by T. J. Klune
“And who is guiding us?” Mike asks, and he thinks his headache might be coming back.
Mrs. Richardson laughs. “Aside from the Almighty? Why, we guide ourselves and each other. Mike, if I didn’t know any better, I would think Mrs. Kim was right and you really are a Commie. Besides, we’re not children like in the story. We know better. Which makes me all the more relieved there’s no children in Amorea. Why, could you imagine if there were?”
The ladies chuckle at such a thought.
Mike thinks, Who is guiding us?
Mike thinks, There’s no children in Amorea.
How muddled these thoughts become.
THE LADIES leave late afternoon. Mrs. Richardson stays behind for a moment, asking Mike if he’s all right. Mike nods and says he’s fine. He even gives her a small smile. She looks slightly relieved at that, as if the very thought of him being troubled causes her stress. She’s rather rigid and likes things to be her way or no way at all, but he has a soft spot for her. She may be stringent, but she cares about him for reasons he doesn’t quite understand. They’re friends. Like Walter and Calvin and Donald are his friends.
She looks like she doesn’t quite believe him, but doesn’t push it either. At least not today. Tomorrow, he knows, is a new day and she’ll be keeping a close eye on him. Probably finding some reason or another to pop in unexpectedly. It’s just how she is.
He’s thinking about Lord of the Flies as he shuts down the store. He doesn’t know if Mrs. Richardson had the story right, that chaos came from having balance removed. The children were in a prison of sorts and did what humans did best when subjected to such conditions: they survived. But he’s not convinced they didn’t come from a prison to begin with, that the strict and regimented lives they lived before were just as much of a failing on them as the island was, the difference being that one allowed the animal in them out, whereas the other kept it trapped inside. He’s not sure which was better.
They’re heavy thoughts he’s thinking as he’s walking toward the diner, and they’re distracted thoughts, bouncing from islands to birds to mountains, mountains, mountains. He’s a little punchy, maybe. He slept okay last night, perhaps a little later than normal, but he had been replaying the date over and over in his head yet again, making sure everything had gone right, that he hadn’t embarrassed himself too much.
He’s in the diner door, bell ringing overhead, before he knows it. Sean looks up and waves at him, and his nose looks a little swollen, but not much else. His face is a little pinched, though, and he’s a little pale. Mike knows that look. He knows Sean’s migraine is back, and Mike wants to scold him for not going back into Walter’s dark office. Light sensitivity is Sean’s biggest enemy when he gets like this, and the lighting inside the diner is bright and harsh. A couple of the girls are running around serving dinner, but Sean’s still up behind the counter, and Walter’s back in the kitchen, grilling up a storm.
Mike glances toward the wall as he scratches his wrist, and sees Walter has already replaced the two photos that were damaged. The snowy hill and the bake sale are back up on the wall where they belong. For a moment, Mike thinks that a third one was broken too, but there’s only two with newer frames, not yet covered in a thin layer of sticky diner grease.
It doesn’t matter much to him right now, because Sean’s hurting and he’s trying not to show that he’s hurting. Mike doesn’t like that. He doesn’t know if Sean’s taken his Ercaf, or if he even had it with him today.
So he’s a little annoyed as he walks up to the counter, trying not to blurt out that Sean needs to take better care of himself, because he’s not his father, and god, even the thought alone is enough to make that age difference even more noticeable.
Sean’s trying to hide it, and he’s smiling at Mike, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Hey, big guy,” he says, voice tight.
Mike’s not an asshole, so he nods at Sean, looks over his shoulder to the kitchen, and whistles sharply. Walter snaps his head up, and Mike says, “I’m taking this one home.”
Sean’s scowling at him, but Mike’s ignoring it for the time being. Walter looks between the two of them, then does a double take when his gaze lands on Sean. His eyes narrow and he switches off the grill before stomping out of the kitchen. “Get outta here with yourself,” he says.
“I’m fine,” Sean says through gritted teeth.
