Nikolaus
Charlie’s breathing turns uneven, but not from panic this time. He is tired. Drifting despite himself. Every few seconds, his chin dips, and then he jerks awake, clutching the cloth more tightly to his face.
“You can sleep soon,” I tell him.
“I’m not sleeping.”
“No?”
“No.”
“Because you don’t want to, or because you’re afraid?”
He doesn’t answer.
I smile faintly. “Both, then.”
“You don’t get to act like you’re being nice.”
“I am being nice.”
“You kidnapped me.”
“I did.”
“Nice people don’t kidnap people,” he grunts.
“No,” I agree. “I suppose they don’t.”
The washcloth lowers slightly. One red-rimmed eye peeks at me over the edge. “You’re really not going to argue?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t need you to think I’m nice. Not tonight, at least.”
His brow pinches.
“Tonight, I need you clean,” I continue, combing gently through the last knot with my fingers. “Warm, fed, and rested. The rest will come.”
His eye disappears behind the cloth again. Charlie is thinking; I can almost feel the frantic little wheel of his mind spinning, grasping for paths out, arguments, threats, bargains. He does not yet understand that none of them will work, and I am not cruel enough to rob him of hope before sleep.
Not all at once.
I rinse the conditioner out. This time, he tilts his head when I tell him to. Keeps the cloth over his eyes. Breathes when I say, “Breathe.” He still flinches when water slides too close to his ear, still mumbles once that I’m pulling even though my fingers are nowhere near a tangle, but he obeys.
It is not surrender. It is exhaustion wearing surrender’s clothes. But for tonight, I’ll take it.
When his hair is finally clean, I set the pitcher aside and hold my hand out. “Give me the washcloth, please.”
His hand tightens on it. “Why?”
“Because I need to wash your face.”
“I can wash my face.”
“Can you?”
“Yes.”
“Then show me.”
Suspicion flickers across his expression as he lowers the damp cloth into my palm. He looks at me as if I have offered him a knife and expects to be punished for taking it.
I simply lean back and hand him a fresh cloth.
Cautiously, he takes it. He dips it into the bathwater, wrings it poorly, and wipes at his cheeks. His hands are clumsy from fatigue, his movements too rough over the skin beneath his eyes.
“Be gentle, baby,” I correct.
He glares at me over the cloth, to which I lift my brows. After a second, his hand slows.
“Good boy.”
His mouth tightens, but the praise goes through him anyway. I see it in the slight hitch of his shoulders, the way his lashes lower, the way his face tilts toward the cloth as if he can hide inside the task.
“Don’t,” he says again, but it has become more reflex than protest.
“Don’t what?”
“Say things like that.”
“Why?”
“Because.”
“Because it makes you feel little?”
His hand freezes against his cheek.
The room seems to narrow around us, steam and silence, and the soft, steady sound of the bathwater settling.
Charlie does not breathe.
I lean forward, elbows resting on my knees, keeping my voice low enough that it has to reach him gently. “That is what you call it, isn’t it?”
His eyes shine. “No.”
“Charlie.”
“It’s not—” He shakes his head, frantic again. “It’s not like that. It’s just stress relief. It’s not weird. I’m not—”
“I didn’t call it weird, sweetheart.”
“You’re thinking it.”
“You know that isn’t true, Charlie. Why on Earth would I? Think about it. Think about how I found you, and how I told you that I’m your new Daddy. Now, why would I think you being little is weird?”
His lips part.
Then he folds.
He turns his face away, covers his mouth with both hands, and begins to cry so quietly that I almost wish he would sob instead.
Sobs would be easier. Sobs are forceful, cleansing, and loud enough to be heard.
This is worse. This is grief trying to make itself small enough not to inconvenience anyone.
I stand and get a towel. Charlie doesn’t seem to notice I’ve moved until I go to drain the tub.
The sound startles him. His head jerks up, eyes wide and red, hands still pressed over his mouth.
“Bath’s done,” I say.
His gaze darts down to himself, then back to me, panic flaring again through the exhaustion. “I can get out.”
“I know.”
“And dress myself.”
“You could.”
That tiny, doomed hope returns. “Then—”
“But you won’t.”
His eyes close.
I take the towel from the warmer, shake it open, and hold it wide. “Stand up, baby.”
He obeys, but slowly, with the boneless unsteadiness of someone whose body has reached the end of what it can give.
The water trails down him in bright lines, but I keep the towel ready and my gaze fixed on his face.
He notices, and his expression wavers, confused and wounded by even this small mercy.
I wrap him up, covering him from shoulders to knees, then lift him out before he can slip on the wet porcelain.
A faint protest leaves him. “I can walk.”
“Probably, but I like carrying you.”
“I’m not helpless.”
“Sure, you’re not,” I say to humor him. His cheek turns against my shoulder, whether by accident or surrender, I do not know. His hair drips onto my shirt. He smells clean now, all citrus and honeysuckle and warm skin, with the acrid bite of fear finally washed thin enough for me to ignore.
“I don’t like you,” he whispers.
I press my mouth lightly to his damp hair.
“I know.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because you keep needing to hear that I’m listening.”
He falls silent. In the bedroom, I set him on the edge of the bed and kneel in front of him with another towel. He clutches the first one around himself, watching me as I dry his calves, then his feet, taking each ankle in hand and working between his toes.
The intimacy of it embarrasses him more than the nudity, I think.
That interests me.
Perhaps being looked at frightens him, but being cared for undoes him.
By the time I stand, he is blinking too slowly. His head tips, catches, tips again. If I left him sitting upright, he might simply fold over and sleep where he is.
