10. Michael #2
Henri was panting, his heart pounding against Michael’s chest. “I didn’t mean to yell. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’ll be better, I won’t—”
“You’re allowed to be angry,” Michael said, his voice steady despite the way his hands trembled against Henri’s back.
“You’re allowed to fuck up. You’re allowed to yell at me.
You’re free to organize my towels or leave them as they were.
You’re allowed to take the good mug. You’re allowed to eat whatever you want, whenever you want it.
You’re allowed to have cream in your coffee and butter on your toast and seconds if you’re still hungry. ”
Henri’s body stayed tense against him, rigid and coiled.
His breathing remained shallow, controlled.
Michael felt him try to pull back slightly, that familiar retreating motion, before stopping himself.
Henri’s fingers twisted in Michael’s shirt, gripping tight, then releasing, then gripping again. Uncertain. Disbelieving.
Michael leaned back just enough to look Henri in the eyes, cupping his face tenderly with one hand. Henri’s gaze darted away, then back, struggling to hold the contact. His jaw was clenched tight, a muscle jumping beneath Michael’s palm.
Michael’s thumb brushed away the tear on Henri’s cheek, and Henri flinched at the gentleness before leaning into it, the conflict playing out in real time across his features.
“You don’t have to be perfect to be loved here,” Michael said. “You don’t have to earn it. You don’t have to make breakfast or fold towels or fix anything. You just have to be here.”
“What if I don’t know how?” Henri whispered.
“Then we’ll figure it out together,” Michael said.
“But first, I need you to understand something.” He waited until Henri’s eyes met his again.
“There is nothing you could do, nothing you could say, nothing you could break, nothing you could leave messy, that would make me hurt you. Do you understand?”
Henri’s eyes filled with tears he was trying desperately not to shed.
“I know you don’t believe me yet,” Michael continued.
“And that’s okay. You don’t have to believe me today.
But I need you to know that I see what you’re doing.
The burned toast, the chipped mug, the way you make everything perfect for me and broken for yourself.
The way you still eat as though someone’s watching, measuring, judging every bite. I see it, and it breaks my heart.”
Tears were flowing in a steady stream down Henri’s cheeks now.
“You deserve the good towels too,” Michael said softly. “You deserve the good everything. The good food, the full meals, the right to choose what goes in your own body.”
Henri let out a sound that was half sob, half laugh. “I don’t know how to do that. I don’t even know what I like anymore. What if I choose wrong? What if I want too much?”
“Start small,” Michael suggested. “Tomorrow morning, take the good mug. Have cream in your coffee. Eat the unburnt toast. See what happens.”
“What if I break it?”
“Then we’ll get new mugs.”
“What if I spill coffee on your shirt?”
“Then I’ll change shirts.”
“What if—”
Michael silenced him with a gentle kiss, soft and careful and full of promise.
“What if nothing terrible happens at all?” he murmured against Henri’s lips. “What if you’re just allowed to be happy?”
Henri kissed him back, desperate and still shaking.
It would take time, Michael knew. Years, maybe. Henri had been conditioned to believe that love was earned through suffering, that his portion of the world was supposed to be smaller, lesser, more painful. That kind of damage didn’t heal overnight.
But for the first time since Henri had walked into his life, Michael saw a flicker of hope in those eyes. A tiny spark of belief that maybe, just maybe, he was worth saving.
And Michael would spend every day proving him right.
“Come on,” Michael said softly, pressing a kiss to Henri’s forehead. “Let’s get cleaned up.”
He led Henri into the bathroom, turning on the shower and adjusting the temperature until steam curled around the room. Henri stood uncertainly by the door, still clutching Michael’s shirt, his whole body vibrating with residual tension.
“It’s okay,” Michael murmured, gently helping Henri out of his clothes before stripping off his own workout gear. “Just let me take care of you.”
Under the warm spray, Henri flinched when Michael reached for the shampoo.
Michael slowed his movements, telegraphing every touch, waiting for Henri to relax incrementally before continuing.
He worked shampoo through Henri’s hair with gentle fingers, massaging his scalp until Henri’s eyes fluttered closed and some of the rigidity left his shoulders.
He washed Henri’s body with soft touches, nothing sexual, just loving care. The kind Henri had been denied. But Henri’s muscles stayed taut, braced, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for this tenderness to transform into something else.
“I’ve got you,” Michael whispered. “You’re safe. I promise.”
Henri’s breath hitched, but he leaned into the touch. Slowly. Carefully. Learning how.
When Michael was done, he tilted his head toward the shampoo bottle. “Your turn.”
Henri blinked up at him, confused. “My turn?”
“Wash my hair,” Michael said gently. “I’d like that.”
