Chapter 18
YOU’RE SO GOOD TO ME
MICHAEL
Looking up at me from the couch, eyes full of sorrow and exhaustion, he seemed so… small. Like the awful events of today had dimmed his larger-than-life spirit.
Thin red lines were visible in the whites of his eyes–a result of his sobbing–but the sadness was obvious even without that. It broke my heart. I hated to see anyone in pain, but seeing Mick like that was too much. I wanted to protect him from everything.
I had an overwhelming urge to sweep him up into my arms and hold him tight. I wanted to stroke his hair and lay gentle kisses on his weary head. I wanted to whisper sweet nonsense to him until he felt safe and loved. I wanted him to fall asleep in my arms.
Shaking my head as if I could dislodge the thoughts, I tried to bring myself back to reality.
Mick was distraught; he’d just been kicked out of his childhood home in the most cruel, uncaring way.
The last thing he needed was me being pervy.
Though honestly, I just wanted to hold and care for him. Sex was the last thing on my mind.
I realised I hadn’t said anything for a while when Mick uttered my name in little more than a whisper.
“Sorry, what?” I said.
“Do you have a blanket? I know it’s summer and it’s quite warm in here, but I’d better have a blanket anyway.”
“A blanket, yes.”
“And a pillow, if you have a spare one?”
“Yeah, I’ve got a couple spare.”
“That’s great. If you tell me where they are, I’ll get them.”
“What?”
“Where are the blankets and pillows?”
“Oh. Oh yes. They’re…” Where were they? I never had guests in my flat, not the sort that slept on the couch. Where were they? The spare room. Which was like a pigsty, but I could probably find something.
“Hang on, let me go and look for them.”
Opening the door to the damn room was the first challenge. The handle was stuck–something must have shifted or fallen on the other side. Jiggling it didn’t work. I tried a bit of a shove. No luck.
“Sorry, Mick. The bloody door’s stuck.” Using all my strength against the door, I tried jiggling and shoving at the same time.
“Don’t worry about it, Michael.” He stifled a yawn. “Like I said, it’s quite warm. I’ll be alright without a blanket. It’s fine.”
“No, it’s not fine, Mick. You came here after a fucking awful thing happened, and the least I can do is getting you a fucking blanket. Except I can’t, because the door’s stuck.”
“Michael, I’m exhausted. Can I just share your bed? I know it’s a lot to ask, showing up here on your doorstep without any warning, and you probably don’t–”
“Yes.” I cut him off.
“Yes?”
“Of course I don’t mind. I just thought you’d find it a bit awkward, especially considering…”
He blushed, and I felt terrible. I didn’t want to make him uncomfortable; I shouldn’t have brought it up at all.
He chuckled. “I promise to hold myself back from ravishing you in the night.”
“Oh well that’s a pity,” I joked.
“I’m tired. Play your cards right and I’ll ravish you tomorrow.” He winked at me, and my whole body tingled.
I knew he was playing around, and it was nice to see a bit of his old self making an appearance, but my heart–and my dick–were easily fooled.
I had to let my brain be in control of those two idiots if I was going to make it through the night.
In bed with Mick. Again. Oh sweet baby Jesus and Mother Mary, this was going to be fucking hard.
Pun intended. Tomorrow I would clear the spare room so I didn’t have to go through this another night.
I had to make it to tomorrow first. As Mick took off the pullover, I tried very hard not to stare. I hadn’t thought of this–of him taking off clothes. But of course he would. He couldn’t sleep in a knitted jumper, could he?
Ever the polite guest, he folded the top and placed it on the chest of drawers, which afforded me a view of his muscular back. Oh Lord, I was not going to survive this.
As he leaned down to remove his socks the material of my pyjama bottoms stretched over his backside.
Good Lord, that arse was a work of art. It was round and firm, and I wanted to tear down the flannel trousers and dive into it face first. My dick was very on board with that idea, and now I had to calm myself down before I could get into my pyjamas.
His milky white skin was lightly dotted with reddish brown freckles, and I had a desperate urge to trace them with my tongue. I was definitely clearing that spare room tomorrow. This man and his beautiful body needed to be kept away from me–at least at night time.
Climbing into the bed, he gave me a quizzical look. “Are you going to stand there all night? Or are you coming to bed?”
