But would they really stay? Or would Spike’s love fade? And Micah couldn’t possibly expect Kai to stay, instead of pursuing his dreams.
Micah pushed his doubt to the back of his mind. He’d worry about that another day. For now, there was delicious whipped cream to anticipate, and family to spend the time with.
24
Micah
Micah hesitated in front of his dresser, his heart pounding. He knew he shouldn’t do this. It was futile, and vain, and stupid.
But part of him, the part that asked What if they like you better with no scars? That part was... more difficult to ignore.
He could do it. It was in his power to.
He’d forbidden himself from ever touching the makeup kit again. After a date had stared and asked What are those lumps under your skin? Micah had thrown the box into the furthest corner of his bottommost drawer, and slammed it shut.
He didn’t need that sort of humiliation again.
But over and over, Micah remembered the stares in the ER a couple weeks ago. He’d thought about the beautiful receptionist ogling Kai and Spike, and he’d wondered what it would feel like, to look pretty again.
He imagined Spike and Kai looking at him all amazed—that was the most damning thought of all.
His hands trembling, Micah pulled the dusty sheet off his mirror. He sat in front of the dresser, turning on the lights ringing the mirror, until every inch of his face was lit.
Then he forced himself to look up.
With the lights this bright, he saw every ridge and pothole of his scars. He saw the thick red lines, the whorls, the way it encroached onto his lips, so he could never smile right again. He saw failure and terror in those scars, smelled the acrid burn of smoke.
Micah swallowed his own revulsion, and flipped open the makeup kit. Most of the things in there had expired, but some... he could work with those.
He lay on the foundation first, masking the scars so his skin was just one color again. The scars were still ridged, though. Still lumpy. Micah brushed a lighter powder onto the shadowy parts, then took an eyeliner to his scalp, coloring brown over the bald patches, where the hair follicles had stopped growing.
Then he painted his lips, so there was definition on the right side once more. He drew on the end of his right eyebrow, and brushed more foundation down his neck, and his hand. Those were the simpler parts.
When he was done, he closed the makeup kit. The person in the mirror... It didn’t look like him, either. The eyes were too shadowed, the lips weren’t smiling. But it was an approximation of how he used to look, and it was a sight better than the scars.
His heart thumping harder than ever, Micah shut off the lights, and stood.
He shouldn’t be this nervous. It was just makeup. But if Kai and Spike liked this... what did it mean?
I want them to like me more.
What if they saw this, and they couldn’t go back to the scars?
Fear fluttered in his throat. Micah almost washed it all off.
He pulled the sheet back over the mirror, and stopped next to the door, breathing hard. His hands shook. He made himself suck in a deep, calming breath. Then he stepped out of his bedroom, and into the shadowy hallway.
Kai, Spike, and York were still asleep. Micah crept into the kitchen, preparing breakfast. Focus on the coffee. The toast. This isn’t anything unusual. You’re just doing the same daily routine.
Slowly, he heard them wake. Water ran through the pipes, toilets flushed. Micah ran out of food to busy himself with, so he pulled bacon out, nudging the rashers as they sizzled on the pan.
With each passing moment, his anxiety grew. He heard footfalls in the rooms, he heard voices. He forced himself to breathe. He cracked some eggs into another pan, and one splattered all over the stove. The other eggs sizzled.
Kai and Spike stepped into the hallway—Micah heard the low rumble of their voices. Then York stepped out of his room; Micah could tell, from the way Kai and Spike’s conversation stopped abruptly. Strained greetings. A little better than before.
Micah smelled the powdery cosmetics on his face. He barely felt the weight of it on his scars. He stared at the cooking food, and tried not to panic. Maybe I shouldn’t have done this. Maybe I should wash it off before they get in.
They entered the kitchen before he could—footfalls and rustles of clothes, and Micah stopped breathing. He couldn’t move at all.
Strong arms wrapped around his waist. Spike leaned in, kissing Micah on the neck, where Kai’s bonding mark was.
“Morning,” Spike murmured, kissing up his ear.
There was another hand on his waist—Kai, greeting Micah silently before he moved to grab a mug.
Spike sniffed, then stilled against Micah, his eyes sharpening. “Micah? What’s wrong?”
I need to relax. Micah moved his arm, but it felt forced. “I’m fine.”
Spike turned him around. Panic fluttered in Micah’s throat; Kai had turned to look, too.
When he realized that all three of them were now looking at him, Micah forced a smile. “H-hi.”
Gods, he almost pissed his pants.
Kai and Spike stared, bewilderment flashing through their eyes. Their gazes raked over his face, then his neck and hand, trying to figure where the scars had gone.
“Micah?” Spike finally said. “What...”
“Your scars.” Kai glanced at the side of Micah’s head, where the bald spots were.
They didn’t look happy, or sad. Just dumbfounded.
“You did the makeup thing?” York asked with a mixed expression. “What’s the special occasion?”
“Oh.” Spike blinked. “It’s makeup. I thought I smelled something odd on you.”
He reached forward, touching Micah’s cheek gingerly. Some of the makeup came off on his fingertip.
“This isn’t you,” Kai said.
But it’s how I want to look, Micah wanted to say, except his voice had gotten stuck. Am I pretty now?
“Why did you...?” Spike met his eyes.
Micah’s face burned. “I-I—H-how do
