"Are you sure you have to go to work? You already took the morning off, why not the whole day?" Chuck shuffled his feet, standing beside the U-Haul with his hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched. He gave Michael his most pathetic pout, though it gave way to a crooked little smile almost immediately. "What am I supposed to do without my big strong man to move all these boxes?"
Michael let out a soft huff, not quite a laugh, and ducked down to kiss Chuck. "You'll be fine. I trust in your box-moving abilities."
With a slight frown, Chuck said, "You shouldn't trust in something that doesn't exist." He bounced a little where he stood, glancing down at the ground. Pulled his hands from his pockets so he could drape his arms across Michael's shoulders. "Michael," He lowered his voice. "I can't move the couch on my own. I can't even move the box of kitchen supplies on my own." He pressed his face against Michael's neck. Breathed in the clean, citrus-y smell that lingered on his warm skin. "How am I supposed to get everything out of the truck before five?"
With a quiet hum, Michael muttered, "I talked to the neighbor when we looked at the house last week. He'll help you." He pulled away from Chuck enough to kiss his forehead. "Make sure you eat lunch, and I'll get groceries on my way home. Probably some takeout, as well. Is there anything you'd like for dinner?" He straightened his tie as he spoke.
"I dunno." Chuck shrugged, chewing on his lip as he thought. "Just bring whatever. Who's the neighbor who's gonna help?"
Michael pointed.
A tall man with a shaved head was making his way from his porch to the sidewalk. He waved, as he approached, but didn't smile. He seemed grumpy. Chuck flapped his hand in a sad attempt at a wave back.
"Name's Rufus Turner."
Chuck took Rufus' proffered hand, and shook. "Uh—Chuck. Chuck Shurley." Rufus' grip was tight. Chuck tried to seem calm and collected but he ended up nearly tripping when he stepped away from the handshake. He caught himself on the side of the truck.
Beside him, Michael held out a steadying hand. Briefly patted Chuck's back before leaning close to say, "I'm going now. Be careful." He kissed Chuck.
Chuck watched him start the car with a vaguely distressed expression on his face, lip caught between his teeth and eyebrows drawn together, as he twisted the sleeve of his sweater between cold fingers. He waved as the black Mercedes pulled away from the curb. Michael drove off, and Chuck didn't know what to do with himself.
He looked up at the clouds hanging low in the sky and hoped it wouldn't snow or rain.
"So, let's open this thing up." Rufus knocked a fist against the side of the truck.
Chuck jumped. "Oh—right. Right, let's... do that." He scurried around to unlock the back of the U-Haul and with a little effort he managed to slide the door up most of the way. A broom fell out onto the road with a clatter, startling Chuck, but everything else stayed firmly in place. He stepped to the side and helped Rufus pull the ramp out. It creaked, and felt like ice on Chuck's fingers in the December air, but it moved smoothly and seemed sturdy enough.
For the next two hours at least, Chuck found himself mostly sidelined while Rufus—despite being something like twenty years Chuck's senior—hauled boxes out of the truck. Chuck tried to help as much as possible, by moving small things like a box of clothes or a potted plant, but he got tired and dizzy, and his head started to hurt, so he ended up sitting inside by the baseboard heater in the empty living room, warming up his hands. He listened to the sound of Rufus' boots on the floorboards, and the scrape of cardboard on wood, and the crunch of frost on the gravel path outside, as Rufus walked to and from the truck.
He must have fallen asleep, because the next thing he knew, Rufus was shaking him by the shoulder and saying something about taking the truck to the store.
"What?" Chuck rubbed his eyes, scrunching his face up, and yawned.
Rufus rolled his eyes. "I was just sayin', if you want, I can take the truck down to the U-Haul store to turn it in for you. At the very least, I can follow you in my car and give you a ride back."
"Oh—" Chuck used the wall to stand up, and swayed a moment. He blinked away his dizziness, and nodded. "If you could give me a ride back that'd be really cool... Um..." He wobbled his way to the front door. Glanced around as he did so, at the boxes stacked in the hallway. "Thank you for doing... all this. I mean... really, thanks."
"No problem." Rufus followed him outside. "You sure you're alright, though? You're swaying worse than my mailbox."
Chuck laughed. He crossed his arms in the cold afternoon air and said, "Just low blood pressure and stuff. I'm used to it."
Rufus grunted. "Don't they make meds for that kinda thing?"
"Well," Chuck fumbled with the key before he managed to get the door to the U-Haul's cab open. "It's kind of because of meds. I'm used to it." He gestured vaguely at himself and climbed up into the driver's seat. Fumbled for his glasses while Rufus nodded. The older man went off for his own car, and Chuck waited until Rufus had started his engine before pulling out of the driveway.
He didn't like to drive the moving truck—didn't like to drive the Mercedes, either, but at least that was smaller. But nothing terrible happened, on their way to the U-Haul store. Chuck didn't lose control of the wheel, the breaks didn't go out, the engine didn't explode. The truck just grumbled down the road with him fidgeting behind the wheel, worrying about everything that could go wrong. (What if he got pulled over? What if he passed out? What if he hit a skunk? What if, what if, what if.) But... no accidents.
The man behind the counter at the U-Haul store didn't bat an eye at Chuck's nervous bouncing. Didn't even really look at Chuck while he cleared everything. Chuck felt a little relieved, and he made his way back outside as quickly as possible. A few flakes of snow drifted from the sky as he hopped over to Rufus' old, rusty car. The breeze picked up. He wished he hadn't accidentally packed all of his jackets into boxes.
Rufus waited for Chuck to buckle himself in before he even started the engine, but as far as actual driving went... Well, Chuck ended up clutching at the door handle, while Rufus took turns perhaps a little too fast. Chuck wasn't sure if he preferred Rufus' reckless driving, or Michael's. (They both drove too fast but at least Michael slowed before turns.) In any case, Chuck liked being the passenger more than the driver, since he didn't need to worry about whether or not the aftereffects of his medication would cause an accident. And he technically wasn't supposed to drive, anyway.
With Rufus' speed, they got back to their neighborhood in no time.
As Rufus got out of his car, he laughed. "Tell you what, boy—" He popped his back. "How about you come over for lunch, and keep me company."
"Yeah?" If anyone else had said something like that, Chuck might have backed off and declined as fast as he could. But with Rufus, he meant what he said. No innuendo—Chuck figured he could trust him. Probably.
"Sure." Rufus shrugged. "Old man like me needs someone to talk to sometimes, and I need to drink all of my orange juice before it goes bad. Could use some help." He sauntered up his driveway, toward his own front porch, with its old wood and chipped gray paint. "Anyway, I promised your man I'd keep an eye on you."
Chuck crossed his arms, glancing up at the dark clouds in the sky. "I... I dunno." He bit the inside of his cheek. "I really should get some stuff unpacked. At least... important things like knives and toilet paper—sorry, that... sounded weird." He coughed, partially from embarrassment and partially from the cold air. "Another time, though? Maybe? I promise I won't be doing anything more dangerous than going up some stairs." Chuck trailed after Rufus, anyway. Just in case he decided to change his mind and go inside.
With a laugh, Rufus clapped Chuck on the back—Chuck couldn't help but flinch, surprised. The old man didn't seem to notice, though, and he said, "You come over any time. I won't bite, much. Promise." He gave Chuck one of those winks that would be creepy if he were anything but a fifty-something year old man, and moved away, up his front steps.
Chuck fidgeted for a moment in the driveway, then decided to get his butt inside, out of the lightly falling snow.
The new house wasn't much warmer inside, but he figured that would change once the heaters got going for a while. Though he could have sworn he left them on when he returned the truck. He shrugged to himself, and picked his way through a small maze of cardboard boxes until he found one labeled, "SPOONS AND STUFF" in his own crooked handwriting. He didn't remember what exactly the box held other than, presumably, all of their spoons. As it turned out, it held several types of flour, a box of oatmeal, and a few types of grains—quinoa, barley and bulgur. Nothing surprising. Of course, it happened to also contain several bags of marshmallows, underneath everything else. Still not surprising. Chuck shook his head, and slowly began to unpack anything related to the kitchen. He snacked on some mixed nuts he found with the silverware, as he set things on the counters and in the cupboards.
Later, around three in the afternoon, while Chuck sat folding recently unpacked clothes on the couch (situated in the middle of the living room, crookedly placed, but more comfortable than the wooden floor) his cell phone rang. He set a pair of jeans aside to answer. "Hello?"
The connection crackled for a second, but then Michael spoke on the other end. "Chuck. Is everything going well? Did you eat lunch?"
"Oh." Chuck fiddled with the half-folded jeans in his lap, picking at the buttonhole. "I ate some nuts but I forgot to... actually eat. But—" He cut off Michael's scolding response to say, "But everything's okay and the kitchen is sort of half-unpacked and I put toilet paper upstairs. I'm okay, I swear. I'll eat something."
Eventually, Michael sighed. "Order something, okay? You know where the cash is?"
Chuck nodded. Remembered Michael could not, in fact, see him through the phone and muttered, "Found the money jar in the clean shirts. Are you sure? I could just... We have... oats... and flour... Nutritional yeast...?"
"Order something." Michael's tone, despite an undercurrent of amusement, brooked no argument. "I don't want you passing out like you did last time." Last time being the day Chuck forgot to eat breakfast and lunch and ended up fainting up a flight of stairs. Not fun, and not something Chuck felt desperate to reenact.
"Okay, okay." Chuck bit the inside of his cheek. "Can you... Well, do you think you can maybe stop by the pharmacy? Is that—this is such a new town, though, for us..."
Michael let out a quiet breath, and the line crackled. "You need a refill for your Prozac?"
Chuck nodded. Again, remembered Michael couldn't see him, and let out a soft little, "Yeah." He drew his legs up underneath him, to sit on his cold feet. "There's enough for a couple days but it's running low."
"What about the Vasoflex?"
"No."
"Nothing for the others? They're good for a while, right? A bag of candy? Anything you need?"
Chuck hummed, letting his eyes drift shut as he thought. "Nope, I have plenty. You always say candy is bad for my teeth, anyway! Stick to your own rules. Gosh. But... I think we're out of condoms? And tampons." He rubbed his mouth. "Oh, and the bag of rice you packed had moths in it, and it was disgusting, so we need new rice. And some kind of vegetable, probably, but I'm sure I don't need to tell you that." He lay down on the couch, curled on his side. "What time will you get home?"
Silence for a moment, then, "Probably not until eight, at the earliest." He seemed to sense Chuck's impending protest, because he rushed to say, "I'm sorry, Chuck. My boss wants me to stay late, and we really do need groceries. I can't get home much earlier than that. I'm sorry." He paused. "I'll call you before I go to the store, and I'll bring home something special for you, okay? I know you've been craving Thai food. Do you want Thai for dinner?"
"...Okay. Yeah—yes. Thai. Please." Chuck resisted the urge to bury his face in the cushions. He didn't want to scratch his glasses on the rough fabric. "Bring me fried calamari and a dozen roses, and maybe I'll forgive you for coming home so late." He smiled to himself. It was mostly a joke. Mostly.
Michael laughed, softly. "I'll bring you two dozen just to be sure."
"Love you, Michael."
"I love you too. Eat something, and I'll be home with groceries. Bye, now."
"Bye." Chuck snapped his phone shut and set it on the floor, and pulled his glasses off as well to put them beside it. He took a deep breath—shaky—and let it out slow. Thought calm thoughts. Or... tried to, but couldn't prevent a little bit of a whimper in the back of his throat. Too much stress and a hectic day, after the long drive across the state, and all that unpacking. And his stomach hurt, from hunger and from an unhappy digestive system. He cursed his body, mind, and medications, and wobbled to his feet to head to the kitchen for the money jar. He used the wall to steady himself, a couple of times. His head was doing that thing where it made the floor tilt. A lot.
Chuck swore quietly, as he sank down to his knees. His vision blurred (unrelated to his bad eyesight), and he felt static-y, but he didn't think he would pass out. He'd just stood up and moved too quickly, and his blood pressure had decided to fuck him up in return. His face scrunched up, as he waited for his sight to clear. When he blinked away the blurriness, he slowly, slowly pulled himself back to his feet. Leaned on the wall and breathed deliberately for a few seconds, and finally got over to the box of clean clothes by the stairs.
He retrieved the mason jar full of change and ten dollar bills, and made his way back to the couch. He also made a brief detour to collect the phone book sitting on the porch, gathering dew and melting snow on its plastic slipcase. He'd need it to figure out what places delivered... But he had time. He sat on the couch, ignoring the dull throbbing in his head, and blinked a few times. He couldn't quite make out the words in the phone book. Then he remembered his glasses, and put them back on, and the fuzzy words clarified into phone numbers and addresses.
After some debate between Chinese takeout and pizza, Chuck decided to call Domino's and ordered a small pizza with no sauce and extra cheese. Basically, cheese-covered dough. Bad for his stomach but good for his taste buds. When he hung up, he slumped in his spot on the couch with the cash jar between his knees, and wished he could remember the Wi-Fi password. (Because Michael had set up the internet the week before, but Chuck had misplaced the slip of paper with the network's information. And he hadn't had a chance to use it yet, so his computer wouldn't automatically connect. A true tragedy.)
Eventually, as the hour hand on Chuck's watch neared five, the doorbell rang.
Chuck lurched to his feet and almost tripped on a pile of folded laundry, taking two ten dollar bills with him as he went to answer the door. He got dizzy again, and had to lean on the doorframe for a minute while the delivery woman got his pizza out of her big black bag. He handed her the money (and a tip too) with a shy, "Thanks," and carried it to the kitchen. He half-wished he'd thought to order some soda, but just shrugged it off and searched for a plate or a bowl or something to put his pizza on.
He found a plate, luckily, and rinsed it off just to make sure it wasn't dusty. But he couldn't find a dish towel, so he wiped the wet plate on his shirt. Unpleasant, but pizza was worth it, to him. His shirt would dry. Pizza would not.
After he ate, Chuck drifted in and out of partial unconsciousness, unable to fall asleep, but not quite able to stay fully aware of his surroundings. A side effect of his sleep medications and his exhaustion from moving to a different state. He dozed on the couch until his phone rang and vibrated against the wood floor, startling him fully awake. He fumbled for the cell, and answered with a breathless, "Michael?"
"You ate?"
"I ate." Chuck cleared his throat and sat up, rubbing his eyes with a big yawn. "Pizza."
Michael sounded relieved when he said, "Good, good." He seemed to be walking, probably to or from the car if Chuck had to guess. "I stopped by the pharmacy to request a refill, like you asked. Won't be done until tomorrow but it all went smoothly. I'm almost done with the groceries, and I got rice, and tampons, and... you know, everything else."
"Michael, you can say 'condom,' it's not a bad word." Chuck laughed. "You said you'd get something special, and I thought of something I want."
"...And what might that be?"
Chuck stood, carefully, and said, "Ice cream. But not like, some big tub or whatever." He stretched his arms over his head with a squeak. "I want a bag of those little cups of orange and vanilla sherbet."
"Are you pregnant?"
"What?!" Chuck reached out to balance himself against the couch. "No! I'm just stressed! And I was on my period until like... yesterday. It's like leftover cravings." He sat back down with a huff, and crossed an arm across his chest. He rolled his eyes. "Just get me some ice cream. Please?"
Michael laughed. "I'm on it. Orange sherbet, and since I'm getting you ice cream, I'm also buying boring, high-fiber cereal instead of Lucky Charms."
Chuck whined, as he splayed himself across the cushions, and muttered, "Fiiiiine" under his breath. "You're still getting Thai for dinner, right?"
"Yes. Thai for a very late dinner. If they have takeout cups for drinks, do you want iced coffee to save until the morning?"
"Pleeease." Chuck grinned to himself. "Please, please, I'll love you forever."
More laughter, quiet and somewhat taken aback. "Well, I should hope you'd love me forever even if I didn't buy you iced coffee." Michael paused. "But thank you for the eternal affection. I'll see you soon."
"Byeeee." Chuck made a kissing noise and hung up. He lay very still for a few minutes, until his bladder informed him that he desperately needed to pee. So he took care of that, and lingered in the hall for a while trying to decide whether he should finish folding the laundry, or put sheets on the mattress, which sat behind the couch because neither Chuck nor Rufus possessed the ability to move it up the stairs, even helping each other. (Because Chuck's "helping" consisted of either standing by twiddling his thumbs or shoving at the mattress and not really moving it.)
He went with sheets. Unpacked them from their tall box, and set about making the mattress look as nice as a lone mattress could. He even folded down the edge of the blankets over the pillows, and tucked in the corners all fancy-like. He admired his handiwork, and decided to ruin it by laying down on top of the blankets and messing them up. Made it look more... homey. Lived-in. And he would probably have to redo it anyway, when they moved the bed upstairs. Unless Michael decided to move the mattress without taking off the sheets or the blankets (which seemed only slightly likely.)
Chuck sighed.
Just then, headlights flashed across the half-lit living room through the curtainless windows, and Chuck heard the sound of a familiar engine. He hauled himself to his feet eagerly. He made it to the front door just as it opened—got up on his tiptoes to kiss Michael, careful not to crush the bouquet of red and white roses in his arms. Michael held the roses out to the side and kissed him back, chaste but warm and insistent. He pulled away enough to smile and pushed the bouquet into Chuck's hands.
"I said I would bring you flowers." He kissed Chuck again, on the cheek. On the mouth again, as well, softly. "Because you're special," A kiss. "And I love you," One more. "And to say thank you for putting up with my work schedule." One last kiss, more prolonged, with Chuck's face framed between his hands. Finally, he said, "I'm going to get the food, and you can put the flowers in a vase, or a bowl, or whatever will hold them." He smiled, and walked back outside, where small flakes of snow drifted on the breeze.
Chuck couldn't stop smiling (because, obviously, he was some kind of love-struck puppy) as he searched the kitchen for something to put the flowers in. He found a blue glass vase in a half-unpacked box under the dining table, and gave it a quick rinse before filling it half full and setting the roses in it. He admired them, and set them on the windowsill above the sink.
Michael came into the kitchen carrying several bulging grocery bags and a plastic bag from some Thai restaurant. Chuck took them, and Michael went back outside to gather the rest of the groceries while Chuck worked on putting away the food. Coldest first—into the freezer with a lot of bags of vegetables and fruit, some cans of juice, a package of salmon, and the like. And, oh joy, a big bag of sherbet cups. Chuck shoved the ice cream in last and snuck one of the cups out, with its little wooden stick. But Michael walked in as he did so, and raised his eyebrows, smiling but stern. Not forbidding, just... implying Chuck should wait until after dinner. Chuck sighed and put it back.
"You're no fun."
"And you need to eat real food first. You don't want to be sick, do you?" Michael shook the melting snowflakes from his hair as he put the last of the groceries on the floor. He moved to help Chuck put away the rest of the cold food, and put the new bag of rice in the pantry near the door leading to the backyard. Chuck peeked into the pantry. It was long and narrow, parallel to the hallway, and lined with shelves. The washer and dryer sat against one wall underneath a couple of cupboards, as well. It reminded him of a walk-in closet, but for food and laundry. The walls were a nice shade of light orange—it matched the upstairs bathroom and reminded Chuck of the sherbet in the freezer. He poked around in the pantry, while Michael went back into the kitchen. Michael accidentally turned the lights off, though, so Chuck scurried out after him. He didn't really like being in the dark. At least, not that kind of dark—windowless and sudden.
So, to entertain himself, he bothered Michael while he tried to put away the various non-perishable items he'd gotten from the store. He draped himself across Michael's back when Michael knelt down to pull some cleaning supplies from a bag. Michael retaliated by standing up too quick for Chuck to back away, picking him up—hooked his hands under Chuck's thighs to keep him from falling. Chuck yelped and wrapped his arms around Michael's shoulders. But he laughed, and clung to Michael while Michael threw the box of condoms he'd bought across the hallway, from the kitchen to the living room. (They hit the edge of the couch arm and fell to the floor.)
Michael bundled up the empty grocery bags and shoved them in a drawer. He moved to one of the boxes of kitchen supplies, to get out what Chuck hadn't unpacked. Chuck slid from his back and whined, "I'm hungry, Michael. Can't you put stuff away after dinner? It's gonna get cold!"
"Fine, fine." Michael straightened up and planted his hands on his hips. "Dinner, and I'll unpack some more after you fall asleep. Deal?"
"Deal." Chuck grabbed a plate from one of the many boxes on the floor and stood impatiently by the counter, to wait for Michael to dish out their food.
Michael snorted. "You're like a child when you're hungry." He found his own plate and the silverware, and scooped some noodles out for them—slightly more for himself, but still plenty for Chuck, with a fresh spring roll on the side. He handed Chuck a fork. "They didn't have cups to take home drinks, but I got some mix from the store and I can make you iced coffee in the morning. Or you can make it yourself if you wake up earlier than me, as you so often do." He put the empty takeout container aside and ushered Chuck to the dining table.
"You're the best husband on the planet." Chuck plopped himself down at the table. He waited for Michael to mutter a quick prayer—that had been weird, when they first started dating and eating dinner together more often, but he'd gotten used to it after a few weeks. Then he shoved a forkful of pad kee mao into his mouth. Michael laughed at his enthusiasm, so Chuck kicked him (gently) under the table. Michael made a face.
"Violence is never the answer, darling."
Chuck narrowed his eyes. "Says the guy who punched his underage brother in the face at Christmas last year."
Michael frowned. "He stuck his hand up your shirt."
"It was a joke!"
"Did you think it was funny?" Michael raised his eyebrows. When Chuck shrugged and shook his head, Michael muttered, "You didn't like it, but you didn't tell him not to do it... So I punched him. Justice."
Chuck snorted. "'Justice.' What, are you Wonder Woman?"
Michael nodded and continued to eat.
After dinner, Chuck took his promethazine tablets, and brushed his teeth in the bathroom on the second floor. Rather than go down the stairs alone, he waited for Michael to finish his nighttime routine, and clung to his side down the steps, feeling somewhat lightheaded. He leaned heavily against Michael when they made it to the mattress. He liked the warmth Michael gave off.
Michael lay down with him, draping an arm over his side, and smiled. He kissed Chuck. It grew a little heated—a little more fervent than when he'd gotten home. His hands wandered, too. Just a bit, sliding up under Chuck's oversized t-shirt.
Chuck said, between kisses, "If you wanna have sex you're gonna have to do it now or wait until the morning." He rolled onto his back and pulled Michael with him. "You know the sleep meds kick in fast for me."
"Well, it's up to you."
"Where are the condoms?"
With a hum, Michael sat up and looked around. He found the box by the couch, right where it landed when he threw it earlier.
Chuck watched Michael as he grabbed a condom, and continued to watch as he realized he needed lube and started looking for it. "If you don't hurry up, I'm gonna fall asleep, and then you're gonna have to wait." He grinned, lazily, and folded his arms behind his head.
"Oh, shush." Michael found the lube in a box of books, and tossed it at Chuck, who attempted to catch it and failed miserably. Michael rolled his eyes, stripping out of his pajamas entirely. He made his way back to Chuck's side and murmured, "You want me to stop if you fall asleep, right?" He reached for the waistband of Chuck's boxers, kissing the little sliver of his tummy exposed under the hem of his shirt.
Thoughtfully silent for a moment, while Michael undressed him, Chuck shook his head. "You can keep going, as long as you're gentle. And I know you will be, so it's okay. I trust you." He reached out for Michael and pulled him close enough to kiss, smile drowsy and blissful. Turned his head to yawn, and patted Michael's face.
"On second thought," Michael set the as-yet still wrapped condom aside. "I think I'll wait. You're obviously not much longer for the world of the waking. I wouldn't feel right." He ran a hand up Chuck's side, idly, dropping a few soft kisses across Chuck's cheeks and forehead. He settled atop Chuck, careful not to squish him. "I'm a patient man."
He pressed his lips to Chuck's before Chuck could say anything, so Chuck just wrapped his arms around Michael with a quiet, pleased little purring noise. He wrapped his legs around Michael's hips, too, clinging close and running his fingers up through the short hair at the nape of Michael's neck. Michael kept kissing him and kissing him, until Chuck had to push at him to draw in a deep breath.
"You tryin' to make me pass out faster?" Chuck frowned—it turned into a pout, and he blinked sluggishly. "Gotta breathe."
"Sorry." Michael ran his thumb along Chuck's jaw and kissed him again.
Chuck nuzzled against Michael's neck. "I guess I forgive you." He yawned, and blinked again a few times. Ran his fingers over the bare skin of Michael's shoulder. "Put your underwear back on. Your dick might freeze off in the middle of the night—" He broke off into a yawn. "—an' then I might have to divorce you."
Michael snorted, ducking his head and grinning. "How shallow of you." He kissed Chuck's temple and rolled off of him. He wormed his way back into his pajamas, and when he looked over at Chuck the smaller man had just about fallen asleep, head at a somewhat awkward angle, tangled up in the sheets, with his boxers still halfway pulled down. Michael smiled to himself and readjusted Chuck to be more comfortable, and fixed his underwear.
He looked around the living room. Realized the windows were completely bare and decided the first thing he would do in the half-light from the single lamp in the corner of the room was hang some curtains. Even just lace curtains would be better than none. In his sweats, he wandered from box to box, looking for what he needed.
He ended up hanging floral lace curtains, the color of periwinkle blossoms (and a gift from some distant aunt) across the big picture window at the front of the room. A slight pink-orange glow from the streetlamps outside filtered through the flowery pattern of the lace and mottled the couch with blotches of light the color of ice cream. He found the smaller curtains, sheer and polyester, and hung them across the little windows along the side of the room. Later, he wanted to find the blackout curtains, and put those in the bedroom upstairs. But for the moment, he left the idea of curtains alone and went to finish putting away the rest of the stuff in the kitchen.
