TWENTY
Sometime during the past couple of days Micah had dragged one of the beanbag chairs from the game room into what used to be the formal parlor. The high backed chairs weren’t comfortable to sit in for long periods of time, much less sleep in.
And despite everything he’d said the day they’d put Kit behind the glass, Micah was still here. Kit tore at him in a way no one ever had before. He couldn’t define what he felt, but he wasn’t in love as Sam so often implied.
Kit was…wasn’t this year’s Sophie.
Yet here he was bleeding for him while Kit didn’t know he existed.
For two days, he’d watched as Kit went from one form of mania to the next. Sitting and rocking had given way to pacing and slamming against the glass as he snarled at whoever was standing outside. Usually Micah. The third form wasn’t as violent, and the canvases were finally explained. Gibbs brought him food every day and with it a new package of markers.
“Why markers? Why not paint or something else?” Micah had asked her as she slipped the paper plates of finger foods through the opening at the base of the door. He never asked why about anything else. Kit ignored the food. He took the water when he was thirsty. And the markers when they came.
“Because he can’t use them to hurt himself. Or anyone else.” She’d replied and walked away. Micah could feel her sadness with each visit.
“How’s Sam?” He’d ask every time.
“Tired. His head hurts. He’ll be down soon to check in. How’s our boy?” She’d reply.
“Same as last time. Does he know we’re here?” Micah said in return.
“On some level, I think. He knows when I put new markers on the plate. He follows us with his eyes. I’m never sure if he sees us. He doesn’t remember when he comes back to himself.”
“How long does it take?”
Two days and Kit was busy filling a new canvas with color. Singing softly to himself. Some song Micah remembered from his childhood.
He sat up and swiped his eyes. Gibbs wasn’t standing in the room now. He’d drifted off to sleep again since the last time she’d come. Instead, Sam sat in one of the stiff backed chairs with one plaid pajama clad leg crossed over the other.
“Someone is singing?” Micah realized how silent the last couple of days had been without Kit filling up the apartment with noise.
“Kit doesn’t remember he can’t speak when he’s deep in his head. Strangely, this is the only time I get to hear his voice. When he’s at his most lost. And always that same song. I’ve never understood it myself,” Sam whispered and motioned for Micah to keep his voice low. “The next stage is rage, Micah, just so you know. The last time he went two weeks before the rage came. When he was younger, it could be months. He knows how to care for himself on some level. If it goes on too long, we drug his water to bathe him and clean the room. This time we’ve moved fairly quickly from the sit and rock stage to the draw all of his demons stage.”
“So what does he do next?”
“He destroys the room. And anything in the room. That’s when he stabbed David. I’m pretty sure that was his first foray into this…” Sam waved his hand toward the room where Kit hovered on his knees over a canvas, slashes of marker up and down his arms from his work. “David had taken his sketch book. I’ve been thinking about it and that’s what I think triggered the first attack. David took his art from him to try to control him, and Kit stabbed him. It’s all he had that was normal to him.”
“Yeah, well, David is a prick. Is he still here?”
“Unfortunately, yes. I think Lydia is getting ready to stab him herself.” Sam’s voice held a hint of fondness for the long-suffering cook. “She’s Kit’s aunt. I’m sure you’ve wondered by now.”
“Actually, no. Not about Gibbs.” Micah shook his head. Nothing fazed him much anymore. “Let me guess, Mrs. Auberon’s favorite gardener did more than fertilize the geraniums before he was shot up by Mr. Auberon’s crazy friends?”
Sam actually laughed out loud. “Well, yes and no. I think she did have an affair with the gardener, but Lydia’s father lives out in the stable. You’ve met him. Mrs. Auberon did love her private riding lessons.” Sam winked and Micah nearly choked on his own laugh. “Don’t tell Gibbs I said that. She’d serve me my own spleen.”
“Spleen would taste good right about now. I’m starving.” Micah sat up and stretched. “What time is it?” He really needed to remember to bring a clock with him. Time was getting away from him again.
“After midnight. There’s food in the kitchen. The Gibbses are in their suite on the far end of the west wing. And before you ask, there have been no midnight visitors. Security is out and roaming the grounds. We’ve got everything covered.”
Micah nodded. He hadn’t thought to ask about the security issue. Not for the last couple of nights. “You going up to bed then?”
