you can have it all: michael donovan

[secondhand_stars]

In a table built for two, they sat pressed close with knees knocking and heads inclined at moments so closely that their foreheads nearly met. All the mildness of Spring had evaporated in summer's sweltering first blow. Though beneath the vent that roared out the icy blast of air conditioning, Lani still bore all the marks: flushed cheeks, bright eyes. She fanned at herself with the edge of the menu.

"It's so fucking hot," she whined against the hum of dinner traffic. "Not even July and look at me."

Michael benignly raised his eyes from the lunch specials and settled pale green eyes upon his twin. Evaluating her, he noted the transformation that her body was taking. Blossoming, she brimmed over with a lively energy even though the remnant's of first trimester fatigue lingered beneath eyes. Fuller now, her belly curved out against the edge of the table. Not even July, he thought to himself as the back of his hand nicked at jawline. "Oh, I'm looking --"

"Bastard." Menu was tossed aside with her exclamation.

"I am. You don't even know --"

"Oh, I have an idea. Harlen and I talk between recordings."

Grimacing, he lowered expression down to the glossy cover of the luncheon specials again. If he could have, he would have nestled himself down into the folds of his collar like a turtle. The conversation that loomed was inevitable. It was up to him to either face or deflect. In a rare move, Michael chose the latter. Straightening, a hand reached low into the hip pocket of his trousers. Inside, the knob of a velveteen box was palmed and lifted out. "Here."

"Para mi," Lani slurred in a silly, vowel-stretched drawl. The box was greedily snatched up before Michael could change his mind and return it to the charcoal slant of his pocket. With a creak, the box opened up and an diamond glimmer spilled out. Dramatically, she gasped and pressed a palm over her collar. "Oh Michael --"

"I know."

"Oh jesus Christ, it's --" Rendered speechless, she managed a swallow. Index finger lifted out to roll over the shiny white gold of the band flecked over with precious stones. After an aweful moment, the engagement ring was plucked up from velveteen and examined. "The stones are perfect. I mean, really fucking -- How much did you spend on it?"

"You don't want to know," Michael countered in a little pinched voice. Pale eyes flashed around the cafe, as if he were afraid of Harlen bounding in at any moment. The plan -- his perfectly thought out plot -- was everything. It had to be exacted perfectly. Struck by impatience, he reached out. Fingers waggled into palm to indicate that he wanted to ring back.

"I do!" She resisted the initial gesture of fingers. "So, are you going to...?"

"To...?" He played dumb with a slow blink of his eyes.

With a little sigh, Lani collasped back into her chair and tried on the ring. Even upon the narrow length of her middle-finger or a squat thumb, the band sagged loosely. "To ask him to marry you."

He nodded mutely and reached for the glass of water in front of him.

"And?"

"--And? And we'll get married. It'll be a scandalous, pagan ceremony that no one approves of, but no one is offended enough by to refuse to drink our alcohol or listen to the music that the deejay spins for us."

"I'll approve. Can the girls be flowergirls?" Mismatched eyes batted charmingly.

He stared at her for a moment before eyes darted off to train intensely on the pedestrian traffic that filtered across the window at the other end of the restaurant. Rather than answer immediately, fingers folded into his jaw. The short ends of nails dug against the grain of his stubbled jaw. "Yes. I mean -- No. I mean, well. That's not my end. I'm asking. He's inacting."

"Glad to see you're not going all ... Bridezilla on us, Michael."

"Be nice," he warned.

"How are you going to ask? A walk through Central park? Balloons? Candlelight? Post-coital?"

All of the sudden, everything swirled backwards. He felt invaded. At a loss and left horribly exposed for what he was -- someone hopelessly, impossibly in love; someone at the end of his bachelor's road -- Michael gaped. Eyes bore into the windowfront now. He fixated and rose above the awkwardness.

"...Michael?" Lani murmured after a lengthy bout of silence.

"Right," he responded easily. Snapping back with a smile in place, Michael smoothed out the tops of his knees and straightened back shoulders. The box sat between them was tapped idly. "About that. I'm going to need your help --"

<font color="#000000" size="1">[ June 23, 2005 08:06 PM: Message edited by: perestroika ]</font>

[secondhand_stars]

An infinite amount of more...

In a sprawl across the sheets, he was allowed the entirety of the bed. In a slow gravitational path to the center of the bed, limbs twisted and folded in upon themselves. He shifted from belly to side and finally, into a greedy spread upon his spine. Light poured in from the window above the bed through mini-blind slants and began to slowly seep in through dark lashes. Though slow to wake, once he found himself more awake than not, Michael lurched up from the mattress with a gasp. Hands folded over his forehead as back and shoulders bowed forward. He collected himself before eyes peered out to the empty side of the bed. Harlen's breadcrumb trail of pajama pants and t-shirt were followed across the room to where path ran cold between the door to the closet and the bathroom. The pianist was already across town in a recording booth no doubt. And he, he was struck with an incredible moment of clarity. Images flashed and memories that weren't his own were realized.

There was a diner in Rhode Island he had never been to, complete with separating cherry sodas and apple pie. The impossible sort of satisfaction that came with a bite of it complete with a smear of ice-cream filled his mouth and turned his empty belly. They were young then, though. Much younger than they had been upon their first meeting, but not as young as in the dreaming when everything first began.

"I feel like I know you, like I know.. things about you.? I mean, I'm never like this with people I've just met, either I'm already fucking them into next week, or ... I have no desire to get to know them anymore than I already have.? And with you I already feel like I know plenty, but there's.. more.? Right?"? Straw swished in his drink. clinking ice against the glass, mixing red when it settled with a darker, fizzy brown.? "Does any of this make sense to you?"? Harlen asked, leaning in and tipping his head, dark hair flopping aimlessly into hazel eyes.


"I, oh well --" At a loss for words, he rapped fingers against the edge of the table before angling up. Michael slid out from his side of the booth, only to invade Harlen's. Slouching in and pushing with the edge of his hip, space was made for two. "There's an infinite amount of more," he agreed as fingers pressed into? the edge of the pie plate and lifted crust up upon the flat of his index. The flaky piece was flicked back down. "It makes sense though. Somehow. It's just, known. Like everything else." Something foretold that wouldn't disturb and unsettle, hopefully.?