He didn't stay up much longer. In fact, he was in bed by ten. Chuck stirred briefly, shivering, when Michael first slipped under the covers, but he just ended up letting out a gentle sigh and sticking his ice cold nose against Michael's collarbone. Michael wrapped him up tight in his arms—willed the tiny little tremors to stop, and did his best to share his body heat with Chuck. Curled around him, bundled up so a cocoon of warmth enveloped them both. Chuck's shivers subsided and he relaxed more fully against Michael's chest, breathing softly—if a little congested.
"...Michael?" Chuck sat up on the mattress, rubbing his eyes. He squinted in Michael's direction. (Michael stood in the hall going through a small box of books.) Chuck paused. Seemed uncertain. "Hey, did we do anything last night?"
Michael looked up from the books with a frown. "What do you mean?"
"Like, sex? I kinda... can't remember much after you went looking for the lube..." Chuck made a face. "Sometimes those meds really get to me, I guess. And I was so tired..." He rubbed the back of his neck with a grimace, and yawned.
"Oh—no." Michael came over to Chuck and sank down onto the mattress beside him, and wrapped an arm around him. He kissed his cheek. "You were much too dazed. I couldn't." He rubbed his thumb in gentle circles against Chuck's hip, and said, "You were still relatively coherent but your expression seemed somewhat... distant. So I decided I'd better not."
Chuck ducked his head. "Thanks." He smiled, feeling strangely shy, and leaned into Michael.
Michael nodded, and murmured, "I could never take advantage of you like that."
Blushing, Chuck tilted his head back so he could press his lips to Michael's, and curled his hand loosely in Michael's shirt. Michael kissed back, with his hand against the small of Chuck's back, warm and firm. His hand drifted up to clasp the back of Chuck's head, fingers tangling in his shaggy curls. For a moment, he pulled away to mutter, "You need a haircut." Chuck just pulled him back in with a vague, noncommittal noise that might have been agreement, but might have been disagreement. Clearly, he cared more for kissing than talking about haircuts.
But Michael pulled back and sighed and said, "Much as I would love to follow this to its logical conclusion, it's getting late." He cupped Chuck's face in his hands, with one last kiss on the tip of his nose. "I have to go to work, but I made your coffee and it's in the fridge. There are cold pancakes too." He stood and stretched.
"Wait—" Chuck grabbed at his leg. "What time is it? You never make breakfast."
"It's almost eight, Chuck." Michael laughed, quietly. He crossed his arms. "As for breakfast—You've been stressed, so I figured you might appreciate not having to make breakfast for once." He leaned down to help Chuck to his feet, and ruffled his hair. "I'll be back in time for dinner. Okay?"
Chuck wrinkled his nose. "Okay. I can't believe I slept in that late though."
Michael made a face, and rolled his eyes. As he stepped away, he said, "Most people would argue that eight in the morning is not, in fact, 'late.'" He grinned. "But I guess you do tend to go to bed at seven or eight, which adds up." He walked backwards toward the hall.
Just as he turned, Chuck huffed and muttered, "Twelve hours is a long time to sleep."
Michael smiled to himself. "I'll see you when I get home, Chuck. Don't despair too much over your wasted morning."
"Yeah, see you later."
Chuck grumbled to himself and made his way to the kitchen as Michael got out the front door. He made a beeline for the fridge.
"Sarcastic butt."
He took out the plastic juice pitcher—full of Thai iced coffee rather than apple juice, and poured himself a glass. It seemed more suitable than a mug, and anyway it was the only cup he could find. He put a couple of the smaller pancakes in the toaster (fast and easy) while he sipped his coffee. The smell of warming pancakes made his stomach turn, a little, but his hunger overpowered the slight nausea. When he went to grab a fork, he found a sticky note stuck to the as-yet unorganized silverware that read, "Take your pills."
He groaned.
"Pills, pills, pills." But he made his way to his bag and downed his Prozac and Vasoflex with coffee. "I'm a grown-up. I can do stuff without being reminded."
The pancakes popped up, and he jumped. The toaster always startled him. He took a moment to regain his calm before snatching out the now-crispy pancakes, wincing a little at the heat on his fingertips. He ended up slathering them in peanut butter because Michael hadn't bought any maple syrup yet. Chuck would need to remind him. Peanut butter was good though—made him thirsty, but it went well with the coffee since it wasn't too sweet. And he liked peanut butter well enough on its own.
Chuck took his time eating at the kitchen table—which Michael had moved into the open area of the kitchen, out of the way and parallel to the wall with space for chairs. He looked out the window across the kitchen, above the sink. Couldn't see much other than the bare branches of a tree in the backyard, and the gray sky. Looked like rain, though. Gloomy and cold, and pale. A mirror to the gloomy cold of the front yard, visible through the big window by the kitchen table.
After he finished his pancakes, Chuck wandered over to the window, glass in hand, and peered out at the backyard. Spacious. Empty, for the time being. A shed adjacent to the back of the house, a tree off by the fence, and some drooping rhododendron and rose bushes—ugly, without their flowers. Just a bunch of shriveled leaves hanging from the branches. In the spring, though, Chuck imagined it would look nice, all blooming and red, with the lawn furniture set up on the paved area along the side of the house. They could have picnics. Or something like that.
When he went to take a sip from his coffee, he found the glass empty. So he put it in the sink, instead, and filled it with water, and watched the milky bubbles float and overflow into the drain.
He turned his attention away from the glass, and looked around the kitchen. He wondered where Michael had moved the blue vase of roses.
It was on the table. Chuck had eaten with it less than a foot from his face and hadn't noticed at all. He shook his head and walked over to take one of the flowers—a white one—from the vase, and turned it over in his hand, running a thumb up the wet, thornless stem. He smiled.
"Aren't you pretty." Chuck sniffed the rose, and frowned. "Why am I talking to a cut flower?" He set the flower back where it came from, stroking a petal briefly before stepping away. He went to the living room. Poked at the curtains, and peered out the front window at the street. Barren, and frosty. The dead grass in the lawn sparkled in the dim light filtering through the clouds.
Chuck grabbed his laptop and settled on the couch to write for a while.
He took a bathroom break, once or twice, but mostly just lay on the couch typing, with his computer settled warm and humming on his stomach. The writing sucked him in, and he really only stopped to think or adjust his glasses.
He finally closed the computer to stretch and use the bathroom again, when his stomach growled, and he realized it was past three in the afternoon. He could feel the beginnings of a headache coming on as well, and his limbs were stiff and tingly from lying in one place all day. His butt hurt, too. And his back. He sighed. "I'm an idiot." He made his careful way to the kitchen and decided to toast more pancakes. Easier to heat those than to find a sauce pan and cook a can of low sodium chicken soup. It'd be easier if they owned a microwave, but Michael didn't think one was necessary. He did most of the cooking, anyway, and normally Chuck would eat a sandwich for lunch, so really he had no reason to be particularly annoyed.
But his neck ached and his head hurt and his back was sore.
So he grumbled to himself and waited for his pancakes.
Ate those, and puttered around.
By five, Chuck had unpacked and shelved all of their books, and by five thirty he had decided to take a bath.
He searched through the boxes in the living room looking for his bubble bath—an expensive, sweet-smelling wedding gift from Michael's teenaged brother. Though, the fact that an eighteen year old boy had bought forty dollar bubble bath for them baffled Chuck. What kind of kid had that much money just laying around? Nevertheless, Chuck liked it and used it when he really wanted to indulge. It made so many nice, honey-scented bubbles, he couldn't resist.
He also brought Michael's portable radio with him, as he made his way upstairs (one hand firmly locked onto the banister). He set the radio on the counter in the bathroom. Pulled the antenna way, way out, and fiddled around with it until he found a station that probably wouldn't annoy the hell out of him. Except he felt like a bit of a housewife listening to soft rock, and there would doubtless be a lot of Coldplay, and he didn't actually like Coldplay all that much, so he changed it to a jazz station before running his bath.
Lots and lots of bubbles were a must.
And lukewarm water. Too hot and he would probably get dizzy or pass out—both, most likely. Too cold and he would just be, well, cold. And he didn't want to be cold in December.
When he deemed his bath worthy, Chuck stripped out of his pajamas—after making sure there was a towel already in the bathroom—and lowered himself into the bubbles. Nice and soothing. He took a breath. Was glad, for a moment, of being on the short side, and glad for a surprisingly spacious bath. He could almost stretch his legs out completely, lying down. Almost. Okay, not quite.
He cleaned himself off a little—the usual routine of shampoo and conditioner and washing his face and body, and all that—before just letting himself relax in his bubbles, listening to jazz.
He drifted.
Didn't fall asleep, but spaced out completely and daydreamed about being famous.
It wasn't until Chuck heard the sound of Michael's car that he snapped back into full awareness. He sighed and swished the bubbles around a little—what few remained, at least—and decided his hands were too prune-y and he had soaked long enough. He got out of the bathtub at the same time the front door slammed, and started to dry himself off. On a whim, he flushed the toilet. The main bathroom was right above the front hallway, and Chuck thought it would be a good way to let Michael know where he was without yelling.
Sure enough, after a few minutes—by the time Chuck had mostly dried off and put his underwear on—the floor outside the bathroom creaked, and a gentle knock came at the door.
"You can come in."
Michael poked his head in, and raised his eyebrows. "I got your prescription, and Rufus is downstairs. He's going to help me move the mattress. Just so you know—in case you want to put on clothes, or something." He smiled.
Chuck wrinkled his nose. "What's wrong with pajamas?" He already had one arm in a sleeve, and the other halfway there. He pulled his shirt on and huffed. "They're much more comfortable."
"Well," Michael slipped into the bathroom and shut the door behind him, bending down to snatch Chuck's pajama pants from the floor. "You've been wearing these for at least a week straight, except the day we moved in." When Chuck held out his hand, he passed his pants to him. "And I thought, gee, maybe you'd like to wear something else."
"It's too late in the day. I don't wanna put on jeans and then take them off two hours later." Chuck shimmied into his pajama bottoms and stuck out his tongue. "And they're not that dirty."
Michael snorted.
"What? They aren't!"
"You have dried peanut butter on the edge of your sleeve."
Chuck glared at Michael.
Michael leaned close and kissed him, smiling. "You smell nice." He trailed a line of kisses down the side of Chuck's neck, one hand coming down to rest on his hip, and rested his forehead against the curve of Chuck's shoulder. "I missed you."
Melting a little under Michael's attention, Chuck still muttered, "I didn't miss you at all." He let Michael wrap his arms around him. "I was so busy writing I forgot all about you."
"Liar."
"Maybe." Chuck licked his lips. "I thought you said Rufus was downstairs. Shouldn't you be doing manly things like moving five-hundred pound boxes?"
Michael laughed—his breath gave Chuck goosebumps—and pulled away. He shook his head with a sigh, eyes crinkled. "I suppose you're right." He stepped back to open the door, free hand still reaching out a little so that Chuck ended up trailing after him into the hallway and latching onto his side.
He ended up standing by the couch, encouraging Michael and Rufus as they dragged the king-sized mattress up the stairs. He even followed them, with words of moral support such as, "It's not gonna fit through the door," and "Don't break the light!" Even though Rufus snapped at him to shut his mouth more than once, he continued with, "Don't we kind of need the bedframe or something?" and "Michael, when did you move the rowing machine onto the balcony?" (There was a balcony, attached to the master bedroom. Glass-walled, and stone-floored. It didn't jut out from the house, however. Was, in fact, aligned with a good portion of the living room downstairs.)
Rolling his eyes, Michael steered Chuck back toward the stairs. "Remember how I took some stuff over last week? Like the rower, and the guest bed, and the lawn mower."
"Oh, right."
"Right. Now, you're not so delicate that you can't carry a piece of the bedframe, are you?" Michael smirked, as they went downstairs. "Because I'm sure we could use a little help."
Chuck pretended to think for a few moments, squinting. "I dunno, I'm pretty sore from moving all those pillows the other day." He grinned. "But I guess I'll help."
"Fantastic." Michael kissed Chuck's temple and went off to find things for him to carry.
"It looks a million times better—no, a quadrillion times better." Chuck stood with his hands on his hips, surveying the bedroom. "Even the mismatched rugs look good." He wiggled his toes in the soft carpet (lightly patterned and the color of peach ice cream), and turned about to take in the bookcases and the computer desk and the neatly made bed—his stuffed bunny, with its blue bow and floppy brown ears, sat against the headboard, nice and neat.
Chuck flopped down on the bed, sprawling out like a starfish on the blue-green sheets. He stayed like that for a minute before rolling onto his back and holding his arms out. "Come snuggle with me. I'm cold."
"You're always cold." Michael climbed onto the bed—on top of Chuck, really. He pressed their foreheads together. "Did you eat lunch today?"
"...Not at lunchtime." Chuck wrinkled his nose.
Michael sighed and nipped at Chuck's jaw. "You need to eat on a better schedule, Chuck. You can't go ten hours without eating." He propped himself up on his elbows so he could give Chuck a stern, but loving, look, eyebrows drawn together in half-pretend displeasure.
"It was only seven hours."
"Oh, only seven." Michael rolled his eyes. "No big deal when you have low blood pressure."
Twisting his mouth, Chuck pushed his hand against Michael's face. "Shh. You're grumpy."
Michael ducked his head, and kissed Chuck's neck, mouthing at his throat and whispering, "You need to take your medication."
"What!" Chuck pulled at Michael's hair, a little. "Things just started getting good! I don't wanna go to bed now!"
"Aw, but Bunny misses you. And look how soft the pillows are."
Chuck pouted. "Don't treat me like a child."
"Then don't act like a child."
"Ugh!" Chuck pushed at Michael, so he could squirm out from underneath him, and went reluctantly to the bathroom to brush his teeth and down his pills. When he came back, Michael stood in the middle of the room, changing into his pajamas. Chuck took a moment to admire him before coming over and poking the moles on his ribcage—one on each side. He went up on tiptoes to kiss Michael. "How did I catch someone so attractive?" He draped his arms over Michael's shoulders.
Michael smiled. "Are you implying that you aren't as attractive as me? Because I think you're handsome. In a scruffy movie star kind of way." He grinned, when Chuck made a face, and said, "It's true. Even when you look like you've been awake for a week straight, you're handsome."
"Shh." Chuck buried his face in Michael's neck. He could feel a blush coming on, all the way down to his collar. "I'm just a novelist with a squishy tummy."
Michael slid his hands down Chuck's sides, and hoisted him up. Chuck latched on right away, locking his legs around Michael's waist. Michael carried him to the bed, and as he walked he spoke quietly. "You're squishy, yes. And adorable." He lowered them both down onto the bed. It creaked a little. "Adorable and handsome, and fuzzy, and sarcastic, and charming." He kissed Chuck. "Would I lie?"
Chuck shrugged. "...no." He covered his red face with both hands. "You're just misguided."
"I don't know. Your ex-girlfriend is very pretty, and I'm very—"
"You're pretty too."
Michael laughed. "Yes, and I'm pretty. And so are most of your other exes. It's a pattern. So either you have the most charming personality on the planet, or you're very attractive." He raised his eyebrows. "Or maybe a little bit of both."
Chuck rolled his eyes. "You're a dork." He sighed and wiggled around so he could get under the blankets, and grabbed his bunny. He pushed his face into its soft tummy and muttered, "Go turn off the light."
Michael did as told. Slipped into bed beside Chuck in the dark, and wrapped his arms around him.
Chuck wiggled closer.
Chuck frowned, twisting his neck so he could get a good look at the red spot on his shoulder. "Did you bite me?" He made a face.
"I think I might have." Michael's face went a little pink. "Sorry."
"You don't have to apologize!" Chuck laughed and climbed on top of Michael, kissing his cheek. "I just can't believe I didn't notice—well, I guess I was occupied." He laid his head against Michael's bare chest and closed his eyes, and listened to his heartbeat. "You're very distracting."
Michael brought a hand up to settle on Chuck's back. He rubbed between his shoulder blades. "Am I? I don't know if I should be flattered or not." He tapped his fingers down Chuck's spine, expression softening into a small smile, and asked, "Are you sure it's alright?" He slid his hand back up to Chuck's shoulder. "It doesn't hurt, or anything?"
"No, it's just red." Chuck made a face. "You worry too much."
"Maybe." Michael twisted so he could kiss the top of Chuck's head.
Chuck yawned, as he lay on Michael. He sighed. "I should probably make breakfast."
"Prozac and leftover pancakes?"
"Damn straight." Chuck rolled off of Michael with a huff and took a moment to breathe before standing. He shivered where he stood. Cast around for his pajamas and, more importantly, his underwear, before finding them almost under his feet. He got dressed and pulled on his robe for good measure, and left the room.
Michael followed after him a few seconds later, but instead of heading downstairs he went to the bathroom with his clothes on one arm.
Downstairs, Chuck poked around, looking for a butter knife. He stuck some pancakes in the toaster and looked in the fridge for jelly. He didn't want peanut butter—luckily Michael had bought a brand new jar of peach preserves, so Chuck took that out as he waited for his food to heat, and struggled with the lid a few moments before letting out a sigh and setting the jar on the counter. He waited, now, for pancakes and for Michael to finish his shower.
Luckily, Michael always took quick showers, so he came downstairs just a few seconds after Chuck's pancakes popped up. As if he could read Chuck's mind, he made a beeline for the jar of preserves and opened the lid with a little pop. He handed it to Chuck.
"My hero." Chuck began to slather his pancakes with crushed peaches.
Michael pecked Chuck on the cheek and rummaged around for his own breakfast supplies.
"Do you plan on doing anything today, other than starve yourself?"
Chuck elbowed Michael in the side as he walked past, careful not to tilt his plate lest the pancakes meet an untimely death on the floor, and muttered, "I do other things."
Michael raised an eyebrow. "Like what? Faint?"
"Hey!" Chuck set his plate down so he could cross his arms and glower at Michel from the table. "I'll have you know it's been over three months since that happened." He sat down. Continued to scowl. "Not counting the almost-passing-out stuff in November."
"Yeah, you really made the wedding more eventful when you almost fell down the stairs on the way out of the church."
"Shh. I added some drama."
Michael laughed, sitting and leaning back in his chair with a smirk. He shook his head. "A wedding is an event. It doesn't need to be more of an event, and it doesn't need to involve one of the grooms getting hurt." He sighed.
With a roll of his eyes and a mouth full of pancake, Chuck mumbled, "I didn't get hurt. I was just sick from being nervous. Plus the meds."
"I suppose you're right. " Michael reached across the table to take Chuck's hand. Squeezed tight. "I'm just glad you were alright." He smiled, and laced their fingers together.
In response, Chuck scrunched up his face, and stared down at the tabletop and tried not to blush, holding back a smile.
Michael lifted their hands so he could kiss Chuck's knuckles. Said, softly, "But really, do you have plans? Because I know an old man next door who could use some help decorating his Christmas tree."
"Rufus is Jewish."
Michael blinked. "Oh." He shook his head. "Alright, I made that up. He told me to get you over there for lunch because he wants you to clean out his refrigerator. By eating his food. Because, according to him he got it for his grandchildren, but they never visit so it's going bad."
Chuck narrowed his eyes. "I think you're still lying, but alright. I'll visit him for lunch." He tilted his head, and grinned. "You're just trying to get me to eat on time, though, aren't you?"
"Yes." Michael nodded. "Now, don't forget to take a shower."
"Okay, dad."
Michael grimaced, as he stood. "Please... don't ever call me that again."
Chuck laughed to himself while Michael left the kitchen. Then, "Wait, are you leaving already?"
Michael poked his head into the room. "Yes, Chuck. I am." He smiled, and leaned against the doorframe. "The weather's bad, so I want to leave early. Is that alright? I don't need to leave immediately, but I would prefer it." He stayed in the doorway, still shoeless but in his unbuttoned jacket. He kept his eyes on Chuck, suddenly somewhat inquisitive and mildly concerned.
"Oh—" Chuck shook his head quick, and ran a hand through his hair. "I just—It's fine, really. I don't want you to be late for work 'cause of me."
For a moment, Michael seemed to think. Then he walked over and gave Chuck a kiss, firm and affectionate, and tapped the wedding band on his finger. "Your ring is on sideways." He smiled, and left the room again.
Frowning, Chuck adjusted his ring. Then realized that it couldn't be on sideways because it was just patterned steel and a strip of silver, identical all around the circumference. He scowled. Listened to Michael getting ready to go in the hallway.
After a brief moment of hesitation, he followed Michael, and—before he opened the door—threw his arms around his shoulders and drew him close for a hug. Muttered, into his jacket, "Drive safe, okay?" And he stepped back so Michael could leave. He fiddled with the hem of his shirt, and looked down at his feet in their mismatched socks.
"I'll be careful. Love you." Michael patted Chuck's face and pushed the front door open. He made his way down the path, toward the car. From the doorstep, Chuck waved. Michael waved back as he got into his Mercedes.
Chuck waited until the car disappeared from sight before closing the door, even though it was cold, and snowy. He decided to do as Michael had suggested and take a shower. A nice, warm shower. And then he could make himself a blanket cocoon and read for a while, or write, or something. He could stare at the wall. That sounded exciting, right?
He sighed. Maybe he would visit Rufus after all.
Chuck nearly tripped on the front steps in his hurry to follow Rufus inside. He caught himself, though, and managed not to scrape his palm on the exposed wood of the railing—though a big flake of paint came off under his hand. He shook his hand, and made his way inside after Rufus had already disappeared down the hall.
His house was nice and warm, though, and well-lit.
Chuck took his shoes off by the door, but kept his sweater on. He wasn't quite sure which way to go down the hallway—there were two branches—so he chose the right, and walked toward the quiet sound of silverware clattering together. Sure enough, he found himself in the kitchen, where Rufus stood at the sink already, washing forks. Chuck sat down at the round wooden table in the middle of the room, folding his hands in his lap, and watched Rufus do the dishes.
After a while, Rufus dried his hands and turned to Chuck. "Skinny boy like you needs to eat."
"What?"
Rufus snorted. "You look half-dead." He poked around in the cupboards, and the fridge, and pulled out the ingredients for what looked like some kind of sandwich as he spoke. "Gotta fatten you up, or at least make sure you're not walking around starving until your boyfriend brings home dinner."
Chuck scratched the back of his neck. "H—husband."
"Hm?"
"He's my husband." Chuck felt himself heating up—knew he was reddening from his forehead to his ribcage. "We just got married last month."
Rufus nodded. "Well, pardon me, then." He spread some mayonnaise on a slice of bread and asked, "So why'd you two move down here? If you don't mind my asking."
Chuck shrugged. "It—It's fine." He fiddled with the ring on his finger, spinning it around and around. "We were down in Salem but neither of us really liked it there, and stuff... and I guess... it just made sense. And Michael got that job in the city, so we figured... You know, small town near a big city, maybe we could get a nice white picket fence." He laughed to himself, softly. "The picket fence isn't white, but those green window shutters are pretty cute."
"Sure are." Rufus smooshed a second piece of bread onto a pile of toppings—a lot of vegetables and some thinly sliced salmon. He set the sandwich on a plate and put it in front of Chuck with a little tap of porcelain against wood. "That house has been empty so long I wondered what was wrong with it. So damn idyllic, and no one wanted it. I mean, for Pete's sake, it's got scalloped trim. And climbing roses—well, it does in the spring. Climbing dead branches for now."
With a quiet laugh, Chuck said, "Well, I'm glad we got it. Wood floors, big bathroom, lots of natural light... It's so nice. Even in winter." He took a bite from the corner of his sandwich—Rufus had cut it diagonally. "Makes me feel like a Stepford husband, though... just a little." He made a face. "I mean, it's boring being alone all the time. At least at our old place Michael was home more often."
"What," Rufus tossed himself down in the chair across from Chuck with his own sandwich. "Not looking forward to being a stay-at-home? Perfect little house, perfect little neighborhood, perfect little house-husband?"
Chuck rolled his eyes. "I mean, I write. But when I'm not writing, I dunno, there's nothing to do. It's a little lonely." He sighed and poked at his sandwich. Peeled off a bit of the crust. "I wish I had a real job, or that Michael worked from home, or something. You know?"
Rufus nodded. "I know how you feel." He leaned back in his chair while he ate, chewing noisily. Finally, he said, "On the plus side, you'll have a helluva lot of time to keep the place clean. What is your job, anyway? What do you write, I mean."
Reluctantly, Chuck said, "Oh, I just write... novels. Just—um... fantasy stuff."
"Fantasy like dragons, or fantasy like... handcuffs?"
Chuck nearly choked on a piece of tomato. He cleared his throat and scrunched his face up and said, "Like vampires! Jeez."
"My bad." Rufus smirked, one hand raised in defense. He leaned back in his chair. The wood creaked, and he hummed to himself. "He'll be getting time off for the Christmas holiday, though, right? If he asks for it?" He tilted his head, as he ate.
Chuck wrinkled his nose. He wiggled his hand and said, "Kind of? I mean, he gets Christmas day off, and asked for Christmas Eve off, but he said he wants to save his days?" Chuck shrugged, setting his sandwich down and propping his chin in his hands. "A couple people from his family are visiting for all of next week, though. Sister, and her baby, and stuff." He sighed. "I might ask him to take the week off—but I don't wanna be selfish, and I mean, he makes more than half our money, so that much unpaid time could cut into funds a little bit. My books don't sell. They're like... cult-popular. So I can't help." A shrug, and Chuck picked at the crust on his sandwich. His appetite seemed to have flown out the window, so he pushed his plate away. "At least... even a little holiday'll be nice, and I'll still have extra time with him—and I won't be alone while he's at work so that's good. I like his sister. She's funny." Chuck smiled to himself. "Her girlfriend is a great cook, too."
