My heart

 

 

I FIND Micky pacing agitatedly up and down the pavement outside South Kensington, the nearest Tube Station, arms wrapped around his chest like he’s in a straitjacket. For a second I don’t know what to do and think, What do I say? Where the hell do I start? But then I get the courage from somewhere to just go and hug him, and we stand, leaning against the wall, and I stroke up and down his back until his breathing slows and he relaxes a little.

We don’t talk all the way back on the Tube. By the time we reach Tooting Bec, our stop, Micky is curled in my lap and I consider staying on the train until the end of the line. But we don’t. We get off, and Micky presses close to me as we walk by the side of the common to the swimming pool.

When the words come, it’s me who starts them. I close the door to my shell behind us and whisper, “Dominic?” And Micky tenses again and then sinks to his knees on the tiles.

“You spoke to Benjamin, didn’t you? Fuck. You were gone so long I… what did he tell you?”

“That he loves you.”

Micky makes a pained sound and curls up on his side.

I sink to the floor and curl up with him, expecting to stay like that, but suddenly Micky rolls awkwardly on top of me and we are a mess of limbs, and Micky’s tears are on my cheek and in my mouth, but that’s not the only thing that’s wet against my mouth, there’s something soft, soft, soft, against my lips. I gasp, and the softness of a tongue dips in my mouth and touches mine. I don’t quite believe he’s kissing me until he stops and pushes himself away to lean over and look at me.

“Don’t,” I whisper. My whole body hurts like I’ve been cracked right down the center. “Please. I don’t want to pretend.”

“I’m not pretending.” Micky frowns unhappily, his fingers threading gently through my hair.

This is either the best avoidance technique ever or… or….

Dislodging him, I scrabble backwards so I can get up. I walk over to the window and place my hands flat on the cold wall tiles. This isn’t fair. I decide right then that hope is the evilest of all emotions.

“Danny?”

My brain goes crazy trying to stop replaying the feel of his lips on mine, trying to stop making a taste out of the nanosecond touch of his tongue. “Please don’t do this,” I whisper.

“Danny, if you don’t want this because you don’t want me, I’ll understand…. I mean, I’ll be fucking crushed but… this isn’t how I fucking say thank you!” Micky’s voice has gone all thin and high and wavery, as though it’s battling through a hurricane to reach me. “If you think I’m doing this out of anything but completely selfish desire and a hell of a lot of want, you are so fucking wrong.”

“What?” I can’t get my head around what he said. He’s stunning. “How could I not want you?”

He wraps a trembling arm around my waist, and he turns me around to face him.

“If you don’t, this is the point right now where you tell me you want to be my friend, and that’s it, you’re sorry, but you’ll never feel the same way about me that I feel about you.”

I stare at him. At his uncertain smile and shaking hands. He reaches for my arm and places my palm over his heart. It hammers against my hand, even through all his layers of clothes.

“Feel that?” he whispers. “Scared shitless and kind of turned on, but mostly scared.”

I keep my hand there, letting my thumb make these little circles against the fabric of his suit. I don’t really know what the fuck we’re doing, but feeling Micky’s heart going like the clappers somehow makes me feel tons better.

Micky puts a hand over my heart, and I smile as I look at the floor. “How about you,” he whispers. “Are you scared too?”

I nod.

“Turned on?” His voice wobbles.

Again I nod.

“Can we do something about the shit-scared bit first…? I’m scared of fucking this up, and fucking it up so badly I somehow end up losing you, because I don’t think you have a clue how much you mean to me and I don’t know how to make you see. What are you scared of?”

“That you only want me right now because this isn’t how I normally look,” I say quickly, still thinking about what Micky is scared of, and trying to work out how he could fuck anything up.

I hear him gulp back what sounds like a sob, and when I look up, he won’t meet my eyes. Locking our fingers together, he picks up his makeup case and my lantern, and leads me out of my shell to the bathroom at the other end of the swimming pool again.