"Do we get to see this.. this infinite amount of more?? Do we get to know more, to.. experience more?"? He questioned, offering the straw to his coke over to Michael.? A mere mouthful was leftover.? The best and last sip, the perfect combination of carbonation and syup.? Here, in the dreamworld, nothing disturbed and unsettled if it was true.? Instead, it was all taken in stride.? Leaning in, Harlen pressed lips to the corner of Michael's mouth and blotted a chaste kiss there.? Fingers lifted and swept through his hair, a familiar motion, even though this was the first time. "There really is so much more, isn't there?? In terms of.. I don't know, possibility?"

He was struck with the strangest sense of purpose. Movement. He felt himself propelled forward even before feet could hit the floorboards. As bedroom was crossed to where his phone lay in its charger, Michael already saw turnpikes and freeways melting away in a transportation blur. He felt the sharp sun hitting the back of his eyes and turning mirages into something painfully real as bumpers crashed through. Lani's number was dialed into the face of the phone before he lifted it to his ear.


"Lani Stanton," his twin answered after a few electronic hums. At work, she spoke with a clipped, if not slightly impatient sort of professionalism. He was left at a loss by this tone each time it was heard. Michael gaped helplessly for a moment. "Oh god. Michael?"

"Yeah?"

"Hey you! What's up? Your boy is singing his heart out across the glass as we speak."

"What song?"

"Hell if I know," she laughed out. "How are you?"

"Listen, I've got to pick up Harlen."

There was a brief moment of silence -- not contemplation, but for strategy's sake. She counted back every day off and personal reason thrown on the table for why Harlen couldn't record for a morning or afternoon. "Like hell you are. We're behind schedule. You can have sex on your own time."

"It's not -- Not that!"

"Then what?" She countered before voice edged off. Some unspoken instinct clicked in and he heard the quiet shuffling of papers and clothes as his sister sank into a chair. The hinges of it squeaked beneath her and faintly transmitted in her place. "--You're not..."

"I am," he confirmed.

"Holy shit. Okay. Like -- You really owe me."

"One last thing --"

"Yeah?"

"Do you think Asher will let me borrow his car?"

Lani stopped. The Stanton family car was a prized possession. It was used to cart the pair around the city in substitute for taxis and subway trains. The intensity of pride and adoration that Asher felt for his smart little red-four door Saab was almost at the same level as his religious faith. "Oh, well -- You might want to call him about that one. Why -- Where are you going?"

"Rhode Island."

"What the fuck is in Rhode Island?" Lani shrieked out laughingly.

"Johnny Rockets."

"I -- I'm just not going to ask. You call Asher, I'll tell Harlen."

"You're the best."

"Oh, I am." Lani sang out.

[secondhand_stars]

One.

Full Name: Dr. Miguel Jaime Donovan (y del Valle)
Goes by..: Michael. Chachi, if I'm in certain company.
Current location: Chelsea-Soho en route to Paris.
Occupation: Novelist, children's.

Current age: 27.
Date of birth: 11/11/1977.
Birthplace: London, England.
Name(s) and occupation(s) of parent(s):
James Donovan, executive.
Mireya del Valle, socialite reborn.

Name(s), age(s), and occupation(s) of sibling(s):
Lani Stanton, 27, executive.

Height: 5'9"
Weight: 145.
Hair color: Black.
Eye color: Green.
Left-, right-handed, or ambidextrous: Right-handed.

Heritage/Nationality: Anglo-Spaniard.
Religion: Aristophanes' Origin of Love.
Education:

High school diploma from St. Alban's.
BA in English Literature from New York University.
MA/Ph.D in English Literature from Columbia University.

Marital status: Will neither confirm nor deny until April 1, 2006.
Children: ...

Two.

Likes: metaphysical studies, absinthe, dreams, poetry, rainy afternoons, opera, rundown bookstores, the smiths, fucking, paris, cigarettes, tea, spain, corduroy, control, vinyls, silence.
Dislikes: the unknown, black-outs, seizures, death.
Phobias: None.

Three: Do you...

Smoke: One after the other.
Curse: On occasion.
Sing well: No!
Sing in the shower: No. I do other things in the shower.
Talk to yourself: Yes. It keeps my thoughts straight.
Believe in yourself: I believe in an 'us.'
Play an instrument: No.
Want to go to college?: Maybe in the future.
Want to get married?: I am, albeit secretly.
Want to have children?: ...
Think you're a health freak?: And give up poptarts?
Get along with your parents?: Yes.
Get along with your siblings?: Even moreso than I do with my parents.

Five: Favorites...

Food: Strawberry frosted poptarts
Drink: Absinthe or tequila.
Color: Blue.
Album: Carl Orff's Carmina Burana.
Shoes: Whatever are closest.
Candy: Swedish red fish.
Animal: Humans.
TV Show: Still no television.
Movie: Casablanca.
Song: Moonlight Mile, The Rolling Stones.
Girl's name: Aemilia, Bijoux.
Boy's name: Harlen, Andrew.
Vegetable: Broccoli.
Fruit: Oranges.

Six.

If I were a month, I'd be: December.
If I were a day of the week, I'd be: Sunday.
If I were a time of day, I'd be: Midnight.
If I were a planet, I'd be: Mars.
If I were a sea animal, I'd be: Shark?
If I were a direction, I'd be: Straight-ahead.
If I were a piece of furniture, I'd be: A roll-top desk.
If I were a sin, I'd be: Doubt.
If I were a historical figure, I'd be: Jesus Christ. Ha..
If I were a liquid, I'd be: Water, water everywhere...
If I were a tree, I'd be: An Oak.
If I were a bird, I'd be: An eagle.
If I were a flower, I'd be: Quite floral.
If I were a kind of weather, I'd be: A thunderstorm.
If I were a mythical creature, I'd be: A satyr?
If I were a musical instrument, I'd be: A piano.
If I were an animal, I'd be: A bird.
If I were a color, I'd be: Blue.
If I were an emotion, I'd be: Calm.
If I were a vegetable, I'd be: Whatever works really.
If I were a sound, I'd be: Silence.
If I were an element, I'd be: Oxygen.
If I were a car, I'd be: an audi.
If I were a song, I'd be: 'Greek Song.'
If I were a movie, I'd be: Fellini's 8 1/2.
If I were a food, I'd be: A fortune cookie.
If I were a place, I'd be: Barcelona, Spain.
If I were a material, I'd be: Cotton.
If I were a taste, I'd be: Unsavory?
If I were a scent, I'd be: Soap.
If I were a religion, I'd be: A total joke.
If I were a word, I'd be: Shameless, so I've been told.
If I were an object, I'd be: A book.
If I were a body part, I'd be: Eyes.
If I were a facial expression, I'd be: A smirk.
If I were a part of a house, I'd be: The door.
If I were a subject in school, I'd be: English, of course.
If I were a cartoon character, I'd be: animated.
If I were a shape, I'd be a: circle.
If I were a number, I'd be: 8.

