“Wh-what are you still doing...here?” he grunted, testing parts of his bruised body as he clambered to his feet. He tried not to put weight on me, but he swayed and shook his head, giving me a chance to wrap an arm around his waist.
He was solid and strong, and my heart skipped a beat.
His eyes narrowed once the vertigo left him. “Don’t touch me, O. I told you to go.”
“Yet I’m still here.”
“A blatant disregard of my command.”
“I’m helping you.”
“I don’t want your help. How many times do I need to tell you?”
“Too bad. You’ve got it.” Tugging him in the direction of his warehouse, my temper steadily rose. My question wasn’t so gentle this time. “What were you thinking, huh?”
He didn’t reply, half trying to shove me away, half doing his best not to show he needed my support.
“You wouldn’t understand.” His legs were stable, even if his mind still swam with unbalance, and it didn’t take long to step through the pedestrian access and close the door behind us.
“Try me. I might understand more than you think.”
“I already know you can’t.” He winced, rubbing his belly where that arsehole’s foot had connected.
The familiar warehouse welcomed me back as I walked its painting master over the large work area, unsure where to take him. “Do you have a bed here?”
“None of your business.”
I shook him. “Answer me. The sooner I find you something soft to rest on, the sooner I can leave.”
“As if that will ever happen.”
I pinched his side. “Save your energy for healing, not answering back.”
His eyebrows settled low over frustrated eyes. “I have a small apartment in the back.” He pointed the way with a tilt of his head. “Through the office.”
“See? Was that so hard?”
He huffed, dark and miserable. “Harder than you’ll ever know.” He looked away, not letting me catch his gaze.
My heart beat painfully as I held him tight, and we shuffled through his office together. Papers scattered the only desk. No chair. No filing cabinets. His method of records archaic.
Reaching the door to his apartment, he froze. His hand landed on my shoulder, pushing me resolutely away. “I’m not an invalid.”
“You might fall.”
“I won’t.”
I let go, even though it felt like needles of coldness without him close.
He swayed, catching himself against the wall. I gritted my teeth to prevent saying ‘I told you so’ as he wedged a palm into his temple, blinking back stars. We had a lot of messiness between us, we didn’t need petty quips too.
“You’ll feel better when you sit down.” I followed him as he pushed off the wall and led me into a tiny lounge. My eyes skittered over the space. A TV that’d seen better days, a couch that looked recycled, and a kitchen that held no clutter or signs of being used.
The industrial tone of the warehouse flowed into his residential abode with harsh brick, exposed metal, and no-nonsense decorations.
The only thing brightening up the space was the back wall where two doors remained closed, bordered with graffiti I had no doubt Gilbert had done.
It had his signature all over it.
A vibrant wash of reds and greens, purples and blues. A tropical rainforest with palm trees, heliconias, and parrots flying in the fronds.
“Wow.” I stopped, noticing where the spray paint ran a little to give the illusion of muggy humidity, where he’d feathered the colour to give parrot wings depth and flight.
My voice barely registered as I said, “You always were amazing with a can of spray paint.”
He’d shown me some of his work when we were younger, proudly revealing his after-dark hobbies. He’d almost kissed me while pinning me against one. I’d almost offered him my virginity, all because I couldn’t stand to be so in awe and so in love with him and not claim every inch of him for my own.
He muttered something under his breath, something harsh and cutting.
I was glad I didn’t hear it as he inched toward the fake leather couch with holes in its cushions and lay down. His eyes closed, his forehead furrowing with deep tracks.
My heart squeezed unbearably as I ghosted forward. “What can I do for you?”
His lips thinned as I stopped by his side. Keeping his eyes resolutely shut, he murmured, “Go home, Olin. I’m fine.”
Ducking to my haunches, I laid a hand on his head, my fingers slinking through his hair. “Please...don’t turn me away.”
He turned to stone. His teeth sank into his bottom lip. His entire body vibrated as if he broke beneath my touch. A giant fissure through his chest. An earthquake in his soul. The couch creaked as he jerked his head away, trying to free himself from my touch.
I let my hand trail down, fingertips crying for more.
“Just lie there. I’ll look after you.” A phrase I’d uttered before. A phrase he knew I meant. No matter what’d happened between us, I would always look after him.
Gil didn’t say a word as I moved around the small lounge and into the kitchen. Opening wooden cabinets, I searched for a glass. Instead, I found bare essentials. Only a couple of each item, mostly chipped and well-worn, a couple of plastic cups and bowls only suitable for children. Splodges of dried paint decorated them, signalling they weren’t used as utensils but for means of holding pigment.
Sighing, I grabbed the least chipped glass and filled it with water. Taking it to Gil, I placed in on the low coffee table, shoving aside an unfinished sketch of a blue whale. “Where do you keep your painkillers, Gil?”
This time no argument or angry commands. His throat worked as he swallowed. “Medicine cabinet. In the bathroom.”
I didn’t ask for permission to enter a more personal part of his home just off the kitchen. I didn’t need to second-guess why there were multiple boxes of different pain relief hidden behind the mirror above the pedestal sink.
I doubted the habit of having such drugs close by would stop anytime soon, especially seeing as he’d allowed that bastard to hurt him.
He’d done nothing to protect vitals. Nothing to prevent damage.
He could have internal bleeding from being kicked in the stomach or a concussion from being knocked out.
He should see a doctor.
But he won’t.
Gil didn’t have a fond relationship with doctors, thanks to his past. He said he didn’t want his dad to be arrested for what he did to him, but I knew he didn’t want to be taken away from me and put into foster care.
I hadn’t wanted that either, but not a day went by that I didn’t beg him to tell someone, reveal what sort of hellhole he lived in, so he was no longer used as a punching bag.
Grabbing a box, I sighed heavily. Gil wouldn’t have managed most days at school without relying on popping a few pills. No matter his injuries, he’d only ever let me tend to him—no matter if they were far above my basic skills.
I had a terrible case of déjà vu.
Spinning to leave, I frowned as a whiff of synthetic strawberry shot up my nose. The sweet scent didn’t match the masculine bareness of the bathroom with its grey linoleum and white tile walls.
Glancing into the shower, I scanned the bottles on the glass shelf. Nothing—just a block of cream-coloured soap.