Because love hurts

 

 

“HURTS,” SOMEONE mumbles.

I take a deep breath, shocked by the incredible warmth around me. Warmth in my arms. Even if I’m not quite awake yet, I know this is all I need.

There is a light pressure on my arm, someone shaking me gently.

“Danny? Where am I?”

Blinking, I squint into the gloom and find Micky lying incredibly close with his head on the towels next to mine, looking at me. My arm is around him and I can feel how much he’s shivering. His expression is a little apprehensive. I nearly back away when he brushes my hair away from my face.

“It’s okay. You’re safe,” I say groggily, berating myself for lying down with him and going to sleep, leaving us exposed if anyone found us. I’ve no idea how long we’ve been here, but we’ll need to leave before the people who live here start to wake.

The washing machines are no longer whooshing. The world is silent—but it’s a silence that won’t last.

“I know I’m safe. I’m with you,” he whispers. “Where are we?”

His words are a little slurred, as if whatever happened (or whatever he took) earlier is still affecting him.

“We’re in a laundry room of some big flats. Are you cold?” I ask him.

He nods and swallows like his mouth is too dry. “Hurts,” he whispers again.

“What hurts?”

“My hands and feet… f-f-fucking agony.” He trips over the words and screws his face up.

“You got really cold. It was snowing.”

Micky just stares at me. I don’t know whether or not he remembers or if he doesn’t want to talk about it.

With a wince, I sit up, holding my arm against my chest to stop my shoulder moving. I ease away from Micky to stand. I should probably strap my shoulder back up at some point—the duct tape is still plastered against my chest.

I switch the light on and look around for a cup or a container. On the sink there is a little plastic pot for putting washing liquid into the machines. I rinse it out before filling it with water and holding it out to Micky.

“Might taste of washing stuff,” I warn him.

Micky blinks, seeming a little not-quite-there.

When he tries to take the pot, his fingers just won’t grip and he winces in pain. The skin on his hands is bright red now, not blue. Hopefully that’s a good thing.

“It’s okay, you need to warm up some more,” I say, kneeling in front of him and holding the pot to his lips.

He takes a sip, and tears start rolling down his cheeks. I put the pot down, but before I can decide what to do, Micky’s arms are around my back and his face is pressed to my stomach.

His shoulders shake as he sobs.

The too-big jumper hangs off him as though he’s a kid wearing grown-up clothes. I knew he was desperately skinny, but how did I not notice how there is barely anything to him? My hand hovers over his shoulder. He’s so fragile that I’m scared to touch in case I break him.

Awkwardly I shift backwards so I’m leaning against the wall.

Micky doesn’t let go for a second.

I think my heart might burst. The whole of me is filled with this incredible tenderness, this want to take care of him, to fix everything that hurts inside and out. It’s painful and beautiful, and I’m not sure I know how to deal with it, how to act, how to show him, how to ask him if he wants my feelings directed at him. Maybe he doesn’t, but… fuck, I don’t think I can help it. I don’t think I can stop. I think this might be the thing that kills me.

“Come here,” I whisper. “But be careful of my shoulder. I’ve hurt it pretty bad.”

As if he’s been holding himself back until he got this invitation, Micky instantly crawls onto my lap.

“Which shoulder?” he asks, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand.

I lift my sore shoulder the tiniest bit, and immediately he drops his head and buries his face into my neck, leaning his weight against my good shoulder and wrapping his arms tightly around my back. It’s how I imagine a tree hugged by a koala would feel.

“Hold me tight,” he mumbles into my neck. “Please.”

I’m too stunned to breathe, never mind do anything that requires even the tiniest amount of brain function. Luckily my body doesn’t seem to need any instruction—my good arm has already found its way across his shoulders, and the fingers of the hand I’m trying not to move have somehow managed to tangle themselves in Micky’s golden hair.

He’s built like a bird, all fragile and trembling.

This is the closest I’ve ever been to someone. The closest I’ve ever felt.

“Don’t cry,” I murmur, though I’m not sure he is crying any longer. I think it’s his breath that feels so warm and wet against my skin.

The thought makes me hot all over. I hope he can’t feel the way my dick is trapped and throbbing as it hardens beneath his thigh. I don’t want to be turned on. I don’t want it to feel so good to hold him like this. It’s wrong—he’s sad. And even if he wasn’t, it would still be wrong. Wrong to want him like this when I want to be a good friend.

“We should wrap you up,” I say softly. My lips are a whisper away from his ear. I lean forwards slightly so I can bury my nose in his hair. He smells so good, all fresh air and rain, even though the scent reminds me that he was freezing out there in the snow.

I shift him off my lap so I can wrap a couple of towels around his legs—mostly so he won’t be able to feel me poking into him like a steel rod. I shove my hand down my pants, hoping Micky doesn’t notice, and I somehow manage to stuff my dick between my thighs before he crawls back on my lap. It’s a bit of a painful position, but hopefully that will make my erection go away quicker.

Micky shifts around for a second, then discards the towels. He looks at me.

“It’s okay,” he says. “Get comfortable.”

“What?” I swallow.

“I’m half-naked, it’s okay. We’re friends. We care about one another, right?”

His expression is so open. I wish I didn’t know what he was talking about. This is one of the worst things I can imagine happening.

“I liked feeling you getting hard,” he whispers.

My heart feels like it’s fallen out of my chest and been dropped to the bottom of the sea, where it’s being squeezed by a dozen pincers to stop it beating. I close my eyes, blushing hard and wishing I could disappear.

“Is it strange if I find it comforting?” he carries on, his voice so low I can barely hear him. His fingers are in my hair. I open my eyes. “I don’t think I would find it comforting with anyone else. Just you.” He cups my face, his cold fingers so near to my scars. I can feel the way he’s trying to stroke my cheek, but he can’t quite control the movement and ends up prodding me lightly instead.

We hold eye contact until I start to feel dizzy from lack of oxygen. It’s so terrifyingly tender that my chest hurts. For the first time in my life, it’s as if someone sees me fully, seeing me and accepting everything that I am, inside and out. And I see him too—this scared, sweet boy, so vulnerable and emotionally wide open, who finds the world mostly terrifying but occasionally wonderful.

He spreads his pale thighs to straddle my lap, and I’m not sure if he’s doing it to be closer or so he can gently rock his hips against my groin.

I’m not sure what he wants at all. Especially not from me. The confusion must show on my face as Micky smiles, then bites his lower lip and sucks it into his mouth.

The only time I’ve seen anyone do that is on TV when one actor might use it to show how much he or she wants someone—a staged expression.

Suddenly it occurs to me what he’s doing. How could it be anything else? He thinks he owes me. He thinks he has to pay me back. He knows I want him, so he’s giving himself to me. It’s not as if it’s the first time he’s offered, I think, remembering his oblique offer to repay me for giving him my phone.

“Don’t. I’m not a punter,” I gasp. The words come out strangled. I want to cry.

As soon as I say it, Micky’s eyes fly wide and he falls back, scrambling clumsily away from me.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, holding his hand over his mouth and shaking his head. “I’m sorry. Fuck. I didn’t… you’re not….” Both hands come up to cover his face—his shoulders tremble as he sobs.

My erection dies.

“Don’t, don’t,” I murmur, crawling forwards and reaching for him. “It’s okay. You don’t owe me anything.” I never want him to think that. I’m determined to make this okay.

He lets my arm enfold him and melts against me much like before, except this time I sense there is a barrier between us. That startling openness when we looked at one another a few moments ago couldn’t have been real, and even if it was, I doubt it’s ever going to happen again.