<font color="#000000" size="1">[ August 12, 2005 05:41 AM: Message edited by: perestroika ]</font>

[secondhand_stars]

New York, August eighth two-thousand-and-five. The day had begun like any other within the city. The sun rose from the sky and bore down over metal skyscrapers and gaudy billboards. Black pavement streets heated up like a frying pan that made taxicab tires and the expensive stiletto heels of well-dressed citizens fairly sizzle. After a run in the dappled shade of Central Park, he had retreated inside.

Summer had made certain additions to their sparse apartment necessary. The wide arched windows that ran along one wall were now outfitted with discreet paper shades that could be rolled down with a hook. One by one, they were unfurled and the gorgeous skyline -- that had alone added several hundred dollars to their rent -- faded to vague shadow impressions against white.

As he stepped away, the apartment never felt more isolated from the general noise and buzz of the city. It was a time capsule or whirling satellite. That was when it happened. It was all seemingly without warning. There were telltale signs that he could have picked up. Yet, without them being on someone else's shoulders, he could scarce translate the churning of his stomach and spinning, distorted feeling inside his head. These symptoms were blamed on the heat and his physical exertion. Perhaps Michael was lucky though. He hadn't seen it coming. There was no past events to lurk over his shoulder. He didn't feel the ground slip from under him. When body crumbled down upon the unforgiving sprawl of hardwood flooring with a sickening crack, it was neither with startled realization nor embarrassment. Instead, mind whirled upwards past the plaster ceiling and through another series of apartment floors to the sky. Or at least, it felt like sky in some distant acknowledgment. Miles below, body twitched and jerked with unexplainable spasms.

The choking muted gasps of sound that he made soon faded back into a garden's chirp. As he stumbled backwards, heel cracked down upon a fallen branch and split it's bark. The sound sent a flock of jittery birds to take flight off a gnarled oak. Michael wheeled around, a hand pressed to his forehead. "Oh god, where am I?"

Mind searched backwards, attempting to place the veritable Eden. He peered over the pools of water and up into the canopy of trees, but nothing struck him. It wasn't starry and abstract like his childhood wonderland. It didn't smell or feel like Harlen. He was lost and then pang of abandonment scored a deep groove of hurt down the line of his chest. Shuddering, arms flung themselves around his torso.

"They had two sets of arms. They had two sets of legs. They had two faces peering out of one giant head..." The voice was female. Not loud, but impossibly strong. His knees weakened at both it and her song.

Leaves rustled -- jangling as they bounced off each other like wind-chimes -- as she came into the clearing. It was a materialization, as if she had always been there and would remain long after he returned to earth. Statuesque, she wore her red hair like a crown in intricate knots and braidwork. She was more Gaia than Medusa with her serene smile. It mocked the destructive tale that she wove. "Well, there were three sexes then: one that looked like two men glued on back to back. They were the children of the sun. And, similar in shape girth were the children of the earth. They looked like two girls rolled up in one. And, the children of the moon was like a fork shoved on a spoon. They were part sun, part earth, part daughter, part son..."

Hands lifted up in an unarmed defense. That throbbing, thrumming feeling intensified with each syllable, each breath that the woman took. As one of her pale fists lifted and fingers began to unfurl from palm, Michael felt his knees weaken in a defeated swoon. Head hung low. "Please -- please, stop. I know. I know..."

"We know you do, Michael Donovan." Voice chimed.

"How'd you know my name?"

"We know everyone's name."

"My lover --" He tested. Regaining strength in his legs, he stalked around the woman in a slow circle. She remained still as a rod planted into the soil and didn't turn as he wheeled behind.

"Harlen Prior."

"My sister."

"Lani Stanton, once Lani Donovan." She sighed, but not impatiently. Instead, eyes leveled upon his as Michael once more faced off with the woman. Hers were the same watery green as his own. "Would you like us to tell you the name of your..."

"No," he cut her off with a wave of his palm. "Please don't..."

She nodded quietly and kept fisted hand held high. Fingers had returned to their fold over palm. He glanced to it, but made no move to inquire. It was better not to ask, but let things come undone independently. Silent for a moment, eyes watched the minute ticks of his eyes as they passed over her features.

"I -- I think I know who you are." He spoke with a rasp; quietly out of breath. She nodded ever so vaguely and waited for words to form on their own. "You're them."

"We are." Her voice now was a gallery of tones, inflections, and pitch. The sound for all its muddled, mismatched angles was strangely pleasing in a way he couldn't quite grasp. It, like everything else, was left to pile up in unspoken questioning. He wandered around her again, this time counterclockwise as if it would turn everything back.

"Have I died?"

"No. You're perfectly safe at home."

"Oh. Then -- Well, why? Why am I here?"

A vivid grin stretched the woman's mouth. He stared at her slightly crooked teeth as words formed and tongue pressed against the back of them. That bit of human imperfection would stay with him longer this moment, he realized. Her fist lifted to his eye-level. "Because you have to see it yourself. Open your eyes, Michael Donovan."

Fingers fell out of their knotted pose to reveal a pocket in time and space. Upon her palm, a thousand reels played all at once and blurred into a blinding spotlight. He blinked, stumbling back with eyes firmly pressed closed. A hand lifted to smear over them.

When he dared to reopen eyes, he was back upon the apartment floors in a painful, crooked sprawl. Flopping over to his back, nausea rolled up from the pouch of his belly. He groaned, arm folding over and body pushing up. Michael stumbled upon unsteady feet in a zigzagged line towards the bathroom in an attempt to greet the cool bowl of the toilet before the sparse contents of his stomach lurched up.

