Part 1
He usually woke to an empty bed.
He didn't think much of it those first couple of months. He knew he was a late riser and not every one stayed in bed as long as he did. He was eighteen, after all. What was to be expected? Most of his life revolved around work and sleep. He never worked the morning shift unless it was a busy time of year –his choice, really. Now that he was done with school, he was done with early mornings.
No, Michel E. Conrad was by no means a morning person. Contrary to popular belief, he never really was as cheerful as he had looked all those mornings he'd been up early for this thing or that thing. All he had wanted to do, all those years, was curl back up in his bed.
He liked to bask in the sunlight when it streamed through the window and pooled on the bed. Or lounging, simply sprawling across the sheets, until he was fully awake. He liked that too. Sometimes, he just lay there until he felt like getting up. And it didn't matter whose bed, either. His own bed had soft, well-worn flannel sheets and a fluffy down comforter, while Free's was pristinely white, the sheets always cool and comfortable.
Free, knowing Michel loved being woken by the sun, almost always opened the curtains before he left. It was something of a ritual; the drapes were ceremoniously opened each morning as part of Free's preparing-for-the-day routine. It was the last thing he did before heading downstairs for his morning cup of tea; it was usually done before the sun managed to break through the clouds for the day. This gave Michel the opportunity to wake the way he most enjoyed, when the sun finally crept through the window.
This way, he could bask. Michel enjoyed sprawling -usually naked- in the warm sunshine as it beamed through the window. He did this (fully clothed, of course) on the couch as well, always seeking the sunniest spots when reading or watching TV. Ken had noticed and pointed this out once, which led to much teasing about how all his teammates were like cats in one way or another, himself included. Michel didn't mind though; he knew Ken teased because he loved.
He was naked that morning, naked in the brilliant summer sunlight as it poured through the window. He liked these mornings better than the other ones; there was just something about waking up naked on crisp white sheets in a room painted gold by the promise of nice weather.
He didn't always sleep naked. There were nights were nothing happened or nights which were too cold or nights where he simply just didn't feel like being naked. His pajamas were comfortable, too, of course. Chloe had even gotten him an emerald silk pair the previous Christmas, saying that Michel had long outgrown the plaid flannel he preferred. He had informed Chloe, blushing, a few weeks after receiving them, that the silk pajamas were rarely on him long enough to last the night and Chloe had laughed, telling him "that was the point."
Though he preferred them, there was a downside to naked mornings. All of Michel's self-inflicted wounds had long since healed over, of course, but the scars refused to fade. It had been a good three years or so since he'd last felt the need to mutilate himself –had it really only been three years? It felt like a lifetime- but he supposed the scars would never really go away. They would always be there, a reminder of his pain; his sins. They crisscrossed around, slashes running from the back of his thighs to the insides. That had been his choice spot; no one saw them there. They spanned across his stomach as well, creating faint pink horizons across soft flesh. There had been slip-ups; times when he tore at his upper-arms with his fingernails or he had been desperate and unwilling to undress and therefore just used the old standby – his wrists had been slit more times than he cared to count.
The brilliance of the sun made the scars stand out bright and pink against the paleness of his skin. Michel had always been tan as a child; he'd favored shorts and loved being outside. But as he grew and matured and became more aware of his body, he'd begun to cover up. He was ashamed of the scars; ashamed to let his own weaknesses show. And besides, they weren't exactly pleasant to look upon, especially his thighs when he wore shorts. Yuki had once compared it to a spider's web; the scars were all interwoven, all made of the same silky self-hatred and pain. The forget-me-nots with their silk-soft petals; that day in the storeroom…Michel still remembered vividly when Yuki had questioned why he did what he did.
He'd accepted that the scars would never fade. They were there and there they would stay. There was no point in lamenting over them; he covered them up instead. No matter the weather, Michel could be found lately in pants and long-sleeves, his body hidden from view beneath concealing clothing. Only Free saw him in anything less than that (and it was usually much less), but the older man had never made a single comment on the scars.
Thusly, his body had lost its tan. He had paled until he had that sort of washed-out complexion that looked all wrong for a blond. Now more than ever people were mistaking he and Chloe for brothers, a mistake that was easily justified once they were overheard in a conversation. There was no denying their accents were very different. Nevertheless, Michel was no longer the tanned, impish child he had once been. He was still thin, but he'd grown a couple inches and, at eighteen, was pale and spindly, like a plant that had seen too little sunlight.