Having sat silently through Chuck's rambling, Rufus spoke up. "I may not know you two very well yet, but I would be willing to bet real money that if you asked him to take a week off, he'd be free for the next month."
Chuck grimaced. "I know he would."
Rufus laughed.
"Well, as a grumpy old man who's been through a few too many relationships, my advice is to ask him." Rufus took Chuck's plate, and didn't even mention the fact that he'd eaten less than half of his sandwich. He just stood up, steadying himself on his chair for a moment, and carried the plate to the old rattling fridge. He paused, like he was thinking, before closing the refrigerator door. "Trust me, though. Don't wanna regret lost opportunities—when you get to be my age, you'll look back on all this and wish you'd spent a lot more time with him."
Fidgeting in his seat, Chuck mumbled, "I'll probably die first so I think he'd be the one all... nostalgic. I mean, if he even has the ability to feel nostalgic."
Rufus snorted. "I'm sure even Michael can feel nostalgic." He sat back down. "After all, I feel nostalgic plenty often, even though most people annoy the hell outta me. Your man would definitely be sad without you." He stopped talking long enough to chew on a piece of tomato, then said, "I've seen how he looks at you." Rufus grinned, face creased all over with wrinkles.
Chuck's nose scrunched up, and he fiddled with the hem of his sweater, biting back a little smile. "I guess." He didn't think he was blushing, but he still felt a little warm, suddenly, under all his layers.
"You care about him a lot, huh?"
"Well—yeah. I mean... why else would I marry him?"
Rufus smirked. "Money and looks."
With a huff of laughter, Chuck looked up at the older man. "I'm not that shallow... yet."
"'Yet' being the key word."
For the next hour or so, Chuck listened to Rufus tell stories about his days as a young man—about getting ticketed for jay-walking, of all things, and about his sister who had died, and about a friend of his who he'd had a falling out with but still kind of missed. He didn't have many friends still alive, he said. Most died of moderately old age or disease or accidents a long time before. A shame, really.
After a while, it started to snow outside. Big round flakes filling the air and slowly coating the ground. Chuck peeked out the window, pushing a curtain of heavy maroon cotton aside with one hand. His mouth twisted. "I should probably go home." He leaned his forehead on the window for a second, and it was damp and cold and his breath fogged on the glass. He backed away and turned toward the hall. "Thanks for making me lunch, and stuff..."
"Don't mention it." Rufus helped Chuck find the front door—that house was a maze—and said, "You remind me of an old friend. Take care of yourself, you hear?" He held his hand out.
"Sure, sure." Chuck shook Rufus' hand. "See you later." He nearly walked straight through a hole in the porch's fencing before swerving down the stairs at the last second. The thin layer of snow on the ground crunched under his worn-out sneakers and sparkled slightly. Chuck shaded his eyes to look at the sky through the screen of snowflakes. The clouds looked heavy and bloated, white and tinged with a strange warm hue. Snow clouds. Chuck hoped the snow would stay light, at least until Michael got home. He didn't want him to get stranded or be late... But he'd probably be late, anyway. Chuck sighed as he scurried across the lawn, and shoved his way into the house. He expected it to be warm inside, and it was, compared to the outside. But not as warm as it should have been.
Chuck made his way to the thermostat. He could have sworn he'd set it to sixty-five, but the small plastic arm sat all the way to the left. Chuck frowned and pushed it back to where he wanted it.
The baseboard heaters clicked, and the air started to smell like burning dust.
Chuck wandered upstairs. He felt heavy and sluggish, and his stomach had gone all knotted and queasy feeling. So he changed into his pajamas and rummaged through the cupboard under the sink until he found the hot water bottle, and ran the sink until it almost felt too hot. He filled it up, and shuffled back to the bedroom, and closed the curtains and the door, and finally curled up in bed under the covers with the hot water bottle against his stomach—after, of course, taking his glasses off. (Not very comfortable to sleep or pretend to sleep wearing glasses.)
Under the blankets, cradling the orange rubber bottle, Chuck felt warm and content. Like a cat. At least, he thought that must be how cats felt when they sprawled out in the sun. He yawned and buried his face into Michael's pillow. It smelled like lemons.
He fought the urge to inhale deeply—it was a nice smell, and Chuck liked it, and it reminded him of cuddling... But he didn't want to be that weird guy who smelled other people's belongings...
Instead, he just scrunched himself up deeper into the blankets, sticking his head partially underneath Michael's pillow and partially underneath his own. He liked to lay with a pillow on his head, sometimes. Didn't know why, but it felt nice, and somehow safer than otherwise. Not all the time—but every once in a while. Maybe because it insulated him. Isolated him. Chuck held in another yawn, took a deep breath. He squeezed his eyes shut until vaguely electric colors burst across his vision.
As he settled into the bed, slowly relaxing despite the ache in his belly, he listened to the creak of the heaters.
The house settled, and it sounded like someone walking on the roof. Literally—more than just squeaking wood, but a steady and soft thud-thud-thud, at the edge of Chuck's hearing. He poked his head out of the sheets and glanced around the half-lit bedroom. He saw a shadow in the corner, tall and reaching and black, and his stomach turned.
But when he snatched his glasses and shoved them onto his face, it was just a stack of cardboard boxes draped in musty blankets.
Chuck took a deep breath. He felt silly for thinking, even for a moment, that he'd seen a person. Completely ridiculous.
The thudding from the roof had stopped, at least, and the house only made quiet groaning noises, but his heart still beat too fast. He coiled himself around his hot water bottle and pulled the covers back over his head. The hot water heater knocked through the walls, and he curled up tighter and tighter until his forehead touched his knees and he felt like a child hiding from the boogeyman. (A very hairy child.)
His phone vibrated on the nightstand and he flinched before realizing what it was. He fumbled for it, and finally got an arm out of his cocoon of blankets so he could grab it. He pulled it into his little dark nest, and squinted at the screen, holding it close to his face so he could read the words.
Santa wants to know what you want for Christmas.
Chuck frowned. Then rolled his eyes. Then typed out his reply to Michael: "Tell Santa to focus on his job and get presents for good children and not anxious middle-aged losers." At least, that's what he meant to send. He misspelled a few words, though. Santa as Satan, presents as presnets. The tiny keyboard really made it hard to type. But hey, Michael would be able to understand it just fine. Though he might have something to say about Satan delivering presents to good girls and boys.
Sure enough: I sincerely hope the Devil won't be taking over for Santa this year. Answer the question, or I'll tell Gabriel to bring you something in my stead.
Chuck made a face. Scrunched his nose and wrinkled his forehead. "Please," he tapped out. "Have mercy! He'd prbably pick one of those fucking dancing santa dolls."
The phone buzzed immediately with a message saying nothing other than, "Language." Chuck laughed, and waited for Michael's real response, other than his reflexive admonishment against swearing. As expected, after a few seconds, the cell vibrated again and a little message popped up reading, "I got off work early and I am at the mall. Is there anything you want or need? New socks? A singing reindeer toy?"
Humming to himself, Chuck thought. Did he really need anything? He had plenty of bubble bath, and enough of the necessities like soap and shampoo. Plenty of clothing, with no holes in his socks yet. His shoes were barely three months old (despite looking older) and his computer worked fine. Decisions, decisions, decisions—what did he want that was frivolous and impractical? He could always ask for books...
Then he remembered what Rufus had said, about lost time and future regrets and nostalgia.
"I want you to take the next week off from work and also can you get me some fudge pls?"
It seemed like forever before Michael responded, but finally Chuck received a message that said, "I'll see what I can do."
And that was all.
Chuck waited to see if any further questions were forthcoming, but his phone sat silent and dark in his hand, so after a while he set it back on the nightstand, and scrunched himself up again, and listened to the crackling of the house and the rumble of what few cars drove by and the hoarse caws of the crows outside.
"Most of this is for my family." Michael shouldered his way through the front door with several bags in his arms. He stomped the snow from his shoes and took the bags into the kitchen while Chuck followed him like a curious cat. "No peeking. I need to take out your things first and then you can poke your nose through the other gifts." Michael nudged Chuck aside. He said, "I got your fudge, by the way, but I need you to help me with the tree before you can eat it."
Chuck rolled his eyes. "What, am I suddenly five?" He trudged into the hallway to put his shoes on and followed Michael outside.
There was a tree tied to the Mercedes' roof. Not a huge tree, but a tree no less.
"I thought you were gonna get a fake tree." Chuck trailed after Michael to the car, and stuck his hand out to pluck at a pine needle. He sniffed it—unsurprisingly, it smelled like pine. "'Cause fake trees come in boxes, or something." He dropped the needle onto the ground. The thin layer of frost and snow coating the sidewalk crunched under his feet as he began to un-knot the rope holding the tree to the roof of the car.
Michael set to work on the other side, and spoke through the branches. "Reluctant as I was to strap a conifer to the roof of my car, I couldn't resist." He tugged at the rope. "The man selling them was very charming, and I enjoy the smell of real Christmas trees—would you let go of the rope, please?" Only a hint of frustration snuck into his voice on the last few words.
Chuck let the rope slide through his fingers. "Sorry. So... you got a tree because it smells good?"
"Oh, be quiet." Michael bundled the rope up in his arms, while Chuck kept the tree from sliding off the roof of the Mercedes. Michael put the rope in the trunk, and when he reached for the trunk of the tree Chuck let go with one hand, and moved the other up so he could help Michael carry the thing inside. The branches rustled, and several needles fell into the snow when they hoisted it away from the car. Chuck dropped his end—Michael almost swore, and stood a moment before narrowing his eyes at Chuck and proceeding to drag the tree up the path by the trunk, probably regretting having taken off his gloves.
He left a trail of pine needles and scraped up snow in his wake.
With his conscience only somewhat guilty, Chuck scurried after Michael, and at least helped him get the tree up the shallow front steps. He told himself he would vacuum later to make up for it... Maybe. If he felt up to it.
The floorboards squeaked under Michael's shoes and the weight of the tree, and melting snow dripped all over the floor, but that could be dealt with—in fact, Chuck could deal with that right away. He bopped off into the kitchen and when he came back, nearly ran into Michael. "Oh—is there more stuff in the car?" Chuck twisted the cloth between his hands. "Do you need any help?"
"Chuck." Michael settled a hand on Chuck's shoulder. Squeezed. "I'm fine. Do what you were going to do." He gave Chuck a soft pat on the jaw—fingertips cold but palm warm—and went back out to the car.
Chuck stood a moment in the hallway before nodding to himself and wandering into the living room again. He got down on his knees (with some difficulty) and worked at soaking up patches of melted snow. The wooden boards hurt his kneecaps but he didn't mind so much. He liked to feel useful. While he wiped up the floor, he listened to the heater pop, and listened for the sound of the trunk slamming shut. The sound of Michael's boots on the path, of the front door closing and the floor in the hallway creaking in protest at Michael's weight.
Michael carried a little metal tree stand, green and red, into the living room.
He paused a moment, surveying the area between the couch and the front window. Moved the coffee table with a grunt, so it stood off to the side, and set the tree stand down in the now empty space. He walked around it and nodded to himself. Then looked up, at Chuck. "What do you think. Right in front of the window?" He stepped back, and moved toward the tree on its side on the floor.
"Um..." Chuck sat a moment before shrugging. "I dunno." He hoisted himself up, supporting himself on the back of the couch, and grimaced. "Wherever you want."
"Then help me set this up."
Chuck nodded.
It took a few frustrating minutes, but after a little bit they got the tree upright and screwed into the holder.
Michael smoothed some branches out, adjusted others. Straightened the crooked tip. (Or at least, he tried. It just drooped again.) He planted his hands on his hips and murmured, "I think it looks good. What do you think?" He raised his eyebrows at Chuck, questioning but challenging—as if to dare Chuck to protest.
Chuck rolled his eyes.
"It looks fine." He leaned on Michael with all his weight, draping his arms loosely around Michael's waist. "Now carry me upstairs. I'm tired." He got up on tiptoes to kiss Michael's cheek.
Michael laughed softly and turned so he could pull Chuck into a tight hug and return his kiss at least four times over. He kept his voice quiet and said, "I don't know. I'm tired too, from dragging that tree... And you're awfully heavy." He sighed, and slouched, and leaned on Chuck, exaggeratedly limp-limbed. Chuck yelped and tried not to completely collapse beneath his weight. He couldn't prevent his knees from buckling a little though, and ended up using the couch to hold them up.
"Miiiiichael—" Chuck shoved at Michael. "Get off, you're too heavy!"
"Hmm..." Michael nipped at Chuck's neck. "I don't know."
"Michael!"
With another quiet laugh, Michael let up. "My apologies." He kissed the tip of Chuck's nose. "What do you want for dinner?"
Chuck narrowed his eyes at Michael, on the verge of a glare, but he let himself be pulled toward the kitchen as he thought of what kind of food he might like to eat. A stream of possibilities buzzed through his head until he finally muttered, "I feel gross from all the greasy shit I've been eating lately. Will you make something..." He grimaced. "Will you make something healthy?"
Michael raised an eyebrow. "What's this? Chuck Shurley, asking for healthy nourishment? You must be a body snatcher."
"Shut up—" Chuck shoved at Michael, though it was like shoving at a brick house. "I eat healthy food. Sometimes." He latched onto Michael's side and clung to him all the way to the fridge. "I just feel like I'm full of oil. I need something to cut the grease. Like juice. Or lettuce. Or juice." Chuck paused. "Did you buy any juice at the store?" He leaned partway into the refrigerator, searching its interior for something more interesting to drink than water. He found nothing.
In fact, Michael said, "If you wanted me to buy juice, you should have asked." He hauled Chuck out of his way and grabbed a few things from the fridge—carrots, and so on. "The next time I leave the house I'll be sure to stop at the store, again."
Chuck pouted.
Michael rolled his eyes. "You're in my way. Sit down, or chop some carrots for the soup."
"Soup?"
Michael nodded. "Yes. Soup. The partially liquid food that is so nice in the winter."
Chuck squinted his eyes, but he took a carrot from Michael and washed it before settling beside the stove to chop it up into little orange discs. He cut very slowly, and carefully, for fear of chopping a finger off or something equally horrific. Michael worked around him, with a big soup pot and oil and onions and all that other stuff that's good for making soup. Every once in a while he would hand something to Chuck to cut up—some mushrooms, and another carrot.
"Jesus Christ, Michael." Chuck pausing in his slicing. "Why are there so many carrots in this soup?"
Michael nudged Chuck with a frown. "Don't blaspheme." He leaned over Chuck's shoulder. "Can you dice those instead of slicing them, please? It's carrot soup." He kissed Chuck's cheek and swept off to presumably do more important soup-making things, like pull a fillet of cod out of the freezer.
"I'll blaspheme all I want, goddammit!" Chuck made a face. But he chopped up his carrots into tiny pieces—probably tinier than they needed to be—and ignored Michael's brief glare. He pushed the diced carrots into a pile on the cutting board. Stared at them sternly, and finished chopping the other carrot. And the mushrooms that Michael seemed to hand him in a never-ending stream. But Michael loved mushrooms, so Chuck supposed he couldn't be too surprised that he appeared to be loading the soup up with half a bag of creminis. He added those to the pile of diced carrots, washed his hands, and went to sit at the dining room table. He watched Michael fuss with the vegetables and the fish, and rested his head in his arms.
From the stove, Michael said, "Don't fall asleep." He smiled at Chuck, as he poured some chicken broth into the soup pot, followed by white wine and various spices.
Chuck stuck his tongue out.
He didn't fall asleep, but he ended up very sleepy where he sat. His hunger kept him pretty firmly awake, though, and even if it hadn't... well... it's not like he was able to easily fall asleep without medicine.
The smell of cooking carrots and fish filled the kitchen—and, he discovered when he went to the bathroom, most of the rest of the house.
After a while, Chuck muttered, "Did you think about... your hours? And that stuff?"
"Hm?" Michael turned away from the soup, eyebrows drawn together in confusion. But then his expression cleared. "You mean, did I think about how much time I'll take off from work?"
Chuck nodded.
Michael tilted his head thoughtfully and leaned on the counter. "I didn't want to take much time off due to the fact that I've only just started this job, but..." He shrugged, smoothly. "It's Christmas, after all, and my family will be up here, and I'd like to be able to spend time with you." He made his way over to Chuck, leaning down to plant a kiss on his cheek. "All day at work and I hardly get to see you."
"Your family, ugh, don't remind me."
"They're not so bad."
Chuck made a face. "Luke is creepy and Gabriel is... Gabriel." He sighed. "But I guess Anna is fun. I just wish Raphael could come too."
Shaking his head, Michael smiled and went back to his soup. "I'll tell my brothers to be less infuriating"
"Please. I'll pay you."
Michael laughed under his breath.
Chuck woke with sweat dampening his t-shirt and the waistband of his boxers—with his heart beating too fast and his breath coming short. He took a few deep breaths. Gulped for air, really, and rolled onto his side, burying his face in his pillow. He curled his fingers in the sheets and held in a small whimper. Took a few moments to get his bearings, and to reassure himself that he was alright and had only been dreaming. He pushed himself up onto his elbows so he could look over Michael's shoulder at the clock.
Three in the morning.
Chuck groaned and shoved his face back into his half-damp pillow.
Beside him, Michael shifted. Made a vague, soft noise in his throat and reached out in the dark until his hand found Chuck's face. Chuck pulled himself close to Michael and Michael murmured, "What's wrong?" His voice came out groggy and confused, but concerned.
"Bad dream." Chuck climbed on top of Michael, almost, and pressed his face into the crook of his neck. He sighed. Bit back a pathetic squeak. "Sorry, sorry." His hands trembled as he fisted them in Michael's shirt.
Michael wrapped his arms around Chuck and sat up a little, and tucked Chuck's head under his chin. He didn't say anything for a while—just ran his hand up and down Chuck's back, the other hand firmly set at the back of his head, gently stroking his hair.
Eventually, he whispered, "What did you dream?"
Chuck didn't want to talk about it. "Stuff," he said. Then took a shaky breath and continued, "Bad stuff. Death stuff." He pulled tighter at Michael's shirt. "S'posed to have good dreams. Why else would I take those stupid blood pressure pills." He sniffed, letting go of Michael's shirt with one hand so he could wipe his face on his arm. He apologized again, softly, and muttered, "I'm being dumb."
"Shh, no, you're not." Michael sat up straighter and pushed at Chuck, rearranging him in his arms so they could sit more comfortably. He locked his arms around Chuck's middle and kissed his temple and his face. "Was it a sad dream?"
"A scary dream. Sad and scary." Chuck leaned his head back against Michael's shoulder. Took a breath and focused on the lingering smell of his own sweat and Michael's fading cologne—citrus-y and calming. He closed his eyes and just breathed. "You know—" His voice caught. "Just... just—bad."
Michael hummed. He pushed Chuck's hair back from his forehead—it curled damp around his fingers. "How about I run you a nice, warm bath, and if you feel up to it, you can tell me about your dream. And if you don't feel up to it, then that's alright too."
Chuck nodded.
Gently, Michael helped Chuck out of the bed—he was a little unsteady, and a little dizzy, because his medication was still running pretty strong. He'd likely fall back asleep fairly quickly once he calmed down. So Michael led him to the bathroom, arm around his waist, and had him sit on the toilet while the tub filled with water. He put in just a little bit of bubble bath as well, but not the honey kind. A different kind—he crumbled half a blue and white bath bar under the water, and swirled it around a little, and let it build up bubbles before helping Chuck out of his sweaty pajamas and into the tub.
He left Chuck alone for just a moment to fetch him some new pajamas.
When he came back Chuck was playing with the bubbles. But very quietly, and in a mildly dazed manner.
Michael sat beside the tub with a smile, and settled a hand on Chuck's shoulder.
Chuck leaned into his touch. "Michael," he whispered. "If the house caught on fire, would you try to save something or would you just get out fast?" He stared at the bubbles floating in the water.
For a few seconds, Michael said nothing. He stroked Chuck's back and watched him with a soft expression as he thought. Finally, "If someone was inside, I would try to help them. And I may be reckless sometimes, and I may not be afraid of fire, but I would never be so foolish as to rush into a burning building or delay my escape for an object. Unless it was of the utmost importance, I'd keep myself safe. You know that, right? You don't have to worry about that." He leaned close to kiss Chuck's forehead.
Chuck nodded, slightly. He swirled his hand through some bubbles, and sighed. Turned his face for a real kiss and accidentally got Michael's shirt wet when he lifted a hand to curl around the back of Michael's neck.
Michael didn't seem to mind. He just ran his fingers through Chuck's hair and pulled away enough to whisper, "Let's get you back to bed, alright?"
"Okay."
As they walked across the hallway into the bedroom, the lights flickered a little. Michael frowned, stiffening, and steered Chuck to the bed before going to the French doors that opened onto the patio—enclosed with windows. He looked out the glass, and through the thinly falling snow. The clouds hung vaguely pink, and street lights lit up the snow with orange. The snow fell straight down. No wind, no movement. Utter stillness. Michael shook his head and returned to the bedroom, locking the glass doors behind him. He left the curtains open, to let illumination from the street lamps in. Turned the floor lamp off and made his way to the bed with the glow from one of many night lights scattered throughout the house.
The bed squeaked as he settled down beside Chuck. Chuck curled against him, and Michael wrapped him tightly in his arms.
He listened to Chuck's quiet breathing as he waited to fall asleep.
"Shit, shit, shit, shit..."
"Michael?" Chuck poked his head out the bedroom door. "Why are you swearing?"
There was a long pause before Michael opened the door to the bathroom. He stood across from Chuck, and after a moment, said, "I smashed my finger and I'm late to pick up Anna but it's alright." He brushed past Chuck, pausing only to give him a brief peck on the cheek, and grabbed a pair of socks. The moment he pulled them on he was off down the stairs and less than a minute later, the front door opened and closed.
Chuck listened for the sound of the car starting.
"Okay."
He looked at the clock. Six in the morning. Too early to be awake... But there was no way Chuck would be able to fall back asleep, so he went downstairs, gripping the banister hard, and made his way into the kitchen to make breakfast.
After all, not only would Michael be bringing Anna and her girlfriend and their baby over, Michael's brothers would be driving up that morning as well. (Luke and Gabriel, because Raphael was busy with some extremely important and time-sensitive business matters. Though he promised he would try to at least Skype with them.)
Luckily, due to Michael's lack of self-control when it came to buying massive amounts of groceries in preparation for Christmas, the fridge was full of food.
Chuck found Michael's radio before getting to work. Set it on the dining room table and turned the volume way up while he set out eggs and searched for Michael's favorite recipe binder. Almost the first recipe in the section for eggs was a sausage and spinach egg strata, so Chuck decided that would work. Though, of course, they had no sausage. The only meat Michael ever seemed to buy was fish and turkey. Mostly fish. Neither of those sounded appealing with eggs. Chuck decided to just leave out the meat component and began to gather everything he would need.
It took over an hour and a half to make the dish, and he had to bake it in the oven, but it beeped five minutes before a car pulled into the driveway.
Chuck grinned. He left the strata on the stove top to cool and ran to open the front door.
"Chuck!"
The first thing Chuck saw before being (almost) knocked over was a flash of blue.
"Ah—Jesus!" Chuck stumbled back a little and hugged back. "I mean, Caché! Hi—hello." He pulled away from the four-year old and gave her a big smile. She grinned right back and shoved her face into his stomach again, hugging tighter than before.
"Hey, hey, Cash, be careful."
And that was Gabriel.
Chuck frowned and extricated himself from the overeager toddler. "You're not exactly who I was expecting..." He tried to ignore Caché's insistence that he pick her up. ("Snuggle me! Snuggle me!") He smiled though, and patted her head. "You guys must have been driving all night."
"You know it. I'm about ready to pass the fuck out." Gabriel scooped his daughter up with a grin and wrapped an arm around Chuck's shoulder. "Couch, floor, I don't care. Food and then sleep."
"Fuck! Fuck!" Caché stuck her face into Gabriel's neck. "You're not 'posed to say fuck, daddy!"
Chuck laughed. Gabriel made a face and squeezed past Chuck, turning right into the kitchen while his daughter continued to admonish him for swearing by swearing herself.
Chuck leaned out the door, curling his toes against the cold air. "Um... Are you coming inside?"
Luke looked up from his inspection of the climbing roses beside the kitchen window. He grinned around his cigarette. Blew out a puff smoke in Chuck's direction and muttered, "I'll be done in a sec. Save me something to eat." He winked.
"...Sure." Chuck shut the door and wrinkled his nose.
In the kitchen, Chuck found Gabriel slicing up the strata with Caché clinging to his leg and whining about being hungry. Chuck shook his head but he didn't say anything. He just grabbed some plates and helped Gabriel dish out a few portions of food. "The guest bedroom is already claimed, ahead of time, but Michael found the inflatable bed in a box the other day... So you can have the bed since you have a kid and you're older. Luke is young enough he can survive sleeping on the couch."
Gabriel snorted. "You calling me old?"
"If I'm calling you old, then I'm calling me old, too." Chuck pushed Gabriel away from the stove and handed him one of the plates. "Don't eat anywhere but the table."
"Fine, fine." Gabriel snatched up one of the smaller plates as well and walked to the table with Caché dragging along behind him, clinging to his leg like a monkey.
Chuck went to look for the blow-up mattress. He found it behind the couch, half-unfolded as if Michael had been planning to set it up ahead of time but never finished. Chuck set about inflating it. The air pump filled the room with a loud hum, so Chuck didn't hear the front door open and close, and consequently didn't notice Luke walk up behind him until it was too late.