He made it to the sink -- having fallen short of his final destination by a mere foot. Heaving and choking down into it, he coughed and sputtered out in stringy bits of saliva and bile. The back of his throat burned with effort and when eyes peered at the note left for him, Harlen's script was blurred. It took a moment and rapid-fire set of blinks to clear up lettering. Harlen. In a moment, the request and discreet(?) relay of information was shelved. He retraced his steps through the day straight through the curious dream to the present.

"Oh god."

[secondhand_stars]

He waited until Harlen was several city-blocks away, across town at work, before allowing himself to conceptualize a life like the one within his dreams. Pushing back the covers that had been flung over him by the pianist, Michael stumbled in a still-vaguely disoriented blur to where clothes piled at the foot of the bed. A pair of rumpled pajama pants were slipped on and tied off at narrow hips. He dressed for an empty house and ignored the sharp twist of his stomach. It was a loneliness of a different sort. It was, simply, withdrawal. He felt his skin grow hot and cold intermittently as sweat prickled down the line of his spine and at hairline. Something inside tremored.

In a move reminiscent of that first night -- a montage of imagery and life-cycle, the girl with her painfully green eyes and curling wispy hair, their collective bewilderment, and his utter delight -- he padded down the hall to where their half-hearted office lay. The door creaked upon opening from a lack of use. Inside were a half-dozen boxes spread out over floors and with one left opened upon a desk. From a window, the sharp morning light filtered in. Michael felt a distinct loss. A breath sucked in, he felt himself fold over. A palm pressed snugly to his forehead now and eyes shut. This pose remained as he collected the pieces of himself that had been so cruely scattered upon waking.

Leaving the room, the door was firmly shut behind. No more. Alarmed by his reactions, he made resolutions and disowned the greedy hand already wrapped tightly around his heart-strings. An element of the dreaming was corded off, not to be entered. Instead, embracing the present and the close-by, he lifted cellphone from its charging dock and dialed in a number. Michael connected to voicemail and waited for a lone signal, a beep.

"So -- Right. It's me. I don't know if you'll have a recording break and get this message before I arrive, but I wanted to tell you that I'm going to bring my laptop and write in the sound booth today. Hope you don't mind. I'll get lunch on my way in. Call if you have any requests. Te amo."

[secondhand_stars]

There was nothing about the scene to hint at the internal shift that began long before the sun began to glimmer upon the horizon in a red-gold band. Resolve set into his veins before he was even able to be consciously aware of it. Instead, they followed the same sleep patterns with one tugging and the other following. Pressed into the outline of a pale body, he slept with knees tucked close and arms folded over. Fingers strummed at his belly in a sleepy, affectionate motion.

Last night's war left him drained and exhausted, but he woke nonetheless long before his usual midmorning hour. Stretching lean, Michael rolled onto his back and angled an arm behind his head as the other fanned over sleep-numbed features. From his distorted, fuzzy state came a singular goal and purpose for the day. In fact, it was absolutely imperative. Rather than wait for the dirty gray light to pinken up into morning, Michael turned back over and began to smooth hands over shoulders. A kiss was pressed into the notch of Harlen's neck.

Where Michael was the kid on Christmas Day, Harlen acted as more of the reluctant parent who couldn't fathom being up before the sun had touched every corner of the city. His hair wild and sleep-tossed, he was in his typical lazy sprawl, face down, an arm strung tightly around Michael, knees curled and his body angled in.

"Miel, miel -- wake up." Angling and easing, he dragged the pianist onto his spine. He hovered now, fingers combing back the matted strands of hair that stuck to temples and brow. Lips puckered and dotted over the slant of high cheekbones and an aristocratic nose.

Waking Harlen was a process that took time and dedication. As Michael jostled him lightly, and covered him in the decorative pecks of kisses, the brat prince groaned and rolled away, a hand lifting to limply swat at Michael's face, pushing it gently away, like he was a pesky bug, or a too determined house pet. "Mmnggh." He grunted lamely, before arms lifted up and snagged the pillow from under his head and smashed it down over the side of his face, protecting him from the intrusion of daylight.

"Hey, wake up."

"No." A muffled grunt came from beneath.

"Yes," he insisted in a sleep thickened tone, his usual tenor pitched low in his throat but animated nonetheless. Slowly, but surely, he lifted himself upright and began to peel back the covers that were tucked stubbornly around shoulders. "Wake up, Harlen." Bowing back over, mouth dragged over the flat of a shoulder blade. Hands worked down ribs and sides to hips. Tucking there, fingertips rolled over the sharp lift of bone.

"Please," he murmured at the nape of neck that appeared against the seam of pillowcase. "I was thinking that perhaps today we could get married. I mean, I woke up and thought: today would be the perfect day to do it. Just you and I. If we want to get a license quickly then we should be there when City Hall opens." Rationalizing and planning out his impulse as words were breathed, he connected all the dots in a makeshift fashion and waited with breath held for Harlen's reaction.

Twisting over, even after all of Michael's explanations as to the early rising, Harlen unearthed himself from beneath the pillow and propped up on elbows. His hair was a comical mess, the rumpled form of his T-shirt stuck up around ribs, arms skinny and slanted against the mattress. "What's the rule, Michael..." He asked, squinting sleepily at him, green eyes fuzzy and brows slanted in. "I don't get up before ten when I don't have to go into the studio ... unless something, or someone is on fire, or our lives are in dan--"

He shrank in at the mention of courtesy rules and flat regulations. Suddenly his impulse seemed childish and haphazardly thought out (which it was). "Right," he murmured. "I'm sorry. Go back to sleep." As if he hadn't spoken at all, Michael dove back into a sprawl against his pillow and squeezed eyes shut. Fingers tugged at Harlen to bring him back into the negative cutout spaces of his body.

Pausing mid-phrase, he sucked in a confused breath and canted his head, the heel of one palm crashing into his eye to rub childishly at it. "I.. Wh-- you what?" He asked, his usually stentorian voice reduced to something tiny and raspy. "You ... are you ... wait, what?"

Rather than immediately answer to the sudden turnaround and stammering questions, he feigned sleep. He compacted his lanky frame and turned small; seemingly sinking into the soft cover of the mattress and sheets. When he dared to speak again, it was with eyes tightly squint-shut and mouth partially obscured by pillow. "Nothing. I just -- It sounds dumb now. It... I just woke up with this huge want to marry you quietly today. Before things get crazy."

