Chapter Twenty-Eight
Marcello
Sometimes I wake up and I feel like I only closed my eyes ten minutes ago.
And not in a good way. It literally feels like I’ve only had ten minutes sleep.
Often that’s because I have only managed to have four or five hours sleep after I stayed up all night gaming or scrolling or simply staring at the ceiling until my mind finally decides to shut down.
Other times, I wake up and I am tired because it was a long but fitful night.
Lots of waking up, rolling over, going to the toilet, tossing and turning.
Rarely do I wake up and feel like I’ve slept well, like I’m rested, like I have enough energy to face the day ahead.
But that’s exactly how I feel when I wake up, naked in Giles’ bed.
I have no idea how much time has passed since I collapsed into Giles’ arms but that’s my last conscious memory before I assume sleep came for me.
And what a memory it is. I haven’t felt that safe, that cared for, that right in a long, long time.
Maybe that’s why I simply slipped into a slumber I know my body and brain always need.
Now, though, I’m not in Giles’ arms. I’m alone.
Turning to look at the pillow next to mine, I don’t see any sign that Giles slept or even laid down next to me; the sheets are tucked in neatly and there’s no dent where his head would have laid.
I pull the duvet down and see I’m clean, no sign of the mess I know I spread all over both our bodies when I crashed down onto Giles.
And even more embarrassingly, I note that the condom I came in has gone.
Bringing a hand to my genitals, I feel clean, fresh.
Merda, did Giles clean me up?
It’s a mortifying thought that has me cringing, but also my heart swelling, smiling possibly. I don’t think I’ve ever had the sensation of my heart smiling. Not until I met Giles.
It’s the same sensation I had when I first slid inside him. It’s the same sensation I felt when his fingers guided mine to jerking him off. It’s the same sensation that overwhelmed me when I saw him come just seconds after I had one of the best orgasms of my life.
A quick glance around the room informs me that my clothes have been picked up off the floor where I know I left them and they’ve been folded up on a chair next to Giles’ dresser, my phone placed on top.
I head over there and pick up my phone. It’s almost six in the evening.
I estimate that means I slept for two, maybe three hours.
After pulling on my boxers and jeans, I tuck my phone in my back pocket and walk out of Giles’ bedroom.
I hear him before I see him. Or rather I hear a slop and then a swoosh. There’s more swooshing and then the unmistakable sound of a bucket shifting slightly on a tiled floor. I know this sound better than most considering it’s how most of my working days have ended in the last two decades.
Stepping into Giles’ main reception room, my suspicions are confirmed. He’s mopping his kitchen floor. He stops for the quickest moment, barely a second, when he sees me but then he goes straight back to what he’s doing, his eyes fixed on the mop.
I’ve seen several people mop floors in my time. Countless co-workers, my parents every night when I was younger, and of course I’ve done it myself hundreds, if not thousands of times. But nobody has ever looked like Giles while cleaning a kitchen floor.
Wearing nothing but a pair of his short gym shorts slung low on his hips, his muscles ripple as he swipes the mop back and forth. The cords in his forearms roll as he plunges the mop back in the bucket of water and then uses the attachment to spin additional water off it.
Fuck, that’s one fancy mop. Giles must really know what he’s doing.
“Hey.”
“Hey.” He doesn’t stop what he’s doing.
“I’m sorry for falling asleep,” I say in lieu of not knowing what else to say.
“Don’t apologise for that,” he says with a soft tut. “You looked like you needed it.”
“Yeah.” I scratch the back of my head and feel just how much of my hair has fallen out of my knot. “I don’t have the best sleep habits.”
That makes Giles stop and lean on his mop. “You should try and get some help with that. Sleep is essential to any training programme.”
Ah, okay. We’re back to gym bros, training buddies, running partners.
Except, that’s not what I want. Especially not when I see the hard set of Giles’ jaw as he goes back to mopping the floor that honestly, already looks spotless.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“Yeah. I just like to do my cleaning on a Sunday.”
“Right. Okay. Well, I’ll go get dressed and—”
“No!” He stops me turning. “That’s not what I meant. I don’t want you to go. If you don’t want to. I just… I just need to finish what I’m doing.”
“Mopping the floor?”
“Yeah, and I want to do the windows too.”
I look at the gleamingly clear glass panes that reveal a never-ending North London.
“Want me to help?”
