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It took a while to get there but telling the differences between Adam and Michael had been easier than expected. Like now for example. If Adam was manning their body he would have slouched beside you on the couch, helped himself to your snacks, and asked you about your day. Instead, Michael stood, looming in the doorway of the living room. His stance is like a soldier at attention, head high, shoulders straight, watching you with no expression.
“Hello, Michael.” You greeted. “How are you today?”
“I am well.” He approaches, situating himself between you and the TV screen. “What is this?”
“I’m good too, thank you for asking.” Social queues will likely never be his thing. “This is a TV show.”
“I am aware.” His shoulders sag briefly, unamused by your sarcasm. Whether he understood that you were teasing is a mystery, he likely thinks that you’re an idiot who thinks he’s an idiot, which is arguably funnier. “I meant, what television show is it?”
“Buffy.” You answer. “It’s actually really good, it’s about a teenage girl who is the chosen one-“
“Chosen?” He interrupts, but you let it slide. You wonder if he’s thinking of how he was once ‘chosen’, and now he’s here, metaphorically sandwiched between his partner and his partner's partner in a tiny apartment in Minnesota. He could leave at any time, commandeer their body, or escape it entirely and take off, but he doesn’t, he hasn’t. Which really speaks to how much he cares for Adam.
“Yeah, she’s the one true slayer, kind of. So, she has to juggle killing vampires and stuff with normal high school things, like homework and boys.”
He’s looking at the screen, not at you, but you can see his eyes narrow. You think he might be scrutinising your choice in vapid human media, but his response surprises you.
“Yes, I recall Adam used to watch this show with his mother.” His probing glance falls back to you now. Adam is there, they’re both always there, but it still feels like you’re discussing him behind his back, so you awkwardly attempt to move on from the subject.
“Oh, well… Would you like to sit and watch it with me?” You shuffle over, making space for him beside you and patting the pillow.
“No.” Michael is just a blunt person? Being? Angel. So, you don’t take the sting of his rejection to heart.
But despite his rebuttal, he makes no attempt to move. Instead, standing stock still in the middle of the room, occasionally asking questions as the time passes.
“Who is that?”
“ That’s Angel. Buffy’s sort of on again off again boyfriend.”
“Angel?”
“Yeah, he’s not an angel, he’s a vampire.”
“How paradoxical.”
-
“That one reminds me of you.”
“Who? Cordelia?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“She talks too much.”
-
“Why does Willow simply not confront this Xander boy about her, albeit inadvisable feelings for him?”
“ Teenagers are stupid.”
“Humans are stupid.”
“ Thanks.”
Four episodes later he remains unmoved, you’d tried not to speak to him unless spoken too, afraid you might scare, or more likely annoy him away, but your stomach is starting to grumble.
“I’m gonna order takeout, do you want anything?” It’s not addressed to Michael, and he knows that.
Their posture falters as Adam takes over. Adam also moves with confidence, but his is far more relaxed, comfortable in his own body. The couch pillows dip under his weight as he sits beside you, arm casually draping over your shoulders. He greets you with a familiar boyish grin that makes your heart flutter. “Pizza?”
Something is wrong. That much is evident by Michael’s uncharacteristically expressive face. He’d been silent when he’d returned home from the store, a chore he and Adam had taken up since their return from the cage, a familiar, easy task that helped to ease them into modern society.
You could tell it was Michael because he’d been ignoring your presence since he returned home, quietly, and strategically putting away the shopping bar a solitary; “Hello.”
Now he was eyeing a single can of Monster Energy Drink that sat alone on the kitchen counter. The intensity of his stare had you worried it might explode. You certainly would not be cleaning that up.
“Something on your mind?” You ask, keeping your tone calm, and pleasant. Not letting on to your amusement at his one-sided staring contest.
He spares you a scornful glance, before looking back at the can. Then he seems to have a light bulb moment, body perking up as he turns to you once more. He might actually think you’re useful for something other than Adams's enjoyment.
“Yes. What is ‘bussing’?” The word sounds so comical coming from his lips, and you suppress a laugh, not wanting to patronise him or dampen his curiosity.
“Bussin’?” You repeat, ensuring you heard him right.
“Yes. ‘Bussing’. We heard a boy at the store use the word to refer to this. Adam nor I have heard the term used in this context before.”
Adam had filled Michael in on a lot of modern and pop culture things, but having been locked in a cage for the last decade meant that he was a little behind the times. You made a mental note to ask him later if not understanding the latest slang terms made him feel old.
“It just means something is really good.” You explain, and his face drops.
He picks up the can, swaying it back and forth as he examines the label. It hisses as he eventually cracks it open, and his face scrunches when he gives it a sniff.
Adam only eats and drinks to maintain a feeling of normalcy, Michael’s grace dissolving any actual need for human bodily functions. Michael never eats or drinks, so the prospect of his first taste of human food being a sip of Monster excites you greatly. What a terrible introduction.
He must sense your anticipation because he turns, body shifting completely to face you. His face remains stoic, excluding his eyes which watch you hopefully as he extends the drink to you. “Would you like a taste?”