Before things get crazy. The words hit and stuck, and it was all Harlen could do to not scream out of shock or nervousness or something completely inexplicable. Obligations piled up on either end: a book to promote come September, a record weeks later, a tour, book signings and months spent on the road. That was only the business angle of their life. Then, after all that, would come the legitimate planning for a spring wedding in Paris.

"I.. that's.. it's not stupid, it's.." Folded back into the sharps and angles of Michael's sleep-stretched body, he fumbled for words helplessly, fingers fanning out against ribs and over hips. "It's not dumb, it's.. I just.. I didn't expect.. now? Do you mean it?" The last question was something tentatively threaded, like Michael was apt to snap back and be upset that Harlen had again questioned his dedication and intentions. Instead, this time, it was something more self-sustaining. He wanted to hear it again. "I.. because if you are..."

He lacked the energy and will to be upset. Instead, flattened by the crush of sharp bones and an exhaustion without name, Michael stayed still and unruffled. Breath dragged in and out of his lungs in a slow rise and fall. "Of course I mean it. I -- It's hard to explain, but I just woke up with this feeling like I had to. Like, when we went to Providence." The name struck a pleasing note as it lifted off a heavy tongue. Providence.

"I think.. I.. I think we should, because I think it should be ours. I think that it's not really.. anyone else's business. No one else would get.. I think we should. Can we? Please?" Crawling against him, he dragged mouth against the stretch of Michael's collarbone, blinking new eyes up, watching for a yes.

In a staggering deliberation, they found themselves on the same page. The privacy and sobriety that Michael craved and Harlen's need for celebration and glittering excess could both be obtained with this new, sudden plan. A hand lifted to roll through the back of Harlen's sleep-matted hair. "Only if you promise to tie my tie." One eye cracked open and mouth slowly unfurled into a wide grin.

He meant it. Harlen didn't need to hear any more, but he listened intently, his eyes trained, fingers cinching at ribs, his hips dragging forward to crush against, not in some lewd form of appreciation, but want of closeness. He thought that perhaps, he could fit just right and lock pieces together. "Really? Really? Oh my God, really? Like.." In a burst of excitement, he was pushing up from the sheets and crawling across Michael in some silly sprawl, mouth pecking kisses up his arm and shoulder, and finally against his neck. "You're going to marry me today? I'm getting married today?" It was something that Harlen had never really anticipated saying, and certainly not so soon, after such a whirlwind proposal.

In a decadent spill of leaden limbs, he was adorned with affection and excited bursts of speech. Harlen's enthusiasm wasn't contagious -- he remained the same calm and composed Michael -- but it did make his heart stretch. He fairly ached with happiness as arms cradled in the lanky musician perched atop him. Fingers strummed over spine. "I'm going to marry you today. We're getting married today," he confirmed.

"I have to.. to shower, and shave and brush my teeth and do my hair, fuck, I'm a mess.. I.. what do I wear? What am.." Pausing, he sat up, all floppy haired and wild-eyed. "You still want Paris, right? The party? April fools? I didn't write a song for nothing?"

Where he expected to be overwhelmed and reeling with nervousness by now as laundry lists were rolled out and outfits were contemplated aloud, he was instead still and listening. Some mental recorder captured every gesticulation and expression on the prophet's face. "Yes, we'll still have Paris and April Fool's day and your song. We'll have all of that. I promise," he reassured as hands smoothed up over chest. "I just want something between us, too."

"I'm freaking out.." He admitted, a hand lifting to rake through his hair in a nervous pull, bowing down to press a kiss at the curve of Michael's lips. "Okay.. okay, I have to.. go jump in the shower, I'll.. don't follow me. Because I won't get anything done." As much as it pained him, he set an odd boundary that any other day, would have been unacceptable. Stretching up, he swung legs over the bed and planted feet on the floor, marching towards the closet to whirl it open in search of clothes.

Jaw hung loose at the unheard of request. As if he had processed the information incorrectly, body lurched up and he shot a look of disbelief towards Harlen. "Is this like... a real wedding where I'm not allowed to look at the, uhm, groom until. People like us don't have bad luck," he reminded as legs dropped over the edge of the bed. Slowly, he turned upright and dove hands into the mess of his hair. Feet padded at a leisurely pace towards the open closet that Harlen dove into.

"No! God no. It's like.. I know if you get in the shower with me, we won't leave until late, because I'll get distracted, and wind up fucking you blind. And then we'll have to do that waiting in line shit. I don't wait in lines." He added with a delicate upturn of his nose.
"A small price to pay," Michael reminded with a tick of his finger.

"Oh fuck. What am I going to wear? What.. well, it's useless to ask what you're wearing.." Sighing, hands groped forward through garment after garment, passing over pants and jackets easily. "Blue or black? I can't wear black, I'm getting married, not going to a funeral. Uh.. I can't wear jeans, no.. motherfucker, I don't have anything to wear." In something classically effeminate, the brat prince, with all of his extensive wardrobe in front of him, couldn't see the trees for the forest.

He watched from a safe distance as cuts and colors were panicked over. "I know what you're going to wear.." He called from behind, hands dropping from overgrown hair and arms folding over his chest. "But first, it's too hot outside to wear coats. I refuse. Go shower and I'll have something laid out for you." Faltering, one eyebrow quirked higher than the other. "...If you trust me."

Watching Michael with a little bit of a nervous expression, he chewed down on the inside of his cheek and nodded. "I.. okay. No, no coats. I agree. Just.. something nice, okay?" Diving in, lips pecked an assault at his cheek and he padded feet backwards towards their bathroom. "I'll be out after I shower and brush my teeth." He informed, disappearing around the corner and into the bathroom, leaving Michael alone, dangerously enough, with his clothes.

Eyes slid from their latch upon the pianist as Harlen's face wavered anxiously. He didn't want to be the only one reckless in love and commitment, as was the trend thus far. Easing around him, cheek dipped to the kiss and hands guided him along. "Okay. Take your time."

A hand passed over his hair as their wardrobes were considered. Anything matching was ruled out, as was anything that would make him look too much like a lapsed Mormon missionary. Fingering the sleek cotton of a sleeve in passing, a sigh was hissed out from between teeth. After a blank moment, a quick flash of inspiration and snap-shot still sent hands rifling through. Snagging a blue shirt shot through with candy-stripes and a matching vest pushed amongst the miscellany, eyes warily trailed over pants. He felt his resolve die: no ties, no dress trousers. Blindly a pair of dark jeans were lifted from a row of seemingly identical pairs. Harlen's clothes were left neatly upon the foot of the bed while he peered over his more sparse wardrobe. Hands smeared over his cheeks and jeans were inspected for frays and holes.

