Part 2
Michel was so thin, the heat didn't really bother him all that much. On the contrary, he was usually chilled, no matter the weather. He had mentioned this to Doctor Schulz once, who had informed him gently that it was probably because his body was still undernourished; he had spent too many years refusing to eat properly. He had shrugged at her reply; she knew why he didn't eat and, anyway, there was no way to change the past. He would never be able to eat large meals again.
His need to control his own destiny had figured largely into his near year-long fast. So many things in his life had been planned for him –from what school he would attend to when he would work to where he purchased his clothes- that he'd simply wanted control over something and that something had become what and when he ate. Pretending to eat had simply become a part of the routine.
It had gotten bad for a while and he'd begun to waste away. No one had really noticed at first; he had always been petit. But as his cheekbones became more sunken and his pants had started drooping without the aid of a belt, his teammates had slowly begun to take notice. It wasn't until the day of the incident that any of them really began to grasp just how fucked up he was; when they were cleaning him up after rescuing him from the Autumn Café's bathroom, they had been shocked to realize that each and every rib could be counted through his skin.
Free, as his friend, and Ken, as the team's self-appointed chef, took more of an interest in his eating habits after that. He was watched at mealtimes and his sugar intake was severely restricted. Unless it was a special occasion, he'd only been given ice cream once a week, a horrifying notion in itself, really, but one which he was willing to grudgingly accept, lest he be told he could never have ice cream again. It didn't make him happy; far from it. He hated having people so involved in his life unless he choose to make them so and that he did not.
In the three years or so since this diet had been shoved upon him, however, he had gained a grand total of five pounds. Not that much at all, but he couldn't help it. He just couldn't eat a lot of food, too much made him sick to his stomach, an idea which Ken just couldn't seem to grip. It wasn't a typical night if Michel didn't stare at his plate for at least half an hour, trying to decide why Ken wanted him to eat so much food when he'd been told time and again that not every one was a bottomless pit like he was.
His daily walk took him past the little bakery he used to stop at after school sometimes. He had liked their snacks and their prices and had bought desserts there often when he was younger. The owner knew him by name, knew his favorite treats and knew never to offer him anything with banana in it.
Michel hadn't been in the bakery, however, in a number of years. There was no point in going in, after all, when he couldn't purchase any of his favorite desserts. It was like picking at a wound…sometimes, you couldn't help it, but picking only made it worse.
As he was walking by that morning, something compelled him to enter. Perhaps it was a desire to make sure the same woman worked there or to know whether or not they still sold the éclairs he had loved so much; he wasn't sure exactly why.
A small bell attached to the door jangled as he pushed it open and he almost took a step back at the sudden assault of long-forgotten smells. Cinnamon, chocolate, ginger…How he had missed baked goods in his life. Ken made them, of course, but Michel wasn't allowed to eat them, unless his weekly food intake met with Free's approval, something which happened rarely.
There were a few people milling around, eating muffins and drinking coffee. Some of them had newspapers. Michel tried to ignore them as he crossed the threshold, but no matter where he went, he always felt like people were looking at him and it made him nervous. Perhaps it was because of what he was; he wondered sometimes if they could tell he was gay. He certainly didn't do anything to stop people from thinking so, even if his clothes weren't as feminine as they had once been. He also wondered sometimes if they could tell how fucked up he was. He certainly wasn't "normal" and he wondered if it showed. Were people always judging him or was he just being paranoid?
He padded over to the counter, green gaze lingering for a moment on all the cakes and pastries on display. There was indeed a tray of éclairs; they looked heavenly, covered in gooey chocolate frosting. He wanted to buy one very badly. How would Free ever know?
He was tempted. Very tempted. But a nagging little voice in the back of his mind protested, saying he would only feel guilty if he went against his lover's wishes. Free was only concerned for him, after all, and wanted him to be healthy. Besides, he had been warned against suddenly ingesting things that were not all-natural. After the strict diet he'd been on the last three years, that much sugar could make him sick.
Instead, Michel looked to the woman at the register. She was busily rearranging a tray of biscuits; they seemed to have slid out of place when she set them on the shelf. Her brown hair stuck up every which way and she looked a little frazzled, but that was exactly how Michel had always remembered Miss Julia Baxter. That, and kind. She had always struck him as a motherly woman who seemed to know every one who came into her little shop and he liked that.
