Foxes (16 page)

Finally I manage to get him to stand. I push him up against the lamppost next to us and press my hand to his chest to stop him collapsing to the ground. I don’t think I can carry him any distance, but if his legs are on the verge of giving way with him just being upright like this, I think I’m going to have to.

I look around and consider calling for help, just shouting and hoping someone comes.

“Micky? Help me get this jumper on you.
Please
,” I beg him. I can’t hold him up and one-handedly pull the jumper down over his head. It’s impossible.

My teeth are chattering, my hands shaking. The thin T-shirt I’m wearing is soaked through.

Micky can’t seem to focus on me, and he screws his face up and squints. When he brings his hand up, I don’t know whether he’s trying to help me or not. It’s as though he can’t quite control his limbs. If it weren’t so cold, I’d say without hesitation that he’s absolutely smashed. As it is, he doesn’t smell of alcohol, although the falling snow could have washed away the scent. Maybe he’s high or in shock because of something that’s happened or because he’s so fucking freezing.

In the end I let him slip to the ground, and I unstrap my shoulder so I can roughly pull the jumper over his head. I wish I could afford to be gentler with him, but I just want to get him covered up.

After that it’s much easier to get his arms down the sleeves. Not once do I look or even consider his nakedness: his long glowing limbs and how the outlines of his bones show through his skin. Nothing. Until he touches his soft dick as if checking it’s still there—pressing his fingers down the length and squeezing, then pulling the skin at the tip, stretching it.

I swallow and pull the jumper down over his hand.

“We need to find some shelter out of the snow,” I say mostly to myself. I hoist him up again, gasping as it feels like something tears inside my shoulder. The pain nearly overwhelms me for a moment, but after a minute it begins to back off as I breathe through it.

I glance across the road to where I can see several blocks of posh Victorian flats overlooking the park. One or two lights are on in the buildings. I don’t know if any of those people would help us, but Micky is freezing to death in my arms. I need to do something.

Should I call an ambulance? I can’t see a pay phone so it would mean searching for one, walking who knows how far until we find one that works. The flats are nearer.

With my good arm around his shoulders, I do my best to carry Micky across the empty road. By the time we reach the other side, I’m mostly dragging him.

We make it up the well-tended path to the solid front door to one of the blocks. Slowly I lower Micky to the ground, where he sits, head lolling back against the doorway. I glance at his feet and see blood across the top of his toes where I’ve just scraped them on the ground from dragging him.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper shakily.
Fuck.

There are twenty lit-up call buttons next to the door. I hover my fingers over them, one by one, but I can’t press any of them. I can’t call any of these sleeping strangers.

I hold my hand over my mouth, then touch Micky’s face with my fingertips. We’re both so, so cold. I look out into the night. Snow is falling thick and fast, white on black. The ground is covered with it. I don’t know what to do.

Despite the fact he’s sitting up, Micky looks unconscious. The light here in the doorway is brighter than the streetlights, and he’s really not a good color. My breath catches. I need to wake him up, get him warm. What am I doing just standing here? I’m so cold too. It’s hard to think.

For the first time in my life, I know I’m going to have to do something really reckless.

The path leads around the back of the flats. I’ve walked past enough of these buildings to consider their layout, and they have a back door.

Grimacing with the pain, I lift Micky in my arms. It’s agony. Burning, stabbing pain lances through my shoulder, and I think I might drop him at any moment. He’s not as heavy as he should be, but right now I’m not as strong as I usually am. Every time I take a step, an awful sound escapes me—a wounded animal sound. I can’t help it.

We make it to the back door. There are so many shadows around here. Micky almost falls as I try to lower him to the ground—I almost don’t have it in me to stop him, but I manage to lay him on the path.

Under this blanket of white, I can’t see at all what I’m looking for, so I drop to my knees and shove my hands in the freezing snow, searching. A stone, that’s all I need. A heavy stone.

Finally I spot a stone on top of one of the bins, probably to keep the lid down and to keep the foxes out. We’re like foxes, I think, and maybe for once this stone is going to help some foxes get in somewhere.

