of any sort of inflection. “I’m going to bed. Hope everything works out better for you than it did for me.”

In the end, despite Michael’s protestations and profuse apologizes and offers to massage her feet, Randy just gave him a tight smile and headed off to bed, leaving Michael feeling more wretched than before.

He lay on his stomach, resisting the urge to crawl under the couch like he used to do when he was younger and feeling like life was out of control. As awful as he felt about it, hurting Randy was only a small addition to the things churning around in his mind — he’d try again tomorrow, and she’d probably forgive him then.

Paul’s fears, on the other hand . . .

Michael had no idea what he was supposed to do. He couldn't give up Pete’s friendship any more than he could forsake his art; Pete had been a part of his life as far back as he could recall. Paul hadn’t asked him to give that up, but Michael was terrified that one day he would. If that happened, Michael couldn’t honestly say who he would choose.

Because Pete was his best friend and yes, he’d been in love with him, but Paul was his husband and held a great deal of his heart now. While his dream-self might sometimes stray without his permission, Michael spent each waking thought devoted to Paul. He loved the way the other danced around the house when there was no music playing; the way he still made too much food because he was used to cooking for his whole family; how Paul’s hand would find his even when they were doing simple things like washing dishes.

Loved the look Paul got when he didn’t think Michael could see him — the utter happiness that filled him until he practically glowed.

Loved the feel of Paul’s body curled up to his when he woke up each morning.

Loved Paul’s kisses.

Loved Paul, period.

But marriage was supposed to be based on trust, wasn’t it? And if Paul thought that Michael was secretly pining for Pete and refused to believe Michael when he said otherwise, then what did that make their relationship? If there was such a large undealt-with issue standing between them, who was to say there weren’t others? There could be hundreds of unresolved problems, waiting only for the most inopportune moments to make their presence known.

Weren’t people supposed to figure out these things before they made lifelong commitments? What if the little differences — like Michael’s neatness obsession and Paul’s habit of tossing things onto the nearest flat surface — while harmless on their own, combined to make them incompatible? What if all their endearing quirks ended up maddening the other?

Michael rolled onto his side and clutched his head, staring at the wall. They really didn’t know each other that well, all things considered — eight months was a short time, especially when embarking on something so serious as marriage —

It was a testament to his distracted state that Michael didn’t notice Paul’s presence until he felt a hand on his shoulder and heard his name. Even so, he almost screamed.

Paul had thrown a robe over his nightgown but hadn’t bothered to tie the sash properly, and the light garment was slipping off one shoulder. “Michael, I’m sorry,” he said, biting his lip, “Come back to bed. Please.”

Michael shook his head. “We still have to talk.” He said, “I don’t want to have this fight ever again, so can we try to work through it?”

“There’s nothing to work through,” Paul’s eyes darted all over the room, and he picked at the fabric covering his leg. “I’m being silly.”

“No, you aren’t,” Michael didn’t miss the flash of panic that crossed Paul’s face before he forced it away. “If it bothers you, then it’s a problem.”

Paul sat down on the corner of the futon, Michael scooting his legs over to give him room. “It’s . . . it’s not the dream. That was just the catalyst. It . . . it just feels like . . .”

He paused just long enough that Michael opened his mouth to prompt him again. “Michael, I know it’s stupid, but sometimes I feel like I’m just a substitute. Like you couldn’t have Pete the way you wanted and then I told you how I felt and so you said yes because I was the next best thing.”

Michael didn’t say anything. He was smart enough to know that Paul probably wanted hoped, even — to be proved wrong, but he also realized there was no point in doing so until Paul had finished listing all his fears.

“I mean, I know — ah, I don’t want to be right, but you can’t help your neuroses, right?” Paul toyed with his hair, twirling it around his fingers before unwrapping it again. “I just . . . sometimes I think I should have waited a little later before . . . before I said all that stuff to you. Like, maybe you weren’t actually ready yet and I gave you, like, a rebound opportunity.”

Michael shook his head. “No. That’s not it.”

“If you’re just —“

“I’m not ‘just’ anything,” Michael sat up and held his pillow to his chest. “Pete and I talked about this even before you admitted anything. I was afraid I was projecting my feelings for him onto you because I was pretty sure you were interested,” he fingered his bandages, mind carrying him back to sterile sheets and scrubbed walls, tubes in his hand and a plate of tasteless hospital food on his lap. “He told me that wasn’t it.”

Paul’s green eyes darkened, and his fingers found a loose thread in the hem of his nightgown, pulling at it. “I’m not surprised.”

