Michael loosened his tie—now that he was off work for the day, he didn't need quite as professional an appearance—and folded it up as he walked. Tucked it into his pocket. He paused a moment, setting his briefcase at his feet, to roll his sleeves up to his elbows and unbutton his collar a little bit. It was barely May, but it was hot. Probably record-breaking for the time of year. He took a deep breath of the warm air. It smelled like flowers, cut grass, and metal. The apple trees had begun to blossom. He stood under one, actually. Looked up at its white flowers with a calm smile.
At that moment, a young man with his face obscured by a medical mask chose to do something very stupid.
Said young man shoved Michael hard, snatched his briefcase, and ran.
Big mistake.
Michael was off like a shot, despite his relatively impractical Derby shoes (a dark greenish azure, freshly polished and terrible to run in). He thanked God he chose to wear socks that day—sometimes went without, on warm days, and stuck with bare feet and talc—as he ran. Caught up quickly and reached out to grab the thief's shoulder.
The kid spun and wacked him in the face with his own briefcase, hard enough to leave Michael disoriented for a few seconds, and in pain.
He caught his breath, and blinked hard, and the young man ran off again. Michael glared down at the sidewalk. He regained his equilibrium in fairly good time. Decided to take off his shoes and his socks—shoved the socks into his pocket with his tie, and clutched the shoes in his hands. He took off again. Barely avoided a Don't Walk signal, and bolted across the crosswalk, and down the sidewalk. He couldn't quite see the guy he was chasing—ah, turning into an alley. Michael followed him.
When he turned into the alleyway he saw two things:
One, it was a dead-end.
Two, that thieving kid was crouched in the gravel, rifling through Michael's suitcase.
Michael stood breathing heavy in the entry to the alley, and waited for the kid to notice him. Didn't take long. The thief looked up, with his mask still over his nose, and froze in his movements. He held Michael's wallet in one hand, and a spare undershirt (no such thing as over-preparation) in the other.
"Buddy," Michael growled. "Drop the checks and put your hands behind your head." Alright, maybe that sound a little too police-like, but hey. If it worked.
Of course, it didn't.
The thief shoved the checkbook into his pants, grabbed the coin purse Michael kept in a hidden pocket, dropped his shirt, and turned around to run. Only to be confronted with a wall. So he turned back toward Michael and charged at him, raising a hand to deal a blow.
Michael dropped his shoes, caught the kid's hand, broke his wrist, and kneed him in the stomach, all in quick succession. For a moment, the thief seemed down for the count, but he managed to head-butt Michael in the face, before Michael got him in a headlock. Michael tightened his grip around the masked young man's neck. Held. Waited for him to slowly grow slack, and finally released him on the verge of unconsciousness. He let him flop to the ground. Stepped over him, and put his shoes back on before slowly reassembling his briefcase—the kid had made quite the mess of it.
When he deemed his task complete, Michael pushed his hair out of his eyes, called the police, and left.
He ignored the stares, as he walked the rest of the way home.
"Hey, bro—whoa." Gabriel stopped in the doorway. "What the hell happened to you?"
Michael looked up from his cooled macarons, in the process of spooning orange cream onto them. He smiled, rather falsely, and replied, "Someone tried to mug me. I strangled him." He continued to fill his macarons, while Gabriel just lapsed into an uncertain silence. As he finished up, wrapping his pastries in little wax paper bundles and setting them in the refrigerator in a casserole dish, Gabriel sat down at the table.
After a few minutes, Gabriel asked, "What time's your boyfriend coming over?"
"What makes you think he is?" Michael set about cleaning up his cooking supplies—though Gabriel grabbed the mixing bowl that had held the filling and started to scrape at the sides with a spoon so he could eat the leftover cream. Michael rolled his eyes.
Gabriel sucked on his spoon before responding. "Well," he said. "You only ever make macaroons when someone special comes over. Always."
Michael frowned. "Macarons. Not macaroons. Macaroons are disgusting." He wiped the table down with a damp sponge. "Do I really only make them when a date visits?"