He still was –and always would be- the baby of the group. Even Yuki continued to watch out for him, though the difference in their ages was only that of about eight months. Michel never wanted them to stop; he liked feeling protected and looked after. He liked how every one was so concerned for his well-being and knew their concern was born from love, rather than worry over his mental-emotional state. They never discussed the hours upon hours of therapy he'd gone through since the Autumn Café incident, never discussed the incident at all, unless he brought it up.
He never brought it up; never discussed it. Not even with Free. It was something he'd had to work through on his own and he had. He'd come to terms with everything that had occurred in his life as a teenager and, with his nineteenth birthday only a few short months away, he was pleased with the way his life was going. He had his makeshift family, he had his job and, most importantly, he had Free.
Free who adored him. Who catered to his every whim and spoiled him intentionally. Who had become his strength and saving grace. Who encouraged him, took care of him and made him feel good.
Who left him alone in bed, every single morning.
Michel stretched, yawning and pushing a stray curl out of his face. Not only was the curtain open, the window was as well, allowing the morning sounds of a bustling street and the gentle breeze to filter into the room. It wasn't often that they had mornings quite so sunny, even in the summer, and he cherished days like this. Only one thing could make it better. He wished that, just once, he would wake to find Free still curled protectively around him.
He knew Free was an early riser; that he felt useless if he stayed in bed after he'd awoke. But that didn't stop Michel from hoping that, on a morning such as this, he would open his eyes to find Free still with him, just once. It was all he asked. He wished that Free would just indulge himself for once and take the time to be selfish and stay in bed.
Pouting, he yawned again and rolled over onto his stomach, snuggling a pillow. He pressed his face against the cool linen, sighing softly. It would probably help if he told Free he wanted him to sleep in someday so they could wake up together, but he didn't want to be more of a nuisance. He was already plenty spoiled. He just hoped that it would cross Free's mind to stay without his hinting at it.
He pushed himself up into a sitting position and leaned back against the headboard, taking a moment to examine a few of the scars. Sitting cross-legged, he could easily see the ones running along his inner thighs. The vast majority of them were clustered there, woven together in geometric patterns. He had always carved straight lines into his flesh; he'd never felt a need to do anything fancy or artsy. As long as he bled; as long as he stopped feeling…That had been what was important. So it was lines, straight and methodical, almost as if he had been a bit anal retentive about how he'd done it.
Free traced them, sometimes, calloused fingers stroking softly over the pink lines. He did it almost obsessively; though he never commented on them, he was always touching during the aftermath, always looking thoughtful.
At times like that, Michel wondered what was on his mind. What was he thinking as he inspected the scars, as he caressed them so gently? As a reminder of the he'd failed to protect Michel, did they make him sad? Was he ashamed on Michel's behalf? Did he view them of a sign of past weakness and foolishness? Failure, unhappiness, pain…There were so many things those scars stood for. Which meaning was it that Free thought upon when that serious, thoughtful expression crossed his face?
Michel knew there was one more option, one which spurred his desire to conceal his body from view. He was ugly. His body was an ugly mess. There was no way around it; he had spoiled himself, made himself unappealing. That had been the intent, hadn't it? He'd simply wanted Thomas and his cronies to stop saying how pretty he was and he'd reasoned that if he made himself ugly, maybe they would leave him in peace.
Maybe it had worked too well. Cold fear began to flow through his veins. Maybe…Maybe Free didn't stay in the morning because he didn't want to see in such bright light, when the scars stood out more. Maybe he really was ugly.
He drew his knees up to his chest, hugging them. Free couldn't think that…Could he? He knew there was more to a person than looks and that Free wasn't superficial at all, but still…It was there, like some grey cloud, hanging over them. They never spoke of it, so how was Michel supposed to know what Free thought?
He blinked back sudden tears. He wanted to be perfect for Free, but it was a little late for that. He doubted the older man really cared, but he wanted to be someone Free could be proud of, not the sad little kid he had been when he'd ruined himself. He was broken, he was torn…Damaged goods. Even after all the therapy sessions, all the progress he'd made, it all came back around to this. It all came back to his own insecurities.
