Cold feet (but not like that)

 

 

“BORROW MY shoes,” I say as we walk out the door to the building to be greeted by the snowy whiteness that covers everything. Walking barefoot through this is going to hurt.

I look down at my feet. The only shoes I have now are these dirty falling-apart trainers, but they’re better than nothing. Leaving my boots at the hospital was one of the worst things about the whole “falling in the river” situation.

“We could have one shoe each,” Micky says, smiling. “That was a joke,” he adds quickly when I reach down to undo my laces. “I’ll be okay. Honestly.”

I want to carry him, give him a piggyback, anything. I wish my shoulder was better.

The slushy sound of cars driving through the melting snow is all I can hear, and even they sound so far away. The world is still playing at being small.

I tilt my head back and look up at the bleak grey sky. Little flakes of snow are still falling, and I open my mouth to catch a few on my tongue. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Micky copying me.

Judging by the light, I’d say it’s somewhere between seven and eight o’clock. But I could be wrong. The darkness of the storm clouds and the brightness of the snow make it hard to tell.

“We’re by the park, right?” Micky turns his head and catches my eye. I guess he must remember something from last night. “It’s not far to my place from here…. Would you like to come back with me? I mean, you don’t have to, I can manage the walk, and I understand if you want to get home and catch up on some sleep—” Micky’s words tumble and he flushes pink all the way from his hairline to his neck this time. I look on, fascinated. “—but I’d quite like it if you did.”

“Okay.” If Jack’s there, maybe it’s better that I come along.

 

 

MICKY’S BEDSIT is in a narrow block with an ugly converted church on one side and a cheap breeze block hotel, which probably lets its rooms as bedsits too, on the other.

We’re out of breath—we walked quickly. Micky rocks on his heels and flexes his near-blue toes as he presses in the key code to unlock the front door.

He glances at me before we step inside. “It’s not much,” he says with a self-conscious shrug.

Thing is, I couldn’t care less if he lived in one of Milo’s Persian palaces or a foxhole in the ground. You lay your head in the safest place you can find. I’m just glad he’s not on the streets like Dytryk was.

Inside, the hallway is narrow and lined with doors fitted with keypads. The place smells of stale cigarettes and gone-off vegetables, with maybe a bit of lemon-scented talcum powder scattered around too.

At the end of the hallway is a heavy fire door that leads to the stairs. Micky flicks a switch, but the light bulb is broken, so we climb the first flight of stairs in creepy, horror-movie gloom. I try not to make a sound so I can hear Micky’s feet whisper on the concrete with every step he takes in front of me. His room is number 16 on the first floor. I’m relieved it isn’t higher. High and far away would be less safe somehow. I don’t like to think of him buried so deep in this building.

I glance around as Micky pushes in his key code. Dim yellow lighting makes everything look dirty. If they hadn’t boarded up the windows at the end of the hallways, the place would probably be a lot brighter.

“Hey.” Micky’s hand touches my arm, and I just about manage to stop myself jerking back. “Come in.” He smiles a little uncertainly and inclines his head towards the doorway.

Whatever I’m expecting, it isn’t the sight that greets me. Despite the dinginess of the place, Micky’s room is… nice. Or at least uncluttered, though that could just mean he has nothing to clutter the space with. Morning light spills in through the curtainless window, cold and bright, and my eyes trace the patterns it makes around the bare walls. The carpet is a weird shade of orange—clown-hair orange—so bright it’s almost luminous.

Micky watches me as I take everything in.

I want to know about him, but there aren’t many clues.

I take a deep breath and walk around the large neatly made bed to the window, not wanting to look at him and give away the fact that my heart is thumping excitedly. Though the air is a little musty, it smells intensely of him: his sweat, his skin. The view out the window isn’t much—a close-up of the dirty bricks of the next building that can’t be more than ten feet away. Snow is still falling slowly through the sky, smothering everything under a thick white blanket. I shiver—I can’t help it. Only people who’ve never had to sleep in it don’t shiver when they see snow.

“Would you like a cup of tea?” Micky asks softly.

I nod.

A kettle and a few mugs sit on a plain black chest of drawers beside the door. I stay next to the window and keep my eyes on the carpet, hating that I want to look for evidence of Jack staying here. Not because I’m worried about Jack, but because, apparently, liking someone turns you into a petty, selfish being full of insecurity.

