Michael, Reinvented

by Diana Copland

  Just past a set of doors he saw a burst of color on the wall, and he quickened his steps.

  And caught his breath.

  A beautifully executed mural spanned the wall, depicting a wooden mantel and fireplace, evergreen garland with bright red berries draped above a set of elaborate Christmas stockings. In one sock a small stuffed toy rabbit nestled, brown with lighter spots, shining black button eyes, and an embroidery-stitched grin. He was a lovely toy. Next to him was painted The Velveteen Rabbit by Margery Williams. Michael caught his breath. The Velveteen Rabbit was one thing he had shared with his busy, socialite mother. She was never too busy for the Velveteen Rabbit.

  “He was fat and bunchy,” Gil had painted in even, steady-handed script, “as a rabbit should be.”

  Michael walked along the walls, absently smiling at anyone he passed, studying the whimsical paintings, reading the remembered story of the little toy rabbit who was bullied by the other toys, who all thought themselves very grand when compared to a bunny stuffed with sawdust. The boats and cars and fire engines, which were faithfully rendered, were sure they were “real.” Even the jointed lion who thought himself “connected to the government” was certain of it, making the rabbit feel insignificant.

  When Michael arrived at the painting of a worn and tatty rocking horse, he stopped. The beloved toy was so beautifully painted. His skin was threadbare, and his mane and tail, which had probably been very splendid, were now sad things, down to a few stray hairs. Michael’s hand drifted up to touch his own lips, reading the words he’d always loved.

  “…by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don’t matter at all, because once you are Real you can’t be ugly….”

  Michael blinked quickly, forcing tears back. He moved on to the next illustration, and the next. They were all beautiful, telling the story of the little rabbit, so faithful, the constant companion of the little boy until scarlet fever separated them forever. The words echoed in Michael’s head, only he was hearing his mother’s voice, the way it softened on the words, the way her fingers felt in his hair. By the time he arrived at the last panel, he was feeling brittle. But there was no mistaking it; Gil was an artist of true talent, and his hand with the well-loved story was gentle, delicate, perfect for the place and for the audience. Michael studied the piece in front of him, the rendering of the little rabbit made real, and he could see his soft fur, almost thought his little nose should twitch as he sat in the thicket, bright eyes looking out at Michael. It was exquisite.

  Down in the corner, almost lost in the long green grass, was some writing, and Michael bent to read it.

  “For Stevie Manyon, who was always real, from Big Gil.”

  Michael straightened, frowning.

  When he was back in his car, Michael searched the name Stevie Manyon in his phone. Almost instantly an article popped up.

  “Courageous Five-Year-Old Loses Battle with Leukemia.” Michael groaned softly but read the entire article, his heart sinking further with each word.

  “He was buried with his toy rabbit,” Stevie’s mother said. “The Velveteen Rabbit was his favorite story. Now they’re both real.”

  Michael let his head fall back against the headrest, tears slipping down his cheeks. Finally, irritated, he tossed the phone into the passenger seat and dashed at the tears on his face.

  Starting his car, he took a deep breath before he put it in gear and pulled out of the parking place.

  “Damn you, Gilbert Chandler,” he muttered. “Why couldn’t you be a jerk?”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “I REALLY appreciate this.” David grabbed rolled socks from the open drawer of his dresser and put them in a small carry-on bag. Michael lay on the bed beside him, his hands behind his head.

  “No worries.” Michael brought one hand down to sink his fingers in Scooter’s dark fur. “Princess and I will have a good time, here all by ourselves. Won’t we, sweetheart?” She licked the inside of his wrist, then laid her head on his hip.

  David looked up at him, fair hair falling into his eyes. He pushed it back impatiently.

  “Why don’t you go mousse that mess?” Michael asked. “It won’t stay out of your face that way.”

  David went bright red to the tips of his ears. He mumbled something, and Michael angled his head. “What was that?”

  David huffed. “I don’t want to take the time to shower first when we get there, all right?”

  “First before…?”

  David gave him an incredulous look.

  “Oh!” Michael laughed. “First before that. And seriously? This is why I’m single. No man is worth leaving the house without doing my hair first.”

  David smirked, adding another shirt to his bag. “You just haven’t had the right man yet. By the way, you could have someone over if you wanted,” he offered, trying to sound casual.

  Michael scowled at him.

  Clearly it had been a mistake to tell David he’d gone by the hospital to see Gil’s murals. He hadn’t seen the man himself in the week and a half since, and he was relieved. Michael wasn’t sure how he’d respond to him now, and the thought made him nervous. David was just exacerbating the situation every chance he got.

  “I don’t understand you.” David shook his head and folded a pair of slacks. “You go to the trouble to see his work at Sacred Heart, but you won’t call him. Even to tell him how beautiful you think they are.”

  “He doesn’t need my opinion.” Michael rubbed his thumb gently down between Scooter’s closed eyes. “I’m sure everyone has already told him how wonderful he is.”

  David shot him an irritated look. “There’s no crime in liking him, Michael.” He took another shirt from a hanger and folded it neatly. “And I think your opinion would matter to him more than just about anyone else’s.”