“Uh, sure.” You take the can from him and allow yourself a mouthful before handing it back to him. It’s sugary, and sour, and abhorrently fizzy, just as you’d expected, but you try not to let your face give anything away. “It’s fine. Your turn.”
“Fine.” He repeats under his breath, hesitating as he brings it to his lips. He takes a quick sip before slamming the can forcibly back onto the table, gritting his teeth, clearly repulsed by whatever is going on in his mouth right now. “That is not bussing.”
Michael hadn’t exactly taken to human pastimes like a fish in water, preferring to take a back seat and let Adam enjoy himself. He had, however, found a great appreciation for war films, books about astronomy, and sports. Particularly, sports that had a strategy aspect to them. Which is how you’d found yourself in the bleachers of an ice hockey match beside him.
Adam liked sports too, but not to the same degree. Michael sat, hunched over, weight on his knees as he watched the players glide across the ice, batting the puck this way and that. The match was tense, and the atmosphere lively, so you didn’t really mind his silence. You knew he wasn’t ignoring you, just focusing on the game. Even the quarterly breaks were filled with music, the big screen displaying funny accidents and lookalikes, which kept you entertained.
All in all, you were having a good time, and when the kiss-cam popped up, you watched, amused as the camera crew zoomed in on different couples. You watched an array of different kisses, some cute, some awkward, some a little R-rated. It was all fun and games until you recognised yourself on the screen.
Panic rushed through your body as you turned to look at Michael. You’d come around to the fact that Michael was always there. Always. Even for the intimate moments. But there was a massive difference between Michael being there during a kiss, and kissing Michael.
You’re not sure if your sudden nervousness or the cheering crowd watching him from every angle clued him in, but Micheal takes notice, looking up at his own face on the display and asking; “Why are we on the screen?”
“It’s a kiss-cam. They want us to kiss.” You hope that filling him in will bring Adam front and centre, but to no avail. Adam doesn’t want to play right now it seems. Probably revenge for implying he was old. “I’ll wave them away.”
“Don’t.” He instructs, and before you can process what’s happening his lips are on yours.
He tastes like Adam, like sugary cereal and cheap cola. He feels like Adam, clean-shaven and soft lips. But he does not kiss you like Adam.
Adam kisses you like he might never see you again. Like it’s been a thousand years since he’s last laid his lips on you and he wants to commit every micro-movement of your body, every inch of your mouth to memory. His kisses are intense and passionate.
Micheal is the opposite, surprisingly. This might be the gentlest he’s ever been, he presses his lips to your delicately, like he might break you if he uses too much pressure. A hand cups the side of your face with the tenderness one would show a wounded animal. He kisses you like you’re made of glass and must be cherished.
When he pulls away you feel completely flushed and unsure how to proceed. The kiss-cam is gone, and the screen counts down the seconds until the game continues. Micheal, in preparation, has resumed his watching position, leaving you to stew in your own emotions, likely oblivious to the many, many thoughts flooding your mind.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Broaching the impromptu kiss with Adam had been simultaneously easier and harder than you’d expected. When he hadn’t immediately surfaced at the hockey game to voice any concerns, you’d figured he either a) was at least somewhat okay with it, or b) having a heated discussion with Michael about it in their shared headspace.
When you’d brought it up at home, later that same night he’d laughed. Not an outlandish or bitter one, just a light-hearted one, at the expense of your confusion.
“So… I guess you’re cool with it?” You’d asked, unable to shake your guilt until you heard confirmation from the man himself.
“Well, yeah.” You breathed a sigh of relief, until he continued. “I mean, it was bound to happen eventually.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I mean, these aren’t exactly normal circumstances, and you and Michael don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, but it makes sense.” He shrugs, placing his hands on your hips as he gets closer. The confused look on your face conveys that it’s doesn’t not in fact, ‘make sense’. “Well, I love him, and I love you, and if I’m to believe you both, you love me too.”
He purses his lips as he considers the right word choice, swaying his head back and forth so endearingly that you have to fight the urge to interrupt with a kiss.
“We live our lives in… immensely close proximity.” His fingertips are warm against your skin as he creeps them under your shirt, rubbing soft circles on your lower back to ease your obvious tension. “I’m just saying, you seem a lot more relaxed around each other, and I much prefer the way he thinks about you now to what he used to think.”
You’re not sure which intrigues you more, Michael’s old thoughts, his new thoughts, or that fact that he thinks about you at all. You know you shouldn’t ask, it’s not Adam’s place to say but the words fall out in a flurry regardless. “Michael thinks about me?”
“Sometimes.” He offers you a smile, a brights, boyish one that shows off the top row of his teeth. Instead of giving a real answer he places solid, chaste kiss to your forehead before retreating, smug in the knowledge that he’s knows something you don’t.
Ever since that night, things had changed. Micheal was around a lot more, and he was a lot more talkative. That is to say he was about as talkative as a fast-food worker on a busy Friday night, which isn’t much, but it is something.
