Which is why Mike finds his hand in Sean’s hair, gently scritching along his scalp. Sean startles just a little, but then he leans into the touch, stretching his legs out, popping his back. He reminds Mike of Martin lying in the afternoon sun that filters in through the bay windows at the front of the house.
They’re quiet for a time. Mike’s okay with that.
Then, “They’re not getting worse.”
Mike pauses his ministrations, wanting to say “Well, they aren’t getting any better,” but that’s not the right thing to say. He doesn’t think they can get better. It’s just something Sean has to live with. The Ercaf is supposed to make them better, and that’s the best they can hope for.
So he says, “That’s good.” He means it.
“What about you?”
“What about me?”
“You sleeping okay?”
Yeah. Maybe. “Yes.”
“Really.”
Okay, so he’s been having more dreams and he’s waking up thinking about mountains and birds and cigars, but that’s nothing. He feels fine. He is fine. “Really.”
“You’ll tell me if that changes.”
Mike can’t help but smile a little. “Yessir.”
“I hear you humoring me, Mike Frazier.”
“Wouldn’t even dream of it.”
Sean snorts. “Funny guy.”
“Right-o,” he says and thinks, Up your nose with a rubber hose. He doesn’t say that, though. He doesn’t know why he thought of it.
“Not how I wanted to spend my afternoon,” Sean says, voice muffled by Mike’s stomach. It tickles a little.
“I bet.”
“You gonna say it?”
“Say what?”
“How I should know better. That when I get like this, I need to tell someone. That I need to take better care of myself.”
“If you want me to.”
“What do you want?”
“Whatever you think is right.” He’s being diplomatic.
“Mike.”
“What?”
“Stop it.”
He thinks they might be talking about more than what he initially thought. “I don’t know what you want.”
“Sure you do. You always do.”