#michaelchristian

When the click follows and nothing's really said, he turns--eyebrows nearly shoot off his face, and Christian shifts a bit uncomfortably in his spot. 

"Sorry it's not a full dozen," He huffs, staring down at the flowers as he goes over. 

"It's fine," Michael quickly counters, standing and staring at. 

"I mean for such a great performance, you really deserve the twelve," and that smile peeks shyly over the hem of the flowers, and Michael is staring, his chest in knots. "Maybe even an extra amount." 

Michael, despite that his limbs are rapidly becoming gelatin, wobbles closer and wraps his arms around Christian tight--bringing him close and there and he doesn't want to let go, even when the other chokes out about thorns and breathing and Michael being too strong. 

"You're a full dozen," he mumbles into Christian's shoulder.

He hasn't worn it in years. The fact that he still has the damn thing took several favors and a promise. 

He thinks it'll be worth it. 

Michael doesn't dress up - won't, actually - for Halloween and is adamant about sitting on the couch and stuffing his face. Reliving his younger years through popcorn and trashy movies make him seem old, and Christian doesn't know why he's doing this in general. 

Wonders if he could wear this without getting a single comment out of the other. 

So he tightens the belt another notch and fusses the wifebeater in the same place as he remembers it. Holds his breath and goes, sits down next to Michael and shifts closer when an arm wraps around his shoulder lazily. 

Waits. 

Waits.