"Excuse me…" He murmured politely, fiddling with the hem of his shirt. He wondered if Miss Julia would remember him; he looked a little different now and he hadn't been around in a long time. He had also toned himself down a bit; he was no longer the bouncy, cheerful thing he had appeared to be three years ago.
"What can I get for you?" Julia pulled her head out of the display case, pushing her tortoiseshell glasses up her nose. She didn't show a single sign of recognition, however, and Michel couldn't help feeling a little hurt. Had he really changed so much?
"What…?" He paused for a moment, soft green gaze scanning the display again, "What do you have with no sugar?"
"I have a few goods baked with Splenda." She waved a hand towards a small display of cookies and cupcakes, all frosted in a dizzying array of colors. Just looking at them made Michel feel a little queasy and he quickly shook his head.
"Splenda is made from sugar." He said softly, "I can't eat that." What he really wanted to do was scream at her; shake her and yell, "Hey; you know me, remember? I'm that cheerful little bugger who doesn't like bananas!" It hurt for a moment; had he truly changed so much in the past three years? He thought he had at least managed to maintain his appearance to some degree. Three years later, save for the two inches he'd grown and the length of his hair, he hadn't really changed all that much. "Do you have any diabetic-friendly items?"
He hated asking that question. Michel was far from diabetic. He just wasn't allowed to eat sugar. It made him hyper and gave him a sugar high, during which he felt pretty damn good, but when the high crashed, he was always exhausted and miserable. Free had explained this to him once, patiently, and Michel had become a bit of an expert on what sugar did to the system.
"These muffins are made with applesauce." Julia indicated a tray, "And these are oatmeal banana. Normally, I'd have blueberry as well, but they're sold out for the morning." She chattered on about how sorry she was over the lack of options for a poor diabetic person and how young he was –he wondered if she thought he was about fourteen; it was still a common misconception- to have to deal with something like this and that she didn't often get diabetics in the bakery.
"One of the applesauce ones will be fine…" He murmured faintly. He wondered vaguely how people had put up with him when he had talked incessantly and began to feel infinitely sorry for any one who'd had to listen to his childish rambles.
"Sure thing, hon." She reached in and extracted one of the muffins, wrapping it in a white paper bag, "Can I get you anything else?"
"A small iced chai, please." Michel had had chai for the first time only a few months ago, when Free had taken him to a smoky little teahouse in a tiny, out-of-the-way place somewhere on the edge of town. He'd wondered how often the older man had gone there in the past. It certainly was his kind of place; it was full of quiet, mystical-looking people reading Tarot spreads and sipping steaming drinks while conversing in hushed undertones.
Michel left the bakery feeling slightly disenchanted. Why had he liked that place so much when he was younger? He didn't even really want the muffin and the chai certainly wasn't as good as what Free had bought for him at the teahouse. And Miss Julia hadn't even remembered him…Granted, she probably had a lot of customers, but he had been in there nearly every afternoon for two years. It did hurt a little bit and it made him feel slightly invisible, a feeling he hadn't had in a while.
He sipped the chai. It wasn't bad, all things considering. Free would probably say it wasn't real chai, but then…He was picky about his tea and tea-like beverages. Only the imported stuff would do for him; things from far away places like India and China. Herbal, the kind you had to strain the leaves from before you drank it. Some of it smelled awful and made Michel a little nauseous while it was brewing.
But it was part of what he loved about Free. He wouldn't be himself without the God-awful tea.
Free had been one of the few constant things in Michel's life, ever since he was six years old. Free had played with him when he was small, watched over him as he grew older, protected him in his adolescence. He remembered vaguely when he was young and Side A had existed. Free had always found time to play with him in the castle's garden, even when no one else could spare a moment for him. Free had been his own personal jungle gym back then; the man had always allowed Michel to crawl all over him. He had played with him, spoke to him as an equal and –most importantly- he had loved Michel.
The little blond had asked Free once why he saved him. Why hadn't he been killed or left behind? After all, he was just the brat of a couple of terrible people. Why not keep him from being just as terrible? There had been a long silence in which Free's dark eyes had peered into Michel's as if searching for something before he finally answered. "I saved you because you deserved a chance to live. You were innocent of your parents' crimes and did not need to pay for sins you did not commit." He explained softly, "You weren't a target and I was not so cruel as to kill an innocent child, just because you happened to be there."
"Life is cyclical." Michel had replied softly, "Couldn't it just round back to where it began? I could someday be like my parents." He hated that idea, but he had seen it enough; too many of their targets had offspring just as slimy. "We've seen that 'like father like son' stuff far too often."