"Yep." Gabriel winked and licked a bit of orange cream from the side of his hand. "'Cause of that one time you were testing that recipe and what's-his-name ate like... all of them, and ever since then you always make them when people you like come over for dinner." He pouted. "But you still never make me lava cake when I ask."
With a scoff, Michael pulled his apron (a floral thing from a distant cousin's sister's uncle) off and hung it from its hook beside the cupboard. He double-checked that his macaron supplies were all put away, and then turned to face his brother. "Gabriel." He crossed his arms. "I have two questions for you."
Gabriel grinned. "Shoot."
"One," Michael moved toward the refrigerator. "What should I make for dinner? Two: should I attempt to cover my black eye, or leave it as is?"
"Hmm..." Gabriel leaned back in his chair, and almost kicked his feet up on the table before thinking better of it. He didn't want to suffer Michael's domestic wrath. "I'm always down for anything you make, but how about, like... something French, to match the macaroons." He bit back a grin, knowing full well how much Michael despised his purposeful mispronunciation. (Especially considering he'd already been corrected on it.) As an afterthought, he added, "Don't cover up the eye. You look badass. I bet your boy toy'll think it's hot."
"He's not my 'boy toy.'" Michael crossed his arms as he shut the refrigerator door with his hip. "That would require a lot more casual sex and a lot less eating cake while sitting on the floor watching superhero movies." He almost smiled. "Though I suppose you have only met him once."
Gabriel snorted and tapped his fingers on the tabletop. Seemingly struck with a revelation, he said, "Speaking of sex..." He smirked at Michael's put-upon expression. "Is he sleeping over tonight? I need to know whether I oughta bust out the earplugs or not. 'Cause last time? Wow." He raised his eyebrows.
Michael resisted the urge to roll his eyes—barely. He settled for flicking Gabriel in the ear as he walked past him. "Just for that, I'll tell him to be louder than usual."
"He's always like that?!"
"You're too nosy." Michael left the kitchen, making his way to the stairs. As an afterthought, he shouted, "And he'll be over at five! Be nice!" as he walked up to his bedroom.
When Chuck showed up, he immediately began fussing over Michael—he made a deeply concerned face and wrung his hands and kissed the bruise around Michael's eye. Michael allowed for his worry, smiling softly. He ended up soothing Chuck more than Chuck soothed him, until Chuck stood almost completely calm in the hallway, leaning against Michael's side, content that Michael wasn't actually hurt.
Gabriel gave them some space. Somehow, Michael always got infuriatingly sappy with Chuck, but not in an especially obvious way—not obvious to strangers, at least. But Gabriel could tell by all the tiny touches they shared and how Michael's Mona Lisa smile seemed glued to his face, crinkling the corners of his eyes, that he was being sappy. Why else would he be so gentle?
They ate dinner—chicken marsala—with fairly little conversation. Chuck never spoke when he ate, anyway, so it wasn't particularly strange. But his usual nervousness and Michael's unsurprising disinclination to speak while eating, combined with Gabriel's uncharacteristic silence, made for a slightly strained half hour.
That may have been partially due to that fact that Gabriel had accidentally called Chuck a whore the last time they spoke. He hadn't meant to offend him, or anything, they'd just been talking and it sort of... slipped out. Not as an accusation, or an insult. Just as an implication. A joke.
Chuck wouldn't meet Gabriel's eyes—not that he made a lot of eye contact on a normal day—so Gabriel figured he'd keep his mouth shut for once and munched away on his pasta.
He'd have to think of a way to apologize without saying the words.
Later, Gabriel turned down a macaron. Penance. Or something. He even offered to give his to Chuck, but Chuck said, "Too much sugar" and slunk away to sit beside Michael on the couch. Gabriel frowned and put the little pastries back in the fridge. Maybe he'd have to use his words, after all. But God, he hated apologies. Always felt so... awkward. Made him feel like a seven year old, too. A very rude seven year old.
Chuck left the living room to use the toilet—God, the bathroom was so clean—and when he emerged into the hallway, Gabriel was waiting for him. Oh Lord. Chuck rubbed his face and half-prayed Gabriel had merely been waiting for Chuck to finish. But of course, as Chuck moved to return to the living room, Gabriel grabbed his arm.