Gleefully, the notes of Greek Song lifted from the shower and echoed off tile in perfect pitch. A little raspy from sleep, but otherwise, Harlen gave another flawless performance, humming while teeth were brushed, padding out with a towel around his waist, after a shower that took a little longer than he expected. With fingers threaded against the fluffy material, his hair towel-dried and sharply tossed around his face, he stared at the outfit on the bed and beamed widely, fingers pressing over the material in a generous sweep. "Ooo, look at this shirt. I almost forgot I had it.." Fingers pinched the collar and then a palm swept down the vest. "Good job, baby. See, why don't you ever pick stuff like this out for yourself? You and your.. t-shirts and ratty jeans and headbands."

"I like my t-shirts and ratty jeans and -- It's not headbands. It's just like, a piece of material to keep my hair out of my eyes." Which wasn't a headband at all -- amazingly -- the stubborn Michael insisted with a glance over his shoulder. After a bout of indecisive wavering, he paired a relatively intact pair of jeans with a white oxford free of ink-spills or stained cuffs. Making a detour at drawer to pull free a gray cotton t-shirt to pair beneath the shirt, he rounded back around. An arm snagged the skinny waist of the musician and itchy chin rolled against a bare shoulder.


"You know what else would keep your hair out of your eyes? A haircut." He snickered, pulling at the shaggy ends of black hair before he was dragged in, his mouth stretched wide in some giddy, childish impulse.

Michael's eyes rolled at the clever comment, but he didn't dignify it with a response. His hair was left as is in a flop over forehead and matted mess around ears.

"Please shave.. before we go. Okay? You know under any other circumstances, I wouldn't complain too much about the scruff, but this is my wedding day, and it has got to go."

"No scruff?" He questioned innocently. "Very well." Lips folded into the curve of his neck and parted. Into pale skin, teeth burrowed and left behind a rosy smear and oval line dotted out with enamel. "I'll shower, shave, and be out before you know it."

Wriggling against the scratch of Michael's cheek, he felt a mouth against the pale edge of his neck and he dramatically faltered on knees, leaning back until he pulled back away, leaving a leftover trace on skin. "Mnngh. I.. okay. I'll get dressed." He nodded, pulling back and dramatically dropping the towel, reaching for jeans that would fit precariously against lethal hips.

Wheeling backwards a few steps, a hand crossed over his heart as towel hit the floor. Fingertips tapped out against the olive stretch of his chest. "--And the reason why I asked you to marry me in the first place." He chirped out an obnoxious whistle before twisting around and disappearing into the bathroom.


"Shower fast." He smirked. "I didn't leave you a lot of hot water." It was a common story when they decided to take separate showers.

Clothes were left upon a hook on the door rather than piled haphazardly. The comment that filtered through made him groan inwardly and cup the overgrowth upon his cheeks. Wasting no time and sparing no hot water, he twisted the knobs back on and stepped beneath the spray. In a far less leisurely manner, Michael washed and lathered up cheeks. From a life spent avoiding mirrors and reflective surfaces, he perfected the art of shaving blindly. Razor took extra time and care around the seam of his jaw and often missed spots. The water had numbed to something lukewarm just as the last soapy ribbon was scraped away. Rinsing razor it was left atop ledge as hands brushed off residual shaving cream. He cut off the water before it could chill any further and began to quickly towel off and redress. Jeans dragging at heels, he reappeared in a mess of tangled hair and shower-steam. "You're right. You didn't leave me much warm water."

It didn't take long for Harlen to put the entire outfit together in something drastically theatrical and classic. Channeling the class of the 40s in his vest mixed with something painfully modern, he pinned a shriekingly gaudy brooch over his heart and had managed to string the jaw-droppingly expensive diamond necklace around his neck, letting the stones rest against the pale flat of his collar. Hair had been mashed wetly with product into a fashionable bed head sweep, and when he turned to greet Michael again, he was nearly prepared. "Hi.." He croaked, still the eager puppy everytime Michael came in the room, whether they had been apart for four minutes or four weeks.

"Hi," Michael echoed as a muscle in his cheek tugged and smile fell into something off-kilter and shy. He faltered en route to the pianist to bow chin low into collar. Green eyes watched fingers push buttons into holes as white cotton swallowed up the simple heathered gray of his t-shirt. The outfit was far more subdued and simple, but fitting for the professor.

"I was thinking.. after we get married, we should go somewhere. Get a suite at the Waldorf, or the Hilton, or go to some bed and breakfast upstate.. somewhere we can get drunk on expensive champagne and fuck until we can't move anymore.." Pulling forward, hands wrapped at Michael's waist and he was pulled in, nose nudging at his neck, begging for attention. "We'll spend the night. The weekend. No phones, or pianos, or laptops."

Pausing just short of completion as Harlen moved in full of excitement, wide-eyes, and plans, Michael reached to slide arms across shoulders. Chin turned sharply and a kiss was messily placed against temple. "Let's stay in the city. The Waldorf. It'll match your... outfit." Arm slid away and finger tapped once at the brooch above his heart. It was their perfect solution: to disappear into celebration and excess.

Nearly crumbling against him, Harlen settled his head on a shoulder and curled arms around, content to stay like that for however long he needed to. Hours, days, years. "Are you sure? I dunno, I thought you might.. think the breakfast in bed idea was better, I know you like.. getting away and stuff." It was an offer, to defer his obvious choice of the Waldorf for something Michael would find more appealing.

There was a certain amount of strategy involved in his choice. Breakfast in bed in a little upstate set-up would require either finding out bus information or borrowing Asher's car for a second time. Lani would immediately find them out if they opted for the latter. He shrugged, chosing to embrace a gilded boy and his equally sparkling preference.

"You're the boss. We'll do what you want. You've already .. I mean. You know what I mean."

Snickering at the call, arms sagged to wrap around his waist and Michael dipped Harlen back in a silly move. "That's right. I'm the boss." In a noisy, smacking attack, he latched upon the pale skin of neckline. It was a brief descent before Harlen was pulled back up and smoothed over. A hand rolled over the back of his hair.