The snow down the back of his shirt certainly caught his attention though—he yelped and nearly elbowed Luke in the face. Luke laughed and avoided Chuck's flailing limbs. "Easy, easy!" The eighteen year old smirked. "Surprised you, huh?"
"Fuck off." Chuck put away the pump, glaring the whole way.
Luke shrugged, unfazed, and left the room. Presumably to eat all of Chuck's hard work.
Chuck grumbled all the way upstairs to get a dry shirt—and jeans instead of flannel pajama pants.
When he came back downstairs, a blonde woman was standing beside the couch with a cat carrier in her arms, and an empty litter box with a bag of cat litter on the floor by her feet. She saw him, and smiled. "Hey! You must be Chuck, right? I'm Jo."
"Oh—Anna's girlfriend—" Chuck shook her hand, which was somewhat difficult with her arms full, but they made it work. "Um... You're right, I'm Chuck. It, uh, It's nice to meet you for real." He scratched the back of his head, and tried not to be too curious but he couldn't help himself. "Um... is that a kitty?"
Jo blinked. "Oh. Shit. You weren't supposed to see that yet."
"Wait, what—"
"He saw the cat already?!" Michael's sister, Anna, walked into the room with a baby strapped to her chest and a suitcase in one hand. "Darn, it was supposed to be a surprise."
Chuck wasn't entirely sure what was going on. He took a moment to compose himself. Frowned. "You—did you...?" He crossed his arms. "Did you get me a cat for Christmas?" He moved around Jo so he could peek into the carrier. Sure enough, a big pale green eye blinked out at him from behind the crisscrossed bars of the door. A paw poked out, curiously. Chuck reached out a tentative finger to stroke the back of the cat's paw. Nothing violent happened, so he continued to pet.
"What's your name, hm?" He couldn't help but coo a little.
"Gertrude."
"What?" Chuck made a face and looked up at Jo, finger still on the cat's soft foot. "Her name is Gertrude?"
Jo shrugged. She knelt down and set the carrier on the floor, and moved to open the door. "I don't know who named her, but that's what the little sign said. She's Gertrude, and she's five years old, and she lost an eye in a fight with a raccoon, and she's some kind of longhair mix or something. Like... an Oriental longhair, I think... and she's so adorable." Jo cooed as she coaxed Gertrude out of her carrier with a grin. "Isn't that right, Gertrude?"
Chuck nodded. "I see." He sat down on the floor in front of the cat. Squirmed a little and turned his attention away from Jo—he was unused to being around someone so enthusiastic, but it wasn't bad, exactly. Just a little different.
He held his hand out for Gertrude to lick.
The cat sniffed his knuckles, and blinked her one big eye, and flicked her oversized ears. She licked one of Chuck's fingers. Pawed at his hand, and slunk closer. Her poofy tail swished. She slinked underneath Chuck's arm and wormed her way into his lap with a meow, whiskers forward and head at an angle.
"That's not a cat, that's the bastard lovechild of a ferret and a gremlin."
Jo glared at Luke, who stood leaned against the doorway to the hall. "Shut up, she's cute."
Luke raised an eyebrow. "Is that what we're calling it these days?"
Jo narrowed her eyes, and turned her back to Luke, tossing her curls over her shoulder. She made kissy noises at Gertrude, and Gertrude patted her mouth with a paw. Jo laughed. "She's so friendly. We saw her and I just thought, well Anna had told me a little about you and about how you're not really a fan of dogs—I just can't imagine that, but I guess everyone's got their reasons—" Jo paused to breathe. "Anyway, we asked the lady about gentle cats who might be good for someone who doesn't have a lot of energy and she showed us a few, but Gerty just seemed so perfect. You know?"
"Her ears are the size of her head!"
Jo continued to ignore Luke. (Anna, on the other hand, swatted his shoulder.)
"She's sweet and she likes to talk and she doesn't even care if you pick her up too roughly." To demonstrate, Jo pulled Gertrude from Chuck's arms and hoisted her up. Even bounced her a little bit. Gertrude just lolled her head back and meowed inquisitively.
Chuck laughed under his breath. Gertrude really did look a little silly, with her big ears and long body, but she was cute and kind of pretty. He pulled himself to his feet and took the cat from Jo—held her to his chest a bit like a baby. She began to purr, and rested her chin on his shoulder, paws against his chest. Chuck smiled. "You are pretty cute, Gertrude." He wrinkled his nose, as he petted her back. "Even with such a silly name."
"I dunno," Anna said from the doorway. "It kind of suits her."
They all stroked the cat for a few minutes in silence. Even Luke came over and tickled under her chin, and she licked his hand. And Caché, of course, wanted to hold Gertrude the very second she heard there was a kitty in the house. She held her arms up, and Chuck let her hold the cat as long as she sat on the floor.
Caché crossed her legs, and smiled wide, and said, "I like to snuggle kitties!"
Chuck laughed and set Gertrude in her lap. Gertrude nuzzled Caché's face, making the little girl giggle, and idly flicked her tail.
"Well, everyone seems to be having fun without me." Michael walked into the living room with a plate in hand. "I see Chuck has met his present early. Has everyone eaten?" He gestured to the plate. "There may be some leftovers if you're fast. Poor Chuck must have spent an hour on this, and it's already demolished."
Chuck shrugged. "That just means it's yummy. As long as I get to eat some, I don't mind."
Michael smiled. He came over, shooing his youngest brother out of the way, and knelt beside Chuck. "That's what I'm here for." He passed the plate to Chuck, and with his now-free hands reached for Gertrude. He scratched her ears, settling down more comfortably beside his husband on the floor. Chuck leaned against him.
"Thank you."
"You're welcome." Michael kissed Gertrude's nose, then Chuck's nose, with a smirk.
Off toward the hallway, Luke made a gagging noise. And then yelped when Gabriel apparently flicked him in the ear.
Chuck just hoped no fistfights broke out like last year.
With a sigh, Chuck sank into the armchair near the window. He stared at the still-undecorated tree just a few feet from him, and ignored Luke's snoring from the couch. He could hear the soft sounds of conversation from the kitchen, while Michael made lunch and talked with Anna. Every once in a while, Caché would mumble something in her sleep, presumably sprawled across her father on the inflatable mattress. She seemed to say something about hamburgers, but Chuck couldn't be certain.
He tilted his head back and closed his eyes.
Something tickled at his foot, though, so he opened them again with a frown.
Gertrude tilted her head at him with a chirp. She nudged her damp nose against his toe again, whiskers twitching, and even ventured to lick his foot. At the scratch of her tongue, Chuck twitched, and wrinkled his nose, and stifled what might have been called a giggle (with great denial from Chuck). He poked her side with his toes. "C'mere, kitty." He held his hand out.
The cat stared at him for a few seconds before jumping up onto his lap.
"Aw, hey kitty." Chuck kept his voice low. Whispered little nonsensical things to Gertrude and kissed her nose and made clucking noises, scratching behind her ears and under her chin. She purred, loudly, and closed her eyes. Sprawled out across Chuck's thighs, tail flicking every once in a while, and curled her paws. Chuck rubbed her belly. "You're a nice girl, huh?"
Gertrude meowed.
"She sure likes you."
Chuck nearly jumped out of his skin. "Shit—hi, Anna." Chuck craned his head back to smile at his sister-in-law.
She wiggled her fingers at him with her free hand—her other hand supported her one-month old daughter, in a sling against her chest. "How are you, Chuck?" She came over and sat on the arm of the chair. "I haven't seen you since the wedding. Moving going well?" She smiled, and reached out to pet the cat.
"Oh—I'm okay." Chuck shrugged. "Same old, same old. Stress and laziness." He grimaced. "You?"
Anna made a thoughtful face, scrunching her nose up on one side and humming. She patted her baby's back and whispered, "Well, I get kicked in my sleep by both Jo and Hazel but other than that, things are good." She laughed under her breath. "Even though Hazel goes through like a million diapers a day."
"Looks like it's time for a name change. From Hazel to Madame Poops-a-Lot." Chuck poked Hazel's tiny foot.
She didn't so much as twitch. Just continued to sleep soundly against her mother's chest, curls of strawberry-blonde hair sticking to her forehead. Chuck wondered how she could be so sweaty when the house wasn't particularly hot and the weather was below freezing, but he supposed babies were kind of like miniature heaters and she was pressed right up against her mom, so...
But Chuck? He was always cold. (Michael, on the other hand, ran hot, and Chuck always cuddled up to him when he got too cold.)
"How's Jo's mom?" Chuck returned to petting Gertrude.
Anna shrugged. "She's good. She's so bored with her broken foot that she baked me and Jo, like... five pies, I swear to God." She paused, grinning to herself, and muttered, "Wouldn't mind that so much if Jo didn't also constantly bake."
Chuck laughed. "I'm jealous." He sighed and relaxed a little further into the armchair. "Michael never makes pie—well, he makes shepherd's pie, which is good. But... I dunno. I'm craving sugar."
"I know the feeling."
With a snort, Chuck said, "Well, we're sugar fiends I guess."
"You're a sugar-fiend. I just like sweet stuff when I'm, you know, bleeding my guts out." Anna patted Chuck's head. Tangled her fingers in his curly hair with a mischievous twinkle in her eyes. "Maybe I can convince Jo to bake you something nice while Michael's not looking." She gave Chuck a crooked grin. "Apple-pear? With vanilla ice cream."
"Oh my God, Anna. Shut up." Chuck covered his face with his hands and groaned. "You're making me hungry for pie when there is none."
Anna stuck her tongue out and straightened up. "Well, it's no pie, but lunch should be done. So come on and eat with us." She tugged at Chuck's arm.
He sighed and reluctantly pushed the cat from his lap so he could pull himself to his feet and follow Anna into the kitchen. It smelled like mushrooms and a little like wine, and Chuck couldn't help but breathe in deep. "Please tell me the food is totally done and ready to eat." He made his way over to Michael.
Michael smiled and pulled Chuck against his side. "Don't worry. All done." He kissed the top of Chuck's head. "And you should set the table since you didn't help me cook at all."
Chuck scoffed but did as suggested. He made places for himself and Michael, and Anna, and Jo, and that was all. Because the others were asleep and had already eaten most of Chuck's strata that morning. Chuck shook his head. He made sure everyone had a fork and went over to Michael again. Wrapped his arms around him and stuck his face against Michael's neck, whining, "Can I have pasta now?"
"You're immature." Michael reached around Chuck so he could finish dishing out the noodles. "And your beard is scratchy. Go sit down."
With a grin, Chuck left Michael and sat at the table across from Jo and Anna. Jo gave him a smile, and he sort of waved at her. She snorted.
"Lunch is served." Michael set a plate in front of each of them, and sat down himself beside Chuck. Their elbows brushed, and Michael raised his eyebrows at Chuck. "Happy, now?"
Chuck beamed at him. "Very." He proceeded to ignore Michael—other than the occasional brush of hand or elbow or knee—to eat his pasta. Lots of mushrooms, and some kind of wine sauce. Nice and warm and a little cheesy, too.
Chuck—in bed, bundled up in the blankets with a copy of House of Leaves open across his lap—paused in his reading and cocked his head. He could hear Michael and Anna talking in the hallway, but couldn't quite make out the words. He narrowed his eyes. As long as they weren't talking about him.
"Oh yeah, speaking of décor, I found this vase in the closet."
Okay. Not talking about him, then.
Continued muffled speech, and something about going to a thrift store. Then the bedroom door opened and Michael popped inside with a bulbous golden vase in his hands. "Chuck?" He held the vase up, at Chuck's questioning noise. "Where do you think this would look nice? Downstairs?"
Chuck shrugged. "I dunno." He folded down the page he was on and set his book aside. "You could put it on the coffee table or something?" He sat up and squinted at Michael. "What is that made of, gold? It's fucking huge!"
"Hey, language."
"Sorry." Chuck grinned.
Rolling his eyes, Michael hefted the vase in his hand and considered it. "It's glass. With some kind of metal foil in it, I think." He paused. His eyebrows knit together as he turned the vase around and peered inside. "I vaguely remember learning about something like this in that glassblowing class I took in college."
"Oh, cool." Chuck leaned back against his pillow. "Wonder what kind of metal it is."
Michael shook his head and backed out into the hallway. "Your guess is as good as mine. Maybe brass." He disappeared down the hall. The stairs creaked, as he presumably went downstairs to leave the vase somewhere it would be appreciated. Like hidden behind the Christmas tree or on top of the washing machine. (Okay, maybe that was a little mean of Chuck. It wasn't ugly. It was actually fairly pretty, but it just really didn't match their décor and wasn't to his taste. Too... fancy. Too golden. He disliked yellow, for the most part.)
Chuck set about putting away his book and his laptop, and the random papers scattered on the bed. He straightened up the pillows and blankets and pulled his shirt off. He sat bare-chested on the edge of the bed for a few seconds trying to decide if he wanted to wear a long-sleeved shirt to bed or not. Probably not, with how much heat Michael put off. Plus, the big blue comforter would keep him sufficiently warm even without Michael acting as a space heater. Chuck went with an old beater, white and a little holey. If he got cold in the night he could always change or put on his striped dressing robe. He nodded to himself. Sounded like a plan. He stripped out of his jeans as well, so he wore just his tank top and his boxers, and moved to burrow under the covers.
Not a minute later, Michael came into the room and started to change as well. Chuck watched him from his little cocoon of blankets.
Michael caught his eye and raised his eyebrows. "It's rude to stare." He broke into a grin. "I suppose I'll allow it, though."
"Well, I can't help it if my significant other looks like a model."
With a roll of his eyes, Michael turned off the lights. The night light, triggered by the sudden darkness, lit up a small arc of the wall and his ankles as he came closer and climbed into bed. He kissed Chuck. "Goodnight—you took your medication, right?"
"Yes. Don't worry. I'm a grown up." Chuck scooted closer to Michael.
"Good."
Chuck huffed. "Goodnight, you dork." He wrapped his arms around Michael. "Love you."
"Love you too." Another kiss, and Michael's palm warm against Chuck's face.
The night light went out.
Chuck held his breath for a long moment and moved closer to Michael—not for his own benefit, but for Michael's. He whispered his name, softly. Michael didn't respond but his arms tightened around Chuck's waist almost painfully, and Chuck could hear his breathing quicken. If he pressed his ear against Michael's chest, he probably would have been able to hear his heart rate increase. Chuck splayed his fingers out against Michael's side. "Are you okay? It's just a little burnt out light."
Michael kept silent. He practically pulled Chuck on top of him, and drew in a deep breath.
"Hey, hey, Michael." Chuck kissed Michael's face in the dark—movements deliberate and gentle, but firm enough to predict. He stroked Michael's cheek. "It's okay." More tiny kisses. "You know I'm right here, yeah? And nothing in this house is gonna hurt you, right?"
Finally, a response. Michael made a quiet noise, a little like, "Yeah." Soft in the back of his throat.
Chuck pressed their lips together. Murmured, against Michael's mouth, "You'll be okay, I promise."
"Swear?" Michael's voice came out small and tight, in his attempt at humor. (Not very humorous, at all.)
"Swear on my life."
Michael hugged Chuck even tighter. He breathed deeply and his fingers dug into Chuck's side through his shirt. Chuck found himself glad for dressing lightly—Michael radiated a good deal more heat than usual, when scared or nervous, and Chuck could feel himself begin to sweat. He squirmed, adjusting himself to lay more comfortably on Michael, with his head resting in the crook of Michael's neck, forehead pressed to his hot skin, one hand pressed flat against his face.
As they fell silent, the bedroom filled with slight creaks and the sound of Michael breathing shallowly.
It felt far too still without the normally ever-present hum of electricity.
Gradually, Michael's breathing slowed, and his pulse with it. (Chuck checked, with his fingertips at Michael's throat. Not to the normal pace, but enough to appease Chuck's worry to some extent.) He shifted in Michael's arms, and Michael loosened his grip. Chuck sighed. "I'm going to open the curtains to let some light in from outside, okay?" He waited for Michael to nod before slipping out of bed and padding over to the patio door. He pulled the curtains away from the French doors. A dim pinkish glow fell through the glass and illuminated him, lightening the room just enough for him to make out vague shadows. Like the cat, asleep on the computer desk. Chuck went back to Michael, but he didn't lay down right away. He drew the curtains on the window above the headboard first. Let snow-reflected light drop down onto the sheets.
It was only then that Michael seemed to relax, finally. He let out a deep sigh. Reached up, and pulled Chuck down into his arms. "Thank you."
"Mm... it's okay." Chuck brushed their lips together. "I don't like it when you're freaked out. Want you to be calm." He smiled. "Big, brave guy like you, though, and you're not scared of anything but the dark..."
Michael kissed him back with another, softer sigh. "You're mean."
Chuck let out a little huff of laughter. He melted into Michael's embrace, settling down, drowsy from his medicine and from a long day. He knew he'd fall asleep soon, so he murmured, "Night night," and planted a kiss on Michael's bare collar.
Michael rubbed his back. "Goodnight."
"What the fuck is this vase?" Luke shoved Gertrude away from him with one bare foot, as he glowered down at the golden vase. "Did Raphael send it in the mail, or something?"
Michael raised his eyebrows. He pushed past Luke to get into the kitchen and over his shoulder said, "Jo and Anna found it in the closet. I think it's nice. And watch your language."
"I'll use whatever language I fucking want."
For a moment, Michael looked up at the ceiling. Took a deep breath and composed himself. He turned to face Luke. Crossed his arms. "You will do as you're told, while staying in my house, or you will leave." He stood firm, steel-eyed and stone-faced. Stared at Luke until Luke rolled his eyes and retreated into an area of the living room where his brother couldn't glare up at him.
He muttered something Michael didn't catch, and didn't want to, and nearby Gabriel let out a sharp bark of laughter.
Michael joined Jo in the kitchen.
She stood bent over with her head in the refrigerator, deep in concentration, as if her choice of breakfast foods carried the utmost importance and the wrong pick might bring about the apocalypse, or worse.
"Having trouble?" Michael stooped beside her.
Jo jumped. She glowered at him. "Where the hell do you keep your cheese?"
"In the cheese drawer." Michael smirked. He reached around her to pull open the little plastic drawer, and sure enough it contained several types of sliced cheese as well as a pack of turkey bacon and some sliced chicken for sandwiches. It was, technically, Chuck's lunch drawer, but Michael called it the cheese drawer because Chuck tended to have cheese for lunch more often than not.
"Oh—thanks." Jo grabbed a pack of muenster and closed the fridge.
Michael nodded. "Not a problem." He hovered uncertainly in the middle of the kitchen.
Jo raised an eyebrow, and cocked her head. "What's up? You look... off."
"Hm?" Michael blinked. "Oh." He folded his hands behind his back, looking around the kitchen, and leaned against the refrigerator. "I'm just a bit... tired." He shrugged, fluidly. "Between working so often with that commute into the city, and the power outage last night, I'm just worn down. Especially having just moved." He smiled at Jo. "But I'm sure I'll be fine soon."
With a nod, Jo set about making a sandwich. "I'm just glad you guys are doing okay. I mean—with the whole almost-fainting fiasco, everything got kind of crazy, but I'm glad Chuck seems pretty good." She peeled off some cheese for her sandwich with great deliberation before saying, "Not to mention, this is the cutest house. Be a shame if you couldn't enjoy it."
Michael nodded. "It is nice, isn't it?"
"Super charming." Jo frowned. "Wait, did you say the power went out last night?"
"Yes..." Michael made his way over to join Jo near the stove. He glanced off to the side, out the window, at the backyard. Little flakes drifted in front of the glass. "Last night, I'm fairly sure the electricity went out. The lights turned off, and it was too quiet... Normally there's that distant hum and feeling of tangibility, but it just went away like that." He snapped his finger to demonstrate the speed of the power outage. Of course, nothing happened.
Jo nodded. "Right. Well," She made to say something but a loud shriek, followed by a crash, interrupted her—the sound of breaking glass, off in the other room, and a muffled curse.
Neither of them waited for anything more to happen. They rushed out of the kitchen, into the hall. Nothing. Into the living room, following the faint sound of swearing. There, they found what they were looking for. Shards of glass glittering on the wood floor near Chuck's armchair and beneath the side table pressed up against its arm. Luckily, a spot in the corner, rather than out in the open where a small child might hurt themselves.
"Oh—Michael—" Gabriel stood near the broken vase, with Caché squirming in his arms. He tightened his hold on her and she pouted. And bit him. Gabriel winced but kept his grip. "I'm sorry, she wanted to climb the Christmas tree and I wouldn't let her and it just—she kicks." At that, Caché kicked Gabriel in the thigh with the back of her foot. He almost dropped her, but not quite. She whined and Gabriel shushed her. He looked back up at Michael. "I can pay for it, or something."
Michael sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "No, it's fine." He shook his head. Went to retrieve the broom and dustpan from the hallway closet and said, "It's not as though I paid for it. Just a strange trinket from one of the old owners, I assume." He knelt by the broken glass and began to sweep it into a pile.
"Sorry, again."
"No, I'm just worried someone will step on a piece of glass. One of the children, or Chuck."
"Hey!"
Michael glanced up from his sweeping, to see Chuck standing by the stairs, hair wild and pajamas mussed, with his ragged striped robe tied around his waist. Chuck glowered, and Michael grinned. "Well, good morning, sunshine. Don't come over here unless you've got shoes on."
"You know," Chuck hobbled over to the couch and draped himself over the back of it, standing on the blow-up mattress. "Even if I do step on glass, I can put a band-aid on by myself. I'm not a little kid. Don't lump me in with the toddler and the infant."
Smirking to himself, Michael responded, "Terribly sorry, darling."
Chuck narrowed his eyes. "Jerk."
Michael laughed.
Gabriel wrangled his child upstairs for some quiet time in the guest bedroom.
As Anna fed Hazel on one end of the couch, Chuck slid onto the free side. He sprawled out over the cushions and stuck his feet out, dressing robe draping almost to the floor. Beside him, Anna shook her head with a soft smile.
Everyone else returned to what they had been doing—with the exception of Luke who hadn't moved in the first place. He just lay spread-eagled on the inflatable mattress behind the couch with a giant pair of white headphones firmly over his ears and loud enough that Chuck could vaguely make out the strains of what sounded like AC/DC. Chuck sighed and closed his eyes. The sounds of Luke's music and Hazel nursing were the only thing that filled the silence, other than the occasional creak from the heaters and the floorboards when Michael walked out of the room. Chuck sighed again.
A few seconds later, he felt a hand on his face. He peeked through Michael's fingers with a frown and asked, "What are you doing?"
Michael moved his hand and leaned down to kiss Chuck at an odd angle, and held up a pill. "Medication. Do you want breakfast now or later?" He raised his eyebrows.
Chuck wrinkled his nose. "Now." He hauled himself to his feet after taking the pill from Michael—but not putting it in his mouth. No way he would willingly dry-swallow Prozac, or anything else for that matter. He followed Michael into the kitchen. "What do I get to eat for breakfast-slash-lunch?"
"Whatever you'd like." Michael handed Chuck a glass of water. "Within reason. Don't forget this." He held up a tablet, raising his eyebrows.
Chuck downed his pill, grabbed the other one too and swallowed that before sipping at his water. He muttered, "Wow, I feel so spoiled. What the crap is 'within reason'?"
Michael snorted. He looked into the fridge. "As long as you don't ask me for an extravagant banquet, I think you're fine."
"Hmmm..." Scratching at his scruff, Chuck tilted his head. He yawned. Narrowed his eyes. "Well... if you're going to spoil me... how 'bout some French toast?"
"French toast it is."
Chuck grinned. He hugged Michael, arms draped over his shoulders, and didn't let him go for a few seconds. He let Michael extricate himself from his embrace before muttering, "You're too nice to me." He scuffed his feet on the linoleum.
Shaking his head, Michael began to look through the cupboards for ingredients. "What can I say? You're much cuter than other people." He smirked. "And you don't mind when I watch documentaries about conspiracy theories so I can complain the entire time."
"I like it when you take down bad documentaries. You're smart and stuff! And it's funny and I usually end up learning something, so... Yeah. It's cool." Chuck grabbed some string cheese from the refrigerator and picked at it. He stuffed a strand into his mouth. "Also I like to watch you debate with the TV 'cause you're usually all rational but you get irrational with bad movies." Chuck laughed to himself. "Even Michael is human."
Michael raised an eyebrow, but didn't say anything other than, "Oh, is that so?"
"Yes, that is so."
"Hmm..." Michael briefly set aside the pack of sourdough bread in his hands to pull Chuck over to him. "Well, I should hope I'm human. You wouldn't want to be dating a robot, or a vampire, after all." He ducked his head and kissed Chuck's neck. "I don't think you'd last long dating a vampire, with your low blood pressure."
Chuck wrinkled his nose and pushed Michael's face away from his throat. "Yeah, well, luckily I don't have to worry."
"And isn't that lovely?" Michael pressed their mouths together.
Someone cleared their throat, and Chuck jumped back. He blushed. Glared at Luke, who stood in the doorway of the kitchen with his arms crossed and his eyebrows almost past his hairline. Luke shook his head, clicking his tongue, and sauntered into the room. "I hope I'm not interrupting anything." He made a beeline for the fridge. "What kind of meat do you have?"
Unamused, Michael snapped, "The kind you're allergic to."
"What?! You only have fish?" Luke glared into the refrigerator as if Michael might be lying. "Why the fuck don't you have sandwich meat or something?"
Michael narrowed his eyes. "One: the sandwich meat is for Chuck, and people who are nice to Chuck, like Jo. Two: I already told you to watch your language. This is my house, you follow my rules."
Luke rolled his eyes, slamming the refrigerator shut, and stalked out of the room muttering under his breath.