I stand in front of the back door, feeling for where the lock and the handle are. I don’t even know for sure if this is going to work, but I really don’t have any other ideas right now. Focusing my remaining strength into my good arm, I bring the stone down as hard as I can on the lock, trying to muffle the sound with my body. I do it over and over again. After five hits I think I hear a
clink
, as though something has fallen to the floor inside, and I give the handle a shake. Like some Christmas miracle, it gives, the door swings open, and the building’s warmth envelops me. No alarms go off, no lights flash.

An immense sense of relief courses through me, and it feels so good that for a second I stand there, unable to move.

Micky
, I think suddenly. I reach down and grab his wrist. Even moving slowly like this hurts now.

He’s just lying on the path, eyes closed. I should lift him, but I can’t. I just can’t. Using the last of my strength, I pull him across the ground toward the door.

Once we’re both inside, I close the back door, shutting out the cold. But now it won’t stay shut, so I fetch my rock and wedge it on the inside. I find the light switch by running my hand along the wall. I switch it on and see we’re in a small corridor. A low
whoosh-whoosh
ing sound is coming from nearby. It sounds a lot like a washing machine. It smells a lot like laundry: like the clothing bank but less detergenty. The scent here is sweeter and more flowery. It’s comforting.

It’s warm.

God, it’s so warm.

I crouch and gather Micky in my good arm, pull him against my chest. His hand twitches as though he’s trying to grab ahold of something. His eyelids flicker.

Gently I lay him down again so I can sweep the pieces of broken lock into the shadows by the door. Then it won’t look as though someone has broken in—at first glance anyway.

I put my hand on the tiles. Even though the air is warm, they feel pretty cold. Micky is splayed out across them, arms and legs everywhere. Keeping my eyes on him, I walk backward until I reach the end of the short corridor. There are three doors. One is slightly open—the one where the noise is coming from. I push it wider and feel for a light switch. It’s a small laundry room: three washing machines, two tumble dryers, several drying racks, and a small sink. It doesn’t have any windows, but I feel safe here. I don’t even try the other doors. There could be alarms. Maybe the laundry room isn’t important enough to have one.

Micky begins to mumble incoherently as he stirs. Gently I shush him and crouch so I can place my good arm around his chest again and pull him into the laundry room.

I make a nest for us in the corner of the room out of the four large soft towels I find in the tumble dryer. When I’m done, I roll Micky onto them and wrap him up warmly.

I switch the light off and push the door over, leaving it open a few inches. The light spilling in from the corridor keeps the little room from being pitch-black. If anyone were to glance in, we should be out of sight here, and hopefully they wouldn’t notice us.

Even though it’s so warm, I’m still trembling. Trembling and tired and brain numb.

As I curl my body around Micky’s, I feel like a mother cat protecting her young, or a fox protecting her cubs. It’s such a strange thought, but it’s the last one I have for a while.

“HURTS,” SOMEONE
mumbles.

I take a deep breath, shocked by the incredible warmth around me. Warmth in my arms. Even if I’m not quite awake yet, I know this is all I need.

There is a light pressure on my arm, someone shaking me gently.

“Danny? Where am I?”

Blinking, I squint into the gloom and find Micky lying incredibly close with his head on the towels next to mine, looking at me. My arm is around him and I can feel how much he’s shivering. His expression is a little apprehensive. I nearly back away when he brushes my hair away from my face.

“It’s okay. You’re safe,” I say groggily, berating myself for lying down with him and going to sleep, leaving us exposed if anyone found us. I’ve no idea how long we’ve been here, but we’ll need to leave before the people who live here start to wake.

The washing machines are no longer whooshing. The world is silent—but it’s a silence that won’t last.

“I know I’m safe. I’m with you,” he whispers. “Where are we?”

His words are a little slurred, as if whatever happened (or whatever he took) earlier is still affecting him.

“We’re in a laundry room of some big flats. Are you cold?” I ask him.

He nods and swallows like his mouth is too dry. “Hurts,” he whispers again.

“What hurts?”

“My hands and feet… f-f-fucking agony.” He trips over the words and screws his face up.