Arms hooked in and he pulled in to nudge nose at Michael's cheek, affectionate and sweet rather than his usual aggressive tug of war. "Can we slow dance? Will you speak to me in Spanish?" Already he spun out all the tiny details that he knew he wanted to tuck somewhere into the day, in some sort of sensible order.

"Yes. We'll do all of that. Anything you want, miel. Let me comb my hair and find some shoes and we'll be off. We can have the hotel bring up anything we'll need, hm?" Eyebrows popped up as he leaned in to sweep mouth over a more inquisitive one.

[secondhand_stars]

Nothing was ever as simple and evenly divided as one wanted it to be. Sameness, was a goal, but it was never, ever a direct line starting with a fiery collision and ending in something so outwardly domestic as the simple circle of wedding bands.

Upon waking, Michael stumbled out of bed in the classic, disoriented haze of someone still half-spun in the dreaming. Feet, aching from the cold floorboards, stumbled across the bedroom to where closet-door lay open a sliver. He pulled it open the remaining way and, for the first time in a very long while, took a good look at his reflection in the full-length mirror Harlen kept there.

He was in awe of his own body. As if it were a completely unexplored terrain, hands pinched at bruised hips and moved up the line of his ribs. Fingers fanned over collarbones where their ledges ran in a bruise-spectrum up into the line of his neck. Index finger swirled over a particularly interesting shade of plum and mottled red just below his jawline. His legs were straight and muscled from the several miles that he ran daily in the park. Belly, still flat. Teeth were a subtle-off coloring of white from his habit of coffee drinking and chain-smoking but straight. His chest was as smooth as an adolescent's with only the faintest run of wisps trailing translucent from sternum to navel. A faint paintstroke of darker hair ran down from there. Masculine, but still terribly boyish. His expression with its strange wonder and curiosity didn't help. Behind the gray-washed green of his eyes, last night's events played over and new ideas sparked.

Michael wheeled away from the mirror and began to hurriedly dress. Tugging on a faded black t-shirt and pair of khaki cut-offs from their respective places in his drawer, feet shoved themselves into sneakers. En route to the door, he kicked aside the clothes that had been carelessly strewn last night. A dress shirt near the door was tucked beneath a narrow table as he scooped keys from its top.

Door was locked hurriedly, despite the fact that his trip was only down a floor. Clattering down stairs, he didn't bother to make any ceremony or speech for his unexpected visit to the Eden home. Instead, knuckles knocked into wood firmly to compete with the sound of early morning cartoons.

Liv, thankfully, rather than Jude opened the door. A petite mess made smaller by the scarf that still wrapped back the overflow of her hair, she was sleep-pale and drawn. Her lack-of makeup and surprise made her every bit the twenty-one year old that lurked behind a sailor's tongue and eyes that had already seen too much. She was childish, almost, with her slack pose against the door and bathrobe drawn tightly around a curving frame. She ashed onto the toe of his sneaker and lifted black-paper cigarette to lips. "Yea' Chach?"

"H-hey Liv."

She yawned, mouth spilling out smoke. Fingers patted delicately at the rounded off bow of lips. "It's migh' early. Goddamn, how early is it?" She squinted out into the hall, her head tipping from one side to the next.

"Nine o'clock."

"Wanna take the girls so I can fuck Jude before he goes in t'work? Y'know, add a li'l bounce to th' old man's step?" One eye dropped low in an exaggerated wink. It was her own, strange invitation. A thumb jerked inside. "Get on in here. I'll make y'a bowl of cereal. Y'want Cinnamon Toasted crunch, Fruit Loops, or uh... Goddamn, what else we got in there Jude?"

A muted reply of Cheerios filtered back into the entry way.

"An' cheerios," she echoed as a finger swiped at one, tired eye.

"Oh. Uh. No, no thanks. Cigarette?"

"Shit," Liv drawled amusedly. "We ain' runnin' a charity, Chachi."

Turning on a heel, the southern belle swaggered into the kitchen with a haughty tick of her hips. Posed with cigarette pinched high between her first two fingers and the other hand on her hip, there was something almost exaggerated in her pose. She had always been a cartoonish character in turns. Michael watched her, if not studied with clinical interest as he made his way into the kitchen.

"How are things?" He offered, attempting the casual.

Liv hooted out an amused sound, obviously calling his bluff. This was no social visit. Not at nine o'clock in the morning. She gestured for him to take a seat at the table as paths broke free and her own frame lazed against the counter. From a small ziploc bag already filled with handrolled cigarettes -- her aparent stash for the day made smaller by a hectic recording schedule -- one was generously lifted and handed over to him. "Things bein' okay, y'know? Girls start fuckin' preschool next week. Pre-school. That's damn near real-school. Gotta meet their teacher sometime soon. Hey Jude -- When we meetin' Mia an'Em's teacher now?" She called into the next room where the poor man corralled in the twins for their morning bath. Briefly, she waited for a reply that was lost between walls. Liv shrugged and turned back to Michael. "Got a doctor's appointment with Lucy real soon, too. Goddamn crazy broad skipped out on the last one to go to Japan."

"I heard," Michael said with a nod.

"Y'met Seven then? When he was in New York?"

"I did."

"Odd motherfucker, huh?"

He made absolutely no move to make an opinion on the globe-trotting artist. Instead, snagging an abandoned lighter off the table, he pressed cigarette to lips and lit up in a haze of licorice-tinged smoke. The sudden wash of flavor amongst familiar ashy taste made his nose wrinkle.

"What'chu want, Michael. Ain' neither of us like t'fuck 'round."

Eyebrows arched at the use of his name. It added a level of sobriety to the question that he would never expect from Liv. Angling back into his chair, one arm tucked against its edge. He stared through a subtle wash of smoke-screen at the woman. Liv stared back, wide-eyed and waiting. One of her feet tapped against the tile in a move that feigned some impatient tick.

"I want you to make me into a woman."

Liv, caught off-guard, snorted and shrieked out an amused laugh. Dipping back into the counter, hands lifted to smear over her face. Cigarette, little more than a remnant of paper and ash, sparked as it hit the tiled floor. "Shit," she gurgled as a foot stamped it out in a quick series of taps. Her face turned flushed at the apples of dark cheeks as she continued to snicker and sputter. "What the fuck? You lose a bet? You tryin' to get Harlen to move out of th'house?"