In his wake, the cat slunk into the kitchen and padded over to Chuck. She sniffed at his bare feet, whiskers tickly, and meowed. Chuck crouched down to pet her and almost fell over, struck with sudden dizziness from going down too fast. He caught himself on the refrigerator, though. Gertrude pushed her face into his hand so Chuck scratched her ears, leaning on the fridge, and stroked the soft fur under her chin. She purred.
Michael returned to making Chuck's brunch, but kept a sharp eye out for the possibility of fainting, while Chuck slid down and sat on the floor. But Chuck didn't faint.
He pulled Gertrude into his lap and she curled up with her face against his stomach. She radiated heat on his thighs, all calm and sleepy and blinking her one eye open every once in a while to peep at him. He hunched over so he could kiss the top of her head.
"She loves you, hm?"
"Huh—" Chuck looked up at Michael smiling down at him. "Oh, yeah. She's pretty affectionate."
As if she knew they were talking about her, Gertrude meowed loudly and twitched her ears. She uncurled and stretched her paws up to Chuck's face. He kissed her nose. She chirped, patted his face, and decided to give him a kitty hug, with her front legs wrapped around his neck. He laughed and petted her back.
"Precious." Michael stuck an egg-drenched slice of bread into the frying pan.
The smell of cooking food drew Anna and Luke into the kitchen. Luke sat at the table, glowering out the front window at the frosty road, and Anna peeked around Michael to see what he was making. When she saw French toast, she grinned. "If I help out a little can I have some?" She popped her foot into the air.
After a moment's hesitation, Michael nodded. "It would be rude to say no. Please, get some more eggs out of the refrigerator, if we're going to make enough for everyone."
From the kitchen table, Luke piped up. "Does 'everyone' include me, or am I gonna be left out like always?"
"'Like always,' my ass." Anna muttered.
Michael shot her a look, and she at least pretended to be bashful. He rolled his eyes and said to Luke, "If you promise to behave yourself, sure. I'll make you some too."
"I'm not a little kid. I can behave without being treated like a child."
"Oh, really?" Michael flipped the bread in the pan. "Prove it to me."
Luke glowered in their direction. "Fine."
Michael smirked to himself as he cooked.
In the end, everyone got a few slices, and Luke hardly complained at all.
Sitting half-wedged behind the Christmas tree, Chuck looked out the window. The sill dug into his butt, and the glass was cold and damp through his long-sleeved shirt, but he didn't mind. The house was still and silent but for the sound of Michael's brothers breathing in the darkness and the hum of the refrigerator. The sun rose outside, dying the snowy streets a warm peachy color. Chuck leaned his forehead against the window. He didn't mind the freezing condensation on his skin. Daybreak distracted him too much. And he had been so careful and quiet getting downstairs and to the window that he wouldn't let a bit of cold water deter him.
A single car—a big black Chrysler—trundled down the road, studded tires glinting in the early morning sunlight.
Chuck closed his eyes. He listened to Luke's shallow breaths, compared with Gabriel's occasional snores, and Caché's mumbles. In the kitchen, the refrigerator's motor kicked on noisily, humming. Upstairs, someone flushed the toilet, and the pipes knocked in the walls. Chuck sighed. He blew on the window so it fogged up, and drew a little smiley face on the glass. Then a frowny face, and around them, a heart. The frowny face was Chuck, and the smiley face was also Chuck.
For a moment, Chuck felt like he might drift off—knew it was unlikely, though. He never could fall asleep during the day. (Nighttime gave him enough trouble, let alone daytime.) He sighed. Noticed the room had gone strangely quiet. He tried to place the reason—the fridge had stopped its grumbling, but it wasn't that. Gabriel stilled snored, albeit more softly, and Caché still occasionally murmured about pillows.
Ah, but Luke had gone utterly silent.
Chuck twisted so he could look around the bare Christmas tree at where Luke lay on the couch. Except Luke had sat up, wrapped up in his blankets, and now he stared at Chuck. Chuck blinked. He must have not heard Luke waking up. He raised his hand uncertainly. Wiggled his fingers.
Luke nodded at him. "Morning." His voice sounded gravelly. Chuck wondered if he always sounded like that upon waking. Probably.
"Morning..." Chuck shifted where he sat, and returned to looking out the window. The sill dug into his butt uncomfortably, and he could feel Luke's stare on the back of his neck, but he didn't want to move. Felt like, maybe, Luke would think he was running away from him. (And he wasn't—Chuck wouldn't do that! He wasn't a wimp! Wasn't scared of an eighteen year old boy!)
The couch cushions squeaked, and Luke murmured, "No need to be so nervous." He cleared his throat, and his voice came out slightly less gravelly when he continued. "I may be an asshole, but I won't actually harm you. Swear to the Devil."
Chuck could practically hear him wink.
Luke lapsed into silence, shifting every once in a while so the couch creaked. Every time Chuck glanced over his shoulder, trying to shake his goosebumps, he inadvertently met Luke's eyes. He wrinkled his nose and stared out the window until the sun had risen completely. The snow glistened and cars began to drive by more often, though the frosty weather kept most people inside of their houses. In fact, Chuck thought half the town might be shut down, due to the fact that the only plow the city owned was a pickup truck with a snow shovel roped to the grill.
"What are you thinking about?"
Chuck twisted around again, tilting his head as he looked at Luke. "Stuff." He hunched his shoulders and crossed his arms—shivered a little. "Why do you care?" He decided to spare himself the damp chill of the window and stood up. He made his way over to the couch and sat down beside Luke. But not close to him. On the opposite end, as far away as possible.
With a shrug, Luke muttered, "I was just trying to make conversation." Also whispered something that sounded like a swear word under his breath, or an insult. Chuck ignored that.
"Sorry. I'm tired." Chuck drew his legs up underneath him.
Luke nodded. "Eight in the morning. But you went to bed at, what, seven last night? It's been at least twelve hours. Why are you so tired?" He seemed genuinely curious, though he still came off as at least partially condescending. But his face betrayed no malicious thoughts.
He got a sigh and a shrug, and a quiet, "Bad dreams, and stuff. Okay? I have trouble staying asleep."
"Well, why don't you take drugs for it?"
"I do! I have medication. More than one kind." Chuck rubbed his hands over his face with a grumble. He leaned against the arm of the couch. "Sometimes it just isn't enough, okay?"
A heavy silence fell. Luke squirmed, and Chuck stared at the wall wishing he could just be left alone or snuggle with Michael, but Michael had gone to work ("Just one more day," he'd said.) And Chuck didn't want to go upstairs just to be alone in a cold bed. He heaved out a sigh. A very dramatic one—his most pathetic. Beside him, Luke stilled.
After a few seconds, Luke spoke up. "Do you want to decorate the tree before everyone wakes up?"
Chuck gave Luke a perplexed look. "Are you sure? I—I mean, aren't you, like, too cool to decorate trees or... or something?" He chewed absentmindedly on his lip. He thought he should do something, but didn't know what, so he just picked at a loose thread on the hem of his shirt.
Luke laughed. "It's not like anyone's awake. If I feel uncool for decorating, I can just deny I did anything and everyone will believe me because the idea of me being helpful is so unbelievable." He smirked. "I'm the family failure, after all." He shed his blanket and hauled himself to his feet. Seemed completely unbothered by the cold even though all he had on for pajamas was a pair of blue briefs and a tank top. But he didn't so much as shiver. (Whereas Chuck sat all scrunched up on the couch wearing wool socks, long flannel pants, a thermal shirt, and his ratty dressing robe. And still shivered.) Luke picked a needle from the tree and looked at it for a second before dropping it to the floor. "Where are the decorations?"
Standing and tying his robe around his waist, Chuck padded over to the hallway. He had to turn on the light just to see down to the end of the hall, where the closet door was. The joys of windowless, mostly enclosed hallways. He rummaged through the closet, cursing often and quietly, while Luke hovered behind him occasionally offering help in the form of vaguely insulting comments such as, "Are you sure you can lift that shoebox without collapsing?" and "I don't think standing on a box will help you reach that shelf."
But Chuck, despite Luke's irritating interjections, finally found a big silver Rubbermaid box with "X-mas" in his own slanted handwriting on the side. It was, however, at about eye-level. Also known as the perfect height to kill Chuck if he attempted to take it down. He glowered at the box. Took a step back. Cut Luke off in the middle of a sentence to say, "If you wanna decorate the tree, you're gonna have to move that box for me."
Luke snorted. "Wimp." He elbowed his way past Chuck and took hold of the box.
Chuck hurriedly backed away, just in case Luke tried to murder him, or something. He watched Luke haul the box out of closet, and stepped out of the way so the younger man could carry it into the living room.
Luke set it down on the couch with a grunt, and stood a moment with his hands on his hips to catch his breath. He turned to Chuck. "What the fuck is in that box?"
"Um..." Chuck moved closer, so he could pop the lid. It took a little prying, but it came off, and Chuck pulled out a ceramic house with little windows and a switch on the bottom. "A fake town." He grinned.
"What?"
Chuck urged Luke to look inside the box—at the little village of Christmas décor. "My grandma willed it to me when she died, for some reason. I almost gave it to Goodwill but then I felt bad... so... I have an entire Christmas village collection?" He scratched the back of his neck. Grimaced, so his face scrunched up. "Kinda weird."
With a laugh, Luke pulled out a little church, and peered at its base and through its windows. He turned it over in his hands. Set it aside and sifted through the other little houses and buildings. The miniature barbershop quartet especially amused him. "I can't decide if I like this or if it's the lamest thing I've ever laid eyes on..." Luke snorted. He took out every little piece of the town, fake trees and all, and set them out on the floor while Chuck stood at his elbow. Once he'd gotten all that out of the way, he pulled out the Christmas lights. "Here we go... can you help me put these on the tree?"
A little bewildered at how nice Luke was being, Chuck nodded. "Sure..."
Together, they draped the string of lights around the tree, from the bottom branches all the way to the top—where they looped it extra, because the string was longer than it needed to be. Luke adjusted the lights in a few places, arranging them a little more artfully. He grabbed a different color of lights from the box, and with Chuck's help, twirled that around the tree as well. He seemed to enjoy himself. Even smiled to himself as he worked, humming what sounded like a Fiona Apple song.
Chuck resisted the urge to tease Luke, for his own safety. Somehow, he doubted a friendly jab would go over well. So instead of saying anything, he started to hang glass ornaments on the tree. He tried to space them out, but ended up with random clumps of glittery glass balls. He moved some around. A frosted ornament here, a satin-finish ornament there. Delicate spun-glass interspersed throughout.
Almost immediately after Chuck decided he'd done a pretty good job, Luke clicked his tongue and rearranged every single ornament. "You have a terrible eye for design."
"Screw you—" Chuck crossed his arms with a frown. "I have a great eye!"
Luke raised his eyebrows, and crossed his arms as well—but in a mocking way. "Says the guy who has to wear glasses." He huffed out a laugh and returned to fixing the tree. "Do me a favor and get me something to drink, hm?"
Chuck glared at Luke. "I'm not your maid. Get your own drink." He sat on the couch next to the Rubbermaid box. It tilted dangerously and he grabbed at it, pulling it from the brink of the cushion. He continued to glare, though. Narrowed his eyes and shot his eyebrows up until his face went from seriously annoyed to ridiculous. Luke's reaction was to snort and go off into the kitchen with a roll of his eyes. Chuck broke into a smile.
After what seemed like forever, and after Luke had gotten himself a glass of chocolate milk (which involved a lot of cursing and a combination of low-fat milk, chocolate syrup, and Chuck's Nestlé cocoa powder) Luke declared the tree complete. He plugged it in, and Chuck couldn't help but hold his breath for half a second. Normally, when Chuck decorated a tree, it looked messy but fun, and festive. This tree, though, looked... nice. A swirl of white and blue lights wrapped around it, and the ornaments hung elegantly from the branches—frosted pale blue and glittery white-gold and clear engraved glass balls. Even a sprinkle of tinsel across the dark green needles. A few tiny rosy golden ornaments hung in the shadows as well, with a hint of warmth.
Chuck made a face.
"Luke, that's really pretty."
Luke just shrugged. "It's not bad." He smirked, hands planted on his hips, and licked his lips. "Missing something, though..."
Chuck peered into the box to see if he could find what might truly complete the tree. He realized, as he looked into the box, what it needed was something on the top, like an angel. He pushed some stockings out of the way, and moved an extra box of green ornaments. And there it was. A star the size of his face. White and somewhat clear, accented with gold glitter. He held it out to Luke. "Is this good?"
"Perfect." Luke inspected the star. He got up on his toes to stick it on the tree, and plugged it into the rest of the lights. It glowed softly, pale and cold. The glitter caught the light, and sent little dots of gold against the walls like a miniature star-shaped disco ball. Luke grinned. "Pretty damn good."
Chuck couldn't help but smile as well, broadly. He curled up on the couch and stared at the tree, squinting just a bit—he'd left his glasses upstairs.
Luke moved the decoration box to the floor beside the couch and sat down as well.
They sat in silence for at least fifteen minutes, until a tiny voice said, "The lights are so bright like the sun." Chuck craned his head back to smile at Caché, who rubbed her face, sitting beside her still-sleeping father. She looked confused. And mildly awestruck. She pointed one little finger at the tree and said, "It's good morning time. The sun says it's good morning time and the lights says it's Christmas." The way she spoke, "Christmas" came out as "kwissmiss."
"Do you like the Christmas tree?" Chuck let his hand dangle over the back of the couch. Caché grabbed at his fingers and nodded. Chuck smiled. "Me too."
"I don't like dreams." Caché made her way around the couch and pulled herself up between Chuck and Luke. She leaned against Chuck's side, practically sitting on him, and pouted. "Dreams are mean. Snuggle?"
Chuck frowned. He let Caché climb onto his lap and wrapped his arms around her before asking, "Did you have a bad dream?"
Caché nodded.
"Aww." Chuck rested his chin on the top of her head. Rubbed her back. "Bad dreams aren't fun, are they? I had one too. Bad news." Off to the side, Luke snorted to himself. Chuck resisted the urge to kick his foot. Instead, he kept talking. "One time," he said, in a low voice—a story-telling voice. "I had a dream that a bunch of singing dogs chased me up a palm tree." Chuck paused. Blinked. "That was a really weird dream."
Luke sounded, for a moment, like he'd begun to choke on something, but then Chuck realized it was laughter.
"What the hell kind of dream is that?" Luke cackled as quietly as possible—so as not to wake his brother still sleeping behind the couch. He wiped at one eye. "Singing dogs, and palm trees. Oh boy, are you strange, or what?"
Chuck made a face. "Don't make fun of me!" He bounced Caché in his lap and stuck his tongue out. "Don't be like uncle Luke, okay? It's mean to make fun of people."
Caché gave him a very serious nod and stuck her finger in her nose.
Luke rolled his eyes.
The stairs creaked, across the room, and the three of them glanced over to see who it was. Jo raised her eyebrows as she came down the steps. She pushed a stray hair behind her ear and planted her hands on her hips. "You guys sure look cute." She grinned. "A real picturesque setup. The tree looks great. Did you do that all just now?" She gestured toward the brightly twinkling pine as she sat on the arm of the couch next to Chuck. She gave him a much softer smile, leaning into him—it felt like everyone wanted to lean against him lately, and though Chuck didn't mind cuddling, he sort of minded being used as an armrest.
With a scoff, Luke muttered, "Well, it was naked last night and now it's covered in lights, so take your best guess." He stretched his legs out toward the tree and the ceramic town on the floorboards in front of it.
"Jeez, no need to be a jerk about it." Jo huffed, and crossed her arms. "It's real pretty though."
Chuck smiled at her. "Thanks. Luke did most of the work."
"Did not."
Chuck didn't resist his urge to kick, this time. His foot connected with Luke's knee, and Chuck immediately regretted his decision. He wrinkled his nose and hissed. "Ow, why's your leg so hard?!"
Luke raised one eyebrow, eyes heavy lidded, expression disinterested. The corner of his mouth twitched up. "Maybe you're just extremely soft."
"So what if I am?"
Luke shrugged.
Caché patted Chuck's face and made a very serious expression at him. "We don't kick."
Luke burst out laughing beside them, and Chuck couldn't help but laugh a little too.
Up until that moment, Gabriel had remained fast asleep. But at the sudden laughter—louder than Luke intended—he grumbled from behind the couch. "Shut up, will ya? It's too early." He shuffled around under his blankets, and eventually settled on kicking them off. He sat up too, and rubbed his face. Ran a hand back through his hair and muttered, "Scratch that. I'm awake. Who's making breakfast?" He squinted at the back of the couch.
"Um..." Chuck peeked over the couch at Gabriel and his mussed hair. "I can do it—I make breakfast all the time." He pushed Caché (gently) off of his lap. "Except I can't do bacon and stuff 'cause I'm always worried the oil will, you know, pop and stuff. But we don't even have real bacon so—" He cut himself off. Nodded. "I'll make eggs." He pulled himself to his feet. Stood and swayed for a moment, shaking the static-y feeling from his extremities, and trotted off toward the kitchen.
All three adults in the living room followed him with their eyes like hungry dogs. Caché, however, followed him with her feet. She tagged along after him and clung to his leg, one hand dangerously close to his butt because of course she was just the perfect height to grab his ass. She watched with wide brown eyes as Chuck snatched the egg carton from the refrigerator.
"Eggs are icky." She let go of his pants. "I want 'cones."
Chuck frowned, as he cracked an egg into a small metal bowl. He tilted his head. "Cones? Like ice—"
"She means scones!" Gabriel half-fell into the kitchen. "And don't say the I-C-E C-R-E-A-M word or she'll scream until she gets it." He threw himself into one of the kitchen chairs with a huff, and wilted.
With a nod, Chuck raised his eyebrows. "Okay." He hummed and cracked a few more eggs. And one more just for good measure. And another. Because Luke would probably eat them all. "You know, I think Michael has a recipe for maple scones somewhere. I could make those?"
Caché bounced up and down. "Maple 'cones!"
Chuck smiled.
He ended up making a large seven-egg omelet, filling it with mushrooms and pepper jack, and cutting it in three pieces—one for Gabriel, one for Jo, and one for Luke. As for himself... He nibbled on a plain bagel while he searched for Michael's scone recipe. He found it on a stained piece of paper underneath a four-inch thick cookbook, and set it off to the side. The hunt for ingredients began.
It didn't actually take long to make the scones, but Chuck had to leave out the brown sugar on top because they were all out.
"Okay!" He stacked the scones on a plate once they cooled some, and held it up. "Who wants scones?!"
"Me!"
And that was Luke. Who nearly tripped on Caché trying to get to Chuck first so he could grab a scone. He ended up giving one to her, since she was short and Chuck hadn't had a chance to lower the plate, and took another for himself. He ate nearly half of it in one bite. So did Caché. She had much more trouble fitting it in her mouth, of course, and ended up dropping a chunk onto the kitchen floor and showering herself in crumbs. For a moment, her eyes went wide and shiny, but Gabriel swooped in to save the day—brushed her shirt off and picked up the lost piece and Caché as well.
Gabriel kissed his daughter's cheek and carried her over to the kitchen table, where her scone would be safer. "Let's try little bits at a time, okay, Cash?"
She nodded.
Chuck helped himself to a scone, eventually, after Luke stole two more. "Hey! We gotta save some for Anna and Michael and—do babies eat scones? And I wanna take one to the neighbor." Chuck almost pouted—then thought maybe he should do that, because it would probably lead to teasing. So he glared thunderously instead. Luke just laughed at him and left the room. Chuck rolled his eyes, leaning on the counter as he munched on a scone. He didn't really want to get dressed, but it was true, what he'd said about wanting to bring something over to Rufus. He genuinely like the older man's company, and Rufus always seemed to be alone, so Chuck figured it couldn't hurt to bring him something nice. He sniffed. Wrinkled his nose—his sinuses were acting up.
"Better not get my baby girl sick!"
Chuck laughed. "I'm not sick, don't worry." He gnawed on his scone.
Gabriel grinned at him. "Good."
"Wait, you can't leave the house like that!" Gabriel grabbed Chuck before he could make it to the hallway and gave him a firm glower. "It's cold. Where's your scarf?"
Chuck blinked. "Wow. Parental instincts." He shook his head and shrugged out of Gabriel's hold. "I don't have a scarf. I mean—I do. But. It's in the washing machine... So it's kind of useless, since it would be all wet and stuff and just freeze and then I would probably lose my nose or something—"
"Chuck." Gabriel put his hands on Chuck's shoulders, expression vaguely incredulous. His eyebrows crept higher as he said, "There are four different scarves hanging on the coat rack. Pick one, and use it." He let the corners of his mouth twitch up. "Michael would kill me if I let you die in the snow."
"Dude—" Chuck sighed. "It's only across the street. What am I, eight? I'll use someone's scarf—Swear it. But, man, I'm an adult and I can handle myself and also I won't die if I walk a hundred feet in the frost."
Gabriel just raised his eyebrows even higher. As if he didn't believe Chuck.
With a roll of his eyes, Chuck pulled away and made a point to very noisily search through the coats hanging by the door until he found a long white scarf, thick-knit and flecked with silver and pale pink. Probably Anna's? It smelled like vanilla and licorice when he wrapped it around his face. He shrugged and left the house. The grass crunched under his sneakers as he cut across the front lawn to get to Rufus. Gravel crackled, too, in the driveway. Most of the snow had melted, but had frozen again overnight—too cold for new snow to fall—so overly smooth ice mottled the sidewalks, and patches of frost covered every other surface. Chuck clung to any solid objects he could find. The last time he'd walked across such slick ice, he'd fallen hard enough that he couldn't feel his hip for several seconds, and had been left with a bruise the size of his palm.
Luckily, he met with no accidents. He knocked on Rufus's door, with a scone in a sandwich bag held in one hand, and waited.
For a moment, he was afraid Rufus wasn't home. But the older man's truck sat in the driveway, all frosted over. He doubted he would have gone on a walk, in the cold.
Rufus answered right about when Chuck began to be grateful for the scarf around his neck.
"Well, what brings you here on such a chilly day?"
"Oh—just... scones?" Chuck held up the bag. "I made some and I thought I would... you know... offer one?" He bounced on his feet.
Rufus's eyes crinkled. He stepped back, opening the door wider. "Well, get your ass inside, boy."
With a sigh of relief, Chuck scurried his way inside, stripping off his coat. He hung it on the hook beside the door and after he'd taken his shoes off he followed Rufus—not toward the kitchen, like he expected, but to the living room. The curtains, still drawn, kept the room dim and tinted slightly purple. A wooden menorah sat on the mantel, but like an afterthought. It was crooked and candle-less. A few pictures lined the mantel as well: some candids of people Chuck had never met (of course) and one picture of a younger Rufus with his arm around a tall woman who looked remarkably like him. A sister, maybe.
Grunting, Rufus prodded at the fire with a wrought iron poker—snatched from its stand beside the fireplace. He gestured Chuck toward the couch and cleared his throat. "You look tired." He crossed his arms, leaning against the wall beside the fireplace. "You always look tired, though."
"You're right." Chuck sat down with his shoulders hunched. Tried to take up as little space as possible on the small couch. (Practically a loveseat despite its three cushions.) "I'm tired. But that's okay, I'm used to it."
"Trouble sleeping?" Rufus pushed away from the wall and moved to join Chuck on the couch.
Chuck shrugged. "Bad dreams. But I take sleeping pills. It's not about sleeping, really..." He pulled his feet up onto the couch and wrapped his arms around his legs. "It's just that everything takes so much energy and there are people over. So I'm kinda worn out, especially since we just got here. You know?"
Rufus nodded. "I can understand that."
A light sigh, and Chuck let himself relax. He kind of wanted a hug—doubted Rufus would be the right person to ask for that—but he also kind of wanted to sleep. He rubbed at his face. "I feel bad complaining, though." He stretched his legs out, and glanced at Rufus. "Like I should be grateful that I have this new extended family and that I shouldn't complain about being a little overwhelmed and I shouldn't want to hide in my room just 'cause there are some extra people around." He bit his lip. "I mean, don't get me wrong—I like Michael's family, a lot. Even his rude little brother. But I just... I just... There are too many people all at once and I need—I need a break. I need to be somewhere quiet and alone and it's hard to get that. I just... need to cool down, away from people." He took a breath, shaky and strained. Closed his eyes and frowned. His eyes burned. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry for coming over here and just... whining. About trivial shit." He blinked a few times, rapidly, trying to keep his eyes dry. It didn't really work. "Shit." He thought maybe changing the subject would help distract him. Went with, "Totally unrelated, but I got a cat. That's cool. She's cool. One eye." He sniffed, and as he went on to say, "Like a pirate," his eyes welled up too much—a tear ran down the side of his nose. He covered his face, embarrassed. But he couldn't keep from crying. No sobs, nothing like that, but he couldn't stop the tears and he couldn't stop his nose from starting to run and he couldn't even manage to get out a simple, "I'm sorry," without his voice cracking.
For a moment, Rufus sat there and stared at Chuck. But then he settled one hand on Chuck's back, a little uncertain, and mumbled, "Don't gotta apologize for being human."
He seemed unsure of exactly what to do, but that was alright. Chuck appreciated the gesture, simple as it was. Felt tempted to lean into Rufus' touch but worried the older man might find that weird or too familiar, considering they'd only met recently. He focused on not getting snot on himself instead, and tried to subdue himself. He met with very little success. Unsurprising, but frustrating. Once he started crying it always took him a while to stop. Always. Like his body just wanted to get everything out all at once. Days' and months' worth of emotions and frustrations in one go. He took his glasses off and rubbed his eyes, and they only watered worse, and he had to breathe through his mouth.
