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Michael has been staring at Alex. He's been allowing himself to stare at Alex with unmitigated, enraptured adoration. After nearly 15 years, the utter grit and determination they've both put in to drag themselves into happiness, he figures he deserves it. And so does Alex. When he drinks in Alex's focused profile as he's working at his desk, the sweat dripping at his temple when he gets back from a run, the muscles in his arms bunching as he kneads dough at the kitchen counter, the way his nose scrunches when Michael tries to make him laugh—he wants Alex to know that he loves him, and he's not afraid for anyone to know it. And that he thinks he's the hottest man alive.
Being in public isn't going to stop him either. Michael stands in the blessedly cool chilled section of the grocery store, watching as Alex studiously compares two different brands of kefir. That little wrinkle in his brow as he thinks (or maybe tries to read the labels—Michael thinks he might need glasses) holding Michael's attention. Until Alex puts one of the bottles back on the shelf and reaches out to place his hand over Michael's face like a chest-burster and pushes him away.
"Stop." His tone says 'Captain in charge' but Michael knows when he's trying not to smile, so he brings out the big guns to defend himself.
"But I love you," he says, muffled through Alex's hand still covering his face. It slides down to cup his jaw instead, thumb brushing over the scruff on his cheek.
Alex simultaneously drops his chosen dairy product in his basket and leans over for a brief but sweet peck. "Love you. Stop staring."
Before Michael can respond, Alex has picked up his basket and is heading down the next aisle, mumbling something about fresh yeast. There's nothing Michael can do but dutifully trot after him. Which he's not complaining about; if he can't stare at Alex's face, he'll happily take his behind instead.
Next to the various discounted items, Alex contemplates a head of lettuce while Michael takes his chances and resumes his staring. Admiration.
"Go and make yourself useful," Alex tells him, deciding against the iceberg and putting it back. "Get more pasta, please."
Michael is about to do just that, willing to tear himself away for a minute if it means he gets to see Alex anew again in just a few moments. But then they're both distracted when someone says, "Excuse me," to Alex's right.
A flustered mother trying to juggle an infant, a bag, her groceries and a toddler's hand leans towards Alex. "Would you mind just—" She seems to perform some kind of magic manoeuvre that ends with Alex holding the baby, his left arm automatically wrapping around a small back as his right hand drops his basket and comes up to support a padded bum. It's like he's done it a thousand times before, and Michael is immediately smitten.
"Uh…ok," Alex manages to get out. He looks utterly confused for just a second, until the baby grips the collar of his shirt with one pudgy hand, and then he's smiling fondly at the top of their wispy-haired head. "Hi, baby," he whispers, and Michael melts.
This is his dream. It's literally his dream come to life. He's never seen Alex with a baby before. No one they know has kids, despite being prime 'all our friends are becoming parents' age. And it's not just that it's his dream for himself, that he's always wanted this with Alex, but that he's always wanted this for Alex too. For him to be happy, relaxed, at peace with himself, whatever, enough that he feels he can be a dad. So Michael feels totally justified in maintaining his staring, especially with Alex's attention on the baby as he, probably unconsciously, begins to sway slightly.
It's over all too soon as the extremely forward woman takes her baby back. With an effusive thank you, she grabs her toddler's hand and is gone as quickly as she appeared.
"Well that was a little rude," Alex frowns, "and kind of dangerous. I could be anyone. Right?"
"Hng," Michael is pretty sure he says.
Alex raises his eyebrows—perfectly groomed, one of the few habits of his that Michael might ever describe as vain. Michael expects a knowing smirk, but what he gets is a confused head tilt, that shy smile that always seems to appear when Alex doesn't understand why Michael thinks he's so amazing.
"What?" he asks, even though Michael thinks he should totally know what, feels a tug in his chest that Alex doesn't know.
And Michael wants to say, I want that some day. I want that with you. You'd look so perfect holding our baby. But they haven't really talked about that yet, about having a family of their own. It's not that Michael thinks it will scare him away or cause a blow-up fight. They both want a future with each other, he's sure about that, with or without children. But he's also not sure which Alex wants, with or without, and he doesn't want him to feel pressured to follow Michael's lead. Having children is an 'enthusiastic consent from both parties' situation. There's no compromise there. He thinks of Alex whispering to him in the cool dark of their bedroom after a nightmare, I don't ever want to fuck someone up like he did me.
"You just looked so gorgeous holding a baby," is what he tells Alex, part truth but not all of it. "Big man, tiny baby," he jokes, veering further away from the gravity of it, swerving into levity, "hot."
"Shut up," Alex scoffs, head ducking, and he's seventeen again, deflecting cheesy compliments and one-liners in the back of Michael's truck.
Maybe his dream will become a reality some day, if he ever feels brave enough to bring it up. But even if it never does, Michael knows he can live the rest of life with Alex and just Alex without ever feeling like there's something missing. A baby, or a child of any age, would be a beautiful addition to their family; but if it's just the two of them forever, he won't feel any less complete. As long as he can keep making Alex happy, he doesn't need anything else.