"Ah, but the difference there is that you were not raised by your parents, Michel." Free rested a hand on his shoulder, "You were brought up to see truth for yourself. You are not your father and you are not Brandon and I doubt you will ever be the kind of person they were." It was the older man's job to keep Michel on the right track; to keep him from ever feeling the need to injure himself again. He didn't think he could bear to see tears of unhappiness in those soft eyes ever again. Michel was the one thing he couldn't live without and seeing the blond unhappy was like a personal injury. "Do not fret about it."
And Michel had looked at him in that way he often looks when Free is being mysterious. His tall companion had given him readings before -all of which were startlingly true- but he knew Free did readings when Michel had not asked and wondered what he found in those cards. He always felt that Free knew something about him of which he was not yet aware.
Heat shimmered off the sidewalk as he padded down the street, taking in the sights and sounds of downtown London. It was funny how everything seemed to dance in the heat like a mirage, but Michel didn't feel much like he was dancing. He was untouchable; the heat didn't even cause a sweat beneath his bangs. Not sweating was bad, but his body was so thin and always cool to the touch and he simply didn't perspire any more.
Everything around him seemed to buzz in slow motion. The other shoppers and merchants almost seemed surreal as he passed by, some waving to him, others nodding, slowly, mechanically…The hot air made everything seem to ooze, thick and viscous. They all knew him, in that impersonal sense of the word. Unless they frequented the Kitten's House, they didn't know his name. But they knew his face, they knew when to expect him passing by and they knew he always passed them alone.
Some of them wondered if he were real. He always looked so thoughtful; so sad. With a face so cherubic, hair so blond and movements so glidey, it was easy to imagine him as some sort of heavenly apparition. He only ever stopped if he was greeting some one or if he were doing a good deed - picking up an item that had been dropped, helping a woman or child carry things, just being all around good.
Michel never realized what they thought of him. The little niceties were things he just did without thinking. He had always been taught that it was important to help others and it had never crossed his mind not to. The Golden Rule had been a big part of his upbringing as a small child and KR had always prompted him to be polite and proper when in public. Even though he knew other people didn't see the things the way he did, it was simply so much easier to be nice to others.
He thought it was odd, looking back, that Mum had always told him to treat others as he wanted to be treated. She had been wonderful to him, so kind and attentive…Yet at the same time, she had been ruthless when it came to the rest of the world. His family had been Catholic. Very Catholic. And the Catholic Church believed in all that "love thy neighbor" bullshit, yet his parents thought nothing of destroying their neighbors' lives. They had been hypocritical, to say the least, but he had learned and learned well and thusly tried to be kind to every one he encountered.
His parents had done many things that were wrong during their lives. Michel was well aware of this. They had also believed many things that were wrong as well. He figured the joke must have been on them, though, since he had turned out to be so very gay in the end. Mum and Dad must have turned over in their graves the night he lost his virginity. He knew they never would have approved of his lifestyle; they had been of the belief that every good Catholic's duty was to produce as many children as they could.
Oh, it did make him laugh, now. How could he ever have believed what he had with Free was wrong and evil? It was beautiful and sweet and everything he wanted and he never could have had something close to this with any one else. Free himself wasn't particularly beautiful -not in the classic sense of the word, at least, but Michel could find many beautiful things within him- or sweet, but he was all that the little blond could ever desire. Their lives were so intertwined, and had been for so long, it was impossible for either of them to carry on without the other. He couldn't begin to imagine his world without Free; without the smell of strange teas or the Tarot cards he found in various places around either of their bedrooms. How could there have been life without Free? How could there ever possibly be?
Michel knew there was no way he could survive without Free. It was a subject he talked to death with Doctor Schulz: What would he do if he were to lose Free? He could say, to some degree of certainty, that if Free were gone, he would not hesitate to make a final cut. Schulz had cautioned him -"your life is too much some one else's and not enough your own"- but he didn't care. Life without Free could never be worth living.
He needed Free like he had never needed anything before. He needed soft words of reassurance and praise, quiet advice and thoughtful, heartfelt declarations of love. He needed to feel safe and protected, watched over and cared for. He needed those rough, calloused fingers touching him, soothing, stroking his hair, teasing his sensitive skin. He needed fast-paced sex when he was frustrated, gentle loving when he doubted himself and moments when he could completely lose himself to the feelings of being loved and needed. He thrived on these things; needed them, wanted them.