  Michael snorted. He doubted it. “How long of a trip are you packing for, David? Because right now you could be gone a week without wearing anything twice.”

  “Oh, shut up.” David placed the shirt in the bag, then looked up at Michael, his hands going to his narrow hips. “You know how much I love you, right?”

  Michael’s lips twisted. “That usually precedes something I don’t want to hear.”

  “And this probably qualifies. I’m going to say it anyway.” He held up his hand when Michael opened his mouth. “Let me say this.”

  Michael huffed out an irritated sigh but lay back and closed his mouth.

  “It’s been what? Five years since Evan? And you haven’t seen anyone?”

  Michael felt his jaw harden.

  David’s face softened. “Don’t do that. I’m really trying to help.”

  “I don’t need help.” He sounded harsh and he didn’t care. “I’m fine. And I have seen people.”

  David scowled. “Hooking up isn’t seeing someone.”

  Michael shrugged one shoulder. “It works. I get laid, and I don’t….”

  He stopped, suddenly awkward, afraid he was about to reveal an aspect of his character he didn’t want even his best friend to know.

  David sat on the edge of the bed. “And you don’t what?”

  Michael curled his fingers in Scooter’s fur. “Leave it alone, David. I’m all right. I might feel like being in a relationship at some point, someday. But I don’t want it now. And I won’t want Gilbert.”

  The front door opened and closed in the other room, and Scooter jumped up and ran down a small set of stairs at the foot of the bed Jackson had built for that purpose. “Babe, where are you?” Jackson called.

  “Bedroom,” David answered, his gaze still on Michael. He looked so sad that Michael reached out and patted his hip, attempting a smile.

  “I’m fine. Stop worrying and go away to get laid by your lovely boyfriend.”

  David sighed, but he straightened, looking into his bag. “Fiancé,” he said absently. “What am I missing?” He looked around the b
edroom.

  “Black jock strap?” Michael offered. He’d given the skimpy black underwear to David as a joke on his birthday the year before. David stuck his tongue out at Michael, but then reached into the open drawer, grabbed the aforementioned item, and stuffed it under his shirts in the carry-on. Michael smirked.

  “You about ready?” Jackson came to the bedroom door, Scooter dancing around his feet.

  David grabbed a pair of jeans from a hanger and laid them over the top of everything in his bag, then closed and zipped it shut. “This one is ready. I just need to grab my shaving stuff from the bathroom.”

  Jackson came to him, slipped his arm around David’s waist, and kissed him gently. “You don’t need to shave. I like you scruffy.” His voice was soft and smooth as twenty-five-year-old scotch, making Michael’s cock twitch. Which was wrong on so many levels, Michael didn’t even want to think about it. Jackson’s large tan hand lifted, his fingers slipping through David’s blond hair. “I love your hair all soft like this.”

  “I know.” Jackson cupped David’s cheek, and he leaned into the touch.

  Michael leaned around David, looking up at Jackson. “You do realize I’m right here, right?”

  Jackson glanced over at him. “Oh, hey, Michael.” He looked back into David’s face. “Hey to you too.”

  David’s whole body seemed to go soft, relaxing into Jackson. Michael couldn’t see his face, but knew he was smiling at him. “Hey,” David murmured, humming softly when Jackson leaned in to kiss him again.

  Michael rolled off the far side of the bed and stalked around the foot. “When you two are done, I’ll be in the living room. Come on, Scootsy.”

  Usually the pet name drove David crazy, but he was too wrapped up in Jackson to notice. Michael closed the door behind him a bit harder than was strictly necessary and went into the front room, flopping back on the leather couch after he lifted Scooter up next to him.

  He didn’t begrudge David and Jackson their weekend away; work began on the O’Banyon mansion on Monday, and they’d all be tied up for a while after that. He and David wouldn’t be as busy as the construction guys at first, but there would be plenty for them to do: going through catalogs, taking meetings with Richard and Lyle over fabric and paint samples. Ordering in the antique wallpaper Richard wanted would have to happen soon if they were going to get it in time for installation. David had already priced it, but there was so much more they’d need too. Paint, drapery fabric, windows. Michael was tempted to pull out his tablet and make more notes, then decided against it. If Jackson and David could take the weekend off, he could too.

  He looked over to find Scooter watching him, her head cocked to one side. “So, what’ll we do, princess? Read? Play video games? Watch TV?”

  She hopped away across the cushions, and Michael had no idea what she was doing until she returned with the remote for the television in her mouth. He laughed.

  “Oh, you are entirely too smart for your own good.” He took the remote from her, grimacing, and rubbed his palm on his jeans. “Blech, corgi spit.” She immediately licked his wrist, and he laughed again. “Okay, I get it. It’s medicinal.” She sat and looked at him, tongue lolling and eyes bright.

  “So, what’ll it be? Ghost Adventures? Dead Files?” The little dog curled up next to him on the sofa, her head on his thigh. “I get it—you don’t care.” He turned the TV on and flipped through the channels, then stopped on a rerun of American Ninja Warrior. At least the men were pretty. He took off his shoes and propped his stockinged feet carefully on the glass-covered coffee table. Looking at the elegantly carved top of the low piece reminded him that it had once belonged to Gil’s father, and he scowled at it.