Adam didn’t particularly approve of Micheal using his grace too often, citing it as hindering their integration back into humanity, but that didn’t stop Michael from offering to use it on menial tasks like the dishes or the laundry when you expressed tiredness. On one occasion after you’d declined, he’d cheekily suggested that you leave them for Adam to do later, it was his ‘no mojo’ rule after all.
One night while they were out, and you couldn’t sleep, they’d returned home to find you dancing around the apartment to some oddly named Spotify mix in nothing but your underwear and a pair of fuzzy socks. There had been an awkward minute where you and Micheal had stood, unmoving, watching each other, unsure how to react. A part of you hoped Adam would ease the discomfort, and another part had hoped the two of you could resolve the issue together.
When the next track played, you reached an arm out to Michael, inviting him to join you and he’d taken it, sheepishly trying to emulate your dance moves until you were too tired to continue.
While you couldn’t get him to admit that he enjoyed it, he started actually sitting beside you to watch TV. He asked about your day and listened attentively when you complained about your coworkers.
When you’d dumbly asked if he’d experienced anything similar, he’d spent a long time thinking, before telling you about a time his younger brother Gabriel had taken his lance without asking, the resulting clean-up was nasty. The story in earnest was horrifying, but you appreciated his sharing a personal anecdote regardless.
It was hard to tell where things were going with him, harder to tell where you wanted things to go, but you enjoyed his company regardless, and with Adam’s approval, you were content to let things go wherever they take you.
This morning you had something for him. A neatly wrapped gift in blue paper and a fancy ribbon that you’d had hidden under the bed for a few weeks.
When you enter the kitchen Adam is sat at the table, tapping away at a crossword puzzle, two cups of coffee resting before him, one for you, one for him. He is sweet.
“Good morning sleepy head. How are you this morning?” He asks as you greet him with a kiss, his eyed immediately darting the parcel you place on the table as you sit beside him with a stretch.
“Not bad, how are you?”
“Alright.” He turns his phone off, placing it face down on the table before pointing at the gift. “Whatcha got there?”
“It’s for Michael.” You reply chirpily.
Adam grins at you, that smug, knowing grin that makes you want to slap and kiss him simultaneously.
“Want to speak to him?”
“Only when you’re good and ready.” He’s gone before you can finish speaking. The stark contrast between their demeanours is immediately evident. Adam’s soft sunny face hardens into Michael’s signature neutrality.
“Why?” He’s nothing if not endearingly frank.
“If your birthday!” You announce, sliding the gift closer to him.
“It is not.” He argues, but there’s no malice in his tone, he sounds slightly amuse more than anything. “I was not born, so I do not have a birthday.”
“I know, I know. But it is September 29th. Michaelmas, so it seems as good a day as any, I thought we could celebrate it every year. It doesn’t seem fair that Adam and I get to have all the fun, and you don’t.”
“Every year.” He muses quietly, finally picking up the parcel.
“And no magic either!” You instruct. “You’ve gotta open it properly.”
He spares you a smile, you know it’s genuine because he so rarely does it.
Long fingers pick at the edges and corners, threading through the ribbon string as he examines every inch, not like Adam who opens gifts like an exited child on Christmas morning. They’re so different, but so right for each other.
After an excruciatingly long wait, he folds back the paper and pulls out a green and yellow jersey. Minnesota Wilds, the same team you’d watched together. He treats it the same way he had the wrapping, turning it over and over, inspecting every logo and seam.
“I thought you could wear it whenever we watch them play again. If you want to, I mean.” The silence is killing you, you can’t help but fill it, wanting to explain your reasoning before he has the chance to reject it. “I thought you’d like it but if you don’t I can return it and-“
“No.” He puts his hand on yours. The second time he’s touched you unprovoked, and it quietens you just the same. “I like it.”
His approval calms your nerves and you let out an audible phew which invokes another smile from Michael. You are truly blessed today.
“I want very much to watch more hockey with you, and to wear this.” As if to accentuate his point he puts the jersey on over their clothes, fingers playing with the collar once he’s smoothed it out against his chest. It occurs to you now that Adam has an adequately man-sized wardrobe, but you wonder how much input Michael had had on picking any of it out. Did he own clothes? You had planned to throw him a mini party today. Not much, just cake and battleship, possibly a documentary of his choosing, but maybe you should take him shopping.
Had he not cupped your face between his hands you could have followed that train along its tracks until it’s crashed.
“You’re spiralling.” The states matter-of-factly.
“How could you tell?” Adam, you think, would have told him.
“Your face does this thing.” He doesn’t quote have the words to express it, but you can imagine what he means. “It is charming to watch, but you should stop.”
Your nod it stifled by the way he holds you face between his hands.
“I am very grateful for this gift.” His lips are on yours once more. Just as tender as last time, his soft lips brush your own, lingering longer than last time, like he’s savouring it. Savouring the way your breath hitches, the way you melt slightly into him. When he pulls away you follow until he’s too far out of reach. “And I am grateful for you.”