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.

*****

Michael's hand gripped tighter on mine, turning my fingers white. "He's been gone a long time," he said, still dressed in his hospital gown as he sat on top of the exam bed-table thing.

Sighing, I pulled away from him.

His head snapped around, following my path as I walked to his other side. "Wh-Where are you going?"

"Nowhere." I slipped the fingers of my left hand against his palm, then looked around the sterile examination room. "But if you're going to crush my hand, then at least crush the one I don't use to paint."

Some of the tension seeped out of his body, and he dropped his head against my shoulder. "I'm glad you're not scared, Avery."

He was wrong. I was terrified. But I knew if I showed it, he'd start crying, and I was more afraid of that. The tough-guy act was easy to play—after all, I'd been doing it most of my life. By now it was a part of me. I couldn't stop if I tried. So...

Why was I still calling it an act?

Michael's soft lips brushed against my neck. "Thank you for coming with me."

I glanced at him. "Of course I came. It's not like I have a day job." Shit. That had come out all wrong. I'd loved this man for five years. Why couldn't I say what I meant?

His hands fluttered down to my waist, drew me closer. "You work harder than anyone I know. Even when you're not actually painting, you're imagining, sketching, planning, thinking. Taking a day off for you is like taking a week off for me." He turned my body into him so he could press a kiss to the hollow of my throat. "And you hate hospitals almost as much as I do, so I know how much it means that you're here."

My lips parted, and I awkwardly reached up, stroked his hair. After five years, I guess I didn't really have to say what I meant. Michael already knew.

"Avery?" He curled his fingers into my shirt. "Do you... Do you think I'm going to be alright?"

I wondered if I should tell him what he wanted to hear. It was what my mom always used to do, right up until she skipped out on me. I didn't hate her now, so I didn't think Michael would hate me for murmuring words of comfort, even if they turned out to be wrong later on. But still...

"I'll be right here when you find out," I said finally. That was better, wasn't it?

He slid to the edge of the exam table, nestled closer to my body.

The door opened, and Dr. Eddings walked in, holding a file in his hands.

Michael's body jumped as he straightened away from me, blushing claret from head to toe. Living five years with me hadn't done anything for his shyness, and my mouth crooked as I slid my hands into my pockets.

"So what's the deal, doc?" I asked point-blank, unabashed to have been caught hugging my lover.

I heard Michael's faint sigh of relief—he was glad to have me in control. Like always.

The doctor stared at his file a moment longer and lifted his head, grinning at both of us. "All the tests show Michael is perfectly healthy."

Michael slumped forward. "Really?"

I frowned. "Then why...?"

Closing his file, Dr. Eddings leaned back against his desk, leveled Michael with a steady gaze. "After looking over your tests, your records, and speaking with your childhood physicians, we've come to the conclusion that this is little more than the long overdue onset of puberty."

"Puberty?" echoed Michael, moving away from me as he perked up. "Really?"

"Puberty," I repeated, the word considerably slower on my own lips. "At his age."

Dr. Eddings nodded, as if he understood both our reactions. "If they ignored his age and just looked at his stats—the visible changes in his body, the hormone levels in his system—any doctor would tell you the same thing. It's almost textbook, actually."

Almost. I crossed my arms over my chest. "He grew an inch and a half in one day."

The doctor faltered as his gaze focused on me. "Yes, well, that's one of the reasons I felt it necessary to call Michael's pediatricians. It seems he'd undergone quite an array of rather creative treatment protocols in his   youth—" Michael shuddered, but Eddings didn't look like he noticed, "—and it's possible that one or a combination of those treatments is accelerating the process."

Michael rubbed at his arms, his chest. I wanted to grab hold of him and calm those nervous movements, but I thought this time that might make things worse. He didn't like to be touched in public.

"Doctor?" he asked, his brown eyes big and round. "What's... What's going to happen to me?"