Rufus patted Chuck's back. "I just cleaned the rooms upstairs, yesterday." He paused. "The bed in the guest room is soft. If you wanna go lay down, take a break from everything, you can do that. I won't mind too much." He pushed himself to his feet with a grunt. Cracked his back and watched Chuck. Waited, silent, for him to consider.
Nodding, Chuck also stood. He wiped his face on his sleeve. In a small, trembling voice, said, "That'd be nice." He took a deep breath and followed Rufus out into the narrow hallway, up the stairs hidden by a curtain. The wood creaked under their feet. Chuck couldn't tell if he liked the house or if it creeped him out, but it had a certain air of dark coziness that comforted him. Like an old, smoky blanket. The guest room, when Rufus opened the door for him, smelled like cinnamon. Chuck sniffled and thanked Rufus.
"You just try to feel better. I'll be downstairs." He shut the door behind Chuck, and Chuck listened to the quiet sound of his retreating footsteps for a moment before eventually walking over to the twin bed in the corner.
The carpet squished under his feet. The mattress squeaked when he sat down but Rufus was right—it was nice and soft. Probably had one of those foam pads under the sheets. Chuck took his socks off, and his sweater too. He almost took his pants off as well, just because he didn't want to lay down in jeans, but he thought that might be kind of odd so he kept them on and nestled into the blankets. Just a little bit of pale light leaked around the edges of the thick curtains, blocking the only window. So he could see, in the room, but it was still dim. Chuck sniffed again and covered his head with the quilts and blankets on the bed.
He closed his eyes.
Outside, a bird peeped out a little tune.
Chuck focused on his breathing, and on trying to melt through the bed. He thought, maybe, just maybe, he could take a nap for once and actually fall asleep instead of lying awake for hours. As his muscles slowly relaxed—as he went limp-limbed and dazed—he smiled to himself. Sniffled for what felt like the thousandth time, and drifted off. Once, for a brief second, he thought he would snap awake. But his eyelids fluttered and he let out a sigh.
The bird continued to peep, but he didn't hear it anymore.
Chuck woke to Michael's voice, surprisingly. His forehead creased, as he shifted and made a noise in the back of his throat. He scrunched his eyes up before opening them, bleary. "Michael?"
"Shhhh..." Michael pulled Chuck into his arms—got him out of the bed with minimal jostling. He managed to get Chuck to hold onto him. "Let's get you home, hm?" He supported Chuck with one hand. Rubbed his back with the other. He carried him out into the hall, and downstairs, and for a second he spoke with Rufus, quietly.
Chuck didn't catch the words. He was still half-asleep and confused. And his head hurt. He let out a near silent whine.
Michael shushed him. Not rudely, or in any kind of demanding way. Just a soft "Hush, now. It's alright." He asked Rufus to get Chuck's sweater and socks from the bedroom before grabbing the scarf Chuck had borrowed, and Chuck's jacket and sneakers. He carried Chuck out into the darkness and Chuck shivered. Michael hurried, but stepped carefully. Most of the ice had melted, but a thin layer of snow coated the ground, and he really didn't need to injure them both by falling. As soon as he was able, though, he got Chuck inside. Rufus came in on his heels.
"Do you want to go back to sleep," Michael whispered. "Or would you like to eat something first? You've been out all day, Rufus said. No lunch." He stopped to let Chuck down, but still held him close, one arm around his shoulders to keep him standing.
Chuck frowned. He rubbed his eyes. "Food." He yawned.
Michael paused a moment to thank Rufus and take Chuck's sweater from him before turning back to Chuck. "Alright. Let's eat dinner, then." He led Chuck into the kitchen. Chuck swayed a little but Michael kept a hand at his back, warm and firm. When Chuck sat down at the table and shivered, Michael helped him back into his sweater and kissed his forehead. "Leftover pasta?"
Chuck nodded. He noticed Rufus still hovering in the doorway, and waved. Rufus raised his eyebrows but he waved back. Chuck yawned, and in a quiet voice he asked Michael, "Where's everyone else?" He scratched at his beard.
"Oh," Michael glanced over at Chuck as he scooped some pasta into a saucepan to reheat it. He stuck the leftovers back into the fridge. "Jo and Anna are upstairs with the baby, napping. But the others went out. Caché said she wanted to make a snowman so Gabriel took her to the park, and Luke went too because she asked." Michael paused. "Well, more like demanded. But she's four so it's almost the same thing." He smirked, and stirred the noodles on the stove.
At the table, Chuck smiled. He folded his arms on the table and leaned his head on them. "That's fun."
Michael nodded.
It didn't take long for the noodles to heat up. They ate—invited Rufus to share, but he declined and returned home. Said he had things to do. Left them to their dinner with a wave and a terse goodbye.
For a while, neither Chuck nor Michael said anything. Gertrude twined herself back and forth between their legs while they ate, and begged for a piece of pasta. Chuck shooed her off. "No people food for you, kitty." He frowned. The cat slipped off into the hallway with a mewl, and Chuck shook his head. He finished the last of his food before murmuring, "Why do cats always want human food?" to himself.
"Maybe they think it tastes better than pellets of whatever is in cat food?" Michael smirked.
Chuck narrowed his eyes, and pointed his fork at Michael. "You're a butt."
Michael snorted.
Chuck let out a huff, standing and grabbing their plates to take to the sink. As he turned the faucet on and stuck the dishes under the stream of water, he heard the front door open. It slammed shut, but not in an angry way, and Caché ran into the kitchen almost immediately, closely followed by Gabriel and Luke.
"Uncles! I got snow!" The little girl held out her arms, showing off the rapidly melting snowflakes scattered across her sleeves. "Snow on my coat!" She ran to Chuck and hugged his legs, nearly making his knees buckle.
Chuck smiled and patted her head and extracted himself from her grip. He urged her back toward her father, saying, "Wow! That snow sure is pretty, isn't it?" He leaned on the counter.
She nodded as Gabriel picked her up. "Beautiful snow." She grinned.
Chuck didn't really know how to reply so he just patted her head as he walked past. He gestured for Michael to follow him—a little crook of his fingers, and a nod toward the doorway. When he was sure Michael would go after him, he made his way toward the living room, and the stairs. But Luke stopped him with a quick grab.
"Hey, Chuck—" Luke looked confused. "Have you seen my scarf? 'Cause it wasn't there when I left. It's white."
"Oh." Chuck put a hand to his face. He shook his head. "Yeah—I... uh... I put it back on the hook but yeah. I... took it when I went to the neighbor's house. Since Gabriel told me to take a scarf, and mine was—" Chuck shrugged. "It's over there now." He pointed vaguely back toward the hallway, as he pulled away from Luke.
Luke nodded. "Oh, okay." He narrowed his eyes. "I'll have to put snow down your shirt now or something. I was cold without it."
Rolling his eyes, Chuck left Luke in the living room and went upstairs. Michael had beaten him up there while he wasn't paying attention, and waited in the bedroom, looking out at the still snow through the French doors. He turned his head when Chuck walked into the room. Smiled gently. "Your finger-wiggling downstairs struck me as fairly obvious." He held his hand out, and when Chuck took it he lowered his voice to say, "Don't be surprised if Gabriel asks about sex, in the morning." He kissed Chuck. "Something like, 'did you have fun last night?' accompanied by a lot of exaggerated winking."
Chuck laughed under his breath and kissed Michael back. He pushed at Michael until he got him to turn the way he wanted—gave him a little push in the right direction, and when he got Michael to climb into the bed, muttered, "Well, I don't care." He pushed Michael's shirt up to his armpits, leaning down to kiss his bare stomach. "I'm gonna enjoy my hot husband and Gabriel can go say whatever weird things he wants." He grinned. "I'll just brag about how sexy you are until he's uncomfortable."
Michael snorted. He pulled at Chuck to kiss him. "Just don't tell him all the details." He paused with his lips just barely brushing Chuck's. Then he let their kiss deepen as Chuck pushed him back down against the sheets.
"You couldn't be any more conspicuous if you tried."
"What?" Chuck looked up from his cereal.
Gabriel raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms with a smirk. "That whole 'come hither' thing, last night after I got back?" He rolled his eyes. "The most obvious 'let's fuck' body language I've ever seen." He plopped himself down at the dining table, and propped his feet up on one of the empty chairs. "I just hope you enjoyed trying to keep quiet in a house full of people."
Chuck narrowed his eyes and finished chewing before he responded.
"Well, you know what?" Chuck leaned back in his chair. Then he let out a sigh. "I don't have a comeback."
Gabriel snorted. "I'll let you off. This time." Shaking his head, he stood and went to the refrigerator. As he walked, he said, "Anywho. Tonight is Christmas Eve! Michael's got the rest of the week off. We're all here." He paused to take a drink from a bottle of juice—his own, bought the day before. "So... Are there any plans? You and Michael going on a date, or what? Cookies for Santa?"
"Santa's not real."
Narrowing his eyes, Gabriel shut the fridge and crossed his arms. "I know that, genius. But there is a small child in this house." He leaned on the refrigerator door. Raised an eyebrow. "Seriously, though. When was the last time you two went out? With him working all the time, and now with us crashing here for the holidays... Well, I can't imagine you have a lot of romantic nights on the town." He smirked. "What do you do on special occasions? Order pizza and fall asleep watching bigfoot movies on the laptop? Boooooring."
Chuck frowned but let Gabriel continue.
"You guys have gotta get out! Dress up nice, go to a fancy restaurant. See a terrible movie and make out in the back of the theater while you ignore the screen." Gabriel grinned, only a little inappropriately. "You know, fun stuff—like public sex. Or eating an entire lasagna in one sitting."
Blinking, and slightly disturbed, Chuck muttered, "That... that doesn't sound fun. Like... at all."
Gabriel rolled his eyes. "You're a party pooper. And old."
"Fine—" Chuck stood up. "You know what, actually, I kind of really do want to go on a date so I'm gonna go ask Michael and you can just—" He made a frustrated noise and waved his hands at Gabriel. "Stop pestering me!" He paused. Pointed a finger at Gabriel. "And you're the same age as me!" With that, he left. Did not run, but walked quickly out of the kitchen and through the living room, up the stairs, and right into the bedroom where Michael still slept. Or at least, appeared to sleep. His eyes were closed and the blankets covered every bit of him but his toes and the top of his head. Chuck took a breath, and plopped down onto the bed. It squeaked, and he bounced a little.
Michael shifted. Grumbled, and squinted his eyes open. Half-asleep still, but curious, he lifted his head just enough to tilt it at Chuck. "Morning?"
"Noon." Chuck smiled. He climbed on top of Michael, feeling snuggly. He rested his head on Michael's chest before saying anything else. "Can we go on a date tonight?"
"Mm?" Michael took a moment to think, scrunching his face up and stretching his arms out. He yawned. "Course we can." He reached for Chuck—ran his hands back through Chuck's hair and continued, "Why so sudden though? Couldn't wait 'til I came downstairs?" He smiled.
Chuck made a face. "I'm sorry." He turned his head as Michael stroked his hair, with a small sigh. Relaxed against Michael's chest and listened to his heart beating. "Gabriel was teasing me, but it made me think...I—I wanna go on a date. Or... or just... out. Spend time with you somewhere other than here." Chuck closed his eyes. "Just... time together. Doing something special." He hummed in the back of his throat.
Shifting, so the bed creaked a little, Michael nodded. He pulled himself more upright. Propped himself against the headboard and pulled Chuck up with him, resting his chin on the top of Chuck's head. "Anything in mind?" He ran his hand up Chuck's back.
For a moment, Chuck thought. He squirmed at Michael's touch tickling against his shoulder blades. "Um..." He dropped his head down against Michael's shoulder and squinted at the bookshelves as if they could give him a good date idea. They didn't. Finally, he muttered, "Dinner and a movie? Buy me expensive jewelry? Spa date?" He wrinkled his nose with a laugh. "But for real... Just a nice dinner, maybe? Or—what kind of stuff is there tonight? Christmas Eve date?" He leaned up and pecked Michael on the cheek, just because he could.
"Oh?" Michael caught Chuck's kiss with the corner of his mouth. He tilted his head. "I'd be up for any of those, truth be told." He pressed his mouth to Chuck's. Whispered, "I'm sure you'd look very nice in expensive jewelry."
"That was a joke!" Chuck couldn't keep his cheeks from going slightly pink. He frowned at Michael. "Don't buy me jewelry. I don't want you to spend a bunch of money on me, especially since the wedding rings cost so much." He buried his face in Michael's neck. "And I would look silly in anything but a watch—even... even that would just be too much. I would look terrible in a Rolex." He huffed.
Michael clicked his tongue. He pushed some stray curls back from Chuck's face, and kissed his forehead. (It took some maneuvering, but he made it happen anyway.) "Chuck," He urged Chuck to lay down beside him, and slid down himself, rolling onto his side. Trailed his hand down Chuck's side and moved close enough that their noses brushed. "You're the one being ridiculous. You'd look perfectly fine in something shiny. At least, you would to me. And if anyone disagreed... Well, I would be under the impression that they have no taste." He smirked. "Trust me. You wouldn't look nearly as silly as you seem to think. It's just a matter of coordination." He pushed Chuck onto his back and settled down over him, holding himself up with his elbows against the sheets on either side of Chuck's head. "Of course you wouldn't wear a Rolex with ripped jeans and a band t-shirt. Nor would you wear a diamond necklace with an old sweatshirt and your pajamas... But..." He pressed his lips to Chuck's for a brief moment. "Take that diamond necklace or Rolex watch and pair it with lace or a new suit, and suddenly it looks a lot better." He kissed Chuck again, for longer. Deeper.
Chuck let his eyes close again—let himself melt under Michael's affection and waited for Michael to pull back before saying anything. He spoke quietly, eyes still shut. "Are you implying that you want me to wear lingerie and diamonds?" He let out a breath. A soft, content sigh. Added, "'Cause I'm not sure I would be totally opposed even though it sounds kind of weird to me."
"The idea isn't unappealing, but I think we might want to save that for a later date." Michael kissed Chuck again. "It's Christmas Eve. What do you think about going to see The Nutcracker?"
"Sure. Why not?" Chuck grinned. "I've never seen ballet in real life before. It could be a new life experience!" He felt like he ought to gesture cheerily with that kind of statement, but he continued to lie there instead.
Michael nodded. "That's the spirit."
Michael shook Chuck awake, whispering his name. Chuck's face scrunched up and he blinked, sight fuzzy. He squinted. Let Michael pull him out of the car, and let him support him as they walked up the pathway. He yawned. "Don'tcha know you're supposed to carry me into the house and not wake me up, all romantic and stuff?" He rubbed his face. "'Specially since I already took the... the thingies."
"The medication."
"Yeah, that."
Chuck almost tripped on the front step, but Michael caught him. Slipped his arm around Chuck's waist and rolled his eyes. He said nothing. Just steered Chuck through the dark, silent living room, and up the stairs to the bathroom so they could brush their teeth. He had to help Chuck, a little—with the toothpaste. And then, afterward, had to help Chuck out of his clothes and into his pajamas. Not a new task, really, but no less difficult considering Chuck's tendency to turn into a limp noodle when he was about to fall asleep. (Not that Michael blamed him. He couldn't imagine it being easy to control your limbs when sedated.)
They got into the bed with no mishaps, and as Michael pulled the blankets over them, Chuck muttered, "You're a good husband..." He patted Michael's face. Michael smiled to himself in the shadows and put his palm over Chuck's hand, sliding himself just a bit closer to Chuck. Chuck yawned in his face.
Outside, the streetlamps poured their orange light over the bare sidewalk.
After a few seconds, Michael whispered Chuck's name, for no particular reason other than to check if he was still awake. No response, and slow breaths. He wrapped his arms around Chuck and kissed his forehead, and closed his eyes.
No sense in being awake any longer.
He quieted his mind.
"Merry Christmas!"
Chuck flinched awake, and took a moment to figure out where he was and what on earth was happening. It took a knee to the stomach and a tight hug before he realized. "Ah, God—" He put his arms out, and tried to shove Caché off of him. Or at least away from him enough that he wouldn't have to worry about her various flailing limbs. "Cash—Caché, please calm down." He hugged her back, though. Got her to hold still, patting her back. "Morning."
Caché beamed up at him. "It's Christmas!"
"Oh—oh, my mistake." Chuck cleared his throat. "I thought it was Saint Patrick's Day."
The little girl laughed and patted his arm as if he were the funniest thing she'd seen all day. "No! No leprechauns 'cause they're green! Christmas!" She giggled to herself. "I wanna carry you downstairs!"
Chuck raised his eyebrows. "I think I'm too heavy for you to carry—"
"No!" Caché slapped his shoulder. "I want you to carry you! Carry me!"
"Oooh, do you mean you want me to carry you? All the way downstairs?"
She nodded sagely.
Chuck twisted his mouth up and hummed. He sighed. "I don't know, you might be too heavy. But I'll try." He scooted around so he could get his legs out from under the blankets and over the side of the bed. He took a moment to steel himself before standing up, tightening his grip on Caché. She wrapped her arms around his neck, as he stood there. Momentary hesitation, while Chuck adjusted his hold on her. He finally moved—carried her across the room, to the doorway. He grimaced.
"You weigh a million pounds, dude." He wrinkled his nose. But he made it to the end of the hallway before having to put her down. He leaned on the wall, unable to keep himself from panting a little bit. Caché shook her head at him and made her own way down the stairs, one step at a time. Like a baby duck. Chuck waved at her. "Seeya in a few years." He smiled, when she laughed at him.
He followed after her, once his arms felt less like stretched out taffy. He wondered how much she really weighed—too much for him, that was for sure.
The stairs creaked under his feet, as he leaned on the banister. He made it to the living room at about the same time as Caché, but she beat him to the couch by running as fast as she possibly could and shouting "MINE!" while taking a running jump onto the cushions. Gabriel caught her and pulled her onto his lap. Kissed her face, and made room for Chuck on the couch.
Luke sat on the floor by the tree, separating presents out into little piles—a few each, for the most part, but one pile stood out with nearly twice as much. Obviously gifts for Caché. Anna sat in the armchair, with Hazel cradled against her chest and Jo on the floor in front of her knees. For a moment, Chuck wondered where Michael was, as he pulled his feet up underneath him. (Should have grabbed his robe, and some socks...)
It took only a few seconds before the sound of silverware crashing to the floor told Chuck that Michael was probably trying to make breakfast. And failing, apparently.
Chuck couldn't be bothered to stand up again, so he shouted, "You okay, Michael?"
A disgruntled, "Fine! Totally fine!" was his reply.
Beside Chuck, Gabriel laughed.
Smiling, Chuck untucked one of his feet and reached his leg out to poke Luke with his toes. "That big one's for me right?" He would've winked, if he'd been the type to do that sort of thing. Instead he just let his smile lean toward the cheeky side and poked Luke again. Luke rolled his eyes and pushed Chuck's foot away.
"What do you think, old man?"
"I think yes. Punk."
Luke raised his eyebrow. "Wrong. Nerd." He stood up, purposefully shoving at Chuck on his way past, toward the bathroom by the stairs. As the door shut behind him, Chuck stuck his tongue out.
Gabriel poked Chuck. "Bad influence." He winked.
Chuck scoffed. He let his legs stretch out toward the presents, and sank down into the cushions further. He closed his eyes. "What time is it?" He squinted one eye open to peek at Gabriel and Caché.
"Like... nine?"
Grimacing, Chuck said, "I slept in later than usual."
"Well, to be fair, we didn't get home until almost midnight last night."
"Michael—"
Michael smiled. He held a metal mixing bowl full of biscuits, and the sides had steamed up. "Gravy now, or gravy later?" He held the bowl out to Anna and Jo first, and they took a couple of biscuits each. Chuck grabbed one. He could eat more later on. Gabriel took four—said, "Cash'll eat at least two of these."
Muttering, "Gravy later, then." Michael almost went back into the kitchen, but Luke came out of the bathroom as he turned around.
"Ahhh—biscuits!" Luke rushed over to grab a few before letting Michael go back. He shoved one in his mouth immediately, and sat on the arm of the couch. Using Chuck as an armrest as he munched on his food, he mumbled, "Shame it's not a white Christmas, huh?"
Chuck shrugged. "Rain's okay." He pushed Luke's elbow off of him and frowned. "But I guess for Christmas it's kinda meh. Oh well. We got nice lights and presents so it's okay."
"And family."
Luke rolled his eyes. "Whatever you say, bro."
Michael shook his head and made his way over, to kneel by the tree. He double-checked the piles Luke had made, and pushed the one larger pile toward Gabriel's feet. Added a few more—presumably the gifts for Gabriel and not his daughter—to the stack. The other presents, he moved toward their respective recipients. Jo helped by putting some of the little gift-wrapped packages on Anna's knees, grinning.
Anna snorted. "I'm not a table."
"Are now." Jo smirked and kissed the top of Anna's head. She kissed Hazel too, and stroked her soft baby hair. "The best table in the world." She sat back down in front of Anna.
Beside Chuck, Luke scoffed. Chuck elbowed him. For a moment, Luke looked like he wanted to retaliate, but he sighed and barely jostled Chuck instead of, presumably, elbowing him back. Chuck couldn't help a small amount of relief. He imagined an elbow from Luke would probably hurt. Like... a lot.
Caché tried to tear open a gift but the tape gave her trouble. Gabriel patted her back and took the box from her, carefully ripping the wrapping paper and uncovering a puzzle with a picture of a dragon on the lid. Caché bounced up and down in his lap and he winced.
"Daddy, daddy! Dragons!"
"Yeah—" Gabriel moved her off of his lap to save his thighs and crotch from the devastation of a hyperactive four-year old. "Beautiful dragons. Can you say thank you?"
Caché looked confused for a moment. "Who?"
Gabriel grinned, and nodded toward Jo. "Auntie Jo—she got that just for you."
"Thank you Auntie Jo!"
Jo looked taken aback. But she laughed and gave Caché a little wave. "You're welcome."
Caché tore her way through the rest of her gifts—a stuffed bunny here, a book about dinosaurs there. She ended up half-buried in wrapping paper, while Gabriel accumulated a decent stack of toys and books on his lap. He helped her clear away all the paper and with some assistance from Chuck, they bundled it up into a big, crinkly ball. Chuck tossed it at Michael, who caught it with an offended expression on his face.
He shook his head. "I see how it is. I'm the garbage can, now." But he disappeared with the paper, and came back just a few seconds later without it.
"What—Michael, did you just throw the wrapping paper on the floor in the hallway?"
Michael shrugged innocently, with just the slightest of smirks turning up the corner of his mouth.
"Dork." Chuck leaned forward to grab his own presents from the floor. He paused, with them in his arms. "Can I open mine now?" He tried not to smile too widely, looking at the floor in front of tree rather than at anyone else.
"Someone's got Christmas spirit, huh?" Luke nudged Chuck with his elbow.
Chuck blushed. "Shut your face." He picked at the tissue paper inside of a small paper bag—that, along with three small boxes and a big red envelope, made up his gifts. "I'm just excited, okay? It's been a nice week, mostly, and I... I like being with you all and stuff and also I like getting presents because I'm greedy." He pulled some of the tissue paper at the bag. "So don't make fun of me." He was about to say something else, as he grabbed the gift itself from amidst all the colored paper in the bag. But he froze, and he shoved whatever it was back into the bag and stuck the bag between himself and the arm of the couch.
He shot Gabriel a look.
"What the hell?"
Gabriel just grinned knowingly.
"No, seriously, what the hell." Chuck made a face. "Your daughter is literally two feet away—why would you—" He could feel himself turning red, and getting too warm. He covered his face up. "Jesus, Gabriel."
Luke frowned. "What? What did he get you that I didn't see—" He cut himself off, as he peeked into the bag. Burst out laughing—covered his mouth, eyes crinkling at the edges. Between his fingers, he mumbled, "Sorry, sorry—I just—" A fit of giggles, half-leaning on Chuck, and he took a deep breath.
"Don't laugh!" Chuck shoved at Luke. "This is embarrassing—who gets their brother-in-law porn for Christmas?! Christmas!"
"Oh my God." Jo, with her back resting against Anna's knees, seemed about to burst a kidney trying not to laugh.
Chuck scowled. "It's not funny!"
Jo laughed, and so did everyone else. (Even Caché, though she didn't know exactly what she was laughing at. But everyone else thought something was funny so she laughed as enthusiastically as her father.) Even Michael couldn't help but smile, though he quickly tried to look serious and disapproving.
"You shouldn't be so inappropriate at a family gathering, Gabriel." His lips still twitched, though, and his eyes glinted in amusement. "Think of what our father would say. And look how embarrassed Chuck is."
Gabriel snorted. "I don't care what dad would say." He crossed his arms. "Anyway, I like embarrassing Chuck. He turns my favorite color!"
Chuck kicked at Gabriel—his foot barely connected, considering the awkward angle, but he got his point across. Gabriel had the good sense to look at least a little bit ashamed and sighed. "I'm sorry for embarrassing you, Chuck." He slung his arm around Chuck's shoulders. "I'll just have to remember that skin mags aren't good Christmas presents, next time." He winked.
"Yeah, yeah." Chuck didn't shrug Gabriel's arm away. He glared at the other presents in his lap, though. Went for the envelope instead of any little boxes. It opened easily, sealed with only a sticker, and Chuck pulled out a piece of paper. It was folded a bunch of times, and as he unfolded it he saw bits and pieces of a colorful drawing. When he held it out flat, he smiled. Yellow squiggles in the corner, and some more squiggles of various colors in the middle of the page. Circles with lines sticking out in random directions.
Caché squirmed on her father's lap. "I drew Uncle Chuck and Uncle Micah and the sun!"
Chuck reached out to hug her, careful not to crumple the paper. "Thank you, sweetheart." He ruffled her hair. "I love it."
She beamed at him.
