Men of London 06 - Flying Solo (17 page)

“Max, are you okay?” Gibson’s voice was worried and Maxwell heard him get off the couch and come to kneel beside him. “Are you feeling sick again?”

Maxwell took a deep mental breath and turned to flash a smile at his concerned lover. “No, everything is fine. I wanted to let you get on in peace.” He wanted to talk but didn’t quite trust himself yet. Perhaps later might be better when he didn’t feel as vulnerable.

Gibson’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t lie to me,” he said softly and reached out and stroked Maxwell’s cheek. “Your face says otherwise. Was it something I said?”

“Of course not. I enjoy hearing about you. I’m proud of you for achieving so much.”

Gibson studied his face intently and Maxwell flushed. “What? I know I’ve been sick and not looking my best but stop staring at me like I’ve grown a mole or something.”

Gibson didn’t look convinced. “No mole. I thought maybe you’d remembered—” His mobile rung and he gave Maxwell one final scrutinising glance and went to answer it.

“Mum, this is a surprise. I wasn’t expecting a call—”

Maxwell stood up and stretched, staring out the window into the street below. He was still out of sorts but tried to push those feelings away. He had a gorgeous boyfriend, a job he enjoyed even if it was getting on his tits a bit with the long hours, and a roof over his head. He needed to count his blessings rather than find new insecurities to torment himself with. In fact, he’d been planning on having a conversation with his company to see if there were any ground crew jobs going. The idea of not being up in the air all the time and spending more time with Gibson was appealing, especially after their last fight. He made a mental note to speak to Grant about it once he got back to work.

He turned to Gibson to tell him, only to find him huddled on the floor, back against the wall, his face white and eyes looking as if they’d seen the devil himself.

“Baby, what’s wrong?” He hurried over to him. Gibson’s hands clutched the phone on his lap and the quacking noise emanating from it sounded panicked. Maxwell squatted down beside him.

“Gibson, talk to me.” His heart clenched in panic. Gibson simply stared at him and Maxwell recognised his expression; he was no stranger to shock. He prised the phone from his lover’s cold and trembling hands and lifted it to his ear.

“Hello, this is Maxwell, Gibson’s boyfriend. He’s upset, what did you say to him?”

“Maxwell.” The woman’s voice sounded strained. “This is Doris Henry. Gibson’s mum?”

“Oh, sorry.” Maxwell stammered. “I didn’t mean to be rude. I was worried about him.”

Because he’s fucking comatose on the floor and I can’t bear the stricken look in his eyes.

“He’s had some bad news,” Doris said softly, a quaver in her voice. “His dad—Cliff—passed away this morning.” Her voice broke but she carried on. “He had what we think was a stroke and it’s all rather stressful here. I needed to tell him but I don’t know how much he heard. He disappeared on me.”

Maxwell stared down at Gibson’s pale figure and his heart ached for his pain. “I’m so sorry,” he said, feeling the words were inadequate but not knowing what else to say. “I’ll take care of him, I promise. He’s safe with me. Is there anything else I can do?”

“Look after my boy for me, please.” The sniffles on the other end of the phone were breaking Maxwell’s heart. “He and his dad were very close and he didn’t get the chance to say goodbye. He’s going to be devastated. Please take care of him. I’ll call him later when I know more about what’s happening. I know he’ll want to come up here. Can you help him organise things?”

“Of course,” Maxwell promised. He stared down at the blank face below him. “I’ll put your number in my phone and send you a text then you’ll have my number too. Mrs Henry?”

The soft sobs continued. “Thank you. I have to go, the doctor’s here. Tell Gibson I’ll call him later. Tell him I love him.” The phone went dead. Maxwell put it down on the side table and sat down beside Gibson. He reached out and tried to pull him into an embrace. Gibson was still and unresponsive.

“Come here, love. God, I hate you’re going through this.” He finally got Gibson in his arms, face pressed against his chest. Gibson still hadn’t said anything. “Your mum told me to tell you she loves you and she’ll call you later.” He got a half nod.

Gibson spoke. “I never gave him back his scarf.”

Maxwell frowned. “What?”