"It's impossible to say for sure," said Eddings, "but I believe you will simply grow as any maturing man would. You'll put on some height, perhaps a bit more muscle. Your genitalia will increase in size and you'll probably develop more of a libido than you're used to. You'll develop body hair and you may even experience a little acne." He smiled. "All the joys of growing up."

I'd seen a lot of doctors before this one, and I had to hand it to Eddings—his bedside manner was better than most. His tone was gentle, attentive. Like he really cared. Hell, maybe he did. It was Michael, after all. Not me.

"Why is this happening now?" I asked softly.

Eddings opened his file, closed it, set it aside. "Could be anything, really. It's as if Michael's body was waiting for all the elements inside of him to come together. Then he just needed some catalyst, some spark, to get him going."

A spark? I glanced at Michael's hand, at the little bandage he still wore on his forefinger even though he probably didn't need it any more. "Like an electrical shock?"

The doctor shrugged helplessly. "I suppose. Or what he ate for breakfast one morning, or a certain frequency he heard on the radio. Like I said, it could have been anything."

Michael's nervous hands stilled, and the apprehension began to leave his voice. "But I'm going to be okay, right? I'm just... growing up?"

"That's what it looks like," said Eddings, grinning. "You don't seem to be sick, and you're not in pain, so I'm going to go ahead and clear you to go home." He raised a finger. "But I want you in here every two weeks so we can measure your progress, and so we can make sure you stay healthy while you're going through this accelerated growth spurt."

My gaze slid over Michael's body, already different in a dozen little ways. How long would this 'growth spurt' last? How far would it go?

They started talking about the coming changes again. The rest of their conversation faded around me, floated through me. I caught Eddings's warning about making sure to come in at any sign of trouble or pain, but that was about it. Michael was okay. That was good. I could relax and get back my swirls of gold.

A flash of silver against the black.

No, that was wrong. Michael was okay. I could...

My swirls of gold.

"Avery?"

I glanced up at Michael—up—and took a step back. "Please," I whispered.

He shook his head as he buttoned the last few buttons of his shirt. "Please, what?"

The colors of my world snapped bright again, and I looked into his curious face. Glancing around, I saw that Eddings had already left, that Michael was all but dressed. The white shirt had been a size too big for him last week, but now it fit perfectly, hugging the new length of his shoulders, the subtle swell of his chest. I watched the cords on the backs of his hands work as long fingers slid the material of his shirt into his slacks.

Those weren't the hands I knew.

My gaze drifted downward, rested on the little bulge in his crotch. That had never been there before. This entire body was...

Shit. I was being stupid.

I lifted my head, looked into his eyes. Brown, warm. There, in those depths, I found my swirls of gold.

Michael was okay. I could relax.

"You ready?" I asked, slipping my hands into my pockets.

He grinned and nodded. "Signed the discharge papers and everything."

My mind had drifted for that long? I barely remembered what I'd been thinking about, and even the remnants were fading. Not wanting to dwell on it, I turned and walked out of the examination room, knowing Michael was following me as I left the hospital.

As soon as we were outdoors, I pulled out a cigarette.

"Avery," chided Michael, "you can't smoke at a hospital."

I shot him a look as I pulled out my lighter. When we'd walked a few steps more, I flipped it open and tapped a sign beside us before lighting my cigarette.

He glanced up at the sign, read it aloud. "No smoking beyond this point."

I drew in a long drag, held it in long enough to let it sear my lungs before blowing the smoke straight up into the air. "And now we're outside that line."

His face let me know he still wasn't happy, but what could he say? I'd given up drugs and the lion's share of my kinks for him—he couldn't begrudge me a legal vice or two, right?

Michael's expression cleared as he returned to the subject of the day. "Puberty. Can you believe it?"

I took another drag, blew it out in a narrow stream. "Not really."

"And he said my voice might—" he coughed, swallowed, tried again. "He said my—" His voice hit a weirdly high pitch before dropping again.