We stand in front of the mirror. I know we’re in front of the mirror, but I’m not looking in it. I was someone else for a night. Who wants to feel that sort of magic die?

Micky moves to stand in front of me. It’s so he can look me in the eye, I think. I put my hand over his heart again, just to feel it.

In the low glow of the lantern on the chair behind us, I can see my outline reflected in his eyes. I don’t mind looking at myself like that, surrounded by a lake of blue.

“I’ve not been through the shit you’ve been through, Danny. No one I love has died. But I do know that having smooth, unscarred skin does not make you beautiful. Shining like the brightest light in the dark does, though. And you light up everything. You light me up. I’m falling in love with you,” he says simply.

A few tears spill down his cheeks when he blinks. I wipe them away with my thumb. His heart thumps heavily against my other hand, just as his words echo over and over again in my head. I’m overwhelmed. By what he’s said, by Dominic, the son of an oil baron, who plays the clarinet so fucking amazingly well and has a brother whose heart is broken by his absence. By everything.

“Look.” He steps out of the way of the mirror and I do, I look because it’s easier than thinking.

The boy I see in the mirror is no more and no less than myself. The makeup doesn’t cover my scars, only mutes them a little. No mask. It’s the hair more than anything that makes me look a little different. Micky’s given me a floppy, boyband haircut—my dark fringe almost dips into my eyes, but not quite. I like it. I cock my head, smiling. In the background I can see Micky watching me. He hands me a wad of cotton wool and some sort of lotion.

“Take it off,” he whispers.

Slowly I wipe the makeup off. I know I’m taking a long time. I know what he’s said to me is huge.

“Don’t want to get it on the suit,” I whisper. Really, I’m still overwhelmed.

“It’s okay.” Micky doesn’t sound upset. He can probably read my mind by now. “How I feel is not going to change even if you take four hours to take that makeup off.”

I still can’t believe how easily he talks about his feelings. I know they’re only words, but I believe him, I realise.

I’m falling in love with you. His words echo louder and louder. They have so much power right now, they’re atomic. They’re inside me.

Micky is falling in love with me? Me? Everything he’s said suddenly sinks home and I sway. I drop the cotton wool and the lotion. I hear the bottle skitter away across the floor.

“Micky,” I gasp, and he’s there in my arms. I don’t care how much my shoulder hurts. “How?” I murmur against his neck over and over.

“How? How what? How do you fall in love?” He laughs like he can’t believe I’ve asked that, and steps back. “Because you think the other person is fucking amazing.” I look away, feeling too raw to joke. He touches my hair and says softly, “I mean it. You are. Every time I think of you, I want to be with you. I haven’t smiled or laughed this much in years. You make me feel so happy. And you see me like no one else, make me feel like I matter, like I make a difference to you, like I’m important.

“Like you think I’m beautiful.”

“You are,” I whisper and he blushes. So, so beautiful.

“And when I’m with you, I feel so safe, you know. Safe to be myself, not just safe in the world. You’ve always been exactly what I need—who I need. And you keep on doing it. I want to be who you need too, you know? Love happens—there is no how. It feels like it’s always been you, Danny. Always.”

Everything slows.

Gently, oh so gently, Micky fists the fabric of my suit. He’s trembling again, his heartbeat crazy fast beneath my palm. I love feeling his heartbeat.

“And I know you’re sad about Dashiel. I know you loved him. I’m not trying to take that away. I don’t expect you to feel the same. I could never—”

“I miss him.”

Micky nods, blinks tears, and for a completely awful second as I look at him, I sense I have the power to break his heart. I could snap it in two right now.

“He was my friend. I loved him, I always will. But not like this, like you…,” I whisper. I want to say it so badly, tell him that it’s been him from the beginning, but words are making me dizzy. “You have my heart,” I whisper instead.

Instantly I’m crushed against him, chest, mouth, everything tight and heavy and hurting and not hurting. I want to let go, ride the wave of everything I’m feeling, but I’m scared and I don’t want to do it here, in this broken little room. I want to feel safe and wrapped up in him, covered in blankets.