Gibson sat up and got to his feet. He stared down at Maxwell, green eyes blank and a frozen look on his face. “He wanted his scarf back and I hadn’t looked for it yet. He’ll need it. I need to go home.” He picked up his phone and went to the couch, where he started packing all his PC stuff into his laptop bag. Maxwell stood up and joined him. He knew the scarf wasn’t needed now but he’d do anything to help Gibson get through this.

“I’ll take you home. I’ll get us a taxi. You’re in no state for the train. We’ll look for the scarf when we get you home.”

Gibson nodded again jerkily as he stuffed clothing into a holdall. He stared around blankly, and spotted his laptop. He fingers moved across the keyboard, saving and shutting down his open applications, and then it too was relegated to the depths of his laptop bag.

Maxwell wished Gibson would cry, give way to whatever emotions were swirling in his head, but it didn’t seem forthcoming.

Gibson stared around at the room. “Is the taxi coming?”

Maxwell fetched his phone, which sat on the dining table. “Shit, not yet. Bear with me. Let me get someone.”

He made a quick call and arranged a taxi for ten minutes’ time. Gibson was already at the door, holdall in one hand, laptop bag in the other. Maxwell reached out for the holdall and took it.

“Let me help you.” He saw Gibson’s jacket lying over the back of the couch and picked it up, along with his own brown bomber jacket.

Within a few minutes, they were downstairs, standing in the cool morning air as they waited for the taxi. Gibson had said nothing more. He stood still and silent, a look of what Maxwell could only call
nothing
on his face. Maxwell noticed his fingers tapping nervously at his side and reached over to hold those cold ones in his warm hands. Gibson’s fingers stilled and a soft sigh escaped his lips.

“I’m here,” Maxwell murmured. “Whatever you need.”

When the taxi arrived, they got in and the short distance to Gibson’s flat was done in silence. As they entered the flat, Jack sat at the dining room table and his face lit up when he saw them come in.

“Gibson, my man! I must say the dude behind you looks much better than when I last saw him. Maxwell, how are you feeling?”

Maxwell muttered a greeting as he dropped the holdall in the entrance and watched as Gibson struggled to say something.

Jack looked at him, confusion on his face. “Gib, what’s wrong?”

Gibson’s voice was flat as he put down his bag and moved past Jack towards his bedroom. “My dad’s dead. I need to find his scarf.” He disappeared into the hallway.

Jack’s mouth gaped open and pity and sadness played across his face. “Jesus, what happened?”

Maxwell repeated what Mrs Henry had told him and Jack passed a hand over a stubbled chin. “This is gonna kill him.” He realised what he’d said and went beet red. “I meant—”

Maxwell nodded as he gave a tired sigh. “I know what you mean. And it’s true. He’s been virtually catatonic since his mum called earlier. He’s not dealing well at all.” He cocked an eyebrow at a still shocked Jack. “Do you know what this thing is about the bloody scarf?”

Jack nodded. “Last time his mum called, Gib told me he needed to find it to take home for his dad. It’s a football scarf his dad left here when he was here last time.” He cast a worried glance towards the hallway. “I can’t believe Cliff’s gone, that’s awful. He was like family to me.”

“I’m sorry he told you the news like that.” Maxwell placed a comforting hand on Jack’s shoulder. “This must be a shock for you too.”

“It is.” Jack ran a hand through his unruly hair. “I suppose I’d better go try talk to him.”

Maxwell snorted. “Good luck with that. I’ve been trying for the past hour. Maybe you’ll have more success.”

Jack shrugged. “Maybe.” He turned and left the room.

An irrational flare of jealousy struck as Maxwell considered perhaps Gibson might turn to Jack for comfort instead of him. They had been friends since they were teenagers after all.

And isn’t it all about Gibson feeling better and not my own stupid insecurities? Of course it is. Stop being such a twat.

And when Jack came back five minutes later muttering Gibson was a stubborn ass and needed his butt kicked, Maxwell couldn’t help feel a little happier. He knew it was wrong. But he was only human.

“He’s turning his damn cupboard inside out looking for that scarf and he doesn’t want help,” Jack growled but his eyes were a little red. “Least not from me. I think you should go mash some sense into him.”