My brow furrowed. "Now you're just fucking with me."

His eyes wide, he shook his head. "No—" he cleared his throat. "No, I swear."

Michael's voice was actually cracking. How long was I going to have to listen to that?

"How tall do you think I'll grow?" He practically jumped up and down with excitement. "My brother's five-ten. My dad's about six feet. Do you think I'll get close to that, Avery?"

Six feet? Christ, that was almost a full foot taller than me. Did he really want to grow so much?

Michael prattled on in his shifting, grating voice, too keyed up to notice I hadn't responded. "And they're big guys. Strong. Maybe I should start working out." He smiled at me. "What do you think, Avery?"

I flicked some ash onto the sidewalk. "I think I need a drink. Want to hit a bar with me?"

That got his attention. Michael stopped short, straightened. "A bar? At three in the afternoon?"

"Sure, why not?" Still holding my cigarette in one hand, I closed the distance between us, intent on his eyes. "You're healthy. Let's celebrate."

His voice went soft. "You smell like smoke."

"I always smell like smoke." To make my point, I exhaled into his face. "Which means you must like that about me."

Michael swallowed hard. "Avery, after we go out to the bar..." He swallowed again. "Afterward will you—"

"Yes. Bad."

His chest hitched against mine. The muscles there felt hard, but not repulsive. I could get used to this, especially if what the doc said about his libido was true.

Even if Michael did grow a little, things wouldn't change all that much.

*****

"Avery?"

I ignored the flash of silver that streaked across my vision as I stared at my canvas. "Yeah?"

"I've got... I've got hair."

"Noticed that last night when we fucked." Frowning, I studied my palette. "Dr. Eddings said you'd be sprouting it." Normally I didn't like hair on a guy, but Michael's was turning out to be soft, kinda downy. Nice.

"No, I've got hair on my face."

I blinked, finally turned my head to look at him. He must have just stepped out of the shower, because he had a towel wrapped around his waist. A week had passed since his doctor's appointment, and it jarred me to see that his shoulders were wider than his hips now. The lines of his body had shifted all around, getting sharper, taking more defined angles. Every day made the changes more pronounced.

And, sure enough, his jaw was covered in brown shadow. "What do you want me to do about it?"

He rubbed his cheek. "I can't go to work like this."

"So shave it off."

"I don't have a razor."

"Use mine." I turned back to my canvas, irritated now because he'd broken my train of thought. "It's in the medicine cabinet."

"Avery..." His voice dropped to an almost whisper. "Could you teach me?"

My eyes drifted closed. I was such a fucking ass!

"Sure," I said, setting down my palette and sliding off my stool. Grabbing his hand as I strode past him, I led him into the bathroom and positioned him in front of the mirror. "You just got out of the shower, so your skin's nice and soft." I pressed a kiss to his shoulder, trying to make amends for being... me. "That's the best time to shave."

His gaze met mine in the mirror, and he smiled.

Okay, forgiven. Good start.

I opened up the mirrored cabinet, pulled out my razor and shave gel. After closing it, I squeezed some of the gel onto my fingers and worked it into his cheeks, his chin, his jaw. "Just like this, understand?"

He nodded.

"No nodding when I put that blade against your skin."

"Alright," he said, falling still.

When I had him good and lathered up, I rinsed off my hands and filled the sink basin with a little water. Then I picked up the razor. "Now, it doesn't really matter how you hold the handle, as long as you've got a firm, comfortable grip." I slipped my hand around his waist, pulled him into me. I wasn't wearing a shirt, so my bare chest was pressed against the smooth, damp skin of his back.

He nestled closer to me. Because his shoulders were broader than mine now, I had to shift to the side in order to make sure I had a good angle.

Lifting my other hand, I held the blade to his skin. "You don't need a lot of pressure, see?" I stared at our reflections, noticed that my eyes came up just below his ears now. "Follow the planes of your face. Long strokes for big areas," I swept a clean path along his cheek, washed the blade off in the basin, and took care of the right side of his upper lip, "smaller strokes for smaller areas. Use your common sense." I slipped the razor into his hand. "Don't rush it."