Henri’s hands hesitated before reaching for the bottle. He squeezed shampoo into his palm, then brought his hands up to Michael’s hair with uncertain movements. His touch was tentative at first, barely there, as though he was afraid of doing it wrong.
“That’s good,” Michael encouraged. “You can press harder. I won’t break.”
Henri’s fingers grew more confident, working the shampoo through Michael’s hair with increasing sureness. Michael closed his eyes, letting Henri take his time, feeling the careful attention in every stroke.
When Henri’s fingers began working the soap out under the spray, Michael opened his eyes and found Henri watching him with something soft in his expression. Michael leaned forward and kissed him, gentle and unhurried, Henri’s soapy fingers still tangled in his hair.
Henri made a small sound against his mouth, surprised but pleased, and kissed back.
When they finally pulled apart, Michael smiled. “Perfect. Now let’s get out before we turn into prunes.”
He reached for the towel rack.
Empty.
Michael stared at the bare rack, then laughed. “I forgot the towels.”
“What?” Henri’s lips twitched.
“The towels I was so worked up about.” Michael shook his head. “They’re still in the linen closet. Don’t move.”
He pushed open the shower door and made a dash for it, water dripping across the tile floor in his wake. When he returned moments later with the fluffy navy towel for Henri and another for himself, he found Henri covering his mouth, shoulders shaking with silent laughter.
“Not a word,” Michael warned, though he was grinning.
“The water,” Henri said, gesturing at the drops scattered across the floor.
“It’s just water,” Michael said firmly, wrapping the navy towel around Henri’s shoulders. “It’ll dry. Or I’ll mop it up later. But right now, I need you to promise me you’ll ignore it.”
Henri looked at the water drops, then back at Michael. “But—”
“Promise me,” Michael said. “It’s just water. Nothing to fix or clean or worry about.”
Henri’s jaw worked, clearly fighting every instinct. Finally, he nodded, a reluctant smile tugging at his lips. “Okay. I promise.”
“Good.” Michael wrapped himself in the other towel and squeezed water from his hair, sending more drops spattering to the floor. Henri’s eye twitched, but the smile stayed.
Michael chose Henri’s clothes for the evening. Soft pajama pants and one of his own shirt, a well-worn cotton one Henri had admired. Henri accepted the choices without protest, seeming to find comfort in not having to decide.
When Michael pulled the shirt over Henri’s head, Henri caught sight of himself in the mirror, and his face crumpled. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry I—”
“Hey.” Michael turned him around, hands on his shoulders. “No more apologies tonight. You did nothing wrong.”
“I yelled at you.”
“You were honest with me. That’s not wrong.”
“I...” Henri’s voice broke. “I don’t know how to do this.”
“I know,” Michael said. “And that’s okay. We’ll learn together.”
In the kitchen, they worked together to make something simple. Spaghetti with parmesan, lots of parmesan, because Henri deserved richness and flavor and all the dairy Marc had denied him. Michael watched as Henri tentatively tasted the cheese, then smiled, a small, fragile smile, and added more.
But Henri only took a few bites before setting down his fork, staring at his plate.
“I’m not... I can’t...” He swallowed hard. “My stomach feels wrong.”
“That’s okay,” Michael said. “You don’t have to finish it.”
Henri looked at him as though he’d spoken a foreign language. “But you made it.”
“And you ate what you could. That’s enough.”
Henri’s eyes filled with tears again. “Is it always going to be like this?”
“Like what?”
“Not knowing. Not understanding. Feeling as though I’m going to mess everything up.”
Michael reached across the table, taking Henri’s hand. “Probably not always. But maybe for a while. And that’s okay. We’ll figure it out as we go.”
They curled up on the oversized couch afterwards, Henri tucked against Michael’s side while Netflix played something mindless in the background. Henri kept apologizing, for not finishing his food, for crying, for being difficult, until Michael gently pressed a finger to his lips.
“No more tonight,” he said. “Just rest.”
Michael pulled out his phone and opened Amazon, scrolling through dinnerware sets.
“What are you doing?” Henri asked sleepily.
“Ordering new dishes,” Michael said, selecting a pristine white set of plates, bowls, mugs, glasses, everything. “The whole collection. I’m donating all the old ones tomorrow.”
Henri was quiet for a moment. “You don’t have to do that for me.”
“I’m not doing it for you,” Michael said, though they both knew it was a gentle lie. “I’m doing it for us. Fresh start.”
He added the complete set to his cart, then ordered it for next-day delivery. Every dish would be perfect, whole, unmarked. Henri would never again have a reason to choose the damaged option, because there wouldn’t be one.
Henri’s arms tightened around him, and Michael felt some of the tension finally leave his body. On the screen, the Netflix show played on.