I open the wardrobe and take out the softest robe the hotel has provided. It is white, plush, absurdly large, and exactly what my boy needs.
Charlie eyes it warily. “Is that mine?”
“For tonight.”
“I can wear my hoodie.”
“No.”
“It’s my hoodie.”
“It’s filthy, and we only just got you clean.”
“But it’s mine,” he says again, and there is enough despair tucked into the word that I pause.
I look back at him and see he’s gripping the towel with both hands, shoulders hunched, eyes glossy.
Not defiant this time. Bereft. The hoodie is not simply clothing.
Shit. Of course it isn’t. For a boy who owns so little comfort, even a worn-out piece of fabric can become something cherished.
I glance toward the bathroom, where the heap of his clothing sits damp and wrinkled on the floor.
“I’ll have it cleaned,” I say.
His face shifts with immediate suspicion. “You won’t throw it away?”
“Not if you want it.”
He stares at me like he does not trust kindness when it comes attached to conditions he cannot see.
“I want it,” he whispers.
“Then you’ll keep it. But I can’t say the same for the rest, especially those socks.”
A shuddering breath leaves him, but he nods.
I help him into the robe. He doesn’t fight me this time, lifting one arm, then the other, letting the thick fabric swallow him whole. When I tie the belt, he looks down at himself with stunned uncertainty.
“It’s heavy,” he murmurs.
“Too heavy?” I frown.
“No.” His fingers rub at the sleeve. “A good heavy. I like it.”
“Good. I’m sorry, I don’t have more options for you here. That’ll change once we get home.”
His brows twitch down just slightly before he forces his face to relax. “This is more than enough.”
“It’s really not, but it’ll do for the night.
” I guide him onto the bed and pull the covers over him before he can protest. The mattress seems to swallow him almost as thoroughly as the robe does.
He lies there stiffly, doe eyes wide, with his clean, damp hair fanned across the pillow as he holds the covers up to his chin with a death-grip.
I bring a bottle of water from the sitting area, twist the cap loose, and hold it out to him. “Drink.”
Charlie’s nose wrinkles. “I’m not thirsty.”
“You’ll get a headache if you don’t drink some after all those tears, baby boy.”
His mouth pinches in offense, but he takes the bottle anyway, both hands wrapping around it because the thing is cold and his fingers are still a little unsteady.
The first sip is barely enough to wet his tongue, so I simply stand there and wait, expression mild and brows raised in expectation.
He glares at me over the rim, understanding very quickly that I will not be satisfied by performance, and takes three proper swallows before lowering it again.
“Good boy,” I say, then bring him a small glass bowl of grapes. “Now, eat something.”
His eyes go wide with a different kind of alarm. “I’m not hungry.”
“You don’t have to eat them all.” I pluck two green grapes from the cluster and hold them in my palm. “Start here.”
He looks at the grapes as if they are another trap, then at me, then back again. “I’m not hungry,” he repeats.
“I didn’t ask if you were hungry.”
A faint spark of irritation returns to his face, which pleases me more than it should.
Still, he takes one grape, places it in his mouth, and chews with exaggerated misery, like I have asked him to swallow poison rather than fruit.
The second follows only after I clear my throat pointedly.
By the third, his resistance has faded into exhaustion again, and I decide not to push for more.
For now, water and a few grapes are enough.
I set the rest of the grapes and the water bottle on the nightstand within his reach, then move to the other side of the room and begin unbuttoning my shirt.
Charlie goes rigid.
“What are you doing?” he asks, voice thin.
I pause, two buttons undone, and look over at him. Poor frightened thing. He is trying to make himself smaller again, shoulders hiked, chin tucked, the robe’s collar nearly swallowing half his face. “Getting comfortable for bed.”
His gaze flicks down my chest at the hint of exposed skin, then away so quickly it would be comical if he were not so genuinely scared. “You’re sleeping here?”
“Yes.”
“There are other rooms.”
“There are.”
He waits, clearly expecting that to become a concession.
I finish unbuttoning my shirt. “I’m not using them.”
Charlie’s breath catches as I shrug the shirt from my shoulders and drape it neatly over a chair.
The fear is still there, unmistakable and bitter, but beneath it—ah.
Beneath it, his eyes betray him. They move over my arms, my chest, the dark, thick hair there, the heavy breadth of me, and then dart away again with such violent embarrassment that I nearly smile.
Nearly.
I am not generous enough not to enjoy it, but I am wise enough not to name it. Tonight, the fact that he’s even peeking at me after everything feels like a small miracle.
“I’m going to touch you,” I say, loosening my belt to remove it and set it beside my watch on the dresser. “Not how you’re thinking right now. Not tonight.”
His eyes flash back to mine. “I’m supposed to believe you?”
“I mean, you don’t have to,” I answer, turning my back toward him to slide out of my pants. “But I’d like you to. It’d probably be hard to get a good night’s sleep if you’re scared I’m going to wake up and fuck you at any moment.”
Charlie splutters, “That’s not—I—You don’t have to be vulgar…”
I laugh as I step into my loose cashmere sleep pants, then turn to find his eyes a little lower than he’d like to admit.
His gaze quickly skitters away as he pretends he hadn’t been looking at my brief-clad ass. Sex may not be on the table tonight, but I can’t lie and say that his obvious interest isn’t welcome.
He continues to avoid looking at me as I cross the room to join him in bed. And as I turn off the bedside lamp, leaving only the bathroom light bleeding softly through the cracked door, I smirk at how he’s inched closer to the edge of the bed, determined to be as far away from me as possible.
I settle on my side of the bed, content to let him keep that space between us for now.
“Sleep well, Charlie,” I say softly.
He doesn’t answer.