The rest of the morning moved uneventfully. Luke got a beanie baby from Gabriel and pretended not to love it, and Jo got a pinup calendar. Various trinkets, mostly gift cards to bookstores or Target. A signed copy of Abarat to Chuck, from Raphael—sent along with Luke and Gabriel for them to deliver. Back and forth, little thoughtful things, as they sat by the tree and its icy blue-white light. Caché fell asleep leaning against Gabriel while he unwrapped a pair of red silk boxer shorts. ("I already own underwear exactly like this! You're a lazy gift-giver, Anna!")
As it grew nearer to noon, Chuck felt himself wishing he could have slept in later. Also, he was hungry. He needed more than just biscuits. He prodded Michael's side and muttered, "I want food" in his whiniest voice. Leaned on him and pouted. Michael rolled his eyes but he let Chuck push him toward the kitchen, and even retrieved the wrapping paper he'd thrown on the hallway floor earlier. He made Chuck sit down while he threw away the paper, and went to the fridge to grab a few things for brunch, or lunch, or whatever he planned to make.
Chuck watched him intently.
And shivered.
"Why is it so cold in here?" Chuck hunched his shoulders. "Did you forget to turn the heater on?"
Michael glanced over his shoulder, frowning. "No. I turned it up to sixty-five when I came down this morning." He shrugged. "Maybe someone bumped the lever." He turned back to the cutting board and laid out some potatoes for cutting.
Curious, and a little confused, Chuck pulled himself to his feet. He steadied himself on the table before walking over to the thermostat on the wall. The stick was pushed to sixty-five like Michael had said, but the tiny screen read "50F." Chuck made a face. "Jesus—fifty?" He fiddled with the lever a bit. Tapped the screen. Maybe if he poked at it enough it would suddenly start working again. Of course, no such luck. He hoped it would start to heat up again soon though because he didn't feel like putting on a coat just to eat breakfast. Lunch.
"So?" Michael called from the stove.
"Oh—" Chuck made his way over. Wrapped his arms around Michael's waist from behind him. "The thingy is pointed to what you said but the screen says it's only fifty degrees in here." His mouth twisted. "Way too cold."
Michael hummed. "Odd." He twisted around to kiss Chuck on the forehead and pushed him away, tossing a little shred of potato into the pan so he could see if the stove was hot enough. It spat. He nodded and put the rest of the shredded potatoes into the pan.
With a smile, Chuck asked, "How fast do you slice potatoes? Are you a robot?"
"Mm, yes." Michael shoved the potatoes around with his spatula. "I'm a cyborg. Have been this whole time—and you never knew." He cracked a smile, and patted Chuck's shoulder. "You should go get your slippers or something. Keep your toes warm."
Chuck grimaced, but nodded. He left Michael to cook brunch and wove between people and presents to get to the stairs. They squeaked as he walked up them, and the banister creaked as well—worryingly. He didn't want it to snap or something, if he suddenly got dizzy or happened to trip. He made it up safely though, and it only took a few seconds for him to find his fuzzy brown bunny slippers in the closet. They looked a little flattened, and smelled a little dusty, but they went onto his feet just fine and made him feel like a little kid. He smiled. Wiggled his feet. Felt embarrassed and frowned, walking back out into the hallway.
For a moment, he thought he saw someone standing at the end of the hall by the stairs, in the wedge of space between the railing and the bare wall. He pulled in a sharp breath, blinked hard.
No one.
Just empty air and dust.
He shook his head and reluctantly shuffled over to the stairs, eyes on the corner the whole time, paranoid the figure would reappear and kidnap him or reach for him or, hell, just stand there menacingly. Thankfully nothing happened, and he half-ran down the stairs in his eagerness to get back to Michael in the kitchen.
Michael turned when he heard Chuck plop down into one of the dining chairs. His forehead crinkled. "Chuck? You okay?" He set his spatula aside just a moment. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
Chuck shrugged, and took a deep breath—couldn't keep his voice from shaking just a bit. "Might have. I dunno. Probably just... just... a weird shadow. Just a weird shadow." He rubbed his face. "Fucking windowless hallways are gonna kill me before I'm fifty."
"Hey—" Michael turned the stove off and came over to Chuck. He took Chuck's face in his hands. Stroked his cheek with a thumb. "You're okay. I'm sure it was just a shadow, like you said. Everyone knows ghosts aren't real. Not really." He tried for a reassuring smile.
Chuck bit his lip. "You... you're right." He shook his head. "I'm being silly. Of course—I mean, of course it wasn't a ghost. Those are just silly. Pretend." He leaned toward Michael, eyes down. "Still scared me..."
Michael hugged Chuck and continued to murmur softly to him.
"Hey, what's for lunch?!"
Chuck jumped. He glared past Michael, at Luke.
Luke just lifted his hands defensively and said, "Hey, hey. Didn't mean to scare you." He smirked. "Nice slippers."
With a pout, Chuck rolled his eyes and leaned harder against Michael. He whispered in his ear, "Don't give him any potatoes." Patted Michael's shoulder. Michael snorted and kissed Chuck's cheek and went back to the stove to finish the potatoes.
The burner buzzed quietly. The potatoes eventually began to hiss again, as Michael pushed them around in the pan. The kitchen smelled smoky. Luke lingered in the doorway, eyes wandering. After a moment, he focused on Chuck. Watched him. Stared and frowned, forehead creasing just the slightest, as he tilted his head to the side. Like a big bird watching a mouse. He blinked once.
Uncomfortable, Chuck shifted in his seat. "Do you... need something?"
Luke shook his head. "You look like shit, is all." He shrugged. Pushed away from the doorway and walked over to sit at the table. "But you kinda always look like shit."
Chuck glowered at him. "I do not."
"Your bags have bags. You look like a raccoon."
"Don't be rude." Michael blocked Luke from Chuck's view, as he set a plate of hash browns on the table with a glass of chocolate milk beside it. He turned toward Luke, crossing his arms. Raised his eyebrows. "If you hurt his feelings I'll make good on my threat to kick you out. Also—" He frowned, and grew thunderous. "If I find one more cigarette butt in the front lawn, you're cleaning the whole house. There is no smoking in my house or in my yard."
Luke rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah. Mr. Upstanding Citizen." He stood up. "Like you've never smoked before." He turned his back to Michael and left the kitchen.
Michael watched him leave. He sank down into the now-vacant chair and let out a sigh. Rubbed his face. He caught Chuck's eye. Tapped his fingers on the table. His forehead wrinkled, as he frowned deeper.
"Do you think I'm too hard on him?"
Chuck blinked. "Um." He looked around the kitchen, trying to think of a good response. Stuck a forkful of potatoes into his mouth. Through his food, he mumbled, "I dunno. He's kind of a buttface."
"Well, I won't dispute that... But I still can't help but feel as though... Perhaps I should be kinder to him. He's just eighteen, after all." Michael rubbed at his forehead and leaned an elbow against the table. "I'm just his brother, not his father. Sometimes I think I act too much like I'm in charge of him, when I'm really not. I just worry." He shrugged, fluidly.
Quiet, Chuck said, "I think he appreciates that, sometimes." He paused. "But yeah, try not to be too much of a hardass 'cause that'll just make him resent you forever. You know?"
Michael shot Chuck a look—all exasperation and daggers.
Chuck smiled.
Michael sighed and reached for Chuck's hand. He twined their fingers together and ignored Chuck's protest that he needed that hand to eat. Expression softening, he leaned forward and lifted Chuck's hand to his mouth, kissing his knuckles. He let him go fairly quickly, though, and pushed himself to his feet. Stood still a moment, looking around the kitchen. He patted Chuck's shoulder and went back to the stove so he could clean up.
Sooo..." Jo rocked on her heels, while Anna bundled Hazel into the car seat with some help from Michael. She pushed her curly hair over her shoulder. "It was nice meeting you, Chuck." She held her hand out to shake Chuck's. Smiled, and it was like sunlight. (A cliché, but true.) "Can't wait 'til next year, right?" She turned on her heel to join Michael and Anna. She pushed Michael out of the way with a fussy expression. Michael backed away and got into the driver's seat.
Chuck waved at them, when they pulled out of the driveway.
He got a peace sign out one window and a flash of the brake lights in return.
"Hey, why the long face?"
Chuck turned to Gabriel.
Gabriel gave him a broad grin. "Betcha can't wait to have the house to yourself, and Michael. All alone, with nothing to do except make out." He smirked, and patted Chuck's shoulder. "Real nice seeing you, though. I'll make sure not to bring you porn next year."
"Better not." Chuck crossed his arms as Gabriel moved some bags to his car.
Gabriel just chuckled to himself and went back inside to move his sleeping daughter from the couch to the booster seat in the back of the old beat up Nova. As he sat down in the driver's seat, he wiggled his fingers in a wave, still smiling mischievously.
Luke ran out of the house, white scarf around his neck. For a moment , he paused. Looked like he wanted to say something to Chuck, or shake his hand, or something. He frowned, muttered, "Sorry about last year," and ran to the car.
Chuck frowned to himself, as they pulled away from the curb. He waved. Murmured to himself, "Oh." He remembered Michael mentioning it the other day—the time, last Christmas, when Luke had shoved his cold hands up Chuck's shirt and Michael had punched him in the face. Pre-marriage. "That."
Under his breath, "Should I forgive him?"
A moment of hesitation. Chuck nodded to himself. "Yeah, I think I will." He looked down the road, now empty, and smiled. He felt like, just maybe, the coming year would be a good one. A less stressful one, after the fireworks of the new year finished their sparking and smoking.
He went into the house.
It was cold.
Chuck sighed and went to check the thermostat. Same as last time—pushed up plenty high but reading too low. He jiggled it. Wondered if he should get in touch with an electrician. Shrugged to himself and walked upstairs with slow steps, pulling his fingers across the wall just in case he got dizzy. He didn't. The floors creaked a lot, though. He went to the bathroom before going into his and Michael's bedroom. Stopped in the middle of the room, curling his toes in the carpet. He stayed like that a moment, but it really was kind of cold, even on the second floor. So he climbed into bed and bundled up under the covers with his laptop and opened Word.
The cursor blinked at him. He frowned, but typed anyway. No inspiration, and no idea what he should actually do... but writing something was better than just staring at a blank page for hours on end. He had a deadline to meet, after all, in February.
Clicking keys filled the dim silence of the bedroom, but eventually the quiet got to be too much, even with Gertrude's low purring as she lay beside him. Chuck turned on some music. Even though it sounded tinny and strange through the laptop's speakers, he liked it better than distant creaking and settling wood. It soothed him. Distracted him just enough from the emptiness of the house so that he could focus on the words across the screen. He hummed along, sometimes. Snippets here and there, out of tune. But he didn't sing, because he knew that would lead to him accidentally typing the wrong words and having to redo a sentence.
He wrote almost ten pages before Michael got home—heard the sound of the Mercedes' engine and smiled to himself, and closed the computer before setting it on the desk at the foot of the bed. He climbed out of the covers and put his slippers on. Dressing robe too. Gertrude followed him out of the bed, winding around his ankles. He bent over to scratch her ears. "What's wrong, hm?" She just meowed and tried to sit on his feet.
Downstairs, the door opened. "I'm home."
"I'm upstairs!" Chuck went to the doorway and waited for the sound of Michael's footsteps on the stairs. The wood creaked. Gertrude stuck herself between his legs again. The sound of footsteps stopped.
No Michael.
Chuck frowned. "Michael?" He shuffled nervously down the hallway, with the cat at his heels. Stopped a few feet from the staircase. He couldn't see anyone, or any shadow, and couldn't hear anything either. "...Michael?"
The front door slammed, and both Chuck and Gertrude jumped.
"Chuck, I got some Mexican food for lunch!"
Chuck stood still in the hall. Couldn't bring himself to say anything.
"Chuck?"
He finally said, weakly, "I'm—I'm up here." Backed away from the stairs and leaned on the wall. Gertrude nosed at his ankle with her cold, wet nose and meowed at him. Rubbed her face against his leg.
This time, the footsteps on the stairs led to Michael's appearance. He frowned. "Chuck, what's wrong?"
"N—nothing." Chuck rubbed his mouth. Closed his eyes for a split second. "Sorry. I just got... dizzy. That's all."
Michael came closer, holding out one hand—gentle and placating. He brushed his fingertips against Chuck's arm and when Chuck didn't shy away, he pulled him closer. Rubbed up his arm, reassuringly. "You're shaking."
Chuck nodded.
"Why are you shaking, Chuck?" Michael wrapped his arms around Chuck and rested his chin on top of Chuck's head. "Is everything alright? No one's dead, right?"
"No—no. No one's dead." Chuck let Michael soothe him. Let his warmth seep into his skin. "Thought I heard something. Just that. It was nothing. Scared the kitty." He swallowed a nervous laugh and buried his face in Michael's neck. "I'm fine. I'm fine, I swear."
Gertrude meowed.
Michael stroked Chuck's back. Breathed, "Shh, I know you are.." He cupped the back of Chuck's head with hot fingers. "But it's alright not to be fine, sometimes. It's okay."
Chuck breathed in. Cinnamon, oranges, smoke and snow. He curled his fingers in Michael's sweater.
"I love you."
"I know, Chuck. I love you too." Michael pulled back. Slipped a finger under Chuck's chin, tilting his head back so he could look him in the eye. "You hungry? You don't have to tell me what's got you so shaken, but I still don't want you to pass out from hunger."
Chuck nodded. "Tacos?"
"Two burritos and one taco."
"Okay."
After lunch, on the couch, Michael sat with Chuck leaning against him, staring at the Christmas tree—still lit up. He rubbed his thumb in circles on Chuck's hip. Kissed his forehead. "So you heard something, and you thought it was me..." He watched the lights on the branches twinkle. "But then I opened the door." He turned to Chuck, bringing one leg up underneath himself on the cushion. "Do you think it was a burglar, or something?"
Chuck shook his head. Stroked Gertrude, who was curled up on his lap. "I heard something on the stairs, like you said—I even heard... like... a voice. But nothing came into the hall and you opened the door right when it stopped making noise so it couldn't have been a person, 'cause... Well, 'cause there's nowhere for anything to go." His frown deepened. Creased his forehead. "It's either up or down and neither of us saw anything..."
"Certainly strange."
"Maybe it was aliens." Chuck cracked a grin, leaning up for a kiss from Michael. He closed his eyes and focused on how gently Michael kissed him back. On how he still smelled clean and citrus-y even with the lingering traces of hot sauce and beans. On how his hand settled on Chuck's thigh, burning hot but soft and light.
The cat jumped to the floor and wandered off.
Michael lifted a hand and pushed at Chuck's glasses. "These are in the way." The corners of his mouth twitched up. "And I don't think aliens would break into our house."
"Mm, you're such a skeptic." Chuck took his glasses off, folding the arms up and leaning away for a moment to set them on the side table. He climbed onto Michael's lap. Brushed their noses together. "Probably good 'cause without my skeptic I might just believe everything and end up being like... a weird guy with a ton of kitties and a tinfoil hat." He laughed and draped his arms around Michael's shoulders. Pressed their lips together.
Still smiling, Michael traced his fingers just under the hem of Chuck's sweater. He slipped his hands up under Chuck's shirt, and Chuck shivered. Michael pulled at Chuck's layers, and urged Chuck to raise his arms, and pulled his shirt and sweater off for him with only minimal tangling—Chuck got caught in the fabric for a minute, but it only took a little bit of maneuvering to free him. Michael shook his head and let Chuck's clothes drop to the floor.
"You're gonna make me catch pneumonia." Chuck hunched his shoulders, suppressing a shiver.
"Oh, hush. You're fine." Michael ran his hands down Chuck's sides. "I'll keep you warm."
Chuck snorted. "I'm sure you will."
Michael kissed him.
Chuck nearly tripped up the stairs, on the way to brush his teeth. He grumbled. "Michael, have you seen my glasses?"
"They're by the couch. I'll bring them up."
"'Kay!" Chuck made it to the bathroom without any further mishaps, though he did get a little dizzy in the doorway. By the time he finished brushing his teeth, Michael had already brought his glasses up, setting them on the bathroom counter. Chuck downed his pills and rinsed his mouth out, and watched as Michael changed out of his clothes and into a pair of sweatpants and a worn Willamette University t-shirt.
Chuck couldn't help but smile.
"What are you grinning about?" Michael asked, as he straightened his shirt. He tilted his head.
With a shrug, Chuck dried his mouth. "I just think you're cute. With your college shirt and your comfy PJs." He held his arms out to Michael, for a hug, and the younger man gladly obliged—wrapped his arms tight around Chuck.
"Cuteness must be the main export of our household, then."
"What does that even mean?" Chuck made a face.
Michael lifted Chuck up with a grunt, sliding his hands under his butt to support him. "I don't know, but I'm cute, and you're cute. And speaking of cute—Where is Gertrude?" He carried Chuck across the hallway into the bedroom, over to the bed. "She hiding, or something?"
Chuck let out a little puff of air as Michael dropped him onto the mattress. He sprawled out and hummed as he thought. "She was sleeping under the kitchen table, last I saw her." He bit back a wide grin. "I think we scared her away."
"Oh, shush." Michael kissed Chuck's face.
Chuck laughed. He tugged at Michael until he lay down beside him. Michael stayed there for just a second before getting up again. He turned off the bedroom light and walked back over to Chuck, illuminated from the side by the nightlight. He lowered himself into bed again, for real this time. Slipped an arm around Chuck's waist.
"Goodnight." Chuck squirmed closer to Michael.
Michael kissed his cheek. "I hope your dreams are good."
At that, Chuck wrinkled his nose and nodded. He sighed. "Me too."
"No—no, Raphael, you got it all wrong!" Chuck wrapped his arms around his knees, leaning on Michael as he watched Raphael's face on the laptop screen. "I really like it, actually. I dunno why the heck Luke told you I hated your gift, 'cause Clive Barker is like... one of my favorite authors." He rubbed his nose.
Raphael nodded. "I worried a young adult fantasy might not be your area of interest." He shifted, and presumably crossed his legs, leaning his elbows on his desk just out of range of his webcam. "I'm glad I was wrong. Personally, I'm a fan of his work as well."
"I love how super fantastical everything is—" Chuck glanced down at the blanket. "Um. Anyway..." He scratched the back of his neck, flushing. "I hope your winter is going good?"
Beside Chuck, Michael laughed.
Raphael seemed like he might laugh as well, for a second, but he just smiled at them. Straightened some papers as he leaned back in his chair and spoke. "Everything is fine on my end. Pleasant, in fact." He smirked. "Even with Luke's presence, I enjoy the holidays. I only hope he won't destroy the sitting room, this year."
Chuck made a face. "Hopefully." He checked the time before saying, "Anyway, I need to sleep soon so I'll leave you to talk to Michael, I guess. Or—I mean... Michael will leave me to talk to you...?" He scrunched his face up, so his nose crinkled, and waved at Raphael. He waited for Raphael to nod, since he tended not to actually say goodbye, and then made his way from the bed to the bathroom. He could hear Michael's voice, slightly muffled, as he brushed his teeth. But not Raphael's. Sound didn't carry that well from the laptop's small speakers. Chuck listened as he went about his business—medication, mouth rinse, toilet. In the hall, the floor creaked, and Chuck peeked out the bathroom door to see Michael taking the computer downstairs. He smiled. Finished washing his hands and went into the bedroom again. He almost turned the hallway light off, on his way, but thought he'd better leave it on for Michael.
When he turned off the lights in the bedroom and closed the door, he stood still for a little while. Walked over to the balcony—kept the doors closed, but stared out the windows. So quiet and unmoving... even without snow. The grass and concrete and asphalt all sparkled with frost under the streetlamps, and the shadows seemed very thick. Clouds covered the sky. Not pink, that night, or any other snowy shade. Just dark, dark gray. No stars, no moon. A little bit of a pale glow in spots where the clouds were thinner.
Chuck closed the curtains and got in bed.
The sheets were still warm from Michael's body heat, so Chuck rolled into his spot. Curled up under the covers and buried his face in the pillow.
If he focused really hard, and breathed very quietly, and held extremely still, he could just barely hear the tones of Michael's voice. No words, or anything close to that. Just the occasional low murmur, carrying through the floor. Comforting. He burrowed deeper into the blankets.
The bedroom door opened, sending a swath of light across the floor, and for a moment Chuck held his breath. But then he heard a meow and Gertrude jumped onto the bed. She climbed over his legs and curled up on top of him and started to purr. Chuck let out a sigh. He covered his face with the comforter, though, and let her stay there while he tried to sleep.
In the morning, Chuck woke to whiskers on his face and the smell of cat food. He wrinkled his nose. "Gertrude, get off." He pushed at her and she chirped, but let herself be moved out of the way, onto Michael. Michael grumbled. The cat settled down in the crease between Michael and Chuck. Purred quietly. Chuck squinted his eyes open as Michael rolled onto his back. Gertrude decided to climb over Chuck and jump off the bed now that her people were moving around. Chuck rolled his eyes. He pulled himself closer to Michael so he could wrap his arms around him, murmuring, "Morning." He smiled at Michael and Michael kissed his forehead.
"Good morning."
"Work today?"
Michael shook his head and pulled Chuck on top of him. "It's Sunday." He tightened his arms around Chuck's waist. "Let's sleep in, hm?"
Chuck narrowed his eyes thoughtfully, with a considering hum, before saying, "I'm cool with that." He rested his head against Michael's chest and closed his eyes. "Sleeping late on a Michael pillow sounds nice." Michael laughed at that, and Chuck could feel the vibrations through his skull.
"Well, then... good morning and sleep well." Michael settled more comfortably against the blankets.
Chuck just yawned.
Chuck watched the cat swat at Michael's finger. He kept his own fingers and toes out of her reach, as Michael played with her, and said, "I had a weird dream."
For a moment, Michael stopped moving his hand. "Oh?" Gertrude pounced, and nibbled at his knuckles. He shook her off and went back to wiggling his fingers. "What kind of weird dream?" He bopped Gertrude on the nose. "Hopefully not scary."
"No, no. Not scary, for once. Thank God." Chuck laughed. He watched Gertrude play with Michael for a few seconds before continuing. Leaned against Michael. "It was one of those weird dreams where things just randomly change. Like..." His mouth twisted. "Like I was in the passenger seat of an empty car trying to drive the car down a hill. It's hard to steer like that." He scratched his beard with a smile. "But then it changed, which I didn't even notice because... it was a dream? So I was like, oh of course George Clooney and Gillian Anderson are both suddenly driving this minivan and it totally makes sense that I am having sex with my husband's brother in the backseat." He grimaced, but laughed a little bit.
"My brother? Really?" Michael caught one of the cat's paws in his hand. He glanced over at Chuck with a sly smile. "Which one?"
Chuck snorted. "It was Raphael."
"Ahh." Michael let Gertrude go, and she plopped down onto her back. He wrapped his arm around Chuck. "You always did have a crush on him."
"Not true!"
Michael laughed. "It's okay," he murmured. Pressed his lips against Chuck's face. Kissed his jaw. "I know you're faithful." He nipped at Chuck's neck and his mouth twisted into a smirk. "Even if you have inappropriate celebrity dreams."
"Ew, don't bite me—" Chuck pushed at Michael's face, but of course Michael was much stronger than him and managed to get them into a position that pinned Chuck against the sheets. Chuck whined. "You have an unfair advantage!" He poked Michael's chest. Michael only raised his eyebrows and trailed his fingers light enough up Chuck's side that Chuck squirmed and bit back a laugh.
Michael leaned down and kissed his neck. "Ticklish?" He stuck his hands up Chuck's shirt, which got him a startled yelp.
Chuck swatted at Michael's shoulder. "Don't do that!" He draped his arms around Michael's neck and pretended to glare, but smiled when Michael moved his hands. "Jerk."
"Only on occasion." Michael's voice came out muffled, with his face pushed against Chuck's neck.
"Still." Chuck tapped Michael's back. Tilted his head back, as Michael kissed his throat. "Sometimes a jerk, always a jerk. Obviously related to Luke." He wiggled. "Also, heavy."
With a sigh, Michael rolled off of Chuck. Rested his hand on Chuck's stomach, though, palm flat against the fabric of his shirt. The corner of his mouth quirked up. "Muscle weighs a lot more than fluff." He scooted close so he could kiss Chuck's face. "And you are ninety percent fluff." He brushed his nose against Chuck's scruffy cheek. "Fluff, and also chocolate."
"Don't make fun of me." Chuck rolled onto his side, facing away from Michael. "Chocolate is good."
Michael pressed up behind Chuck, though, and wrapped his arms around Chuck's waist. Squeezed him tight and kissed the back of his neck. "I can't argue with that." He tangled their legs together. "But I like you better."
Chuck snorted. "Don't say things like that, you dork." He covered Michael's hands with his own. "People might start to realize you're not a marble statue, if you go around saying sappy crap." He wiggled back against Michael and closed his eyes. Warm, and safe—that was how he felt all wrapped up in Michael's arms. "They'll know the truth about your personality."
"Mm... no." Michael made a serious face. "No one will believe the truth. I'm the terrifying Mr. Milton, icy-hearted and flinty-eyed."
With a laugh, Chuck asked, "Is that what they call you?"
"What? Mr. Milton? Of course."
Chuck shook his head. "You shouldn't terrorize your co-workers."
Michael huffed and squeezed Chuck again, until he squeaked. "I like to terrorize them." He ignored Chuck's light slap. "Anyway, I wouldn't terrorize them if they weren't already afraid of me. They have some idea built up in their heads that I'm this dark and mysterious newcomer who eats nails for breakfast and breaks children's toys."
"They're very wrong, then."
