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“Are you sure about this?” Michael asks, for what feels like the hundredth time, and adjusts his grip on the scissors. The plastic handles are leaving dents in his hands.
Gerry huffs. “Michael, for the last time…”
“I know!” Michael squeaks. “I know. But … me?”
He waves the scissors helplessly.
“Yes, you,” Gerry says, huffing again, but it sounds fond this time. “C’mon, you’re the only one I trust.”
Something warm swells in Michael's chest and he glances down, for just a moment.
“Alright,” he says, and Gerry beams at him. “But if it looks terrible…”
Gerry waves a hand. “It’s supposed to look terrible; that’s the point. If I go to a hairdresser I’ll come out looking like a lesbian.”
“Lesbians are cool,” Michael says, but he knows what Gerry means.
“They are,” Gerry says, “that’s just not the look I’m going for.”
He runs a hand through his long, unruly hair. “Come on. Mother’ll be home soon, and it want it done by then. With any luck she’ll have a heart attack and die.”
Michael giggles, slowly calming down. Gerry always have this effect on him, putting him effortlessly at ease.
It’s just another thing on a long, long list of reasons why he’s hopelessly in love with him.
‘Hopelessly’ being the key word there, because he’s been pining for years, watching Gerry date his way through everyone available to him.
Except Michael. Everyone except Michael.
“Hey,” Gerry says, and Michael zones in to find him altogether too close. “You were daydreaming again.”
“Oh,” Michael says, feeling his cheeks go red. “Sorry.”
“It’s alright,” Gerry tells him, moving out of his space and throwing himself into the chair on the bathroom floor. “Whenever you’re ready.”
Michael is ready. He has to be.
He runs a hand through Gerry’s hair, tugging just a little. Gerry’s into hair pulling, and Michael hates that he knows that, but Gerry had just volunteered the information one day, unprompted, and the thought has been living rent-free in Michael's brain ever since.
Whatever. He can’t think about that right now.
He tightens his grip on the scissors and gets to work.
Cutting Gerry’s hair is really fun, actually. Badly-dyed black locks drift to the floor, and Michael gets a strange sense of satisfaction as they settle around his feet.
He’s pleased, too, that Gerry trusted him with this, over anyone else. He’s the one who gets to help Gerry feel more like himself.
He’d do anything to help Gerry, really.
Last night, after Gerry had called him and said, hey Michael, will you help me cut my hair? Michael had spent about three hours watching ‘masculine hair cut’ tutorials on YouTube, but now, actually faced with the scissors and Gerry’s hair, it’s not as easy as the videos had made it look.
The youtubers had, to be fair, mostly been using clippers, and Michael doesn’t have clippers. Just a pair of sewing scissors pilfered from Mary’s study when Michael had steadfastly refused to cut Gerry’s hair with a penknife.
Still. He’s sure it will be fine.
It’s not fine. It’s really really not fine, and by the time Michael decided he really needs to stop, lest Gerry have no hair left at all, Gerry looks as though he’s lost a fight with a lawnmower.
“Um,” Michael says, stepping back. “I’m done?”
“You don’t sound sure,” Gerry teases, bouncing out of the chair and over to the mirror.
Michael watches his expression, bracing himself for horror, or disbelief, or even anger, but the moment he sees himself the look on his face changes to one of pure delight.
“Oh,” he breaths, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “Michael, it’s perfect.”
“Are you sure?” Michael asks, dubious.
Gerry’s grin only widens, and he spins around to face Michael. “Yes! I’m one hundred percent sure it’s one hundred percent perfect.”
“Oh,” Michael says, beginning to smile himself. Gerry’s joy is contagious. “In that case…”
He never gets to finish, because Gerry crashes into him, kissing him square on the mouth.
Michael's brain short-circuits.
It’s only a moment before Gerry pulls away, the excitement on his face tinged with something like worry.
That won’t do at all.
It’s okay, Michael means to say. I understand, sometimes friends kiss each other on the mouth. I don’t mind at all.
“Guh,” his mouth supplies.
Gerry laughs, though it’s tinged with anxiety. “Did I overstep?” he asks. “I thought … I mean, I always kind of got the impression you liked me?”
I do like you! Michael's brain says, loudly. A lot! Please kiss me again.
“Guh,” his mouth says, again. And then, with considerable effort: “I mean … yeah.”
“I overstepped? God, Michael, I’m sorry, I…”
“Yes!” Michael says, and then realises he’s gone in the wrong direction. “I mean … I mean no. No. Yes, I like you. No, you didn’t overstep. You … you can kiss me. If you want.”
The joy returns just like that, lighting up Gerry’s whole face.
“Oh,” he says, and does.
Michael giggles when he pulls away, a little hysterically, maybe. “That’s nice.”
Gerry beams at him. “It is?”
“Yeah,” Michael says, looping his arms around Gerry’s neck in a moment of bravery. “Very nice.”
“Well, in that case…”
He leans in and kisses Michael again, and again, and then pulls away a little. “Are we like, boyfriends now?”
Michael giggles again, giddy. “Do you want to be?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay. I guess we are.”
Gerry grins. “Ask me?”
“Okay,” Michael says, still not completely sure he didn’t slip and smack his head on the sink a few minutes ago. “Will you be my boyfriend, Mr. Delano?”
Gerry laughs, and he sounds so happy. “I will. Will you be my boyfriend, Mr. Shelley?”
“I will.”
“Perfect.”
Michael's jaw is beginning to ache with how much he’s smiling. Eat my heart out, Michael from half an hour ago. Not so hopeless after all.
Gerry leans up on his tip-toes, so his mouth is hovering just over Michael's. “Kiss me, boyfriend.”
Michael does kiss him. Again and again, and then Gerry kisses him, and then they both lean in at the same time kiss each other.
And then they have to take a break from kissing to clean the hair off the floor, but that’s alright. They have all the time in the world.