We put our coats down over the handrail of the stairs to the first floor, and I looked around the entrance hall with its chandelier hanging high up among the dark wooden beams overhead, taking in the smell of the wood, warm and rich and polished. Then we slowly ambled towards Michael's private chambers in the right wing of the house.

"I remember the first time I came here," I said softly. I meant Neverland as a whole, but I also meant the corridor in particular, that led past the library to his rooms. We had returned to the quiet house from which all personnel had retired. And we had just made love.
Next to me, Michael turned to put his hand out for me to take. It was warm and unnaturally pale in mine. He squeezed my fingers chewing the inside of his lower lip in an absentminded way as his steps began to slow.
"My make-up is white," he said suddenly. At first I didn't reply, but when he turned and looked at me, I nodded. The change was obvious.
"That's all? You have nothing to say to that?" He had stopped walking, still looking at me.
"What do you want me to say?"
He inhaled. "You could ask me, why?"
"That's your choice, Michael, not mine."
"It's not a choice."
"You know I didn't mean it that way."
"No, it's not a choice." He looked around the hallway as if in search of something. "Do you remember my skin?"
"Of course I do."
"It got worse." He turned back to me. "Things can always get worse. I'll show you." He let go of my hand and started to fumble with his right cuff.
"Michael. Don't. There's no need." I reached for him, for his hand and arm, in an attempt to stop him, but he wasn't to be stopped.
"No, I want you to see this!" There was so much force in his words that my hands dropped away from him of their own accord. "I want you to see it. You'll see it, anyway..."

Impatiently, he tore at the sleeve pulling it up over his elbow with such determination that I feared for the shirt. Then, suddenly, all force seemed to have left him. His arm slowly sank down until it was hanging limp by the side of his body as of it didn't quite belong to him. The bare forearm was chalky white and freckled with dark blotches. It wasn't the pale, delicate translucency of white skin; it was a white sickly and alien like paper that had been soaked in places with something dark and come away stained. Michael let out a shaky breath and stepped ever so slightly away from me.

I followed. "Michael, what happened? From there," I indicated back to the entrance hall, "to here – what happened?"
"I'm sorry." His voice rasped and he didn't meet my eyes as he pulled the sleeve back down. "I didn't mean to upset and embarrass you." The cuff was hanging loose – red cloth covering part of his hand. He made a fist and lightly beat it against his thigh, then almost unnoticeably moved the arm out of sight behind his back.
"I'm not upset. Nor embarrassed. I'm confused!"
He looked around the far corners of the hallway. "My face is the same." Finally, his eyes settled on me, and they felt heavy, when they did. "And... the rest of me. My skin looks dirty. I look like I need to wash. That's what it's down to. That's what the colour of my skin is down to: Making me look dirty and unkempt."
"You're not dirty," I said, reached for the arm he was hiding behind his back and took his hand in both of mine.
"But I look it. Like somebody threw dirty on me. Which they'll be doing in no time! And I can't wash it off. I can't wash this off! I use bleach on my hands..." I felt his movement but didn't look down, holding on to him with one hand and running the other up the inside of his forearm, from the hollow of his soft palm, over his bony wrist towards his elbow, and his voice drifted off. Silence filled the corridor. Somewhere, the air-conditioner or a heating hummed.

I touched the back of his jaw, only lightly, too aware of the make-up on his skin. Somehow I didn't want to mess with it. I traced the curve of his ear with my thumb, felt the tight curls at the nape of his neck hidden from view in the warm shadow of his relaxed hair.
"Michael," I asked in a low voice, "why are we having this discussion out here in the hall?"
He laughed, but it wasn't happy. "Because I'm scared," he added in a whisper not looking at me.
"Because of me?"
For a moment he didn't answer, just stared at my shoulder, then he closed his eyes. I saw his long lashes folding down. "I'm scared you'll be disgusted."

It took me a moment to process his words. I had to consciously close my mouth.
"I know you don't usually wear make-up in the house," I said once I'd found my tongue. "That's not an issue with all the people who live and work here with you. Why is it an issue with me? What makes you think it's an issue for me?"
"The people who live and work here with me... They don't touch me. Not like that."
"Michael..."
"I want to be with you. Alone with you. You know. I want to do that." The words came tumbling out of his mouth.
"I just travelled 6,000 miles to be with you. That must count for something!"
"It's really bad, you know? It really is much worse than it used to be."
"Okay. Okay, I get that. I really do. I do. But I still want to be with you."
He just looked at me.
"I still want to be with you," I repeated in a lower and more emphatic tone. "Let me be with you. – Where are my suitcases? Where did they take my things?"
"They are in my room," he said. But it was hardly more than a whisper.