“You got really cold. It was snowing.”

Micky just stares at me. I don’t know whether or not he remembers or if he just doesn’t want to talk about it.

With a wince, I sit up, holding my arm against my chest to stop my shoulder moving. I ease away from Micky to stand. I should probably strap my shoulder back up at some point—the duct tape is still plastered against my chest.

I switch the light on and look around for a cup or a container. On the sink there is a little plastic pot for putting washing liquid into the machines. I rinse it out before filling it with water and holding it out to Micky.

“Might taste of washing stuff,” I warn him.

Micky blinks, seeming a little not-quite-there.

When he tries to take the pot, his fingers just won’t grip and he winces in pain. The skin on his hands is bright red now, not blue. Hopefully that’s a good thing.

“It’s okay, you just need to warm up some more,” I say, kneeling in front of him and holding the pot to his lips.

He takes a sip, and tears start rolling down his cheeks. I put the pot down, but before I can decide what to do, Micky’s arms are around my back and his face is pressed to my stomach.

His shoulders shake as he sobs.

The too-big jumper hangs off him as though he’s a kid wearing grown-up clothes. I knew he was desperately skinny, but how did I not notice how there is barely anything to him? My hand hovers over his shoulder. He’s so fragile that I’m scared to touch in case I break him.

Awkwardly I shift backward so I’m leaning against the wall.

Micky doesn’t let go for a second.

I think my heart might burst. The whole of me is filled with this incredible tenderness, this want to take care of him, to fix everything that hurts inside and out. It’s painful and beautiful, and I’m not sure I know how to deal with it, how to act, how to show him, how to ask him if he wants my feelings directed at him. Maybe he doesn’t, but…
fuck
, I don’t think I can help it. I don’t think I can stop. I think this might be the thing that kills me.

“Come here,” I whisper. “But be careful of my shoulder. I’ve hurt it pretty bad.”

As if he’s been holding himself back until he got this invitation, Micky instantly crawls onto my lap.

“Which shoulder?” he asks, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand.

I lift my sore shoulder the tiniest bit, and immediately he drops his head and buries his face into my neck, leaning his weight against my good shoulder and wrapping his arms tightly around my back. It’s how I imagine a tree hugged by a koala would feel.

“Hold me tight,” he mumbles into my neck. “Please.”

I’m too stunned to breathe, never mind do anything that requires even the tiniest amount of brain function. Luckily my body doesn’t seem to need any instruction—my good arm has already found its way across his shoulders, and the fingers of the hand I’m trying not to move have somehow managed to tangle themselves in Micky’s golden hair.

He’s built like a bird, all fragile and trembling.

This is the closest I’ve ever been to someone. The closest I’ve ever felt.

“Don’t cry,” I murmur, though I’m not sure he is crying any longer. I think it’s his breath that feels so warm and wet against my skin.

The thought makes me hot all over. I hope he can’t feel the way my dick is trapped and throbbing as it hardens beneath his thigh. I don’t want to be turned on. I don’t want it to feel so good to hold him like this. It’s wrong—he’s sad. And even if he wasn’t, it would still be wrong. Wrong to want him like this when I want to be a good friend.

“We should wrap you up,” I say softly. My lips are a whisper away from his ear. I lean forward slightly so I can bury my nose in his hair. He smells so good, all fresh air and rain, even though the scent reminds me that he was freezing out there in the snow.

I shift him off my lap so I can wrap a couple of towels around his legs—mostly so he won’t be able to feel me poking into him like a steel rod. I shove my hand down my pants, hoping Micky doesn’t notice, and I somehow manage to stuff my dick between my thighs before he crawls back on my lap. It’s a bit of a painful position, but hopefully that will make my erection go away quicker.

Micky shifts around for a second, then discards the towels. He looks at me.

“It’s okay,” he says. “Get comfortable.”

“What?” I swallow.

“I’m half-naked, it’s okay. We’re friends. We care about one another, right?”

His expression is so open. I wish I didn’t know what he was talking about. This is one of the worst things I can imagine happening.