He wiped at his eyes. Crying wouldn't help anything and he wasn't going to do it. There was no point in supposing things that probably weren't true. That kind of thought always got him in trouble.
He slid off the bed. It was about time he dressed and got going for the day. The wooden floor was cool beneath his feet as he crossed the room to his designated drawer in the dresser. What to wear? It was already looking to be very hot; the room was like an oven, despite the breeze wafting in through the window.
Loose, cotton pants would probably be best. It was April and it was hot. No point in putting on things which would make him even hotter. He found a pair of pale blue drawstring pants. Perfect…Light, airy and comfortable. Good for a hot day.
In the past, he had favored bright colors and patterns, but all of his clothing had been toned down a bit as he got older. Earthy tones were his current favorites, mossy greens which matched his eyes, browns and creamy whites. All of his clothes looked faded and worn -they were more comfortable that way- but they were all of the finest quality. It was Free's influence; he knew that. But he liked it when they matched.
Once the pants were on, Michel padded down the hall to his room to fetch a shirt and his favorite sandals. Until about a year ago, he'd worn boots most of the time. He had loved his brown boots, but they simply didn't mesh with his recent taste in clothing. With all of his loose, soft clothes, leather sandals were a much better choice when it was warm enough that his feet wouldn't freeze.
As he buttoned his shirt and attempted to comb the snarls out of his unruly hair, he reflected for a moment on the changes he'd made in his appearance over the past few years. His wardrobe had been a big change; he'd once worn bright, slightly feminine clothing, but everything had somehow become pale and earthy, all of his colors had a light, greyish overtone. Chloe had once remarked that the bohemian look he'd acquired worked for him, especially since his hair was a bit longer and the curls were always in his face. Aya hadn't been so kind; his comment had been that Michel looked like a disheveled university student, which had made the young man laugh.
He had fought tooth and nail with KR about going to a university. He and Aya had wanted Michel to carry on with his schooling, like Yuki, but after the years of struggling through secondary school, he opted not to. His life had been hard enough and he figured it didn't need to be any more stressful. Twelve years of school were plenty. Unlike Yuki, Michel did not like to be stressed out. Besides, he knew what he was doing with the rest of his life. It was simple…It would be the same as his life had always been. The shop, the occasional bits of assassin work, and Free. He didn't need a higher education to handle any of that and he was perfectly content to spend the rest of his life at the Kitten's House, no matter how upset KR got over it.
The smell of coffee greeted him as he descended the stairs. That meant either Yuki or Ken or both were in the kitchen because they were the only two members of the household who drank coffee. Free, Chloe and Aya all preferred herbal tea. Michel himself drank Earl Grey.
As it turned out, both of the caffeine addicted men were in the kitchen. Yuki was slumped down in a chair at the table and, from the looks of him, he'd undoubtedly pulled another all-nighter. Ken was filling Yuki's favorite mug for him; Yuki liked it black and the smell was nearly overwhelming.
Ken handed the steaming drink to Yuki and emptied the last of the pot into his cherished football mug. If the pot –which held six cups- was already empty, that meant Ken was on his fifth serving…Michel shuddered at the thought of any one with so much caffeine in their system and began cleaning the coffee maker so he could boil water for his tea.
"Morning chibi." Ken was stirring about a cup of sugar into his coffee, which made Michel –again- want to cringe.
"Good morning, you two." He murmured, smiling to himself as grunt of acknowledgement came from Yuki's direction. Once the coffee pot was heating his water, he set about making toast. "Were you up late working on a paper last night, Yuki?"
"He had a date last night." Ken grinned, "With Haku."
"Ohhhh…" Michel nodded knowingly, pulling the butter out of the fridge, "Up late, but not with a paper, then." It was no secret what Yuki did when he was out at night. He was always sort of float-y the following day and besides, there were nights when Haku stayed over and then every one knew just what they were doing. Yuki was loud.
"He's not the only one who was up late last night though, was he?" Ken arched a brow over his mug and Michel blushed.
"It's not like you didn't know…You've been warned and you've had nearly a year to get used to it." He mumbled as his toast popped up. Thankfully, he was able to distract himself by buttering said toast, which saved him from further embarrassing conversation about his love life with Ken.
