(He remembers the look of surprise and delight on Sean’s face when he told him about the memory thing, trying not to flush when Sean let his hands rest briefly against Mike’s arms, fingers trailing. “And what memories would these be?” Sean asked, smiling his little smile. “Memories older than me. You silly man, of course you have memories. Don’t we all?” And there went the flush he’d been trying to avoid, because no matter how hard he tried, he really couldn’t think of a time before Sean entered his life. He kept that to himself, because he didn’t want to seem like some romantic fool.)
So Mike is older and Sean is younger, and they mostly don’t care, not anymore. Because for every moment of doubt that Mike has, there’s always something more that fills him up, something so indisputably Sean.
Maybe Mike can’t remember a time when he didn’t know Sean.
And maybe he just doesn’t want to.
He lets Sean breathe. He waits, taking him in.
Sean’s short black hair is artfully messy, like he’s been running his hands through it all day, the ends curled. But given that he works with food, he doesn’t do that. It’s just how it always looks, sticking up at odd angles and still finding a way to curl around his ears. He’s as thin as Mike is strong, a mere wisp of a man, but Mike knows it’s a bit of a façade. There’s steel buried in those thin bones, in those spindly fingers. Sean doesn’t take shit from anyone, not that he has to. Not really, not in Amorea. But if he did, any person foolish enough to try would be cut to ribbons on that razor-sharp tongue. His bright green eyes would flash, the curve of his jaw set. He isn’t an angry person. Quite the opposite, really. But Sean Mellgard doesn’t allow anyone to walk over him and doesn’t have time for bullshit, least of all Mike’s. He tells him as much whenever Mike starts to get dour and broody, as he sometimes does.
He’s handsome, truly. Maybe the most handsome man Mike’s ever seen. He often finds himself staring at Sean for no reason at all, thinking to himself how that could be his, if only he would ask. It causes his heart to thump erratically in his chest, his breath to hitch just the slightest bit. And he could. He really, really could. Just ask. That’s it. But there’s something about it, something about this slow burn between the two of them that he thinks is necessary. He could push if he wanted to, push and take, but he thinks it’s better this way. Slow and steady before it consumes him.
Because there is no question about it. It will consume him completely and fully. It has only ever been Sean. It will only ever be Sean. There are times when he doesn’t understand, times when he can’t believe that he could have something so precious. But then Sean will get that look on his face, that look like he knows what Mike is thinking, knows that Mike’s being ridiculous in his own head, and will tell him to stop, to get over himself.
Mike loves him, more than he could ever say or show. But he’s not ready for that part of it. At least not yet.
And now’s not the time for it anyway. Because Sean is ill and breathing those measured breaths.
Mike waits.
He doesn’t have to wait long.
Sean says, “Hey there, big guy,” without opening his eyes, because he knows who it is. He always does.
“Hey,” Mike says softly.
Sean smiles, just a gentle curve. “One of those days,” he says.
“You okay earlier?” Mike asks. He hadn’t heard the strain in Sean’s voice when they spoke on the phone.
“Yeah. Just hit a little later on. You know how it is.”
He does. Maybe better than anyone. “You take your Ercaf?” Ergotamine tartrate, a new drug Doc had prescribed to him. Said it was the latest thing.
Sean shrugs. “Couple of hours ago. Takes a bit. It’s getting there. Not as bad as it sometimes is.”
“Good,” Mike says. He doesn’t like it when Sean hurts.
The smile widens just a tad as he opens his eyes. They’re not bloodshot, which is a good sign. It means Sean is being truthful about how bad it was. “Well aren’t you a sight for sore eyes,” he says. “We missed you this morning.”
“We?” Mike asks.
Sean says, “Yeah,” like it’s their joke, like it’s just between the two of them.
Mike shakes his head, because he knows Sean is trying to distract him. He steps around the desk until he’s standing beside Sean. Se
an only tilts his head back again and arches an eyebrow up at him, but Mike can hear him in his head, saying, Whatcha gonna do, big guy? He tries not to think about just how much he hears Sean in his head, because that’s just ridiculous and sentimental, and everyone knows Mike doesn’t do sentimental. Well, most everyone thinks that. Sean knows different, much to Mike’s dismay.
Mike raises his hands until his fingers are curled into Sean’s short hair, pressing gently against his scalp. He begins to massage, increasing the pressure as his fingers move over Sean’s head.
Sean groans, low and short, slumping down in the chair, eyes fluttering shut. Mike doesn’t know how much this helps, but Sean says, “Magic hands, Mike, I swear you’ve just got magic hands,” and he thinks maybe just the touching is enough. It’s something he rarely allows himself to do, touching Sean, because he’s worried that if he ever starts with any regularity, he won’t be able to stop.
Because touching Sean is nice. The weight of him, the heat of his skin, his scalp slightly oily from the smoke and the scent of the diner. Mike doesn’t care about stuff like that. He wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world.
Sean lets this go on for a few minutes more, but then sits up, forcing Mike to drop his hands. “That’s real good,” he says, and maybe it’s just wishful thinking, but Sean does have a bit more color to his cheeks and doesn’t look as peaked as he did when Mike first walked in.
“You should go back to Doc,” Mike said, suddenly unsure what to do with his hands now that he’s not touching Sean. He drops them to his sides and feels slightly awkward because of it. “See if there’s anything else he can do.”