Michael hesitated, then frowned in concentration as he put the blade to his face. "Like this?" he asked, carefully drawing it down, revealing smooth, clean skin.

"You've got it." I started to move away, already struggling to remember what I'd been trying to do with my painting.

A hand closed around mine, pulled me back. Michael returned my arm to his waist. "Stay."

"Why?" I asked, trying to break the hold again.

His fingers clasped tight, keeping my hand against his stomach. His attention never left the mirror. "Just stay."

My brow furrowed, but I reluctantly moved closer.

Michael's hand left mine to catch my other one. He guided it to his chest and rubbed my palm over his nipple a few times, until it hardened and scraped against my skin.

Whatever colors I'd had in my mind's eye were replaced with shades of gold, and my frown left me. Michael turned his head, smiling down at me, before going back to his shaving.

I didn't know what to think of that look. I wasn't sure I liked it. But I let my left hand caress the lines he was developing in his midsection as my right stroked one nipple, then the other. The muscles under his skin felt new and tight as I traced them, trying to memorize them even though I knew they'd be different again by the end of the day. My fingers were deliberate, my palms firm but not so insistent that they'd risk jostling Michael as he shaved the shadow from his face.

He moved in slow, careful strokes. It took him almost three times as long as it would have taken me, but it was his first time. He got points for not nicking himself.

My hand paused on his chest as I studied his face. Even that was changing. His jaw had a stronger cut to it; the planes from cheekbone to chin were flatter, cleaner. Maybe the reason he hadn't nicked himself was just because his features were simpler.

Because his face had lost his some of its character.

My arms fell from his body and I glanced away.

I got lucky. At that moment, Michael leaned forward to rinse off his face.

"So how did I do?" he asked, toweling off his skin as he turned.

I forced myself to look at him. "Good job."

He grinned. "What now?"

"Lotion," I said, sliding a hand into my pocket. "Second shelf in the cabinet."

He took it out, dabbed a little on his hand and held it to his nose. "Doesn't smell like anything."

"You wanted perfume?"

The arousal in his eyes was brilliant, and so unexpected that I took a step back. "I've been paying more attention to your things lately—your soap, your shampoo," he smoothed the lotion onto his face, "your aftershave. It all either smells like powder or it's unscented. That means the scent on your skin, your clothes, our sheets..." He leaned forward, burying his nose into my hair, inhaling deeply. "It's all you—smoke and paint and something dark underneath. I like that. A lot."

I'd always told myself I wanted Michael to talk more hot words to me. But now he was doing it and... and I was more unnerved than aroused.

He slipped his hand to the nape of my neck, making the hairs there stand on end. "I think I want to stay home today, Avery. I want to smell you all over."

I kept my expression cool as I began to walk out of the room. "Go to work."

Chuckling, Michael grabbed the waistband of my jeans and dragged me against his body. "Let's spend the day in bed. We've never done that."

"No." I brushed his hand away. "You might be able to take a day off, but I have a show in three weeks and I'm still two works short. I can't afford to spend the day fucking, especially when I've got a painting burning inside of me. A painting you keep interrupting."

Michael paled, and all that warm arousal bled out of him. "But... Y-You still..." His chest hitched. "You always want to make love." He tried to say something else, and his voice cracked, so he swallowed before trying again. "To me?"

Make love. I forced the darker images from my mind and nodded. "Yeah. All the time. I just can't right now."

"A-Alright. I'll get out of your hair then." He hesitated, then touched his lips to my cheek. "Thank you for teaching me how to shave."

He left the bathroom, and I ran a shaking hand through my hair. I'd just turned down a day of sex, and I'd used a deadline as an excuse when I knew damned well I had over a dozen paintings stored at the far end of the loft, gathering dust.