"Oh, I know." Ken waved a hand dismissively, "We all know. You're not exactly quiet, ya know."
"Ken!" Michel felt his face heat up and he whirled around the face the older man, hair bouncing in his eyes. He brushed it away and attempted a glare, which came out more like a pout. As usual. "Please stop." He was close to begging; it didn't matter how long it had been, he would always be shy about it. Chloe teased him unmercifully and Ken poked fun at him about it periodically, solely because they both knew he would blush.
"Aww, but pestering Free about it is no fun!" Ken pouted, slurping down the last of his coffee. "He just stares at me like I've got two heads or somethin'."
"Has it occurred to you," Michel took a bite of his toast, "That maybe neither of us appreciate your constant comments about," Here he blushed again, "Our sex life?"
"Just keeping things real." Ken grinned at him, setting his mug in the sink and stretching.
"You know it would be really boring here without me to keep you all on your toes. 'Sides, you chibis are the most amusing to tease…You both blush easily."
"Chibi my ass." Yuki grumbled, running a hand through his hair, "I'm only an inch shorter than you now, remember?" He had gotten taller a couple of years ago, making the two small inches Michel had grown look like nothing. Yuki still had the scruffy look of a street kid; he still wore torn jeans and scuffed All-Stars and he always looked as if he was in need of a haircut.
"Yeah, yeah." Ken was having fun with this. Far too much fun, "You're still shorter than me…chibi." He tossed another grin over his shoulder on his way out of the kitchen, pausing in the doorway. "I'm going to visit Kurumi-chan, if either of you want to come."
Yuki made a disgruntled sound in reply, slumping further in his chair and sipping his coffee. Michel frowned softly at him at his rudeness, then looked at Ken. "No; thank you. I have shop duty this afternoon." Michel was relieved he had a plausible excuse. He liked Kurumi; really he did. But some days he just couldn't handle her blinding optimism. It reminded him too much about how he had been in the past. She had the kind of energy Michel once did and it sometimes exhausted him just being near her.
"All right then. See you guys later." With a wave over his shoulder, Ken was gone.
Yuki was staring blearily into his coffee. Michel took another bite of his toast. If there was any one who was less of a morning person than him, it was Yuki. Which actually made Yuki rather…There was no nice way to put it, he was bitchy. Especially after he had been up late. Especially if Aya informed him, when he was leaving for the evening, that he was not to stay overnight at Haku's. Last night had undoubtedly been one of those nights, as Yuki seemed to be in a particularly grumpy mood.
Michel chewed on a crust thoughtfully. Yuki had always been dreadfully protective of him, ever since that night years ago that he'd stumbled into the bathroom and found Michel in the midst of slicing open his legs. But they'd been growing apart…Ever since Yuki had started college and Michel had settled into a life of solid routine, which his therapist said he needed. If he were less of a person, he would have thought that Yuki was abandoning him, but he knew better. It was more like Yuki had fully relinquished the smaller teen to Free; like he'd finally stopped worrying that Free couldn't protect him on his own.
It made him happy that Yuki approved.
"Can you take care of the dishes?" Yuki was rubbing at an eye, his glasses askew on his face, "I've got class in half an hour and I need a shower." He yawned widely, scratching at his shoulder and pushing his hair out of his face.
"Of course I can." Michel offered him a soft smile. "I've nothing better to do at the moment. You go shower so you're ready when Haku gets here." He rose from the table, gathering his plate and Yuki's mug and heading towards the sink.
"Thanks." Another yawn and Yuki managed to drag himself from the chair, "If he gets here before I come down, tell him I won't be long."
"Aye." The smaller boy was already rinsing the dishes and filling the sink basin with sudsy water. He hummed to himself softly as Yuki shuffled out of the room. He had this habit of letting his mind wander when performing a mindless task such as washing the dishes. Only Aya seemed to be under the impression that this was a bad thing; he was always frowning when that dreamy, vacant expression crossed Michel's face. Michel thought it had something to do with the way he used to detach himself from everything; he figured Aya was simply worried about him.
The breakfast dishes barely took any time at all. There weren't many of them; only Ken and Yuki believed in eating large breakfasts and Yuki was rarely up in time to eat one. It was predominantly a collection of mugs and coffee cups which needed washing every morning. A household rule had been established that the last person to leave the kitchen was the one to do the dishes, and that usually wound up being Michel or Yuki. Sometimes Chloe, if he even bothered to have breakfast.