Tangled together like we’re a skinny, two-headed octopus, we stumble noisily back to my room. There is no light on in Milo’s room, so he’s either out or sleeping soundly.

I have to lock my door, and Micky tries to help but he keeps touching me too, pressing his lips against my cheeks and my hair. Against scars and not-scars as though it doesn’t matter, as if there is no difference.

“Too much, too fast,” I stutter, not quite managing to vocalise how absolutely terrified I am.

I’m stuck, crouched down, resting my head against the door, the deadbolt loose in my fingers.

Micky takes my hand and places it over his heart—a lightning-quick flutter in his chest. “It’s okay,” he murmurs. “Trust me. We can go as slow as you want.”

“I want to hold you,” I whisper. I do, I want to hold him so badly. “But I don’t know… anything,” I mutter, embarrassed.

“We need to be comfortable,” Micky says gently. He pulls me to my feet, then over to my nest.

I get the idea being in charge is not his thing, but because I’m uncertain, I’m so grateful he’s leading me through this.

We sit down, and, biting his lip and looking at once nervous and excited, his skin flushed like he’s been running around the room, Micky says, “Have you ever… been with anyone, like, anyone at all?”

I shake my head.

“Okay. But you know some things, though? You masturbate, right? I mean everyone does that, don’t they?” Micky is quickly beginning to look out of his depth, but when I smile hesitantly, he smiles hesitantly back.

“I’ve watched stuff,” I say quietly, concentrating on my hands, thinking back to late nights in one of the children’s homes when some of the older boys would get a video from somewhere.

“Porn?”

I nod, too embarrassed to say it was men and women, and I used to imagine the women were men too. I was too scared to find gay porn on my own. I’m superglad Micky doesn’t press me for details.

“Real sex doesn’t have the rules that porn has. It’s much easier. Like the only rules right now are that I want you to touch me, just wherever you want, and I won’t touch you if you don’t want me to. I mean, I get that it’s a thing for you, maybe. Just do what feels good, and first times can be over really quick or, you know, it might take you superlong to come if you’re nervous—and that’s okay. Me, for example, I think if you put your hand on my dick right now, I might come pretty quick because, uh, I just really want you, and if you touch me, I know my body is going to let go, and I’m going to explode like a fountain!” Micky is speaking so fast and his voice is getting so high, I think he may be draining helium from the air. I remember he does this when he’s nervous.

Whereas my brain is stuck. One word repeating: wow-wow-wow. I think I may quite possibly be broken.

“Want to take your suit off?” Micky asks, tilting his head to look at me.

Suit. Off, I repeat to myself. Right. I should take it off. I don’t want to crumple it.

Focus. I touch my pocket with the scrunched-up suit ticket. The names on the tickets suddenly have meaning: Crestwell, da Silva. I’m wearing Micky’s brother’s suit—or at least the one he was going to borrow. I hope they didn’t have too much trouble getting replacements.

This is weird. Even I think we should probably talk about it, and I’m not much of a one for talking.

But as though he’s made of utter distraction, Micky jumps to his feet, gives me a sudden, gleeful look, and starts to strip. He likes stripping. I fiddle with my tie as I watch him, all skinny and beautiful and full of grace, stretching his arms up, making every movement a performance. He leaves on these too-big boxer shorts he brought to stop the itchy wool trousers “irritating his ass” (his words), and cups his hand over his dick to stop it flopping forwards.

“Don’t want to poke your eye out,” he says with a goofy, lopsided grin as he crosses his legs and sinks down next to me. And I snort out a laugh, feeling better that we can still laugh, that sex stuff doesn’t have to be all intense and serious, because if it did, I really think I might not be able to take it.