Doctor Schulz, as much as he liked her, didn't know all that much about their long history. To her, Free was simply a coworker and the older man in Michel's life. She couldn't seem to understand that Free was not simply an older boyfriend. Michel had never and would never dream of calling him such. He was indeed a partner and a lover, but he wasn't something so trivial as a boyfriend. It went far beyond that; their lives had been joined far before they had joined and their fates were too far entwined for them to be merely dating. Michel wasn't sure how to impress this fact upon Doctor Schulz without spilling all the little dirty secrets about their lives and so she simply believed them to be lovers and nothing more.
She was unhappy when Michel told him he wanted his life entrusted to Free. He was certain that she didn't approve of his relationship with the older man. It had been when he was seventeen that he first mentioned the growing sexual tension between them. She already knew a great deal about Free at that point, including the vast difference in their ages, and he distinctly remembered her pursing her lips and scribbling a lot of notes on the topic of sexual friction. She had asked a lot of questions about why he had wanted Free and what had attracted him to the quiet man, but he had no clue how to vocalize anything he'd wanted to say. How could he possibly explain that their souls had mingled and mated the day they met, when he was only six years old, and that he wouldn't be happy until they were truly together?
Fortunately, every one at home saw it as perfectly normal. Natural, even. Chloé had once remarked that they all knew it had only been a matter of time before Free would take Michel and make him his own (a remark which had caused the little blond to blush profusely) and that it had surprised none of them. They were both happier now that they had started sleeping together and seeing them happy generally made every one else happy. Seeing them snuggled on the couch together or stealing kisses or engaging in their own strange sort of teasing and flirting was a natural next step in their relationship and their intimacy had easily been accepted by the rest of the household.
How long had Free wanted him? God only knew. Michel knew it was probably since before he knew what it was to lust after another person; whenever he asked Free about it, the older man got a guilty look on his face and ignored the question. Knowing he had probably been about twelve or thirteen at the time which Free's sexual fascination had begun didn't make him love Free any less, however. He himself had always wanted something he couldn't name from the man who had rescued him. It was as if they both instinctively knew they'd found the person they were destined for that night so long ago and that was what made it okay. It was what had made it perfectly fine for Free to lust after him when he was still small, what made it okay for him to pursue some one so much older than him.
He knew society probably saw his relationship as somewhat unconventional; it was probably even considered sick and perverse in some circles. In his dark, brooding moments, he wondered how many people would have condemned Free as a pedophile and dragged him off to jail. He wondered what made Free any better than half of their targets. Where did you draw that fine line between okay and unacceptable and how did they manage to stay on the right side of that line? It was a dangerous, deadly dance in which they partook; they had been flirting with disaster since Michel was fifteen. Yet, somehow, they had learned the steps correctly, learned when to steal kisses, when to touch and when to be close.
Besides, it was love…How could it be wrong?
Michel was so lost in thought that he was surprised to find himself back in front of the shop, the empty plastic cup from the bakery in one hand, the bag with the muffin in the other. He blinked, staring up at the sign he had nailed up so long ago -"Kitten's House"- as if he was trying to distinguish whether or not it was really there. When had he gotten home?
The shop bells jangled merrily as he pushed the door open, only to be greeted by a blast of frigid air from the air conditioner. He felt a chill run down his spine and he shivered, arms instinctively rising to wrap around himself in an attempt to warm up.
Free's gaze was on him the second he crossed the threshold. Michel could feel dark eyes fix on his face; they were always focused on the one thing most important in Free's world. Michel knew he was the center of the universe; the moon and the stars in Free's sky. As soon as he entered the older man's line of vision, he was the direct focus of those beetle-black eyes. It wasn't that Free lost track of everything else…No, it was more that he was plenty capable of devoting most of his attention to his little lover while keeping the rest of the world on hold in the back of his mind.
"Turn the air conditioner down." Michel could hear Free's deep rumble from across the room and he paused mid-stride, watching for a moment as the man turned to Chloé, ordering him to change the AC's settings so it wouldn't be quite so cold in the shop. It was for Michel's benefit and he knew it; none of the other three men in the shop would have thought it was too cold. Free worried over how chilled the teen's skin always felt, worried that he would be getting sick all the time, and thusly began keeping a closer eye on the temperatures of the shop and the flat.
