how to make a mixtape :: mgc (fin.)

9. kittens & plans

"For the love of God, stop following me!"

I stop rushing down a few steps above Michael, looking down at him. We're almost at the hatch for the storage room, and he's standing in the nook where the stairs twist around again. His eyes are downturned, bloodshot and watery while his brows pinch together. He's trying to be angry, but he can't stop crying -- and that hurts to see. Physically hurts.

Taking in a gust of dusty air, I bite my bottom lip, advancing further down the stairs. They creak harshly, especially when I stand in front of Michael. He doesn't move -- even lets me brush his cheek with the heel of my palm. He observes me with a cold gaze, but I don't stop.

"Why are you crying?" I say softly.

He shakes his head, folding my fingers on his and bringing our hands down. It takes a while to register I haven't really held hands with Michael before. I slide my warm fingers against his cold, rubbing his knuckles with my thumb. They're scarred and bloodied, like he spends his days thrashing at a worn out boxing bag. I wrinkle my nose. Someone as gentle as Michael -- someone who probably tastes like watermelon lip balm and smells of candy floss and smiles with the brightness of the world -- doesn't deserve to cry, or have knuckles even bruised at the slightest.

"Why do you hate me so much?" His voice is timid, quiet -- almost like a mewling kitten.

"I don't hate you, Mikey." I move closer, close enough to have our chests brushing and my nose nudging his cheek. There's not much space for us to be standing in the landing, anyway. I feel his heart pace fast over mine. "What was said in the recording -- it was from quite a while ago. Back when you got wasted on the storage room floor and said those things."

He murmurs something under his breath. The tears have began to dry on his pale cheeks. "I said some things I shouldn't have said. I was drunk."

"And I was angry." I play with the buttons of his flannel, thumbing his breast pocket. "I said some things I shouldn't have said, too."

I feel him exhale, his breath tickling my mouth and upper lip. He drags his hand along my side, up my arm and to my neck, pushing his fingers through my ponytail. I don't look away from him. He fumbles with my loose hair band, looping my hair out of it and letting it fall out. The band drops somewhere on the stairs. I pout. That was my last band.

Michael runs his hands through my hair, tugging it away from my face and rubbing between my shoulder blades. Sorry. I wanted to do that."

I smile, stretching my arms around his neck and leaning close to him. My mouth aches, with his hot breath stroking my parted lips and green eyes waiting apprehensively on mine. The landing seems like even more of a compacted space now -- but being in a tight place with Michael this near to me is something I can never complain about.

His thumb runs along my bottom lip, stopping at the corner of my mouth. His gaze flicks to mine. "Every moment I've seemed childish, or rude or irritating -- does it bother you that much?"

"Ask me after three minutes."

"Why three minutes?"

I take a fistful of the front of his flannel and tug him towards me, his mouth capturing mine hastily. We kiss with fervour, as he spins me around so I'm leaning on one of the pale grey walls, his hands steadying my hips and his lips on mine. He does, in fact, taste like watermelon lip balm, but in no way does he act timid. His hips are pressing into mine -- whether because he wanted to be closer or just grind on me, I really didn't mind -- and his eyebrow piercing grazes my forehead. My mind whirls, and whirls and whirls, like a cyclone took off in my head and sent everything into a daze in its wake. I'm not even sure which parts of Michael are touching me anymore, but I know he is touching me -- and a lot, at that.