This is not who I want to be.

“I only have powdered milk,” he says apologetically as he pours water from a plastic bottle into the kettle.

“Can I borrow your phone?” I ask. I should call Donna. About Jack.

“Of course. It’s your phone anyway,” he replies with a small smile and a shrug. He reaches over to the bedside cabinet, then throws it across the bed to me. I’m not sure why Micky is trying to act so unconcerned. His hands are shaking and his eyes are full of worry. He must realise I’m calling Donna.

I key in her number and sink down to sit on the floor. “It’s Danny,” I reply to her cautious hello.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Danny! Where have you been?” she shouts, sounding more relieved than angry.

Still, I hold the phone away from my ear. “Did you find Jack?”

“Yeah, mission accomplished. Right now he’s asleep in my bed. Vinny’s watching him.”

She sounds tired.

“Is he going to be all right?”

“He was upset when we found him, but Vinny thinks he’ll be okay. Can you believe he was outside Vinny’s? And thankfully he wasn’t naked. Absolutely smashed out of his crazy little skull, but that’s all. Hope someone found and helped the naked kid that girl was talking about. God, I hope he’s okay…. Some of the people out there….”

Yeah, I think, but my brain no longer processes Donna’s words. An incredible sense of protectiveness has gripped hold of me, and I stare at Micky’s back. Under the too-big jumper he’s wearing, I know the pink T-shirt we borrowed is so tight I could see his ribs, and under that T-shirt I know his smooth skin is milky pale and a few dark freckles are scattered across his chest like secrets.

Micky pours the tea and turns around. I feel my skin heat.

“Danny…? You still there?” Donna asks.

“Yeah,” I say and swallow.

“Where did you go last night?”

“I’m at Micky’s. I’m okay. I’ll, um, see you later.”

I put the phone down and take the hot mug that Micky is holding out to me.

“Is Jack okay?” Micky asks quietly, his eyes fixed on mine as he sits cross-legged on the bed in front of me.

He’s sad again. I can feel it like a change in the air temperature around us. I nod. “Does he live here with you?”

The words just come out. I didn’t mean to ask that. I feel like an idiot.

“No… he stays with me sometimes… he doesn’t have anywhere of his own.” Micky pulls at a few stray threads coming loose from his duvet. His chest shudders as he sighs. “I don’t mind him staying here, but… when he gets emotional, as I said, I don’t deal with it very well.” He looks up. “I wish I was like you.”

That’s something people just say, not something they mean. How could he mean that?

I stare at the carpet again and fiddle with the phone, scrolling through the screens without really seeing them until I somehow get to the Last Call screen and discover Micky has called me eight times since I last saw him. Eight times he thought of me. Quickly I turn the phone off, my heart galloping.

“…soon I’m not going to have anywhere to stay either.”

I look up. Micky is still talking and I’ve not been listening. “Why can’t you stay here?”

“I’ve paid the rent until the end of the month, but that’s it. I don’t have any more money. Believe it or not, I’m not very good at being a prostitute… sometimes guys want more than blowjobs or hand jobs, and I get scared.”

I don’t want him to tell me this. His words squeeze my heart.

“You could get a job doing other stuff. Not out on the streets but, like, doing makeup somewhere,” I say hopefully.

He shakes his head and strands of golden hair fall in his face. His shoulders shake and I’m not sure if he’s laughing or crying. “I’m not here exactly legally,” he whispers. “I don’t have a visa or anything. And I’ve discovered I’m not very good at lying in job interviews.”

Oh.

I remember what he told me on the grass beneath the London Eye about trying to get a job as a makeup artist when he first came here, about being naive. I don’t know about visas, but I wonder why he hasn’t got one.

As long as I’m around, I’m going to protect you, I promise him in my head.

 

 

“YOU SHOULD get some sleep,” I say when we’ve drunk our tea. I’m thinking about going back to the hospital before I walk back to my nest. I don’t know why, but I need to see Dieter. Perhaps I feel responsible for him now, which is a bit ironic when he probably still hates me.

Micky is plain exhausted. The dark rings under his eyes look like charcoal smudges.

“Lie down with me for a bit,” he says, holding my gaze.

“I should go,” I say, yet I don’t get up.