Michael frowned. He didn’t like that voice; it was laced with black humour and irony, something that didn’t suit Paul at all. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

There was a flash this time, one that Michael couldn’t miss even in the darkness. “You’re going to get mad at me for this, but I’m going to say it anyway,” the string in his fingers was half a foot long now, kinked and twisting into coils. “Of course Pete would say that. He’s your best friend, but he’s still straight, isn’t he? He wouldn’t want you to be in love with him.”

Michael’s grip tightened on the pillow. “Just a minute —“

“Don’t cut me off!” Paul almost shrieked, but he lowered his voice immediately. “Don’t you see? I’ll bet he was ecstatic when he found out I liked you. It’s probably why he was so nice to me right away. I know he’s some sort of god to you, but can’t you at least admit that maybe I’m right? That maybe he used both of us to get you over him.”

There were not words to describe the anger that flooded Michael at that moment. He stood up fast enough to knock over a lamp, but it didn’t break and he didn’t bother picking it up. All he knew was that he had to get away — put some space between them before he gave into urges that reminded him too much of his father for him to be comfortable.

“Now where are you going?” Paul rose and followed as Michael stormed to the front door and slammed it open. He barely noticed that Paul, at least, had the foresight to grab the keys before joining him.

It had been an unusually warm January, all things considered, but the cement was still freezing beneath Michael’s slippered feet. Paul was barefoot but didn’t seem to care. “How can you say that?” Michael whirled suddenly, stopping so suddenly that Paul almost skidded into him. “Are you so jealous of him that you can’t even let me think well of him? You have to tear him down for me?”

“No!” Paul was really shouting now, hands balled into fists at his sides. “I just . . . I just want you to realize that he’s not perfect! You have him built up in your mind like some sort of . . . sort of . . . I don’t know, but yes, I’m jealous! I want you for myself and I can’t stand the thought that I might be second best.”

Michael was still so indignant that half the words didn’t register. “You’re acting like a child,” he said, “Like a kid whining to his mother that she loves his brother more. Doesn’t it occur to you that I never signed a contract saying I would give him up when I met you?”

“That’s not —“

“That’s exactly what you’re doing,” Michael pushed his hair, quickly moving toward sopping, off his forehead. “I know Pete’s not perfect. Honestly! But you don’t need to be so high-and-mighty about it. I love you, but it’s not like you’re perfect either.”

Wrong thing to say, apparently. Paul’s jaw dropped as though he was hoping he’d heard Michael incorrectly. “Not perfect?” he ran a hand under both his eyes and shook his bangs from his face — or tried, rather; they stuck to his forehead and refused to move “You . . . you honestly think I think I’m . . . think . . . God, Michael!” Paul laughed then, and even in his righteous fury, Michael winced. It was not a happy sound. “Perfect! I know that very well, thank you!”

Michael took a step toward him without thinking; Paul scrambled back two. “I’m not smart,” Paul said, raising his voice to be heard over the patter-hiss of rain on the pavement. “I’m not handsome or sexy or . . . or even male, practically, and I’m not pretty, either. I wear girl’s clothes because — because I don’t know why, I have long hair because I like to think it looks nice but I know it’s just scraggly and silly,” his voice cracked and choked off in a sob. For the first time, Michael realized Paul was crying.

“I’m not good in school or sports or art or . . . or anything. I can’t remember the last time I read a book that doesn’t have pictures, I’m messy and loud and dramatic and silly and just . . . just stupid,” he all but screamed the last word. “The only thing I’m good at is the flute and taking care of my family and I just — wanted — you to be a part of that but you won’t let me, you always call him and he fixes things and I tried telling myself that it’s okay so long as you felt better but I can’t do that anymore and I just . . . “

Even ten years later, Michael remembered the feeling that had started in his stomach and spread to the rest of him like a swarm of rats, chewing and devouring — the feeling he’d had when he watched his pregnant mother fall, knew she wouldn’t be okay, and knew it was his fault. He had that feeling now. “Paul —“

He didn’t think the other could even hear him now. Paul was rambling, arms wrapped around himself in a desperate attempt to comfort himself. “I know I’m all wrong for you. You need someone steady and I’m all over the place, you want someone strong and — and manly and I’m girlier than all my sisters combined, you want someone who can take care of you and take charge and I’m — I’m just not. I’m not right and he is, he’s exactly everything you want and I just wanted so bad for it to be me, and I tried but I’m not — good — enough,” Paul’s breath was hitching now, catching on every other word and making him incomprehensible. “I just love you,” Paul looked up at him through tear and rain soaked bangs, “So much, and I just want —“

But he’d spent himself. Michael could only stare as Paul collapsed into hysterical sobs, scrubbing his eyes and digging his nails into his scalp, still trying to talk but utterly incapable of doing so.