Giles blinks at me like I’ve just spoken to him in Russian.
“I’m a dab hand with a mop. Quickest floor cleaner in Mayfair and my window cleaning is pretty spotless too, pun intended.” I give him finger guns for effect.
His smile disappears before it’s had a chance to grow and he shakes his head. “No, thanks. I… I have to do it myself.”
“Alright. Well, can I make you a cup of tea while you do?”
Again he gives me a strange look like I’ve just said something out of the ordinary when what I asked is the most common question in the English language.
“Okay,” he says.
“Toss me a tea towel.”
His confusion doesn’t stop him doing as I ask as he pulls out a folded cloth from a drawer.
He chucks it at me and I catch it before opening it up and putting it under my bare feet.
I shuffle over his clean floor, keeping my feet on the tea towel.
I know I look ridiculous, belly wobbling and my man boobs jiggling but when he gives me a smile that finally blossoms I feel like it’s worth it.
“Everything I need over here?” I ask, pointing at where his kettle stands.
“Cupboard above.” He nods.
“Okay. Get back to it then,” I say and do more silly shuffling to fill the kettle and turn it on.
As I’m readying myself to make the tea, and waiting for the kettle to boil, I try not to watch Giles. But I fail. I think I can be forgiven for staring as his back muscles pop and pull as he moves to the other end of the floor, finishing his mopping.
Except he doesn’t finish. He does indeed disappear into the bathroom to pour the dirty water down the toilet, but when he returns, he goes to the sink and fills the bucket up again, adding more detergent to it.
I open my mouth to say something but when I purposefully see him avoid my eye contact, his jaw so tense his cheekbones are more pronounced, I close my lips.
Giles proceeds to start mopping the floor again as if it isn’t sparkly clean under our feet. It’s a relief when the kettle clicks off as it reaches its boil so I can focus on making us both a cup of tea rather than questioning what exactly Giles is doing.
“Tea’s up,” I say when two mugs stand full and steaming in front of me. Giles is nearly at the end of this round of mopping and so when he looks up, I nod at the sofa at the other end of the room.
“You go sit down,” he says. “I’ll just do the windows.”
Oh yeah. He said he wanted to do them. But maybe they could wait until after he has a cup of tea?
Again I open my mouth to suggest this but he’s left the room, taking the bucket with him, which I’m almost certain isn’t full of dirty water this time on account of the floor already being squeaky clean.
Deciding against saying anything, I pick up the mugs, carefully do my shuffle across the kitchen floor and then step off the tea towel once I’m on the carpet that covers the rest of the room.
I sit down and place the mugs on two coasters from a pile standing on the coffee table.
I sit back on the sofa and watch as Giles crosses the room with spray, a cloth and a squeegee in his hands.
And I stay like that as Giles proceeds to clean his windows. Three times.
At first I think he’s just going back to find spots he missed, but when he gets the stool he used the first time to reach the highest parts of the glass, I see he’s cleaning it all, all over again, every single inch. And then he does it a third time.
The whole time he’s cleaning, we’re silent.
Not a word is shared between us and it gets to the point where I find it difficult to even look at him.
Like I’m witnessing something personal or private.
Maybe I should have left after all… But a moment later, I feel privileged to be in the same room.
Like he's trusting me with something deeply intimate. So I stay. I stay and I don’t stare at him, but I also don’t take my eyes off him for very long.
I’m always aware of where he is and what he’s doing.
When he finally sits on the sofa next to me, he sighs, heavily.
“If it’s cold, I’ll make you another,” I say when he picks up his mug.
“It’s fine,” he says, eyes on his tea. He takes a sip, and then another. And finally one more before he places the drink back on the coaster.
“So, three, huh?” I say.
He looks at me for a long moment. It’s an unreadable expression and I don’t like it. I don’t like not knowing what’s going on in his head.
“It’s sort of my lucky number,” he says eventually.
I nod. “That’s cool.”
He snorts. “It’s really not.”
I turn to him, bringing my bent leg up on the sofa. It’s an invitation for him to share more, if he wants to.
When he doesn’t say anything further, and keeps his side profile to me as he rests his elbows on his legs, I speak. “You do it in the gym too. And on our runs. All the weights, the reps and the kilometres we run. They’re all divisible by three.”
“Yeah.” His throat bobs as he swallows.
“It must be exhausting to always be thinking in threes. To always be counting.”