Through the thin walls, I can hear music thumping like a heartbeat. People laughing, talking.

Micky tugs my sleeve and hotches backwards up the bed. His feet are still blue. I brush his toes with my fingertips. I want to cup his feet in my hands and breathe warm air over them, but of course I won’t.

“You’re still cold,” I say instead.

“I’ll warm up,” he says smiling. “Come here.” He slips my jumper off over his head, pulls back the duvet, and crawls underneath.

When I don’t move, Micky grabs my hand and tugs me gently. “Tell me to fuck off if you want,” he whispers.

I nearly laugh. Instead I shake my head and let him pull me up the bed.

His expression is so open and honest, I too feel as transparent as the glass in his window.

I have to remind myself he doesn’t know my heart is a racehorse, flogged too hard and about to collapse to its knees. He doesn’t know any of the things my traitorous body is doing. If he did, I doubt he’d want to be anywhere near me.

Flipping onto his side away from me, he claims my good arm and hugs it to his chest, so I have no choice but to ease myself down behind him. He tucks the covers around us.

For a moment I can’t breathe. It’s terrifying. I’m lying in bed with a boy who makes my heart go crazy. It’s almost too much. I’ve never felt like this about anyone. I shift so I’m not putting too much pressure on my sore shoulder, and Micky pushes his back against my chest, shoving his bum into my stomach. It’s as if he knows pushing himself against me any lower down would be a seriously bad idea.

Warmth burns out from inside me, like a fire that’s going to consume us. I make the mistake of brushing my hand across his chest and accidentally brush his nipple, making him jolt against me ever so slightly.

It’s a bad idea getting this close to him. My heart is going to get pulverised as soon as Jack, or anyone else Micky might be close to, shows up.

I’ve no idea what the fuck I’m doing, but I can’t seem to stop.

“If you go while I’m asleep, can I see you later?” he whispers, turning his head to look at me.

“Tomorrow,” I whisper back. I need to get my head around these past twelve hours. Unless… fuck. “Are you working tonight?” I ask, swallowing and feeling uncomfortable. I have no right to make him feel as though he shouldn’t be out there working. But if he’s working, I’m going to stay with him. I’m going to be there to scare off any sharks… or any punters at all, I think desperately. The thought of Micky being with anyone out there on the street makes my chest constrict painfully.

“I’m not working tonight. No.” Micky smiles, just his mouth, his eyes are serious. “I can almost see you thinking when you do that.”

“Do what?”

He shifts a little and awkwardly reaches up and traces a line across my forehead. “When you’re worrying, you get this line here and your eyes go all dark and serious….” Chewing his lip, he looks down. “Are you worrying about me?”

I nod.

Micky’s gaze flicks over mine, as if he’s scared too. Hesitantly, I smile.

Our faces are so close we’re breathing one another’s air. I want to move away so he can’t feel my heart thudding against his back so hard that it feels as if we’re both trembling, but another part of me doesn’t want to move at all.

In this light his eyes are seawater blue, all clear and open, and I can see my stunned expression reflected back at me as his pupils expand.

I wonder if he can see his. I wonder if that’s why he’s looking at me so intently.

It’s funny, but my scars look different in his eyes, sort of smoothed away, less prominent. What stands out most are my mouth and my eyes.

Every time he blinks, his gaze drops to my lips and I get the sense he’s waiting for me to do something, but I don’t know what.

That barrier I thought was between us is gone, and I have no frame of reference for this, no idea what I’m supposed to do. I was never this close to Dashiel. And when I picture Dashiel’s face in my head, surprisingly he’s not angry with me for being here instead of doing what I promised to do—it’s crazy, but Dashiel looks so happy.

After what feels like an eternity, but is probably only a couple of minutes, Micky’s blinks begin to grow longer and eventually his eyes drift shut entirely. His head drops forwards against the pillow and his golden hair spills every which way.

A few minutes after that, his breathing deepens and his whole body relaxes, and I know he’s drifted off to sleep.

I don’t leave immediately. Instead I let myself have half an hour of the closest thing to heaven I’m likely to get. I press my face into Micky’s hair and breathe him in, trying to imprint the scent of him on my brain so I’ll never forget it. I splay my hand over his heart and feel the steady beat of it against my fingers.

This, I think. If I could have anything, it would be this.