He could have killed Pete’s childhood hamster or destroyed all Paul’s little sibling’s best drawings and he wouldn’t have felt any worse. He didn’t think it was possible to feel any more selfish and horrible than he did right now. Even Michael’s father had been drunk when he hit his wife and son; Michael had no such excuse (insofar as alcohol was justification when it came to abuse, of course.)

Michael tried to get Paul’s attention, but his husband couldn’t hear him. With a small noise of frustration (and not a little self-loathing), Michael stepped forward and pulled Paul to him, wrapping his arms around the smaller teen’s shaking form. He ran his fingers through Paul’s tangled hair and held his head against his chest, guilt pricking him every time Paul’s hands spasmed against Michael’s night shirt, twisting the fabric.

He held Paul without speaking, intending to hug him until the other’s tears stopped, but after a while, it was clear that this would not happen soon. Michael didn’t mind standing there all night if it helped Paul calm down, but Paul was shivering — shuddering, even — and he had nothing on his feet.

“We’re going inside,” Michael said, suspecting Paul probably wasn’t paying attention, and he took his hand. “You’re cold.”

Paul just shook his head, but didn’t protest when Michael led him inside and around to the bathroom. He peeled off Paul’s robe but didn’t bother with the rest of their clothes, opting instead to turn on the hot water and bring Paul under the spray. Paul whimpered and pressed closer.

Once the chill had been burned from their bodies, Michael plugged the tub and removed the remainder of their pajamas. Paul helped a little, but mostly he just clung to Michael and tried to stop crying. Michael drew him into a reclining position when the tub filled; Paul curled up against Michael’s chest, but his body was still tense. Michael kissed his head and held him tighter. “I’m so sorry,” Michael said, surprised he had not yet broken down. “paul, I didn’t mean to do that to you.”

Paul sighed and shrugged. “You can’t help it,” he sniffled, gradually bringing himself under control. “It’s all me. Not you, not him. I’m sorry that I tried to make it about Pete, but it’s got nothing to do with anyone but me. He’s just perfect for you and I wish you could have him, but you can’t, so I just wanted you to be happy with me.”

“I am happy with you,” Michael said into his hair, “I don’t know how to prove it to you.”

“You’ve had to change for me,” Paul dislodged himself and turned around. “I can’t take care of you like he could; I can’t protect you from people like . . . like those guys at Prom.”

“You shouldn’t have to,” Michael placed his hands on Paul’s shoulders, thumb stroking across his collarbone. “I don’t want to be dependent on you like I was Pete. He protected me, but he couldn’t be there all the time, and when he wasn’t, I was lost,” Paul didn’t look convinced, and Michael chucked his chin. “Do you understand me? I like it better this way. We have a partnership, not a — a parasitic relationship, and that’s so much healthier.”

Some of the dullness in Paul’s eyes faded, but he still hid behind his bangs. “Okay, but . . . but I’m still the opposite of him in almost everything.”

Michael frowned. This was more difficult to deal with, mostly because Michael himself wasn’t sure why he was so in love with Paul when he was so contrary to everything Michael had thought he was attracted to. He’d tried and tried to quantify it — much as he had with his and Pete’s friendship — and the word that accompanied his failure was nothing short of ‘dismal’.

“I don’t know what to say,” Michael wrapped his arms around Paul again and pulled him close. “I don’t think anyone knows why they love someone, do they? I bet you never expected to fall for a fussy, obsessive-compulsive, anal-retentive who folds everything and alphabetizes the canned goods.”

Paul wrinkled his nose. “And vegan besides. All that tofu and soy . . . yuck,” he laughed, but sobered up quickly. “But you . . . you don’t feel like you’re settling?”

They really should have had this conversation before getting married, Michael thought, but he’d rather they discuss it now than let it fester for a few more years. “Never,” Michael shook his head. “I don’t think you appreciate yourself enough if you can’t understand that. You are sexy, and smart, and I love how spontaneous you are. It’s not fair to compare yourself to Pete when you’re such different people.”

“But —“

An analogy came to him then, and Michael pounced on it. “Okay, look. Your sister — Elizabeth. She’s smart and serious and loves hard work and helping you and your Mom, right?” Paul nodded. “And then you have Jolene, who likes candy and flowers and pretty things and never puts her toys away,” Paul nodded again. “And then Tiffany, who — well, I think she’s self-explanatory, really. But my point is, do you love either one of them more than the others? Do you love Elizabeth more because she’s reliable or Jolene more because she’s fun to be around? Or do you love Tiffany less because she’s so angry?”

“No!” Paul sounded almost offended by the question. “Just because they’re different doesn’t — oh.”