Maxwell sighed. “I’ll try.” He remembered he’d been supposed to text Gibson’s mother. “Crap. I need to get his phone off him anyway so I can text his mum. Let me enter the den of doom and see whether I emerge alive.”

They grinned awkwardly at each other. Jack looked sad and Maxwell flashed a sympathetic look at him as he left. When he got to Gibson’s bedroom, he was stunned at the sight greeting his eyes. A closet full of clothes and underwear had vomited all over Gibson’s normally neat room. The bed was filled with stacks of jeans, shirts, jackets and assorted boxers, briefs and some items Maxwell thought looked interesting but realised now wasn’t the time to investigate further.

At first, he couldn’t see Gibson. The wardrobe doors were open, the space inside empty like Mother Hubbard’s cupboard. From somewhere beyond the piled clamour of fashion on the bed was the noise of quiet, heart-rending sobbing. The sound struck him to his core. Maxwell didn’t know how many more times his man was going to cause his heart to ache and his eyes to prickle with tears. Since he’d met Gibson, his inner hormonal teenage girl was on high alert.

He stepped over yet more jackets, coats and tee shirts, went around to the other side of the bed and found Gibson, face streaked with tears, sitting on the floor, a tattered old green and white scarf twisting in his hands. Red-rimmed, puffy eyes behind fogged-up spectacles stared up at him glassily as Maxwell sat down beside him.

“You found it,” Maxwell whispered. His hand reached out and clasped fidgeting fingers in his. They were ice cold.

“It was right in the back of my cupboard,” Gibson’s voice was choked. “I’m not a football fan, so when my dad left it I chucked it in there. I always meant to get it out and give it back to him because he loved this scarf.” Green eyes glistened with tears. “Now I’ll never get to do that, Max.”

His body shook as he broke down and Maxwell drew him closer, feeling warm tears soak his tee shirt. He murmured soothing noises and stroked Gibson’s back, his hair, anywhere Maxwell could so Gibson could feel he was there. Maxwell cursed whatever deity controlled the motherfucking universe causing this pain and grief. He knew full well how it felt to have the people you loved the most die on you.

“Let it all out, baby,” he muttered into Gibson’s hair. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He held the shaking, weeping man in his arms until he stilled, only the occasional hiccup and tremor wracking his body.

“I didn’t get to see him before he died,” Gibson finally sniffled. “I should have gone up there when I heard he was sick. Everyone thought it was the flu or something, no one thought anything was serious.” His voice choked up.

Maxwell reached over and picked up an old tee shirt and dried Gibson’s face gently, wiping away traces of tears and snot from his face. Gibson had seen Maxwell at his worst and he could do the same for him. He kissed Gibson’s head. “Don’t blame yourself for not being there. I know that’s trite and easier said than done, but take it from somebody who knows. These things happen and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

Jack walked into the room, eyes searching, face worried. “Hey, sport,” he said softly as he came over. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, thank you, but I’m not sure about my man.” Maxwell quipped and was gratified when his reply caused a slight snort from Gibson. Jack sighed and sat down, Gibson now sandwiched between them.

“I’m sorry I blurted it out the way I did when I came in. It was cruel. I know you liked my dad too.” Gibson looked up, shame on his face.

Jack reached over and chucked his chin. “Don’t worry, you were upset, I get that. I’m sorry, Gib. Your dad was legend.”

“Yes he was,” Gibson replied, still clutching the scarf as he snuggled against Maxwell. The three men sat in silence for a while and then Maxwell grimaced.

“Gibson, can I have your phone please? I promised your mum I’d text her my number so I need hers.”

Gibson shuffled and plucked his phone from his jeans pocket. He unlocked the screen and handed it over. Maxwell scrolled down and sent himself a message with Mrs Henry’s number. In the lounge, his phone beeped. He wrested out of Gibson’s grip and stood up.

“Be back in a min. Let me get it done before I forget.”

When he got to his phone, he quickly sent Gibson’s mother a text introducing himself then put his phone in his pocket in case she called. When he got back into the bedroom, Jack and Gibson were busy putting all the clothes back into cupboards and on shelves. The scarf was laid lovingly on Gibson’s pillow.