With far less grace than Micky, I take the suit jacket off and unbutton the shirt. I don’t stand up; I’m too shy. Micky sits next to me, stroking himself occasionally through the fabric of his shorts. I can’t believe he’s doing that, or that I can sort of see the outlined shape of him beneath the thin fabric. It makes me so hard when I think about taking his shorts down and seeing him up close.

“I can take them off… if you want?” he says, catching my eye.

I shake my head and look away, blushing. “Not yet. I like thinking about it.”

“Anticipation?”

I nod.

“Me too. Though I kinda want to pounce on you.” He grins, all big teeth showing, and a shudder goes through me as I think about what they’d feel like on my skin.

“Is it weird that I want you to bite me?” I whisper breathlessly, with no idea where I got the courage to say that out loud.

“Uh, really?” Micky makes a noise halfway between a whine and a groan, and slips his hand inside the waistband of his shorts.

I nearly swallow my tongue.

“I would love to bite you,” he says in this really low voice, and I can see he’s stroking himself slow, slow, slow. “I like the idea of doing anything you ask me.”

“Lie down,” I say.

And he does.

I laugh and choke at the same time, because I can’t believe he’s really doing that and I don’t know how to react.

“Want me to stop?” he looks down at his shorts, at his hand moving beneath the fabric.

I no longer know what it is I want.

Trying to be bolder, I stand up to slip the shirt off over my shoulders. The air is cold against my skin. I don’t know what goes wrong, but I stop and hunch over, all at once too exposed, too self-conscious, too unsure. I can’t look at Micky.

I bring my hands up to cover my face. It’s too much. All of it is too much. And I don’t want to disappoint him, but he said he’s falling in love with me, and doesn’t that mean it’s okay? That this is okay? That if I fall apart, he will catch me? I don’t want to fall apart. But I trust him.

I trust him.

My knees buckle, but somehow they don’t hit the floor. Instead, arms that are stronger than they look guide me into my nest. I’m wrapped in warmth, and soothing words are whispered in my ear. Micky doesn’t hug me tightly, though I think he wants to. Instead he lies out next to me and pulls my good arm over his chest.

“It was too much, wasn’t it? I’m sorry,” he whispers.

He reaches for my hand again and places it over his heart. His skin is all warm and soft, and it feels like the whole world is trembling, not just his heart.

I want to stay like this forever.

I open my eyes and find Micky watching me.

“My dick’s kind of a dick,” he says, and I snort softly. “He only thinks about one thing.”

“My dick isn’t any better,” I mutter, feeling really weird.

“Your dick is a total gentleman, whereas mine is a complete slut—” Micky stops and bites his lip, looking awkward. “I didn’t mean that how it sounded. Despite the fact that I’ve been paid money for sex, I’m not a slut…. I’m not someone who’d ever be unfaithful. Not in a million—”

“Can I kiss you?” I ask before I lose my nerve.

His heart jumps beneath my fingers, and his eyes darken. “Yeah,” he breathes, hotching closer and bringing his hand up to my neck.

His touch is like static and I get goose bumps all the way down my arms.

I lean down and brush my lips against his. I want to be gentle, like snowfall, but Micky groans and opens his mouth, and I find what I really want to do is taste him more than anything.

Touching his tongue with mine makes my dick feel needy and hot, like it wants to explode and all I need to do is find the button to detonate it. It’s so messy and warm and wet and the best fucking thing I’ve ever done with my mouth. Excitement thrums through me like electricity. It’s on the verge of being too much and at the same time, not quite enough, but I know I can stop at any time, that Micky would just let me hold him and put my hand over his heart.

I think I’m probably really bad at kissing, I have no idea what I’m doing, but Micky shifts until I’m lying on top of him and our chests are touching, and he mumbles, “Nnnngh, God, yes… don’t hold back.”

There’s a moment when I feel all his skin against mine and I can’t breathe. All I can do is stop and look down at him, wide-eyed and stunned. At his hair all fanned out like a starburst on the dark blankets, at the way he’s looking at me in this completely intense and uncomplicated way, as if he needs something from me and I’m giving it to him. I also get the sense that he’s not going to let go completely because he’s watching my reactions to check I’m not freaking out.