Those words were like music to my ears, but not because of the obvious.
They sounded familiar and normal, like the words a long-term lover would use.
It was so domestic it brought tears of longing to my eyes.
Escaping to the bathroom so he wouldn’t see, I brushed my teeth and got ready for bed.
When I got back, soft snuffling snores came from the head of the bed and I could resist stepping over to him.
The sight of him took my breath away. I knew he was gorgeous, but this was something else.
He looked so peaceful; you might even say content if you didn’t know what had happened to him.
As I stood there, I made a promise to myself that I was going to do whatever I could to make him happy.
Not being a creepy old man who watched him sleep would be a good start.
Without even realising what I was doing, I reached down and stroked his hair. I needed to offer him some of my love, even if he never knew. He was so fast asleep already he didn’t even flinch.
In bed, I could feel the warmth of his body, even with space between us. I longed to pull him into my arms, but falling asleep next to him was an unexpected joy of its own.
I was hot. Really hot. And I couldn’t move.
Panicking, I opened my eyes, my brain still heavy with sleep.
It was dark, so it was still night. I wasn’t completely immobilised, I could move my right arm and leg.
Consciousness caught up with me, and I realised why I was hot and couldn’t move half my body.
Mick was lying half on top of me, his head on my chest, left arm flung over my shoulder, and his left leg tangled between mine.
I didn’t get time to enjoy the feeling, because he was shivering wildly.
Reaching across to my bedside table, I turned on my lamp.
He was covered in a sheen of sweat and had a very unhealthy grey tinge.
With the heat radiating off him and his pallid complexion, it was obvious he had a fever. I needed to cool him down and make him swallow some paracetamol. Gently, I patted his cheek, but he didn’t wake up. He was too heavy for me to move, especially asleep, so I had to shake the poor thing awake.
“Mick. Sorry, love, but you're on top of me.”
“Hmmph?”
“I don’t think you’re very well, and I need to look after you. You need fluids and paracetamol. I can’t do that from under you.”
“Hmph,” he grumbled but rolled over enough that I could wriggle out from beneath him. In the kitchen, I found the pills and poured a large glass of cold water. Next, I popped into the bathroom and wet a clean face cloth.
Back in the bedroom, Mick was shivering and whimpering. Poor sod, he was really ill. Sitting on the edge of the bed, I put the things on the bedside cabinet and tried to wake him again.
“Hey, Mick, sweetheart, can you sit up and take these pills for me?”
He didn’t say anything, but he lifted his head enough for me to put the tablets in his mouth. I held up the glass and let him sip the water.
“Well done, love. That should bring your temperature down in a little while. I’m going to dab this wet cloth on your face too, okay?”
He mumbled and sort of nodded, so I did what I’d said.
When the wet flannel touched his forehead, he flinched.
It must have felt awful to his fever-addled brain that thought he was cold.
I knew he needed to cool down; he was burning up.
I didn’t have a thermometer, so I couldn’t tell exactly how hot he was, but his skin was scorching.
The pyjama bottoms he was wearing were soaked through with sweat, and that would be horrible to wake up to. I found another pair that were baggy on me and set about helping him change them.
Although “help” wasn’t really what happened.
He was so out of it he couldn’t sit up, let alone stand and change his trousers.
Trying a few more times to wake him so he could do it himself, I eventually gave up.
Hating the thought of undressing him without his permission, I just had to hope he wouldn’t mind when he was awake and realised what I’d done.
Pulling off most of the blankets, I left him with a thick cotton sheet.
Once I’d done all that, I got back into bed next to him.
As uncomfortable as it was sitting up in my bed, especially next to a human furnace, I wasn’t going to leave him in this state.
Grabbing my reading glasses and putting them on, I picked up the crime thriller novel I was reading and settled into it.
About an hour later, Mick woke up.
“Michael?” he croaked.
“Yep, I’m here.” Putting my book down, I looked him over. He was still ashen, but he wasn’t shivering anymore. “How are you feeling?” I lay my hand on his forehead; he was hot, but not as bad as before.
“Like total shit.”
