Still dizzy, Benito sat up and rubbed his sore chest. He heard voices somewhere in the flat.
Gianna.
Rosetta.
He swung his legs out of bed. His feet hit the floor and he staggered upright, head swimming, blood pounding in his ears. Damn. He took a step towards the door and swayed, bracing himself on the wall. Fuck. Why do I still feel like I’m dying?
“You should be in bed.”
Benito’s eyes snapped open. Gianna was watching him from the doorway. “I’m fine,” he said. “What time is it?”
“Nine o’clock.”
Benito frowned at the window. “But it’s still light.”
“In the morning, Beni.”
“What?”
Gianna laughed and disappeared.
Rosetta replaced her. She brandished a mug at him. Coffee, dark and strong. “Are you all right? You’ve been asleep since yesterday.”
“Yesterday?” Benito felt high. “When yesterday?”
“I don’t know. I wasn’t with you. You don’t remember?”
Benito remembered plenty, but nothing he wanted to rehash with Rosetta. He took the coffee and stared at it. His dry throat cried out for the scalding liquid, but the anxiety churning in his gut made him wary, as if his heart already teetered on a knife edge. “Sorry I haven’t been with it. Are you okay?”
Rosetta ventured into the room. She took Benito’s arm and guided him back to the bed. “We’re fine. Mickey’s gone to the flat to see if he can get some of our things. He thinks he’ll have another place for us by the end of the day.”
“Mickey?”
“Yes. He’s been taking care of all of us. He’s a nice boy. You should hold on to him.”
Benito took a sip of coffee. Choked on it and set it aside. He wrapped an arm around himself and coughed into his elbow. It went on and on, and without Mickey rubbing his back to distract him, it burned like a bitch. Or maybe it was Rosetta playing along with his imagination that hurt. “I don’t get to hold on to him. I fucked it all up, remember?”
“You think that matters to him now? Benito, I saw his face when you were so sick yesterday. He cares for you.”
“He’s always cared for me. It’s not enough if I’m a fucking wasteman.”
“Don’t say things like that. A wasteman doesn’t do the things you have.”
Benito snorted. “You don’t know what I’ve done.”
“I know enough. You’re a good son and a good man. Mickey knows it—he must do, or he wouldn’t be here.”
“He’s not here.”
“He had to work. He’s coming back. I gave him a key.”
“What key?”
“The only key.” Rosetta smiled a little. “At least, the only one I could find, and I didn’t want to poke around your things too much.”
“Since when? You were all up in my shit when I was a kid.”
“You’re not a child anymore, Benito. Lord help me, neither is Gianna. She’s a good, strong girl, and it’s all because of you.”
Benito rubbed his chest again, bemused. “Did you bang your head since I last saw you?”
Rosetta’s smile vanished. “I’ve been working hard to be grateful for things instead of afraid of them. It’s distracting me from the fact I’m trapped in your flat until I have to go somewhere new. But it’s all true. I’m proud of my kids.”
“Be proud of Gianna.”
“I’m proud of both of you.”
Benito lost the will to argue. He forced himself up again and shuffled to the bathroom. It felt like returning to the scene of a crime. He gazed at the floor, flashes of the worst moments ambushing him as he stumbled to the shower. Puking his guts up. Falling. Gianna screaming. The relentless headache and the burn in his lungs so fierce he’d thought he was dying until Mickey had saved him. His hands had been so warm Benito had nearly cried. Perhaps he had. Why can’t I think clearly?
He got his answer later that day. A nurse from the hospital called and explained the symptoms of smoke inhalation to him.
“It doesn’t always happen right away,” she said. “Sometimes it can be a few hours before the body reacts. The doctor would like you to come for a chest X-ray as soon as possible. Could you come tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow? Fuck, I have to work.”
“No, you don’t.”
Benito glanced up as the new voice came from the bedroom doorway. Mickey glared back at him, slate gaze as flinty as Benito had ever seen.
“You’re not fucking working,” he growled. “Wherever you need to go, I’ll take you.”
“Um . . . okay.” Benito took the appointment the nurse was offering and ended the call. He eyed Mickey, taking in his untucked shirt, messy hair, and tired face. Gorgeous as he was, he didn’t look much better than Benito felt. “Long day?”
Mickey grunted and disappeared.
Panic seized Benito’s chest, but Mickey was back before it manifested. He had a pizza box in one hand, a giant bottle of water in the other. “Rosetta said you’ve been eating like a bird, and I know you like pizza, right?”
Benito rubbed his temple. “Why is my mother discussing my eating habits with you? Has she had a fucking lobotomy?”
“Since you nearly died in a tower-block inferno? Probably.” Mickey shut the bedroom door and came closer. “She’s taking a nap. I think I freaked her out with the good news.”
“What good news?”
“We found her a new flat, and most of her belongings—and Gianna’s—survived. It was smoky as hell up there, but the flames didn’t get past the breaks.”
Benito let out a low whistle. “The breaks installed the same day a gigantic fire started?”
“Yup. The cladding still went up like a rocket, but the new breaks were spread out enough that it didn’t turn into Grenfell mark two.”
Benito shuddered. “It was all I could think of when I saw what was happening.”
“Me too.”
“I don’t remember you being there . . . I mean, I know you were. I can feel it. But when it gets in my head, I can’t see your face.”
Mickey set the pizza box on the bedside table and sat down. He nudged Benito’s hand away from his aching head and replaced it with his own.
His fingers were magic, light and soothing and yet somehow as intense as the rest of him.
Benito sighed. “Tell me you’re real?”
“I’m real.” Mickey held Benito against him. “We should talk, though. If you’re up to it.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re a liar.”
Mickey spoke without edge, but his word choice cut deep. Benito forced himself to pull back from his embrace and stood, his legs stronger than they had been in days. “You must really hate me right now.”
“It would be easier if I did.” Mickey watched Benito pace to the window. His hands twitched, and he folded his arms across his chest. “But I meant what I said the night of the fire . . . if you can remember.”
Benito rested his forehead on the cool glass and gazed at the twinkly lights of the shopping district across the street. “I think I do. Then I’m worried I don’t, and I’m remembering what I wish you’d said.”