Chloé made a face at him -he hated when it was hot- and took his sweet time adjusting the little knob on the air conditioner to a lower setting. He didn't mind turning it down, really. He was fond of Michel, after all, and didn't want him to be sick. Who would he have to tease if that were the case? Ken wasn't as fun any more, Aya still didn't rise to the bait, Free simply didn't care and Yuki was hardly home. That left Michel as the recipient of Chloé's teasing and the older blond loved the reactions he wrought from the boy. He'd never known a person could blush so many different shades of red.
Besides, the fact that Michel was always cold was somewhat startling. It was about ninety-three outside, yet the teen was wearing pants and a long-sleeved shirt and looked perfectly comfortable. He'd had pneumonia that had landed him in the hospital the previous winter and ever since then he'd been chilled almost all the time, which caused Free to constantly fret over him and the house to generally remain at a steady temperature that didn't leave Michel shivering or putting on layers of clothes.
Chloé watched as Michel made a beeline for Free, offering him the white paper bag he was carrying. He was still amazed at how solemn his small friend had wound up as he grew. The Michel he had first met nearly eight years ago had been cheerful and noisy and boisterous. The young man who had just crossed the room was somber and introspective, almost the complete opposite of the child he had once been. At eighteen years old, Michel still had many of the quaint mannerisms he'd had as a child (The most endearing of which, Chloé thought, was his habit of adding "yes?" or "no?" to the end of his sentences), but he had toned down so much that he was like a completely different person.
He kind of missed the old Michel, in some weird way.
But he liked this bohemian Michel as well, who had no problem tugging Free down for a kiss when Aya had his back turned.
"There's a muffin in there…You can have it, if you want." Michel nodded towards the bag, "I bought it, but I don't really want it." Thinking about eating it made his stomach want to rebel; he was suddenly very much not hungry. This happened often enough. It was still very hard for him to eat, even though he no longer had a reason not to.
"You did not have much for breakfast, did you?" Free looked down at him, one hand rising to brush back Michel's hair so he could look him in the eyes. Green eyes peered back up at him; Michel didn't need to say anything for him to know the answer to his question. "Save the muffin for later," His expression softened, "We can share it."
"I get the top." Michel giggled, stretching up to kiss him softly, then snuggled close.
"You get the top, hmm?" Free arched a brow, "Is that a promise? Or a threat?"
An impish grin crossed the little blond's face. "You'll have to wait until later to find out!" He laughed, dancing away from his partner to fetch an apron, momentarily like his old self.
Free watched him go, smiling to himself. Days like this -where Michel could laugh like he used to- were the best. He loved Michel in spite of all the bad things and angst, but he sometimes missed the blond whirlwind of cheer that he had once been. It was one of those things he kept to himself; he'd never tell Michel he missed the cheerful exuberance. He was proud of how far the little blond had come and didn't want to cause any damage, so he had readily accepted this quieter version of Michel into his life, keeping memories of the old Michel tucked away in his heart.
The teen wandered back to the front of the shop, pulling a light yellow Kitten's House apron over his head and tying it neatly in the back. He unbuttoned and rolled up his sleeves, pausing to push a stray curl from his eyes, and humming. Free watched those small fingers working, anticipating their touch on his skin later in the day. The little blond was like some sort of drug; addictive, intoxicating. Free couldn't live without him.
"Can we go out tonight?"
The soft query startled Free back to reality and he looked up, meeting Michel's gaze. There was a moment were they both seemed to drown in one another, just looking, Free's dark eyes staring down into endless grey-green. "Ja," He finally managed to disentangle himself from that haunted gaze, "If you would like." Going out, for the two of them, was not the same as a date. They were more like an old married couple than anything; it seemed so silly to call it a date. They had been partners since Michel was fourteen and, although the beginnings of the relationship had contained nothing sexual, there was no way they were like the masses of people floundering to find the one they belong with. No, "going out" was never a date.
"I think I'd like it." Michel murmured, stifling a yawn, "I'm in the mood for something French today. Something French, and then the two of us alone for the evening. I don't particularly feel like being around every one tonight…Especially since Ken will probably invite Kurumi back for dinner." He ran a hand through his hair, wincing slightly as his fingers caught in a snarled curl.
Free nodded, reaching out and deftly untangling the curl. He let his fingers linger a moment, brushing through the thin blond locks, watching as a happy expression crossed the boy's cherubic face at the contact, and wondering again how Michel did not understand just how beautiful he was.