I snorted. “I bet you are. I think you have a cold or maybe flu. You were sweating and shivering, but I gave you some pills to bring down your temperature. Drink some water.” I pointed to the glass beside him. Doing as he was told, he took small sips.
Putting the glass back on the bedside table took an extraordinary amount of effort for him, and he flopped back on the bed. His head lolled to the side, so he could see me. The corners of his mouth lifted in an attempt at a smile.
“You’re wearing glasses,” he said slowly.
My hand flew to my face. Oh shit. I’d put them on to read and forgot to take them off. I never let anyone see me in my reading glasses. They made me feel ancient. I began pulling them off my face.
“Don’t. Don’t take them off. I like them. You look like a sexy school teacher.”
Sexy? He was delirious and didn’t mean what he said so I wouldn’t let it go to my head. I was about to say as much, when a snuffly snore came from him. He’d probably fall in and out of sleep a lot until his fever broke and he started to feel better.
The sun rose slowly, and he was sleeping a little more peacefully than before, so I got out of bed and got dressed.
Luckily, I was off work for the next two days, although I would have phoned up and faked being sick if I wasn’t.
I couldn’t leave him in my flat on his own, not when he was so out of it.
I didn’t want to anyway. Here with him was the only place in the world I wanted to be.
He needed looking after, and I was thrilled to be the person to do that.
During the day, I kept myself busy catching up on housework.
I swept, cleaned the floors, hoovered, wiped all the surfaces, polished the woodwork, and did my washing.
Every hour or so I went in and checked on him and made him drink some water.
A couple of times, I gave him more medicine that would bring his temperature down and make him feel better.
Physically, at least. I had no idea if his heart would ever fully heal.
Anger raged through me again when I thought about Mick’s parents kicking him out like he was nothing. What the fuck was wrong with people? Why bother having kids if you’re not going to love them unconditionally?
When I ran out of chores to do, I sat down with the paper I’d bought yesterday. At around eight o clock, I heard noises from the bedroom, and when I looked in on him, he was awake and getting out of bed.
“Hey, hey, don’t get up. I’ll help you. You don’t need to get out of bed. What do you need?”
“A piss,” he grizzled.
I chuckled. “Alright, that’s all you.” When he tried to stand up, wobbled, and fell back onto the bed, I rushed over to him. “On second thoughts, how about I help you to the loo?”
“Yeah, okay, but I don’t need you to bloody hold it for me.”
I snorted at that. He put his arm around my shoulder, and the amount of weight he let me take made me glad I’d insisted on helping him. I got him into the bathroom, forced him to sit down on the toilet–not try and go standing–and left him to do his business.
After I half-carried him back into bed, I asked if he was hungry.
“A little. But I don’t think I can face eating much and my throat is a bit scratchy. Do you have any more of that soup from yesterday?”
I smiled. “Yes, of course. I’ll get you some.”
Half expecting him to have fallen back asleep, I pushed the door open with my hip ten minutes later.
Awake but still lying down, he smiled weakly as I came in holding a plastic tray with a bowl of soup on it.
He tried to shuffle up to a half-seated position but stopped suddenly, his eyes rolling back in his head.
I put the tray on the dresser and rushed to him.
“Hey, are you alright, love?”
“Yeah, just a bit dizzy. I think I sort of fainted.”
“I’m not surprised, love. You haven’t eaten anything in twenty-four hours.”
Picking up the soup bowl in one hand, I sank the spoon into it and pulled it out.
“You are not feeding me like I’m a toothless old man who thinks the War’s still on,” he rasped.
“Fine, then sit up.” I plonked the spoon down in the bowl and sat back. After a minute of him trying to sit up, feeling woozy and sinking back down, he gave up.
“Alright, you can feed me. But please don’t tell anyone about this,” he pleaded as I lifted the spoon to his lips.
“Of course not.”
I helped him eat half the bowl of soup. There was something so personal and intimate about helping another man like this. He let himself be vulnerable, and I loved knowing how much he trusted me. After he ate, he fell back asleep, and it didn’t look like he’d wake again before morning.
When I got into the bed beside him, he shuffled over to me and lay on my chest. He was asleep, sick, and seeking out comfort, but for the briefest of moments, I let myself imagine how wonderful it would be to fall asleep like this every night, and I drifted off with Mick in my arms and a smile on my face.