With a wriggle of his hips, he knocks me off balance so that my good arm collapses and all my weight comes down on top of him. I’m scared I’m going to crush him.

“I want to be crushed,” he whispers, reading my mind. “I want you so close to me.”

Then he puts his mouth on mine again, and I forget everything.

It’s all so hot. In every sense, I think. I’m still wearing the heavy woolen trousers, and inside them I’m so hard, but I’m still a bit scared to rub against him, as I want to do. What if I come and mess up the trousers? What if I come and do something weird like piss on him uncontrollably afterward? That happens, I’ve heard, though I can’t remember where from—maybe the kids in the home told me. They used to do stuff like that when they discovered I found it hard to sort truth from fiction. Thoughts are beginning to crowd in my brain again. The sensation of my mouth against his is becoming too much, but I don’t want to stop.

Instead I kiss Micky’s neck, his collarbone, his armpit, his nipple. I touch the skin above his heart. I trace swirls around it with my tongue.

“I’m gonna come,” he gasps.

I look up and see he’s squeezing his eyes shut. He tugs at my hand gently as if his fingers are asking mine a question. They must say yes, because suddenly I’m touching him, my hand beneath the waistband of his shorts, feeling the trembling heat, the hot, sticky skin of his dick, feeling the way his hand is carefully folding my fingers into a fist and his hips are pushing up and into it. Hurriedly, he shoves his shorts all the way down with his other hand.

His hips jerk erratically, and he sort of yelps as he arches his back. I know what to expect, but I’m still shocked when thick creamy fluid spurts over his chest. I think this might be the button I need to make me explode, but now I’m even more terrified of messing up the trousers. And I don’t want to let go of Micky because he looks so fragile and undone and his dick feels like this shuddery, tender thing in my hand that I want to stroke and hold and look after.

“Danny?” Micky reaches out and touches my cheek. “You okay?”

I nod really fast. Micky drops his hand to my heart.

“You sure?” All at once Micky is together again, as if he didn’t just fly apart in my arms at all. He peers at me closely. His eyes are very dark. “Do you want to… come?”

He looks away after he speaks, sweet and coy, even though I’m holding his dick in my hand, loving the feel of it softening. When I stroke it, he shivers like I’m prodding him with an electric charge, so I try and keep my hand still.

My thumb is resting against a pulse point in his pubic hair; it’s so strong it’s almost as if I’m feeling his heart.

“If… if you don’t want me to touch you, you could jerk off over me. I’m okay with that,” he says and takes a deep breath. “Do you want me to touch you?”

I stare at him.

I do and I don’t. What if I can’t? What if I—

Micky reaches down and strokes me through the trousers. My brain stutters.

Ohhhh.

I sink back, letting go of his dick, letting go of everything—as though he’s pressed a button that makes my body power down and all my nerve endings become concentrated in my dick. Nothing else matters.

Keeping his gaze on my face, he unbuttons and unzips the trousers, then pushes them down my thighs. I am no help whatsoever.

I’m a little apprehensive he’s going to whip my boxers off too, and it’ll be too much, but he runs his fingers up and down my dick through the material, until I’m panting and lifting my hips, begging him with my body to touch me harder. Please.

With infinite gentleness, he licks circles on my shoulder, and then I feel the scrape of his teeth. I think I might make some really embarrassing sort of noise—one of those long guttural groans people in porn films make when they’re about to shoot their load. It only makes Micky bite harder. He slips his hand inside my boxers and with tender fingers strokes my balls. Then he grips me hard and pumps his fist up and down, all fierce and firm and exactly what I need. I am at once weak and strong: I’m expanding like the universe we’re creating all around us, so big, and yet every detail is important. I’m so in love.

Everything in me tenses up as I come, spilling over his fingers and burying my face against his chest. Searching, even like this, for the beat of his heart.