He hadn’t, though, and everything had worked out in the end.
That didn’t mean he wasn’t nervous. In fact, Mike couldn’t remember a time when he’d been more nervous, which, honestly, was ridiculous, because he was a grown man. He berated himself as he walked up toward Sean’s door. They were going to have dinner together. Just two friends on a nice summer evening. Sean was going to cook. Mike brought the bottles of Falstaff beer.
He’d stood outside Sean’s front door for a good five minutes, trying to talk himself into knocking on the door. He could think of reasons that he should just walk away, but he only needed one to finally raise his hand and knock: he just wanted to see Sean.
That was it. That was all it took.
Sean would tell him later that he’d known Mike was out there the whole time. He’d watched him, amused, through the window. He knew Mike would get there eventually. Mike had blushed furiously. Sean chuckled at that, but his hand was on top of Mike’s, thumb brushing against his fingers, and nothing else mattered after that.
He’s comfortable in the house now, having been there again and again. Which is why he doesn’t hesitate when they reach the front door, pushing it open and shuffling Sean inside. It’s cool in the house, and the shadows are already stretching toward twilight.
Sean lets out this little sigh, like he’s relieved to be home and in his space. Mike wonders if he should leave him to it, making sure he takes his pill before heading on his way, but Sean’s grip on his arm only tightens. Like he knows what Mike’s thinking. Like he’s making the decision for him.
Mike’s a little relieved at that. Decisions can be hard for him sometimes.
He closes the door behind him, and Sean’s shoulders lose their tension. He pulls Sean over to the sofa and helps him down. Sean leans his head back, eyes closed, and breathes through his nose. He says, “My pills are—” but Mike’s already saying, “I know.”
The house is small. It has the den with bookshelves lining the wall near the front windows. Off the den is a kitchen that’s barely wide enough for two people to prepare food in. There’s a little breakfast nook with a circular table that has a vase of freshly cut flowers sitting on top. From there, it’s down a hallway with the bathroom on the right and Sean’s bedroom on the left. Mike doesn’t go in the bedroom (in fact, does his best to avoid thinking about the bedroom altogether) and opens the bathroom door, flipping on the light. He opens the medicine cabinet. There’s a half-rolled tube of Pepsodent, an unopened tin of Anacin. A green bottle of Mr. Fresh deodorant. A can of Barbasol next to a metal razor.
He sees the clear glass bottle on the top shelf. Inside are small pills, circular and pale pink. He’d know that bottle anywhere, the Valley Food and Drug sticker on the side with Sean’s name written across the top. He fishes out a pill and fills the cup next to the sink with water. There’s a sleep mask on the bottom shelf of the cabinet, and he grabs that too, knowing it’ll help a little.
Back in the den, he hands Sean the Ercaf. Sean smiles weakly at him, murmuring his thanks as he swallows it down with a flick of his head, ignoring the water that Mike tries to hand him. He takes the sleep mask and slips it over his eyes and leans back against the sofa again, taking slow, even breaths.
“You hungry?” Mike asks quietly, though he already knows the answer.
Sean shakes his head weakly.
“You want me to get out of your hair?”
There’s the briefest of hesitations, but he shakes his head again. He reaches up, hand outstretched, fingers beckoning. It’s a little to Mike’s left, missing him by a few inches, so he takes Sean’s hand in his own and allows himself to be tugged toward the sofa. He sits down next to Sean, sinking back against the cushions. He’s a little stiff, a little uncomfortable, unsure of what Sean wants from him. Sometimes, Sean doesn’t like to be touched when the headaches get bad, and he really doesn’t like to talk. Mike’s still learning to follow his lead, but there are times when he feels like he’s fumbling along without direction.
He wants to do this right. It’s important to him that he do this right.
He’s told himself before that if he doesn’t know what to do, he needs to trust others to help him along. It hasn’t always been easy.
He doesn’t know why. He thinks it must just be part of who he is.
He trusts Sean. More than anyone else.
So he trusts him now.
He relaxes on the sofa. Sean sighs again, but it’s not stressed. If anything, it’s a good thing, because he kicks his feet out over the end of the sofa, toeing off his shoes while laying his head in Mike’s lap.
This is new. For the both of them. They’ve touched before, obviously, but never like this.
Sean settles against him, turning until his face is pressed against Mike’s stomach. He takes a deep breath, like he’s breathing Mike in, and lets it out slowly. Mike can feel the heat of it through his cotton shirt. It stirs something in him, something more than arousal, more complex than lust or desire. He knows he loves this man, knows it as clear as day, even if he has trouble articulating it, even to himself. He doesn’t know what the issue is, what his holdup is, why it’s taken them three years to get to this point. He’s had these hesit
ations, these unfounded fears that he couldn’t put a name to.
During the first year, it almost crippled him, the thought of giving himself to Sean. He’d lie awake at night, sweating and staring at the ceiling, his heart tripping all over itself in his chest. It wasn’t Sean’s fault, none of it was, but Mike couldn’t find a way around it for the longest time. He didn’t want to hurt Sean. He didn’t want to be hurt by Sean. And sometimes he thought, Why why why am I like this? but he just was.
The second year was easier. The second year was easier because he saw it wasn’t just him. That even though he’d kept these fears to himself, Sean was going through something similar, though he appeared stronger than Mike. More patient. He worried too, worried about giving all of himself to something that could easily break. Mike didn’t want Sean to be scared, but it was hypocritical of him to say so.
The third year?
Well. The third year has led them to this moment. Mike can’t complain. It’s taken a while, sure. But it’s been worth it. He can’t imagine a time when he didn’t know Sean. Such a thing seems inconceivable. But if it happened, if for some reason he woke up and Sean didn’t know who he was, he’d spend the next three years doing it all over again to get to where they are now.
This moment: Sean’s head is in his lap, and he’s safe and warm and trusting. He trusts Mike to watch out for him, trusts Mike to take care of him. Mike might not be able to cure all that ails him, but Sean knows he’ll do everything he can to make it a little bit better.