Chapter Text
March, 1992
When he wakes, the spot next to him on the mattress is empty, but it’s not cold.
He must have just left.
He should have woken me to say goodbye.
It’s okay, I’ll see him soon.
He stretches, arms coming up above his head, palms pushing into the headboard that surrounds him. He looks up at it—the silver plated cross nailed to the centre of the wood.
Through the window, sunlight blooms past blackening clouds, brighter than it had been a few hours ago when it had just begun to peak over the new day’s horizon. He’d seen it, only for a few minutes, when he’d been half awoken by a familiar weight coming to lay down next to him. He’d opened his eyes for a few moments, catching a glimpse of the boy and the new dawn that haloed him—as if he had brought the light with him, pushing away the silver moon in its wake.
His sleepy bones click as he rolls over slowly, face coming to nudge into the pillow he no longer sleeps on—hasn’t slept on it for the past two years. No matter how many times he washes the old cotton covers, the smell of him always returns. Him. Lavenders and lilacs that lingered. He breathes the scent in, lets the comfort wrap around his aching morning body like a cure.
In front of the mirror in the corner of his room, he sees the same boy that always looks back. Himself, a personification of the tired, uninspiring Monday morning that lives past his windows—he embodies the day—his ivory face and lanky limbs and the grey rainclouds that loiter the sky. But when he thinks of him, his lavender friend that had slipped away from his bed without him knowing, Monday turns into Christmas morning.
He tries to fix the cowlick that sits at the back of his head, but his midnight coloured curls move around his fingers, avoiding his touch, as though they’re alive with a mind of their own. Sleep clings to his dark eyes, not storm-grey, like the typhoon clouds he’s heard that hang over tropical shores, but the colour of the lightless oceanbeds. Black.
He pads down the hardwood floors, made from the same oak that mile-line the orphanage, making his way from the top level of the massive house and into the dining room on the ground floor. Light filters through the clean stained glass windows, bouncing off the polished tabletop, sparkling off the silverware laid out atop of the mahogany. He takes his usual seat next to the head of the table. That spot is already occupied—of course it is.
“Good morning, Father.”
On the tense air, his voice is buoyant, like the calm morning breeze that sits past the windows. His words are laced with the remnants of a comfortable night's sleep. Remnants of warm dreams; of warmer arms around his 3am waist.
The priest doesn’t look up from this week’s newspaper. He pushes his round glasses up from where they have fallen to the tip of his high-bridged nose, “What have I told you about sleeping in yesterday’s clothes, Michael? Do you not own pajamas?”
His voice is flat, but it isn’t stern. It’s stable, a constant, a voice Mike has grown more than accustomed to over the lifetime he has spent in the orphanage.
“Come on, Dad, it’s my birthday. Spare me!” Mike chuckles around a mouthful of toast that had been placed in front of him silently by a maid.
The priest sighs, closing the newspaper, rolling it up and swatting the young boy on the back of the head. Mike yelps, hands coming up to cover his skull. He can feel the crumbs on his fingers sticking to his messy hair.
“Obedience is not a prison, it is a comfort. It is truth. So do as I tell you from now on, son.” The older man sighs again, less bite this time, as he goes back to reading. He asks, as if he couldn’t care less, “And what plans do you have for your special day?”
Mike beams, face instantly blushing a soft pink, eyes setting alight, brighter than the morning sun that gazes at him through the windows and dark clouds. “Well! Will and I are going to ride our bikes up to the glade on top of the hill. You know, the flowery opening in the middle of the forest? Will said the flowers have bloomed now so we can pick some for the green house!”
“Picking flowers?”
Mike yaps away, oblivious to his father’s question and stern frown. His words fall from his smiling mouth faster than he can think as he points towards the oak and elm past the room’s glass, “And then, Will said we can go down to the river and try and catch some fish! Will knows how to make makeshift fishing lines. How cool is that! Will said that there are Catfish and Carp in there! Will said—”
“—My word, Michael!” The priest exclaims, slamming the newspaper onto the table, stopping the birthday boy in his tracks. His face falters slightly as the priest presses on with a tired huff, “Will this. Will that. Do you ever think for yourself?”
Mike’s eyes drop down to his plate, to the half eaten, now cold toast he’d forgotten about in between his agenda and excitement. He licks his lips, a shy habit of his, tasting the remains of butter there. But it’s sour now. Curdled.
“It’s your birthday, son. Isn’t there anything you want to do?”
The question sits in the air, stagnant. All Mike can do is shrug, “I want to do whatever Will wants to do.”
Theodore sighs, folding the newspaper once again. Mike watches the small movements through his lashes, half looking up, half not daring to. He knows all too well the opinions that his father has of his best friend. The not so quiet disdain he’s grown like weeds for Will over the years. It makes Mike sad, truly. He can’t understand why his father can’t see how wonderful Will is. How beautiful he is.
How full of life he is.
“And what of your prayers? Hmm? Where do they fit into your busy day with William?” It’s asked like a question, but it's meant as a test.
Mike looks up then, eyes dimmer now than they had been a few minutes ago, “Straight after breakfast, Dad... Father. We’ll head to the chapel, both of us. I’ll make sure Will prays.”
Theodore scoffs, standing and pushing his chair under the table, “I don’t think even you could make that boy surrender to God, Mike.”
He expects the towering man to leave, expects the conversation to be finished. He nearly jumps out of his skin when he feels a massive hand fall onto his bony shoulder.
“Happy birthday, son.” He looks up at the priest, at the sunlight he blocks out, the early AM shine that sits around him like a halo, “Enjoy your flower picking. Be careful.”
And then, Mike is left alone. Alone with his thoughts. Thoughts of the day to come. Thoughts of Will.
Will.
At the name, at the mere thought of him, bubbles glitter iridescent and burst inside of his body once again.