The first thing I did was to brush my teeth and wash my face. I had freshened up at the airport, but my makeup was sticky nonetheless, and I felt increasingly uncomfortable wearing it. Michael had removed part of his personal belongings from the built-in closets of the master's suit and my enthusiasm about it seemed to drive the dark clouds away that had crept over his mood in the corridor outside. We put my suitcases up on his bed and even though there was quite a fair number of chairs and armchairs in the room he sat on the floor with his back against the side of it while I walked around him to fold sweaters and shirts into his wardrobe. Sometimes he peered into the suitcase that lay open at his shoulder, lifting edges of folded clothes as if something forbidden might be hidden under them. When he came across the lace and satin of my nightgowns and underwear, he started to giggle and quickly carefully covered them again with a soft, white sweater. It was not until well into the second suitcase that he got up and left the room.

I was just putting the second suitcase down off the bed and gathering up the odd pieces of my belongings that hadn't yet found a place, when he returned and stood by the door surveying the room. I set my camera on a nearby side table that had an assortment of flasks, figurines and other personal belongings standing on it, smoothed out the duvet and waved my empty hands over the bed. "All done!"
The motion extracted an audible smile from Michael."What do you want me to do with the suitcases?"
"There's a room up in the attic where I keep mine. We'll just put them there."
I nodded. And only then did I realise that his face had changed.

His eyes that had been heavily rimmed with coal before now seemed pale in comparison. Gone was the chiselled effect of his cheeks. Instead, his face was the same unnatural chalky white that his arm had been and the same dark liquid that had stained it appeared to have been splashed over his face as well, down the side of his nose and across his upper lip and chin. Imperfections, shadows under his eyes and his acne scars were unmistakable. I put the suitcase that I had just been picking up back down, where I had placed it out of the way next to the side table, and went over to where he stood on the other side of the bed.

With a sigh and a helpless little shrug Michael met my eyes. His lashes had a wet, oily shine to them, probably from a face cream meant to relieve his skin after a day under the heavy make-up.
My fingers lightly touched his jaw. "How do you feel?"
He turned up his palm in an indifferent gesture, and I put my mouth on his. His lips were soft. I smelled the sweetish fragrance of the face cream, and felt the light pressure of his full lower lip against mine.

His lips were slightly parted maybe in surprise at being kissed or at it being so brief. I was aware of his warm breath coming through them. It smelled of peppermint from freshly brushed teeth. Then he blinked, swallowed and wet his lips to say something. But he never got around to it. I sealed his mouth with mine and he didn't oppose.

"How do you feel now?"
He looked at me with his kissed mouth, then wet his lips a second time, broke into a wide grin and looked away. "I don't want to say that," he said with a shake of his head.
"You don't want to say that?"
"No..." His voice was airy. He stuffed his hands in his back pockets and every time our eyes met, his grin widened again and he turned away again. "Don't look at me like that. You make me feel shy..."
"Well, is it good or bad?"
He breathed. "Good..." Then he started to laugh and rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. "I'm sorry. Somehow... I didn't see that coming."
"I'll just go and have a shower," I said, pushing my lips against his cheek this time and turned towards the bathroom.

There was a delay, maybe the length of a heartbeat or two, then his arms folded around me and pulled my back against his chest. His mouth was in my hair. "Take the shower later."
It was a tight embrace, warm and strong. "I've been on a plane forever. I probably smell like a plane. Of rough blankets and kerosene..."
"No..." he said as he turned me around to face him. There was something different about the way his hips rested against mine. I could feel the press of his fingers though my knitted sweater as he held me there, his thumbs moving over my stomach, moving the fabric on my skin. A drop of water had fallen onto the inside of his open collar, turning the cloth a deep burgundy colour. His mouth was close. His breath brushed my lips. Suddenly, I was aware of his body heat and of his bed behind me. His lips touched mine, at first lightly and slow, then rougher. I could hear his breathes short and harsh through a noise that filled my ears. I took his face in my hands and forgot all about the shower.
~~~~~

Hey, y'all! :)

This story idea has spent a long time on my shelf or sitting on the corner of my desk. Somehow I didn't have the peace of mind I need to write, and so it's still largely unfinished. But I don't want to wait any longer, so I decided to just publish the chapters as I go along, and we'll just see how that goes. :D So please bear with me when updates aren't as regular as I would like them to be. <3

I'm excited about bringing the characters from 'Carousel' back. And I'm curious to know what you think about this! :D

Votes? Please! :)
Comments? Absolutely! :D
If you really want to make my day, please do both! <3
(I almost always say that, because its true!)

And I love you all!
Birdie <33