Céleste gave me a long look.
I stared her down for all of three seconds before waving my hands in frustration. “Whatever. Do what you want. I’m not his fucking mother.”
Céleste kissed her teeth and left me in peace to rage sweep the floor, my anger both at her for bringing such a stupid conversation to me and myself for acting as if I had any claim on Micah. I didn’t get to choose if he hooked up with Céleste’s cousin.Hedid. And because I’d been an arse about it, he’d probably never get the chance.
Which is totally unfair. You know he hasn’t got any queer friends.
It was true. Not real ones, anyway. Not people he could talk to, lean on, and meet other queer people through. New people. Who weren’t me.
So you’re not queer and/or his friend?
Of course I was. On both counts. I was Captain-fucking-Queer. If anyone could help Micah expand his sexually social horizons, it was me. Which meant I’d been a dick to Célesteandto him in one fell swoop.
Super.
At some point, I’d have to dissect my soul and figure out why once and for all. But it was late, and I was tired. All I wanted was a cold walk home to one of Micah’s signature mugs of cinnamon cocoa and a platonic hug before bed.
* * *
Micah
I hated coming back to the flat when Sam wasn’t there. When he was, it felt like home. When he wasn’t, it was empty rooms and the noise in my head.
It helped that he was a messy mofo. Clearing up after him saved me hours of pacing our small space, and... I liked doing it. After all the hot dinners he’d put in my belly, picking up his cute socks was the least I could do.
And they were fucking cute. Pirates this time. It had been ladybirds yesterday, French bulldog puppies the day before. I loaded a wash into the machine and set the time delay for it to start the next morning. Then I kicked around, tidying shit that was already tidy while I watched the clock, counting the minutes until Sam was due home. Some nights he stayed to get drunk with his girls after hours, but he hadn’t seemed in the mood tonight. Every time I’d looked up, he’d been staring into space, which meant he had the hump or he was hungry.
With that in mind, I drifted to the fridge and opened it. Sam had done the shopping and filled the shelves with things I liked, even though I’d never told him what I liked. I wished I knew what he liked. Some days I stood in the shop, staring at the shelves and imagining I was a different man. A better man. The kind of man who could load up the basket and come home and cook a meal for the boy who’d made his life bearable again. But I wasn’t that man. Never had been. And a scar that stretched from the back of my thigh to the middle of my shin would never change that.
What are you bitching about your leg for? Don’t you ever get bored of that shit?
The front door opened. Sam shuffled through it, blond hair dishevelled, eyes hooded and tired. He wrenched his key from the lock and kicked the door shut. It banged. He winced, and I wanted to tell him not to care about our dickhead neighbours, but there was no point. He cared. I didn’t. End of.
I closed the fridge. Had second thoughts and opened it again.
Sam chuckled from the hallway and joined me in the kitchen. “Are you doing that thing again where you expect the fridge to make you a toasted sandwich?”
“Maybe. You don’t think it’s unreasonable that fridges don’t do that in an age where we can control the heating from our phones?”
“It’s totally unreasonable, but it’s not changing anytime soon, unless you have a design patent I don’t know about.” Sam reached around me and grabbed ham, cheese, and mustard from the top shelf. “Sit.”
“No. You’re the one who’s been on his feet all night. I’ll do it.”
For a moment he looked as though he might argue—he usually did—then he sighed and stepped away. “Whatevs. Go heavy on the mustard, yeah? My synapses need singeing.”
“Do you mean sinuses?”
“Nope.”
He disappeared. A minute later, the shower turned on, and I got to work lugging his Panini press out of the cupboard. I slathered hot English mustard on seeded bread and layered on smoked ham and cheddar cheese. Before Sam, I’d forgotten the simple joy of a toastie—I’d forgotten a lot of things—but seeing as they were amongst the only things I could cook, and helovedthem, I made them all the time.
I toasted four sandwiches and chucked them on the one big plate we owned: the one with Father Christmas painted onto it. Loaded up with mango juice—Sam’s other favourite thing—I limped back to the living room and dropped my wares on the coffee table. No longer keyed up and waiting for Sam, energy drained from me. The couch called my name. I sank onto it, perversely enjoying its lumps and bumps, the rough material, and the slight scent of damp from where it had languished in Sam’s parents’ garage for ten years before he’d brought it here. In my old place, in my old damn-fuckinglife, I’d had an eight-seater monstrosity that had barely filled the corner of my swanky living room. Sometimes, I heard the creak of the leather in my dreams and woke up sweating.
Sam emerged from the bathroom, a pair of sweats hanging from his slender hips, towelling his hair dry, and... shirtless.
Averting my gaze, I nodded at the plate of sandwiches. “Eat up.”
“You didn’t start without me?”