“Part of the deal, and you know it,” Walter says. “You work for me as much as you want, but you tell me when it gets bad. You didn’t tell me, therefore I’m sending you home. And if you’re not good in the morning, you stay home. I can run a few tables. One of the girls can come in and help too.”
Sean glares at the both of them, and Mike doesn’t even feel the tiniest bit guilty over it. Sean huffs and unties his apron, lifting it up and over his head and tossing it at Walter, who catches it against his chest.
“You take him right home,” Walter says as Sean grumbles his way back toward the office to get his wallet and coat. It’s cooler in the mornings than it is at night, and Sean gets cold easily. He lowers his voice as Sean rounds the corner. “Sorry, Mike. Didn’t even notice. Working the grill, I kinda get into the zone, you know?”
He does, and he’s not blaming Walter for this. Sean’s hardheaded, and Mike knows it. “I’ll take care of it,” Mike says.
Sean’s still grumbling as he comes back out from the office, and he grunts at Walter before heading toward the door. Walter just waves after him and winks at Mike before he moves back toward the kitchen.
Mike’s on Sean’s heels, the bell ringing overhead as they leave the diner. The sun is setting, the sky lit up in reds and oranges, and Sean is already walking down the sidewalk.
“Hey,” Mike says, but Sean keeps walking. “Hey.” He gently grips Sean’s elbow, not wanting to hold on too tight in case Sean wants to pull away.
He doesn’t, and he stops. He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “I can take care of myself, Mike.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
“Yeah,” Mike says, because he does. He may not like it all the time, but he’s old-fashioned that way. And it’s nice to be needed every now and then.
“Yeah,” Sean says, and maybe it’s a little meaner than he normally is.
Mike waits.
Sean deflates soon after. “Sorry,” he mutters. “Just been a day.”
“After lunch, huh?”
“Yeah. Got off the phone with you and got little bit worse later, got slammed with it.”
“You have your meds?”
He sighs. “No. Left them at home.”
“You could have called me,” Mike says evenly. “I would have gotten them for you.”
Sean shrugs. “You had the book club. I know how those ladies get.”
“Stuff like that isn’t important, Sean.”
“Tell that to Mrs. Richardson.”
He’s a little frustrated now. “Sean.”
“Look, Mike. I know, okay? But I’ve been dealing with these longer than I’ve known you for, and it is what it is. Most days I’m fine. Sometimes I’m not. It’s not the greatest deal in the world, but it’s what I’ve got.”
“I just don’t like it,” Mike says. That might be an understatement. He loathes that there’s something wrong he can’t fix.
Sean’s face softens. “I know, big guy. But I just need some quiet and I’ll be right as rain. You’ll see.”
Mike thinks hard for a moment before coming to a decision. “I’m staying. For a little while. With you.”
“Mike—”
“Not for you,” Mike says quickly. “For me. It’ll make me feel better.”
Sean’s fighting a smile. “For you, huh?”
Mike nods.
“Lord knows I’d do anything for you,” Sean says, and Mike rubs the back of his neck, scuffing his Chucks on the sidewalk. “Not going to be the best company.”
“So no difference, then.”
Sean chokes on a little bur
st of laughter. “Ow, goddammit, stop making me laugh, it hurts.”
“Sorry, sorry. Let’s get you home, yeah?”
He’s got his just-for-Mike smile growing on his face. “Yeah,” he says.
Mike leads the way.
HE’S NO stranger to the inside of Sean’s little bungalow, though it’s nothing salacious. Because before they were this thing they are now, they were building up to it, slowly but surely, and that meant they were friends first and foremost. Sean doesn’t have many of those, really, and neither does Mike, aside from his poker-night guys. No one that they feel comfortable with, aside from each other.
He’s not a loner, not by nature, but he doesn’t mind being alone. And he thinks Sean is the same way, because Sean isn’t ever really unhappy, not that Mike can see. Sure, he can’t be happy all the time, but Mike thinks he’d notice if something was wrong.
Like it is right now. Because Sean’s a little paler than he was at the diner. His mouth is set in a thin, bloodless line, and he’s squinting at the setting sun, even though it’s setting in the west and they’re walking north. Sean’s arm is through his and curled up, his hand gripping Mike’s bicep. He’s not leaning against Mike, but they are close together.