The dishes done, Michel padded down to the shop. He usually went for a walk in the morning before his shift at the shop and part of his routine was checking in with every one else before he headed out.
Aya was setting out displays and watering things. In heat like they'd been having lately, the plants needed watering several times each day and Aya was particularly anal about the task. The heat seemed to be making him exceptionally grouchy; he'd gotten into an intense argument with Ken about the proper way to water and spritz the plants the plants only the afternoon before. The redhead nodded a hello to Michel as he passed by, his gaze still focused on the small tree he was currently watering.
Free was behind the counter, making sure the register was in order. Michel watched for a moment as he counted and recounted the bills and change in the drawer, making notes of how much of each there was.
The shop had been open a couple hours already, but some mornings were slower than others and even Aya got slightly lazy on hot days. It was late August and London was having an unexpected heat wave; the rest of the summer had been a steady seventy degrees or so; no one had thought it would suddenly jump from seventy-two to a sweltering ninety-five in only a matter of days and the heat was making them all lethargic.
Fortunately, the shop was air-conditioned.
Before he got a chance to greet Free, the bells on the shop's door jangled, signaling the arrival of a customer. Or –Michel glanced at his watch- Haku, who arrived at precisely ten forty-five every morning to collect Yuki.
The blond smiled at his friend's lover. "Hullo, Haku."
Michel liked Haku. Even after nearly four years, he was still polite and somewhat shy with the bunch of them and he was quiet, a quality that Michel liked in another person. Haku was still the same; pretty, tiny and gentle. Yuki had always loved the way Haku looked, right down to his near waist-length hair, and the petite Japanese boy had never changed a thing about himself.
"Ohayo." Haku smiled shyly in return, pulling his hair over his shoulder and twisting it into a loose braid. Michel envied that hair; it was so thick and shiny and, most importantly, straight. The blond liked his own curly mop, but, well, it sometimes got annoying. "How are you feeling this morning, Michel-kun?"
"I'm okay." The smile became a little strained. Michel hated when people asked after his well being; it made him feel like they thought he couldn't look after himself. "Yuki is getting dressed. He'll be down in a couple minutes."
Haku nodded and, spotting Aya across the shop, padded off. Michel frowned softly, wishing Yuki hadn't told Haku everything about him. While the blond could understand his friend's desire to confide in his lover, it was really none of Haku's business what went on in Michel's life.
"Why do you not just tell him that you do not appreciate his asking you that every morning?" Free asked quietly, counting out a handful of coins and placing them in the appropriate compartment in the drawer.
Michel shrugged. "I think it makes him feel like he's doing something to help. What's the harm in letting him believe that?" He twirled a curl around his finger, green gaze never leaving Free's face. "Besides," He smiled impishly, a faint echo of what he had once been, "It's become something of a routine and Doctor Schulz says routine is good for me, yes?"
"Ja." The other man nodded in agreement, the barest hint of a smile crossing his face, "And Haku does care about you, even though you do not know one another particularly well."
"Aye; he does." Michel glided across the room to the counter, looking up at the man who had loved him nearly his entire life. Free had said more than once he was lucky to have Michel; but the young man thought the opposite to be true. He was incredibly lucky to have Free in his life; he didn't know where he would be without him.
"Your hair is getting long." Free reached over, long fingers stroking through the untamed curls and Michel shivered.
"Should I cut it?" He asked softly, "It has been a while since my last trim…"
The other man shook his head. "Leave it as it is. It suits you."
"You think?" Michel peered up through the bangs falling in his eyes, "It gets in the way, at times. And it's not the best in this weather…But it's not as bad as Haku's, I suppose. I can't even begin to imagine how he can stand having so much hair when it's so hot."
"Yuki likes it; that is why Haku puts up with it." Free commented mildly, dark gaze casually examining Michel as if looking for something askew. "I know you hate when I ask, but are you unwell?" He paused, "You look unusually serious this morning."
"I was just thinking…" Michel leaned against the counter, propping his chin up on his hand and tapping one foot lightly against the floor.
"Oh?" Free quirked a brow, "Thinking about what?"