“I’m going to try for some sleep. Hit the intercom if you need anything. And, Micah, remember if you go inside you’re locked in until someone comes down.”
“I wasn’t planning to venture into the lion’s den. I’m not sure I want a Sharpie crammed down my throat.” Micah wanted to find some humor in the situation. He couldn’t, but he wanted to.
“If he comes around before I get back, remember the code to keep the doors open. There’s food in the kitchen. Go get something.” Sam patted his knee and left him sitting there in the beanbag chair to listen to Kit sing softly.
Micah stretched in the chair. Sprawling when the urge to find food fled. He’d slept very little over the past couple of days, taking the night watch over Kit so Sam and Gibbs could sleep. But even during the day he couldn’t sleep in his assigned room and would wander back to sleep in the bean chair. The one he and Kit had first made love in.
He scrubbed his face with his hands. That first night when he’d let Kit touch him…yeah, he couldn’t really call that anything but what it was. Everything with Kit had been gentle, tentative, so he didn’t scare the man into backing away.
Kit’s song changed tune, he became less in tune, louder. The words were wrong but Micah recognized the song now. Don’t Speak.
The song came full force into his mind as the tune became more recognizable. Kit’s words were just gibberish except for that one line and that he punctuated with exclamation points. Don’t Speak. Don’t Speak. Don’t Speak.
Micah sat up now, every inch of his skin crawling with chills. Something was off. Micah scraped his hand through his hair. Jesus, he hated when he got like this. Bad shit always happened when he got like this.
“Don’t Speak!” Kit screamed from inside the room. His voice filled with anger. The tune was lost as he raised his hand and stabbed the marker through the canvas he’d been working on for the last several hours.
Micah was on his feet and in front of the glass. Red liquid ran down Kit’s arm, trickling like blood. The marker casing hit the glass in front of Micah’s face, red ink splattered everywhere. The canvas was next. Kit slammed the frame into the table breaking it into pieces. The canvas fabric holding the pieces together.
He’d lost the song. His words were nonsense, and increasingly just noises instead of actual words. Kit stood up straight for the first time in days, his face a mask of pure rage as he looked around for something else to destroy. His body glistened with sweat, his muscles strained, his dick sticking straight out, hard and angry, just like the man.
He had a splintered piece of the frame in hand, holding it like a weapon, his nostrils flaring as he turned wild eyes on Micah. The red dribbling down his arm wasn’t just ink now. He’d found a sharp piece and sliced into his arm while he glared at Micah through the glass.
Micah keyed in the code to open the door and was inside before Kit could do anymore damage. Kit snarled at him the moment he came inside, the sliver of wood raised, he rushed at Micah with intent to stab. Micah caught his wrist and whirled him toward the glass slamming him against it and holding him there while he pried the weapon from his grasp.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he shouted to be heard over the angry growls. “But I’m not going to stand around while you hurt yourself either.”
Kit threw him off. He was bigger than Micah, and if he remembered anything at all from that day in the ballroom, Kit was a match for him. Micah hoped like fuck that Kit didn’t remember that day.
“Get off me,” Kit growled in a hoarse voice. Micah stepped back at the words, surprised by the vehemence as well as the fact that Kit had spoken. His surprise gave Kit enough time to break his hold and twist around. He looked scared, his eyes filled with terror. Kit reached out to claw at Micah’s face.
“I’m not going to hurt you. I swear, Kit.” He had to dodge Kit’s hands as he went for Micah’s eyes. “Ah hell, man.”
Micah grabbed his arm, and just like before, he spun him around. He caught the other hand as Kit reached behind his head. This time he didn’t get a handful of hair before Micah had him contained. Holding his wrists in a death grip, Micah crossed Kit’s arms over his chest and forced him away from the splintered wood before Kit could break free and find another weapon.
“Kit, come on, baby. It’s Micah. You know me. I’m not going to hurt you.” Micah felt the warmth of Kit’s skin beneath his hands. He was hot and sweaty and he smelled bad. Kit struggled against him, slamming his head back onto Micah’s shoulder. “Fuck, that hurt, you fucker. Don’t make me hurt you, Chris. I don’t want to be that person. Don’t make me be that person, Chris.”