  It was a few minutes before Jackson appeared, carrying David’s bag. His hair was tousled.

  “It’s very rude to give your boyfriend a blow job while you have someone sitting in your living room.”

  Jackson gave him a cheeky smile and a wink before he walked out through the front door. Moments later David entered the room, carrying a small dark bag that matched his luggage. His face and neck were blotchy, and Michael laughed.

  “Good Lord, how did you ever get away with anything when you were a kid?” David looked at Michael, frowning slightly. “You have ‘my boyfriend just blew me’ all over your face.”

  David grimaced, his ear tips turning bright red. “Shut up.” He set his bag by the front door, then reached to take down a heavy jacket hanging on the coatrack.

  “We should be back by two on Sunday.” He pushed his hands into the sleeves and shrugged into it. “There are emergency numbers in a list on the fridge. I’m not sure how good cell reception will be at the cabin, but I left the number for the main office. If you need us, someone can run down with a message.” David started to close his coat, but his hands were trembling and he was buttoning it lopsided.

  “Oh, just turn off your phones.” Michael pushed to his feet and crossed to his friend, pushing his hands away to realign the buttonholes. He closed the jacket, then squeezed David’s arm. “I’m a big boy. And if anything happens, I can dial 911 with the best of them.”

  David surprised Michael by pulling him into a fierce hug. “I so want you to be happy,” he whispered against Michael’s ear.

  It startled Michael, the emotion in his friend’s voice bringing a lump to his throat. He coughed to clear it.

  “I’m not unhappy.” He pulled back, forcing a smile. “And you’re entirely too wound up for a man who just had an orgasm.”

  “Oh God!” David smacked him lightly on the upper arm as the front door opened. “It’s not all about fucking and blow jobs, you know.”

  Jackson stepped in, reaching for David’s bag. “It isn’t?” he said. “Damn. There’s no TV in those cabins. Whatever shall we do?”

  David gave him a wry look. “I packed Yahtzee. Go warm up the truck.”

  “Yes, sir!” He gave David a jaunty salute, then winked at Michael. “I love it when he gets all domineering.”

  Jackson grinned at the exasperated look on David’s face and walked out through the open door. David and Michael followed him onto the porch. Scooter ran past them into the front yard, pouncing on any scrap of snow that didn’t already have her paw prints in it.

  “Scooter, stop,” David called. She looked at him, then lifted her front paws and brought them down in another patch of snow. Michael laughed.

  “Obstinate little brat.” David huffed. “She’ll be soaked.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I’ll dry her off.”

  David looked around the dark yard, wrapping his arms around his waist. “I’m not sure how comfortable I am leaving you here alone.”

  Michael slipped his arm around David’s shoulders, pulling him in. He understood David’s concern. David’s ex, Trevor, had broken into the house in the first few weeks he owned it. He’d tried to hurt Jackson and had injured the neighbor’s corgi, Bootsy, who David was pet-sitting.

  “David,” Michael began.

  “You can’t tell me you’ve never felt it, Michael. I know better.”

  Michael looked into David’s face, prepared to lie and tell him he was imagining things. But then he saw the flat line his friend’s full lips were pressed into, the flinty, brittle expression around his eyes.

  “Don’t you think that’s carryover from what Trevor did?”

  David looked out over the yard. A sigh moved his shoulders. “Maybe that’s all it is. I know the night he sat out here in the dark, spying on me while I talked to my neighbor, did more damage than I thought.”

  Michael felt a faint shudder move through the slender body next to him, and he squeezed David’s upper arm.

  “I know.” Michael intentionally gentled his voice. “And yeah, okay; I’ve gotten the creeps out here at night too. But Trevor likes his freedom entirely too much to violate his probation by coming anywhere near you now.”

  David turned back to Michael, his expression startled.

  “Oh, I don’t thin
k it’s still Trevor. I felt like I was being watched even before he turned up on my porch. But I don’t think it’s him. Not anymore.”

  Consternation wrinkled Michael’s brow, but by the time he’d thought up a response, Jackson was standing at the foot of the porch steps, looking up at them.

  “You ready, babe?”

  David grabbed Michael’s hand, squeezing almost too hard. “Promise me you’ll be careful. Don’t come outside by yourself after dark. If you have to, bring Scooter with you. If you hear anything, call 911, call Gil. Just—be safe. Please.”

  Michael swallowed, forcing his voice to remain casual. “You worry too much. I’ll be fine. I have the alarm system and the dog. And if all else fails, your mother lives just down the street. Beverley would scare the shit out of any prowler.” He gave David a teasing hip check. “Now go take your man away for the weekend and have fun.”

  Jackson looked up at David expectantly. “Come on, sweetheart,” he said. “If you want to get there before midnight, we need to go.”

  “Okay, okay. Scooter!” David called the little dog, and she bounded up the steps to sit at his feet. He crouched down and sank his fingers into her fur, scratching behind both large black ears. “You be a good girl. Take care of Michael.”

  “That’s right, Scooter,” Michael quipped. “You take care of Michael, because God knows it couldn’t be the other way around.”