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He's My Guy

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Usually Geoff didn't care for his birthday, what with bein' reminded how old he was getting, but here he was, parked outside Michael's house for – he checked his watch – almost ten minutes. One hand was still gripping the steering wheel, whilst the other was fussing with his hair. “Cool it, Geoffers; don't blow your top before ya even get through the door,” he whispers to himself, and it seems to work, although it was still another minute before he could evem set foot out of the comfort of his car.

Thing is, he has no idea what to expect from his darlin', but by the way he'd near enough begged Geoff to keep his evening free for 'a special surprise', it was enough to give Geoff a bellyful of butterflies.

After locking his car, he heads into Michael's apartment complex, torn between hightailin' it up the stairs to the kid's door or trudgin' like a man walkin' the mile of the condemned.

Suddenly, he's at the door, a hand curled into a fist and rapping loudly on the wood before Geoff's even aware of just what the hell he's doin'. Rather than Michael answering the door like he'd been expecting, he hears the kid's voice, muffled through the door, inviting him in. Geoff swallows, gripping the door handle whilst mentally shouting at himself to 'get a grip, this is Michael, for pete's sake'.

And wow, what a sight waiting for him inside.

Michael's usual furniture style's been thoroughly thrown around, to something Geoff woulda never expected but is delighted to see. A record player sits on a corner table, and resting against the leg in a damn impressive stack of records. Next to it, against the wall, is a pretty white vanity, something you'd find in a teenage girl's room, decorated with pictures of Wanda Jackson, Elvis (of course), and, after another look, Geoff himself is tucked into the side of the mirror. The Welcome Home Elvis Special ad, in poster form, is tacked to the wall above what can only be described as a veritable nest of pillows and blankets, on which Michael is perched. Next to the kid are a couple of cokes in glass bottles, and greasy cheeseburgers on paper plates.

Which is thoughtful an' all, and Geoff's heart's swellin' at the effort Michael's put into it. But what has Geoff's mouth hanging wide open and somethin' else swelling is the boy himself.

Michael's dolled up in a pretty silky white blouse, tucked into the flounciest, pinkest poodle skirt Geoff ever laid eyes on. A pink ribbon tied around his neck makes the skin look so soft that Geoff just aches to press fleeting kisses all over it. He's wearing a pair of heeled oxfords on his feet, and Geoff has a sneakin' suspicions that those socks are being rocked high above the knee.

His face is a whole other kinda pretty. It's not much different then usual, but the faint blush and the pink lipstick is hard to miss, and quite frankly it's makin' his head spin as all his blood seems to have left it.

He'd have stayed staring like that for a long time, before Michael's voice snaps him out of it.

“Are you just gonna stand there lookin' gormless, or hop on over here?” Michael croons, the drawl in his voice subtle, but easily picked up on, and Geoff would have laughed if it wasn't so good, almost as if Michael had been a rock n' roll babe all his life.

By some magic, Geoff actually follows Michael's instructions, staggering forward and even managing to close his mouth as he sits down next to the boy, folding his long legs inwards to avoid the food. Geoff breathes out shakily, smiling when Michael lets out a laugh.

“Jeez, sweetheart, you tryna make me cut out from a heart attack? Look at you.” Michael smiles prettily as Geoff lets out a low whistle.

“Ain't I just the most?” He pouts, pressing a kiss to Geoff's lips, who quickly catches him by the back of the neck. “You sure are, dollface."