Michael let out a sigh. "Oh, well I'm glad to hear you know how kind I am." He raised his eyebrows. "I make you dinner, and do all the cleaning, and make sure you eat healthy food, and give you massages—"
"Now, hold on just a minute!" Chuck rolled around to face Michael with some difficulty. He glowered at Michael in a very non-threatening way. "You've never given me a massage, ever. Don't make stuff up!" He pretended to pout.
A smirk overtook Michael's face and he murmured, "I meant tongue massages."
"Aren't you supposed to be Catholic?!" Chuck scrunched his face up.
Michael laughed. "I'm sorry, that was inappropriate."
"Perve."
"Only when it embarrasses you." Michael kissed Chuck.
Chuck scoffed and gave Michael a light slap on the side. "You're terrible." But he turned his face up for more kisses, barely smiling, a little pink in the face. When Michael obliged, and pushed Chuck down so he could press their lips together at a better angle, Chuck hummed happily. Squirmed and looped his arms around Michael's neck.
Three in the morning.
Chuck covered his face with his hands and tried to steady his breathing. He looked through his fingers at the light on the ceiling—orange, dim, from the streetlamps. The cat stirred, where she lay on his stomach. He swallowed down his unease and pushed her away, gently. Turned on his side and stared hard at Michael until he could see the slight rise and fall of his chest. To double-check, Chuck reached out and set his palm against Michael's stomach. When it pushed against his hand, as Michael inhaled, Chuck let himself wilt back against the pillows.
He left his hand on Michael's stomach. Whispered, "I dreamed you died."
No response, of course. Just Michael, asleep, calm and warm.
"In my dream, I woke up." Chuck closed his eyes. "I woke up and you were cold and now I feel sick." He pushed himself back up on an elbow and leaned over to kiss Michael as gently as he knew how. Michael shifted, a little, but didn't wake up. Chuck leaned his cheek against Michael's chest. He listened to his heartbeat.
The cat slunk up to reclaim her spot away from Chuck's feet—she curled up between his back and the wall, and she purred. Chuck managed half a smile at her fuzzy presence. He yawned and moved his hand away from Michael's stomach, so he could rub his face. Somehow, the light from the street seemed brighter than usual, and his eyes felt... sore. Chuck stared at the bookshelf, against the wall at the other end of the room. He couldn't even see the books. Just black space, for the most part, except for the small area that the nightlight in the corner illuminated—a few highlighted bits of fake gold leaf here, a dented corner there.
Chuck sighed. He snuggled closer to Michael, shivering. The air was cold against his face and his shoulder. He tugged at the blankets a little, so he could cover himself up all the way, and accidentally made Gertrude bump into the wall. She grumbled at him. "Sorry, sorry." He twisted awkwardly to pet her, and she nosed his palm. Once she seemed satisfied, he went back to scrunching himself up against Michael for warmth and comfort.
In his sleep, Michael curled his arm protectively—instinctively—around Chuck, and murmured something indiscernible.
Chuck pressed his face into Michael's chest.
As the morning slowly progressed, he listened to Michael breathe.
Eventually, a crow began to croak outside. The garbage truck went by, too, rumbling its way down each street and filling the quiet winter air with the sound of its engine and breaking glass. Chuck could make out some of the books, now, and even see some colors. The light changed from sodium yellow to a creamy golden-pink, more diffuse and sweet.
The cat left the room. The scrape of the litterbox carried from the bathroom and Chuck hoped she wouldn't come back too soon to stick her feet in his face. He rubbed his eyes.
When the room got bright enough that he could see what color everything was, despite the curtains covering most of the windows, Chuck knew the next day wouldn't be a fun one. He let out a resigned breath. Waited for the alarm to go off while he used Michael as a pillow.
Soon enough, the clock beeped, and Chuck reached across Michael to turn it off. Michael stirred beneath him—when Chuck moved to lay back down, he found himself caught in Michael's arms.
"Good morning."
Chuck let himself droop against Michael's chest, and put his head on his pillow, mouth against the curve of Michael's shoulder. "Hi." He yawned.
"You look tired." Michael narrowed his eyes, as he sat up, and pulled Chuck up against him. He rubbed his hand down Chuck's back. "What's wrong? Hm?" He tilted his head to see Chuck's face better, with a finger under his chin.
Without a word, Chuck turned his face against Michael's neck. He closed his eyes and curled himself up and grabbed a little fistful of Michael's shirt before saying anything at all. But eventually he muttered, "Bad dream." He wanted Michael to hold him more tightly, but didn't ask. "Couldn't sleep after."
Michael shifted. Put his hand against the back of Chuck's head and cradled him, and dropped his voice to a soft murmur. "You'll be alright." He would have kissed Chuck's forehead if he could reach, but instead he just stroked his hip with one hand and his hair with the other. "How would you like it if I brought home something nice today?"
"...like what?"
"I'll think of something." Michael smiled. "Even if it's just kisses."
Chuck nodded. "I think I'd like kisses. Or anything, really..."
"Of course."
They sat in bed together until Michael eventually had to start getting ready for work. While Michael showered, Chuck lay on his side listening to music, curled around his old toy rabbit. Gertrude rested by his feet. Her warm fur tickled his toes, but he didn't mind too much. It was a distraction from the gross feeling in his gut—a weird mix of nausea and hunger. He closed his eyes and tried to focus on Johnny Cash's voice. His stomach burbled at him.
In his distraction, with music in his ears, he didn't hear the shower go off.
When the bed dipped, he craned his neck and gave Michael a curious look. Also, what might have been considered a pout. He pulled the headphones from his ears and asked, "Aren't you going to go eat breakfast?"
Michael reached for Chuck—rolled him onto his back and rubbed a hand over his stomach, under his shirt. "You don't feel well." He placed the back of his free hand against Chuck's forehead, with a frown. Held it for a few seconds before stroking his fingers back through Chuck's hair. "Just a stomachache?"
Chuck nodded. "Head and tummy both hurt, but the rest of me is okay, I guess. I mean... as okay as it can be."
"Anything else?"
A pause. Chuck turned his face against Michael's hand, as he thought. "Kinda dizzy. More than usual."
Michael stood. "I'll go get your some water, alright?" He gave Chuck a quick kiss on the cheek before leaving him in the bed, and headed downstairs.
Chuck listened to the floor creak.
When Michael came back, he sat up a little. He leaned himself against the headboard, as Michael sat beside him once more, and let Michael hold a glass of water to his lips. He felt a little silly, not holding the cup for himself, but at the same time he liked being taken care of. Michael was careful about how far he tilted the glass and he pressed warm fingers against the side of Chuck's face. And when Chuck pushed the cup away, he set it on the dresser by the bed and pulled Chuck into a tight hug. But not too tight. Firm and kind. He kissed Chuck's forehead.
"Now I'll go eat." Michael rubbed Chuck's shoulder and urged him to his feet. "You should get something in your system, too." When Chuck whined, and was just about to complain, Michael shushed him—tapped his mouth with a gentle finger. "You'll only feel worse if you don't eat."
Chuck had to admit Michael was right.
Michael wrapped an arm around Chuck's waist and led him from the bedroom. Chuck wobbled a little, and for moment he felt all tingly, but Michael's solid heat supported him down the stairs and to the couch, reassuring and gentle. Michael helped him sit down and kissed his forehead before going back upstairs on his own. He came back with Chuck's bunny and pillow, and a blanket. Helped him get comfortable on the couch and murmured, "I'll make you something easy to eat, okay?" He waited for Chuck to nod before heading to the kitchen.
For twenty minutes or so, Chuck lay on the couch and looked out the front window. He could see the frosty grass, and the Christmas tree set out with the dumpsters for the garbage truck to pick up. An old woman walked down the sidewalk with a dog on a leash wearing a sweater. A tiny dog sweater. Argyle and purple. The old lady wore all purple too. Chuck snuggled closer to his bunny.
At one point, Gertrude hopped up onto the couch and curled up on Chuck's feet, purring softly.
Michael came in and set Chuck's medication, a cup of water, and a steaming bowl of cream of wheat on the coffee table. "I put in a little bit of maple syrup, okay?"
"Okay." Chuck reached his hand out. When Michael took it, he smiled. "Thank you."
Michael squeezed Chuck's hand and leaned down to kiss his forehead. "I love you. I'm leaving soon, but if you need anything before I leave just let me know. And, of course, call me at work if something happens or you need me." He kissed Chuck's cheek, too.
"Okay."
A comfortable quiet settled, while Michael went about getting ready for work. Chuck took his pills while he waited for his porridge to cool and watched Michael put on his shoes. Michael smiled at him from the armchair. Wiggled his fingers in a little wave. Chuck rolled his eyes but cracked a little half-grin and waved back. Then drooped a little. Frowned.
"Hey," Michael came closer, kneeling by the couch. He stroked Chuck's side through his blanket and squeezed his shoulder. "It's okay. If you really, really need me you know I can find a way to come home... But I can't just skip work forever. I know six seems like a long time from now, but you'll be alright, even if it doesn't seem that way right now. I promise." He leaned his cheek against Chuck's arm. "I can see if Rufus will check on you around lunchtime."
Chuck wrapped his arms around Michael's neck for a hug. He didn't say anything, just clung to Michael for as long as he could, until Michael finally pulled away and stood up.
"Okay?"
Chuck nodded.
"Be back later." Michael gave Chuck one last kiss before heading for the hallway. His shoes clunked against the short carpet, and for a moment after there was just a quiet rustling sound. But then the door opened and shut, and Chuck could see Michael walking down the pathway and cutting across the grass to the driveway. Watched him get in the car and start the engine, and pull out into the road.
He felt very alone, suddenly. Even though the cat still purred on his feet.
The house groaned, and he burrowed deeper into his blankets.
He forgot about his cream of wheat for a few minutes. Remembered it as it got cold and sat up enough to eat it. Not as tasty when it was congealed at room temperature. But something. Better than soggy oatmeal, in his mind. He ate most of it, in any case, and then set the bowl back on the table and curled right up again on the couch, listening to Gertrude's diesel engine purr.
Maybe he could fall asleep, like he had at Rufus' house.
No such luck, of course. Rufus' house had been a rare exception to the rule. Chuck lay under his blanket with his head full of a Johnny Cash song and a vague unease in his gut. He squeezed his bunny tighter. At his feet, Gertrude chirped. Outside, some lone bird peeped quietly. Chuck wondered what kind of bird would be foolhardy enough to stick around during the winter and thought maybe a pigeon. Or a crow. Though crows don't peep.
He turned his face into the cushion, pulling the blanket over his head as he wondered where they kept the Atarax. Maybe in the kitchen, with the Prozac. But he didn't want to get up to look for it. The thought scared him. He wanted to fold up into a tiny ball and disappear. Or dissolve into dust. Become a small cloud in the sky so he wouldn't have to deal with anything. Or a leaf. Maybe not a leaf, since animals liked to eat leaves. Something less likely to be maimed or devoured—like a rock. A boulder in a field of flowers or the dirt.
Dirt was good.
Clean, simple.
Chuck thought about dirt for a long time. For what felt like days. The way dirt crumbled up when it was dry, or got all clumped together in the rain. How it froze and turned crunchy in the cold winter mornings. How it smelled and the dark color of new soil.
In the tail end of Chuck's reverie, Gertrude chirped and he lifted his head. He frowned at her. "Hey, kitty." He twisted so he could hold his hand out to the cat. She sniffed at him, and licked his finger. Climbed closer—made her way over him and sat halfway on his face. She began to purr louder than before. Chuck untwisted himself, lowering his head back to the cushion, and Gertrude slid a little bit further onto his face. She stuck her damp nose against the skin at the corner of Chuck's eye. He scrunched his face up. "Aw, Gertrude, your nose is cold."
She meowed at him, with a slow blink of her eye.
Chuck tried to ignore the creeping sense of unease spreading out from his stomach, as he lay there with the cat on top of him. Easier said than done, though. He groaned and pushed himself up, unsettling the cat—she made a surprised peeping noise and rolled off of him. He petted her, as he drew his legs up beneath him. She shook her head but let him scratch her ears. After a few minutes, though, she slipped off of the couch, padding away to do whatever it was that bored cats do. Chuck pulled his blanket around himself.
For a second, he thought he saw something reflected in the window. But when he looked over his shoulder, the room was empty. Of course it was. He and Gertrude were the only ones in the house. He stared at the living room for a long moment, eyes narrowing. Finally turned back and hunched up, dragging the blanket up like a cloak to hang from his head. He held the open ends close to his chest. Still, he couldn't help but feel like someone was watching him, or like someone was in the house with him.
He drew his knees up, pulling the blanket forward over his face.
He reasoned that, if he couldn't see the weird shadows or reflections—ghosts, or whatever—then they just didn't exist. But, of course, he still felt strange and cold and nauseous, and like someone stood just behind the couch, staring down at him.
"Fuck." Chuck held tighter to his blanket. He needed a distraction but he couldn't think of one. He tried to at least focus on breathing steadily, to prevent himself from panicking. A deep breath in, and a long breath out through his nose.
Someone knocked on the front door.
Chuck ignored them.
They knocked again, and the door clicked quietly. Creaked a little. Chuck was just about ready to shout, or something—run and hide. But then, the person called his name and he realized it was Rufus.
Sure enough, when Chuck built up the courage to peek out from behind his blanket, he saw Rufus standing in the doorway to the hall. Chuck covered his face again, but not from fear. He just felt silly and embarrassed, and that little feeling of dread still gnawed at his insides. He listened to Rufus' footsteps on the wood floor.
Rufus sat on the couch beside Chuck, and at first he was silent. But then he asked, voice low, "You gonna be alright?"
Chuck shook his head. He didn't try to say anything, because he felt like no sound would come out if he opened his mouth. Maybe a whimper, but certainly not words. Like his throat had lost function. He uncovered his eyes enough to see, and looked at Rufus. At least he didn't feel like crying... but Rufus probably still thought of him as pathetic.
"Hey," Rufus held out a hand, movements slow and measured. He didn't actually touch Chuck, though. Stopped just short, fingers a few centimeters away from Chuck's shoulder. "Your husband told me you have a special pill for certain days." When Chuck nodded, Rufus let his hand settle on his shoulder. He kept his touch light, still. "In the kitchen, with the spices. Anxiety?"
Chuck managed to croak out one word. "Hydroxyzine." He rubbed his face, grimacing.
The couch creaked as Rufus stood and stretched. He frowned. "I'll go get that for you, then. How long've you been sitting on the couch, hm? It's past noon." He leaned down and picked up the bowl from Chuck's breakfast. Grimaced at the hardened remnants of cream of wheat.
"What?"
"I said, it's past noon." Rufus gave Chuck a strange look.
Chuck's forehead creased, as he tried to remember what time he'd come downstairs with Michael. Six, maybe? So, food around six thirty... Had it really been six hours since he'd last eaten, already? He shook his head, closing his eyes for a brief second. "Lost track."
Rufus tutted but left Chuck without any further questions. Chuck noticed his feet were bare.
Before Chuck could think too hard about how long he'd been awake, Rufus reappeared with a single tablet in his hand. He sat down again, and held his hand out to Chuck. When Chuck took the pill, he handed him the cup of water from the coffee table, still half full, and said, "That bottle was almost dusty. When the hell was the last time you took this?"
With a shrug, Chuck downed the pill. He drained the rest of his water in almost one gulp, and leaned forward to set the glass back on the table. "Wedding? A month ago." He cleared his throat. "Panicked in the morning. Michael made me take one of those." He frowned. "Nearly fainted."
"Oh, I see." Rufus folded his hands in his lap.
Chuck nodded and tugged his blanket tighter around himself. He scratched his nose. Yawned and tilted his head back against the couch, staring up at the ceiling. Not that he could see the ceiling particularly well, without his glasses. But staring at the ceiling for ten minutes, focusing on his breathing, helped him stay calm. Even with it being just a white blur. Five or ten minutes of staring would be nice, right?
He closed his eyes. His mouth felt dry, and he wanted to ask for ice, but he didn't want to talk anymore. Just explaining himself to Rufus took too much energy. He stayed where he was, still and silent, trying to melt through the couch and into the ground.
Just a few minutes...
After a while, Chuck let out a sigh and let the blanket fall from his shoulders, slowly pulling himself up. He used the arm of the couch to balance, but the floor seemed on the verge of spinning. Chuck shook his head. Stood very still.
"What are you doing?"
Chuck frowned. He squinted at Rufus. Let out a wordless, questioning noise.
Rufus leaned forward, forearms against his knees. "You've been holding onto the side of the couch for about five minutes there, son." He raised his eyebrows, a slight twinkle in his eyes. But he didn't laugh, or even smile much more than a small twitch of his lips. In fact, he even seemed concerned. But still amused.
The only response Chuck could think of was, "I'm not your son."
With a snort, Rufus pulled himself to his feet. He held out his arm to Chuck. "I'm starting to wonder what I really gave you." He pulled Chuck's arm around his waist, so he could support him without having to twist into a pretzel, and moved toward the kitchen. "You hungry, or what?" He kept his steps slow and small.
Chuck wrinkled his face while he thought. He yawned. Shook his head—it ached, near the back, all throbbing and dull. "Um..." He licked his lips. "Ice. For my mouth." He pointed at his mouth—opened it as if to demonstrate that it did, in fact, exist completely. When Rufus nodded at him, he closed his mouth. Let himself be led to the kitchen table, and sat down with a huff. He leaned against the tabletop. The sound of Rufus' bare feet on the tiles lingered just at the edge of his hearing, along with the noise from a cracking ice cube tray. Soft chinks from over by the sink.
And a glass set in front of him, with a few ice cubes sitting in it.
"That good?" Rufus pulled up a chair, watching Chuck. But not in a creepy way. In a kind (but grumpy) grandpa way.
Chuck nodded. He couldn't help but yawn again, for what felt like the thousandth time but was probably only the third of fourth. He never could tell, when he was tired like this. Lost track of time, numbers, and just about everything else. He'd probably lose his toes if they weren't attached to his feet. He stuck his hand in the glass with a slight smile and managed to fish out an ice cube without too much trouble—popped it into his mouth and immediately shuddered.
The ice put his teeth on edge and raised goosebumps up the back of his neck, but melted nicely against his tongue. It was satisfying, on a day where he felt thirsty no matter how much water he drank. (He hated those days. The ice water cravings were harder to satisfy than one would expect.) Still, it made him cold. He pulled his sleeves down over his fingers while he chewed on his ice, hunching his shoulders.
"So," Chuck almost jumped when Rufus spoke. Rufus laughed and continued, "Ice to prevent dry mouth? Or do you just like to eat ice?" He leaned his elbows against the table, one eyebrow quirking as he watched Chuck.
Chuck gave him a shrug. "I'm thirsty." He coughed, from the cold water dripping down his throat. "You know when you're real thirsty but like..." He narrowed his eyes. "Like you just really want super cold water. Like almost frozen. And no matter how much water you drink you just... are thirsty still? Like... that. And 'cause the doctor says to chew it for dry mouth. Gum too, but I don't like gum." He made a face, nose crinkling. Fished for another piece of ice.
Rufus just nodded. "Sure, sure." He looked out the window, tapping his finger on the table. "You're eating, once you finish that ice. Michael doesn't want you to pass out." He shook his head. "Made it very clear that you need to eat something, even if it's an entire bag of raisins."
"Gross." Chuck stuck his tongue out. He pushed his cup away, just a little bit. But still kept an eye on it, watching the last ice cube grow into less of a cube and more of an amorphous frozen blob. "Raisins taste like ass. I just want, like... like a sandwich... A sandwich with a lot of mayonnaise but no ketchup because... Because ketchup is disgusting." He folded his arms on the table and laid his head down, and closed his eyes. He yawned twice in a row.
For a few minutes, neither of them said anything. The ice melted into a few centimeters of water at the bottom of the glass, and Chuck kept yawning. Gertrude came into the room, licked Chuck's feet, and then left without so much as a meow. But Chuck smiled. Rufus gave the cat a strange look before leaning forward to take Chuck's glass.
But Chuck whined and grabbed it back from him. "Wait—" He drank the water and pushed himself to his feet. Wobbled a little. Refused Rufus' help and made his own unsteady way to the sink, to set the cup down. Then he went to the fridge and pulled out a few things—mayonnaise, a half-sliced tomato, and a block of cheese. He opened the silverware drawer and pulled out a butter knife. Grabbed the bread from the cupboard. Then he pulled out a small paring knife, to cut the tomato and cheese with.
Rufus stood up. "No. Hell no." He came over and took the paring knife from Chuck. "You are not using this right now. No sharp objects in your hands until you can walk in a straight line."
"I can—I can walk in a straight line!"
Rufus shook his head, and gave Chuck a gentle push. He cut a few slices from the cheese and said, "You walked in a zig-zag just to get to the sink, and you nearly fell over. No knives. No way am I gonna let you slice your damn thumb off under my watch." He stacked the slices of cheese and set to work on the tomato while Chuck pouted and smeared a ridiculous amount of mayo onto a piece of bread.
Together, and without incident, they made a spectacularly boring cheese and tomato sandwich. Rufus let Chuck carry it back to the table on a plastic plate—severely out of place among the tasteful brown and blue ceramic dishes filling the cupboards. Rufus himself washed the paring knife and put it right back where it belonged, rather than leave it in the open for Chuck or the cat to hurt themselves on. He leaned on the counter and stared Chuck down, but Chuck was too engrossed in his sandwich to notice. Rufus shook his head. Gertrude reappeared and rubbed herself against his legs. He leaned down and petted her, smiling to himself just a bit. She purred.
"So you're the cat I've heard about." He picked her up and she batted at his chin. "Slinky little girl, aren't you? You really do look like a pirate. All you need is an eye patch."
At the table, Chuck all but giggled.
"What're you laughing at?" Rufus tutted. He took Gertrude's paw between his fingers and wiggled it around, squishing her soft toes. "Is he laughing at you? How mean."
Chuck shook his head, as he ate his sandwich, and kept his laughter more to himself. "How come you're grumpy to people but nice to kitties?" He grinned. Pushed his mostly empty plate away and leaned back in his chair. He tapped his feet on the floor.
Rufus shrugged, and let the cat down. "Well," he said. "Cats are much softer than people. And how can you resist their faces? Not to mention, they don't sass you. Not like teenagers do." He snorted, leaning back against the counter. "Or other old people. Let me tell you, those old people are the worst. People always go on about kids and teenagers being hooligans, but old people are the rudest bunch I've ever come across. Middle-aged white dude'll make a nineteen year old cashier at Burger King cry her eyes out, but a fifteen year old just asks for extra tartar sauce."
"...Okay." Chuck rubbed his face, resisting the urge to yawn yet again. "Cats are better than people. Um." He squinted down at the floor. "I think I need to go lay down."
"What the hell is in that pill?" Rufus let the cat down and walked back over to Chuck, holding out an arm to help him up. "Elephant tranquilizers?" Chuck didn't answer him, but he smiled to himself. Rufus half-carried him into the living room so he could sink down onto the couch. Even covered him up, and tucked the edges of his blanket into the couch cushions. "You need anything, don't ask me. But don't go walking around trying to slice cheese, either." He moved over to the armchair and let out a grunt as he sat down. Rubbed his knee and sighed, deflating. He wasn't cut out for this parental stuff—too old. Too arthritic.
Chuck didn't fall asleep so much as zone out. His eyes stayed mostly open, though sometimes they fluttered half-shut. He gazed into the middle-distance, unfocused, breathing slowly, one arm hanging limply over the edge of the couch, brushing against Gertrude's fuzzy side. She purred, and the sound registered at the edge of Chuck's hearing, along with Rufus' raspy breaths and the sound of turning pages. In the very back of his mind, Chuck thought about dinosaurs with bunk beds. An odd thought, but it seemed normal to him in the same way as a dream.
Once, for a brief moment, Chuck felt like he was falling. Sharp breath, full-body shudder, and he blinked a few times. He shoved his face into the couch cushion for a few breaths before pushing himself up to sit.
"You okay?"
He nodded. Yawned and watched Rufus read for a few seconds. He drew his blanket around himself like a cape and crossed his legs. His head felt like someone had driven a bunch of nails through it, but he could see clearer. If only he knew where his glasses were, he would see even better. He resigned himself to being unable to make out the details on Rufus' face or the cover of his book. "What are you reading?" He tried to look as pathetic and curious as possible.
Almost immediately after glancing over at Chuck, Rufus rolled his eyes. "Don't you give me that sick puppy look." He turned the book around to look at the cover. "And this is something I grabbed off the bookshelf, while you were drugged out of your mind." He frowned. "Some demon or angel book, or something." He displayed the front of the book and its blue tones—Ecstasy Unveiled. A somewhat ridiculous title for a somewhat ridiculous cover.
"Oh, that's Michael's." Chuck snickered. "He likes to read romance novels. He says they're a nice distraction when he's tired."
Rufus raised his eyebrows, and closed the book, giving Chuck a stare. "Well, tell your man that his taste in erotica is questionable." He tossed the book onto the table and settled back in the armchair. Crossed his arms. Narrowed his eyes. "You passed out for about three hours. Feeling better?"
Chuck shrugged. "I have to pee really bad, but..." He pulled himself to his feet. "I can probably walk better, now that I'm not completely sedated." He hobbled over to the bathroom—the small one, near the foot of the stairs—and shut himself in after leaving his blanket on the floor right outside the door. When he came back out, he grabbed the blanket and made his way back over to the couch. He did, indeed, walk in a much straighter line than he had earlier in the day. He curled up under his blanket again, and looked out the window.
The cat hopped up beside him, pushing her face against his legs with a little meow. He stroked her head.
"As long as you don't do that whole sleeping with your eyes open thing again." Rufus propped his feet up on the coffee table. "Creeped me the hell out."
Chuck snorted. "I'll try not to."