Mike’s trying not to rush them, because he doesn’t want to make things worse for Sean. He’s not pleased that Sean let it get this far, but there’s no point in saying so. Mike knows to pick and choose his battles, and this would be a pointless one. The best thing to do is to get him home, get him his meds, and get him in a dark room.
“I’ll be fine,” Sean grunts suddenly.
“I know,” Mike says lightly.
“You don’t. Even though you don’t say it, you don’t know that.”
Fair point. Mike thinks to argue, but it wouldn’t do anything. “I worry.”
“I know you do.”
“And that’s not going to stop.”
Sean huffs a little laugh. “I know it won’t.”
“In fact, it might even get a little worse.”
“Because of us.”
Mike shrugs.
“I don’t need to be coddled.”
“I do. Sometimes.”
Sean sighs. “You don’t fight fair, Mike Frazier.”
“I didn’t even know we were fighting.”
“Cheeky man,” Sean says, and Mike thinks maybe he looks a little better.
THE FIRST time Mike went inside Sean’s house was a few days after the confession on the docks, when Mike could no longer argue against them working toward something together. He still hadn’t quite gotten over the sight of James Cooper escorting Sean through the park, some dark little part of him urging him to knock the ever-living daylights out of young Mr. Cooper for having the audacity to do what Mike could not.
He hadn’t, though, and everything had worked out in the end.
That didn’t mean he wasn’t nervous. In fact, Mike couldn’t remember a time when he’d been more nervous, which, honestly, was ridiculous, because he was a grown man. He berated himself as he walked up toward Sean’s door. They were going to have dinner together. Just two friends on a nice summer evening. Sean was going to cook. Mike brought the bottles of Falstaff beer.
He’d stood outside Sean’s front door for a good five minutes, trying to talk himself into knocking on the door. He could think of reasons that he should just walk away, but he only needed one to finally raise his hand and knock: he just wanted to see Sean.
That was it. That was all it took.
Sean would tell him later that he’d known Mike was out there the whole time. He’d watched him, amused, through the window. He knew Mike would get there eventually. Mike had blushed furiously. Sean chuckled at that, but his hand was on top of Mike’s, thumb brushing against his fingers, and nothing else mattered after that.
He’s comfortable in the house now, having been there again and again. Which is why he doesn’t hesitate when they reach the front door, pushing it open and shuffling Sean inside. It’s cool in the house, and the shadows are already stretching toward twilight.
Sean lets out this little sigh, like he’s relieved to be home and in his space. Mike wonders if he should leave him to it, making sure he takes his pill before heading on his way, but Sean’s grip on his arm only tightens. Like he knows what Mike’s thinking. Like he’s making the decision for him.
Mike’s a little relieved at that. Decisions can be hard for him sometimes.
He closes the door behind him, and Sean’s shoulders lose their tension. He pulls Sean over to the sofa and helps him down. Sean leans his head back, eyes closed, and breathes through his nose. He says, “My pills are—” but Mike’s already saying, “I know.”
The house is small. It has the den with bookshelves lining the wall near the front windows. Off the den is a kitchen that’s barely wide enough for two people to prepare food in. There’s a little breakfast nook with a circular table that has a vase of freshly cut flowers sitting on top. From there, it’s down a hallway with the bathroom on the right and Sean’s bedroom on the left. Mike doesn’t go in the bedroom (in fact, does his best to avoid thinking about the bedroom altogether) and opens the bathroom door, flipping on the light. He opens the medicine cabinet. There’s a half-rolled tube of Pepsodent, an unopened tin of Anacin. A green bottle of Mr. Fresh deodorant. A can of Barbasol next to a metal razor.
He sees the clear glass bottle on the top shelf. Inside are small pills, circular and pale pink. He’d know that bottle anywhere, the Valley Food and Drug sticker on the side with Sean’s name written across the top. He fishes out a pill and fills the cup next to the sink with water. There’s a sleep mask on the bottom shelf of the cabinet, and he grabs that too, knowing it’ll help a little.