He fell silent, and Michael breathed an inward sigh of relief, staying quiet while Paul digested this. Finally, Paul spoke again. He still sounded worried, but thankfully, nowhere near as panicked as he had been. “But what about . . . about . . .”

“About what?”

The tips of Paul’s ears turned pink. “Sex,” he blurted out, which amused Michael — usually Paul was the more straightforward about that sort of thing. “You know, the whole . . .” he shifted, making light splashing sounds. He added some hot water; not, Michael thought, because it was cold, but probably to give himself time to think. Paul stopped halfway back and clapped a palm over his eyes. “God, I’m such a bottom, Michael!”

Despite everything, Michael had to laugh. He kissed Paul’s forehead, not wanting to be condescending or anything. “Oh, Paul,” he chuckled, “So am I.”

“That’s my point!” Paul’s eyes were wide, and he looked alarmed again. “You’re — I mean — you, for me, you know, do — you know what I mean. But I almost never — uh — for you because,” he was flushed all the way to his chest now. “Well, you know why. It doesn’t work mostly. You don’t ever want —“ Paul’s mouth twitched. “I mean, with him or . . . or someone less — ah, like me — you wouldn’t have to —“

“Okay, stop right there,” Michael pressed a finger to Paul’s lips, just briefly. “First of all, there is no ‘have to’. All right?” He raised an eyebrow, and Paul smiled a little. “Really. It was awkward at first because I wasn’t used to it, but now,” he let his lips curve into a smirk. “I love it.”

Paul blushed even more. “You’re just —“

“I’m not,” Michael dropped his hand to Paul’s thigh and circled his thumb on the inside of it. Paul’s eyes rolled back into his head and he let out a small moan before he forcibly put himself back to normal. “See? I love making you make those sounds and that face,” he stroked Paul’s cheek. “I never thought I would love being — I mean, the responsibility and control and — but I do. I love watching you lose yourself.”

Paul’s eyelids were falling, just slightly, and Michael knew he was winning. “Okay, so you like to please me,” he smiled again, the expression flitting across his face like a small butterfly. “But what about you?”

“Paul. Honey,” Michael let a slow grin spread over his features, feeling it was safe to do so. “I think we both know that just because I’m — er — on top of things doesn’t mean I’m in charge. You have me begging a lot more than I have you.”

Paul ducked his head again, but he looked pleased. “I still don’t —“

“Paul,” Michael knew what he was going to say and refused to let him feel guilty about it. “You do. Not often, but believe me —“ he bent down to Paul’s level, his mouth just below the other’s ear. “It makes it me appreciate it more when you do.”

It was Paul’s giggle that let Michael know they were all right, at least for now. Michael couldn’t rid the sick feeling that swam around in his stomach, but he assumed it was because he was born to be pessimistic. Someone had to fill the position. But all humour or sarcasm aside, Michael wasn’t able to forget that this problem had begun with an innocent question and escalated into a relationship-threatening screaming match.

But Paul was smiling at him, one of them had class in three hours (though Michael suspected they were both taking a mental health day tomorrow), and he decided they’d had more than enough drama for one night. “So we’re all right, yes?” he asked, just to be sure.

“I think so,” Paul chewed on his lip and his gaze skirted around Michael’s. “I-I’m sorry I said all those things.”

“I’m sorry, too,” Michael cupped Paul’s chin and kissed him, lightly. “I think we both need to learn how to argue more, ah, constructively.”

“Hah. Yeah.”

He traced the line of Paul’s face with his fingertips, that sappy warmth filling him when Paul leaned into the caress. “I want . . . I need you to understand, though, that you . . . you’re important to me in ways Pete couldn’t ever be,” Michael stumbled over his words, unsure now that he was expressing himself and not merely reassuring his husband.

“I-I think I know that now,” Paul scratched his head, nails scraping through his now drying hair. “I’m still a little, um. Insecure, if you hadn’t noticed.”

“I hadn’t,” Michael lied, “But really, it’s true. For one thing, Pete doesn’t know anything about my body.”

Paul grinned. “Like that spot on your back?” he asked, all faux-innocence despite the fact that his hands were following his words’ direction. “Or the inside of your elbow?”

“Yeah,” Michael’s breathing skipped an exhalation when Paul’s fingers traveled over his chest, soft but intent. “Stuff like that.”

Things weren’t 100 okay; Michael knew that, and he knew Paul did, too. But for now, as unhealthy as that might be, he was willing to pretend.

Paul stopped his teasing foray down to Michael’s stomach, lifted his hands out of the water and stared at them. “Yech,” he said, making a face, “I’m all prune-y.”

Michael burst out laughing.