"Listen, Chuck—"
Oh God. Chuck's Awkward Apology senses were tingling. But... "What is it?" He straightened his glasses and turned to face Gabriel, dislodging himself from the barely-taller man's grip as he did. "The movie's just at the best part, and I don't want Michael to have to wait too long for me, and—"
Gabriel raised a hand. A shushing gesture. Then, "Chuck. Hombre." Always with the random Spanish. He spread his arms, strangely saint-like. "You know I didn't mean what I said last week, right? It was a joke."
"What—" Chuck made a face. "You asked me how much I charge per night!"
That got an ashamed grimace out of Gabriel. "Yeah... that was pretty rude of me." He looked down at his feet and planted his hands on his hips. Sighed. "Listen, man. It was a joke but it was a pretty shitty joke, so I just..." His mouth twisted. "I just wanted to say sorry, you know?"
Chuck felt all hot and uncomfortable—he hated this kind of situation. So he tried to focus less on how red he must have been and more on the fact that, hey, Gabriel admitted he was rude. Presumably that meant he wasn't as mean as Chuck had initially thought. Maybe.
"Um... Thanks, I guess. I'm just gonna—" He gestured vaguely toward the living room, then scampered off, shedding his sweater as he went. He plopped himself down beside Michael and leaned his head on his shoulder, tucking his feet underneath himself. Michael unpaused the movie. Wrapped his arm around Chuck's waist and rubbed his side, softly. He didn't ask about Chuck's red face or sudden clinginess, just tightened his arm when Chuck squirmed closer.
By the end of the evening, Chuck had fallen asleep, and Gabriel had plopped down in the armchair to make Michael watch Jurassic Park.
In the morning, Chuck woke up alone in Michael's bed, in his boxers and a borrowed shirt. (He'd forgotten to pack his pajamas.) He ventured downstairs to find Gabriel making pancakes—in red silk shorts, no less—and Michael sitting at the kitchen table reading the newspaper and sipping at a cup of coffee.
Sleepy still, Chuck rubbed his face and sat beside Michael. Scooted his chair closer so he could lean on Michael's shoulder, and watched the growing stack of pancakes at Gabriel's elbow. He must have drifted off for a moment, because when he blinked, there was a plate in front of him, and Michael had folded his newspaper up and set it in his lap.
Gabriel told stories, while they ate, which were both amusing and distracting, and made Chuck nearly choke on his coffee.
It was a nice morning. Gabriel gave Chuck all of the best pancakes, and Chuck thought that was probably a way of apologizing he was more familiar with. And the syrup was even warmed up. How... extravagant, to be honest. Chuck always just poured it on cold. He thanked Gabriel, though. Smiled a little. The awkwardness that had settled between them the day before had melted away by noon.
Michael seemed pleased.
He wrapped up a bunch of macarons, put them into a little box, and gave them to Chuck just before he left. A little paper note was tucked into the side, "From Gabriel" written on it in pink highlighter. Chuck and Michael kissed goodbye, and Chuck spared one last minute to say, "Try not to get in any more fights, okay?"
Michael smiled. "I'll try." He kissed Chuck's forehead and waved goodbye at him.
When Chuck got home, he took out the note. It was a piece of printer paper folded down to a quarter of its size. When he unfolded it and flattened it out, he couldn't help but laugh. Gabriel had printed out a children's coloring book page of a sad teddy bear and written "SORRY" in the same pink highlighter. The bear had been colored in bright red, with crayons. Chuck rolled his eyes. He noticed smaller, lighter writing. Mechanical pencil, near the corner of the page.
It read, "I have never seen Michael smile so much in my entire life so I hope you guys are together a real long time. When he's in a good mood I'm more likely to get my favorite foods for dinner. xoxo Gabriel"
Chuck rolled his eyes.
Not bad, as far as apologies went. Hopefully it would never need to happen again. (Though, knowing Gabriel...) Chuck folded up the paper and stuck it in his pocket, and took the macarons to the refrigerator.
He'd had a good weekend. He hoped it would not be his only good weekend.