Kit tried the same tactic, but this time Micah anticipated and heaved him off his feet and hauled him bodily across the room toward the mattress. “Okay, fine, if you’re going to fight me, then fight me. Get it out of your system.”
The guttural scream that came from Kit nearly broke Micah’s heart. He’d lost his voice again. There were no words were in the mix of hoarse grunts as he continued to struggle. Micah held his arms in a death grip as Kit’s growls turned to moans. His body shook and shuddered, he clawed at his own chest, his breathing going harsh. He slammed his head onto Micah’s shoulder again, hard enough to make Micah wince in pain. This time though, Kit stayed there, he arched his lower body away from Micah’s and turned his face into Micah’s neck. The cry he heard wasn’t rage, it was…orgasmic.
Micah held him while his body shuddered and spasmed. He made soothing sounds and taking a chance he released one of Kit’s wrists. That hand wrapped around the back of Micah’s head and grabbed a handful of hair. But Kit didn’t pull. He stayed like that, holding on for dear life. Micah didn’t know what to do to help him. “Are you with me, Chris? Tell me you’re with me?”
He wanted so much to hear Kit say his name. He didn’t get that, but he did get a nod against his neck. Micah rested his cheek against Kit’s forehead and held him tighter, letting his free hand span the man’s abdomen. Kit breathed heavy into his neck, and Micah cried out at the sharp sting of his teeth. Kit moaned hard and sucked at his neck, and Micah let his other hand go. Kit grabbed his hand before he could pull away and linked his fingers with Micah’s. “Oh baby, don’t fight it. Just let go.” Kit didn’t. His body shivered, but he didn’t give up control. “Chris, come for me, just let it happen.”
The cry was full of pain. He bit Micah harder to muffle the sound as his angry red dick jerked of its own volition, cum spurting into the air. Long moments passed as his body released the days, possibly even years of repressed tension and Kit slumped in Micah’s arms, spent and exhausted. “Yeah, that’s good. Feels good doesn’t it?”
He was so out of his depth here. He didn’t even know what the hell he was saying or if Kit was even aware of what was going on. One thing he did know was that Kit was heavy as fuck when he went limp. “Come on, Chris, let’s get you…” What the hell was he going to say? In bed? What? He needed to get him settled before his knees gave under the weight. “Are you with me? Can you even hear me?”
Kit squeezed his hand. He let go of Micah’s neck with the other, letting his fingers skim across Micah’s cheek as he nodded again. There were no words. Micah scooped him up as best he could and walked the last few steps to the mattress and taking the short step up from the floor he collapsed to his knees, still holding the exhausted body tight against him. “I’m going to lay you down now. Is that okay?” He had no idea why he felt he needed to ask permission to take his hands off the man, when he hadn’t asked to put them on.
Kit nodded again and Micah carefully lowered him to the mattress, sinking with him to lie beside him. One arm trapped beneath Kit he lay spooned to him while Kit’s breathing slowly returned to normal. “Talk to me, Chris, tell me you’re okay.” He wanted so much to hear Kit say something, anything. He wanted to hear his voice. He wanted to know that he was back and that everything was going to be fine.
Chris lay still. He didn’t answer. Micah could feel him swallow. He could feel his heartbeat slowing to a more normal rate. He felt him relax ever so slowly and seem to melt more and more against Micah as he did. Chris gripped Micah’s hand, pressing it to his chest. Chris reached for his other hand and pulled it up to his face. Micah felt the damp of his cheeks before Chris kissed his palm.
“Don’t cry.” Micah felt the stress of the past couple of days break in his own body. The words came out on what sounded suspiciously like a sob. “It’s okay. I’ve got you. You’re safe.”
He didn’t know why he needed Chris to know that. He just did. As if the last two days hadn’t happened just because Micah was here to make it all go away. Chris’s demons were too strong for that. They both knew it.
Chris rolled in Micah’s arms to face him. His eyes were wet and filled with fatigue, but there was recognition there. He continued to hold Micah’s hand tight as if he’d lose himself again if he let go. The smile that touched his lips told Micah everything he needed to know. Chris was back and Micah was fucking in love with him.
“Welcome back?” he said and watched stunned as Chris recoiled in horror, backing away from him as he scrambled to a safe distance against the wall. He huddled there, fear in his eyes and Micah cussed himself for all kinds of fool.