Back in the den, he hands Sean the Ercaf. Sean smiles weakly at him, murmuring his thanks as he swallows it down with a flick of his head, ignoring the water that Mike tries to hand him. He takes the sleep mask and slips it over his eyes and leans back against the sofa again, taking slow, even breaths.
“You hungry?” Mike asks quietly, though he already knows the answer.
Sean shakes his head weakly.
“You want me to get out of your hair?”
There’s the briefest of hesitations, but he shakes his head again. He reaches up, hand outstretched, fingers beckoning. It’s a little to Mike’s left, missing him by a few inches, so he takes Sean’s hand in his own and allows himself to be tugged toward the sofa. He sits down next to Sean, sinking back against the cushions. He’s a little stiff, a little uncomfortable, unsure of what Sean wants from him. Sometimes, Sean doesn’t like to be touched when the headaches get bad, and he really doesn’t like to talk. Mike’s still learning to follow his lead, but there are times when he feels like he’s fumbling along without direction.
He wants to do this right. It’s important to him that he do this right.
He’s told himself before that if he doesn’t know what to do, he needs to trust others to help him along. It hasn’t always been easy.
He doesn’t know why. He thinks it must just be part of who he is.
He trusts Sean. More than anyone else.
So he trusts him now.
He relaxes on the sofa. Sean sighs again, but it’s not stressed. If anything, it’s a good thing, because he kicks his feet out over the end of the sofa, toeing off his shoes while laying his head in Mike’s lap.
This is new. For the both of them. They’ve touched before, obviously, but never like this.
Sean settles against him, turning until his face is pressed against Mike’s stomach. He takes a deep breath, like he’s breathing Mike in, and lets it out slowly. Mike can feel the heat of it through his cotton shirt. It stirs something in him, something more than arousal, more complex than lust or desire. He knows he loves this man, knows it as clear as day, even if he has trouble articulating it, even to himself. He doesn’t know what the issue is, what his holdup is, why it’s taken them three years to get to this point. He’s had these hesit
ations, these unfounded fears that he couldn’t put a name to.
During the first year, it almost crippled him, the thought of giving himself to Sean. He’d lie awake at night, sweating and staring at the ceiling, his heart tripping all over itself in his chest. It wasn’t Sean’s fault, none of it was, but Mike couldn’t find a way around it for the longest time. He didn’t want to hurt Sean. He didn’t want to be hurt by Sean. And sometimes he thought, Why why why am I like this? but he just was.
The second year was easier. The second year was easier because he saw it wasn’t just him. That even though he’d kept these fears to himself, Sean was going through something similar, though he appeared stronger than Mike. More patient. He worried too, worried about giving all of himself to something that could easily break. Mike didn’t want Sean to be scared, but it was hypocritical of him to say so.
The third year?
Well. The third year has led them to this moment. Mike can’t complain. It’s taken a while, sure. But it’s been worth it. He can’t imagine a time when he didn’t know Sean. Such a thing seems inconceivable. But if it happened, if for some reason he woke up and Sean didn’t know who he was, he’d spend the next three years doing it all over again to get to where they are now.
This moment: Sean’s head is in his lap, and he’s safe and warm and trusting. He trusts Mike to watch out for him, trusts Mike to take care of him. Mike might not be able to cure all that ails him, but Sean knows he’ll do everything he can to make it a little bit better.
Which is why Mike finds his hand in Sean’s hair, gently scritching along his scalp. Sean startles just a little, but then he leans into the touch, stretching his legs out, popping his back. He reminds Mike of Martin lying in the afternoon sun that filters in through the bay windows at the front of the house.
They’re quiet for a time. Mike’s okay with that.
Then, “They’re not getting worse.”
Mike pauses his ministrations, wanting to say “Well, they aren’t getting any better,” but that’s not the right thing to say. He doesn’t think they can get better. It’s just something Sean has to live with. The Ercaf is supposed to make them better, and that’s the best they can hope for.