"No," he answered simply. "None of that."

Abandoning her amusement, the southern-bred musician stumbled into something starkly quiet and drawn. Dipping to lift up the torn mess of her cigarette first, she then moved around the lift of a counter to where Michael sat. Her frame eased into the spot next to him. "Then, why?"

"It's a long story."

"Make it a short one."

He contemplated a variety of answers -- both true and false -- with expression creased into something thoughtful. Staring up at the ceiling, a hand rolled through his hair and mouth puckered against the end of his cigarette. "Curiosity," he finally said in a puff-cloud of smoke. "Again, I told you it was a long story. Now can you help me or not?"

"It's gonna cost y'somethin' dearly," Liv crooned sweetly. A hand lifted to smear over one of his cheek with thumb hitting bone. Already, she was staring at the line of his jaw and at where mouth fairly snarled in something that was, possibly, pretty. "I wanna have a picture of th'final product."

"No."

"Then fuck you, Chachi." She gave another obnoxious pitch of laughter. Palm struck down upon his cheek once, before withdrawing. Falling back into her chair, hands lifted to smear over the folds of material that drew back wildly curling hair from face. There, she tapped out the seconds it would take for him to fold.

Six. "Fine. Jesus, fine. Harlen comes home around eight most nights. If you come over by six, that should be more than enough time, right?"

"What?" Liv drawled, charmed by his ignorance. Rolling in, she pooled arms across the edge of the table. Shoulders steepled high to frame her girlish face. "Boy, first of all... I can't do shit here. You're gonna have to come to my salon space unless you're going for that.... Uh, rustic man-in-a-bonnet look. Y'wanna look good, y'gotta put in the effort. An' I'm gonna need..."

Diving beneath the table, she peered at his legs from beneath it. A hand reached out to run up against the grain of the fine, curling hair upon his shins. Her tongue clucked against teeth in a sound that he couldn't quite decipher. After a moment of further analysis, Liv found the perfect number. "Gonna need y'to be in at least, four."

"Four hours!"

"Beauty takes time, Chach. Lucky for you, y'got that ass for it."

[secondhand_stars]

Tallulah Bankhead: bonne vivante. The salon scarce resembled, but yet embodied somehow nonetheless, the infamous screen-star. Outrageous and treading on the fine line between classy and crass, the shop was in moments more disco than hair-salon. The walls vibrated with club beat: an acid wash of deep mix, New Wave classics, and kitschy pop. There was no room for meek inquiries and instruction. Instead, everything was big and bright, hand gestures and shrieks over the music.

As Blondie's Heart of Glass filtered down, Michael played the strange observer. His comfortable street clothes and overgrown hair made him stick out oddly amongst the rest even moreso than the twins.

"I cannot believe you brought them here," he called over the music to Liv.

Liv looked up from the heavy fashion magazine she had busily been pouring over in search of inspiration. Casually, her eyes swept over to where Emily was having her hair teased in a red-glitter vinyl chair and then to the manicurist's table where Mia was having her nails carefully painted over in an outrageous shade of purple. Relishing the busy atmosphere, the pair didn't seem to notice or care that they were being fawned over by a set of statuesque drag queens.

"Where else was I supposed to take'em? Jude had work an' I feel guilty pawnin' off on Kate all the damn time. I save that for important occasions." She sighed, head tipping down into the glossy pages. Impatiently, thumb licked through a half dozen sheets.

"...Liv?"

"Please don't make me look like an idiot."

Softening, the southern belle put aside the magazine and rounded the styling chair. She cupped his jaws inside her palms and lifted jaw up so that green eyes met the jeweled topaz of her own. Liv sighed, head shaking lightly from side to side. "When I am done with you, Chachi...." She trailed off, at a loss for description. Eyes peered up at the dramatic black and white screen print of the store's cynical namesake. "Well, jus' you wait."

The next two hours were spent in slow, contained agony. As Liv and her makeshift crew traded off duties and expertises and rotated through babysitting duty, he was left without an escape route. Instead, Michael was forced to remain a center. As each sharp, masculine line was blurred into something first without gender and then utterly female, he was fawned over and groped at. Hands slapped and adjusted to every cower and squirm.

"Jus' bout done," Liv reassured as the sun began to settle back into the horizon once again. Hovering over him, fingers set pins unmercifully into the wig. She clucked as Michael grumbled disagreeably with each prod. After the final one had been set, fingers dove into the mess of light brown hair and began to fluff and coax it back into shape. Loosening ends were once more curled back into tumbling, careless shape.

She stepped back to take a look. The result was unbelievable. Half-afraid to show him, for fear he'd have a fit and began to tear apart all her hard word, Liv stood half-stunned. Fingers folded over her mouth and knuckles were bitten into. "Holy shit."

"What?" Michael twisted around to view himself in the mirror. In a flash, he came face-to-face with something startlingly familiar. He looked like his mother with his jutting cheekbones and eyes made wide with makeup and surprise. Falling back, hands lifted to hover over his features. He knew better than to press in, though. "Oh god. I look like her."

"Who, honey?"

"My mother."

Despite herself, Liv snorted. It was an icebreaker. Shrugging away her brief anxiety, she rounded him again and undid the smock tied around him. She angled in, fingers creeping into his hair. Mouth pressed against an earlobe. "Well, if it makes any difference... I'd fuck you as a man or a woman. Goddamn Chachi. You make me look like shit."

[secondhand_stars]

Blind Item from the August 22, 2006 edition of the New York Post:

Those closest to this music mogul's wayward son always knew about his -- what shall we call it? -- particularly ambiguous sexual preference. In fact, this black sheep made little efforts to cover up his scandalous jaunts through the European nightlife or the trail of broken hearts (maiden and knight alike) here in Manhattan. Lately, our latest blind item's life seemed to have settled with none other than someone of equal caliber. Who would have ever bet that that, coupling would have lasted? Ha! Well. Sad to report, the particularly stunning pair remain quite cozy in their posh little apartment. Yes, there is still music in the air! However, last week, an insider happened upon the man of the hour entering a cab in a particularly flashy part of town with a woman... Dressed as a woman. No kidding! It seems that little black sheep has decided to try going Bo Peep for awhile. I wonder how his live-in love felt about that!