The younger man fidgeted under his gaze. It was far from the appropriate time and place for this discussion, but before he realized what he was doing, he'd blurted it out. "Am I ugly?"
Free's eyes widened slightly. "Ugly?" He repeated softly, "How could you possibly think that you are ugly?"
Michel pushed back from the counter, turning away. It drove him crazy when Free answered a question with another question. "You've seen what's under my clothes…I'm a mess." He whispered, "I made myself ugly."
He started; surprised at suddenly finding himself lifted, turned round and sitting on the counter facing Free so that they were eye to eye. Dark eyes peered into his as Free looked at him, gaze sad. "You are not ugly, Michel. Far from it, you are beautiful. What you did to yourself does not change that fact." He stated quietly.
"You have to say things like that." He felt bad the moment he said it, but he couldn't help himself, "You have to say it because we're…well, you know. But that doesn't make it true. I'm not beautiful." Michel looked away again, ashamed for thinking such things, but there were just too many insecurities for him to not think them. "Don't think I haven't noticed how you touch all of my scars when you're holding me; that I missed the look on your face when you do it. You wish they weren't there, don't you? That's why you never stay in the morning. You don't want to see…" He could feel his throat restricting. If he looked at Free, he would start to cry.
"Michel…" Free gently turned the younger man so that they were eye to eye once more. He looked sad and Michel felt guilty. "You do not understand. Each and every scar on your body, regardless of where it came from, is a reminder of how many times I could have lost you and how lucky I am to have you. And yes, I have seen what is beneath your clothes and I have enjoyed it very much." He quirked a brow, half a smile tugging at his lips, "Especially the things of which no one else is aware."
Michel blushed. "Like the tattoo?" He asked shyly.
A crooked grin crossed Free's face. "Exactly." The tattoo had both surprised and pleased him. Michel had never seemed like the body art type. Nevertheless, a small, scrawled version of Free's name had appeared over his tailbone, just above where the curve of his ass began. It was inked dark green in Celtic script, with a pair of feathery angel wings framing the "F" and the second "E." Free had discovered it there on Valentine's Day; how Michel had managed to get it done without him finding out was still a mystery, but he'd been told that it was part of his Valentine's gift.
"As for not staying in bed in the morning…" The older man continued, his hands rising to settle on Michel's narrow hips, thumbs stroking teasingly through loose fabric, "If I were to stay with you, neither of us would ever leave the bed."
The little blond blushed brighter, squirming at the feather-light touches and ducking his head. "That wouldn't be a bad thing!" He rushed out, blushing all over again, "Although…" His green gaze slid to the side, taking in Aya still watering the plants, lost in his own little world, "I can't imagine Aya would allow us to remain in bed all day."
"I can't imagine Aya would ever allow you to sit on that counter, either." Chloe had appeared in the room, immaculately groomed as usual, with a newspaper tucked under his arm and a mug of tea in his hand. He was watching the couple with a brow arched, waiting for Michel to remove his bottom from the counter at which he was to position himself.
"Sorry!" The teen squeaked, face still pink. He slid hurriedly off the shelf, ready to make an escape before Chloe started teasing, but Free caught him by the arm and tugged him close, fixing a "not a word" glare on the older blond. Michel buried his face in Free's chest, willing the persistent blush away as Free stroked his hair fondly.
"I apologize, Michel." Chloe spread the newspaper open on the recently vacated counter, "It hadn't been my intent to embarrass you…this time." He offered the teen –who peeked out at him- a winning smile and Michel stuck his tongue out in response.
Michel looked back up at Free, cheeks and nose still pink. "I'm going now." He said, arms still wrapped loosely around his taller companion, "I'll be back in a little while. And yes, I have my cell phone in my pocket." He smiled sweetly, teasing; Free worried over him every time he left alone.
One of Free's large hands rose, gently brushing back Michel's curls. He ducked down to press a soft kiss to the smaller man's forehead, ruffling his hair fondly. "Be safe." He would have loved to give Michel a proper kiss, but Aya was particularly vehement about there being no public displays of affection in the shop. He didn't care if they hugged, but other than that…Aya thought it was improper conduct in the workplace.
"I will." Michel nuzzled the hand affectionately, hugged Free again and padded towards the door, waving over his shoulder at Chloe.