by Lily Morton
“I’m so glad you came back,” I say.
“Me too.” He smiles. “The moral of that little story is that we shouldn’t do other people’s thinking for them, Charlie, because it never ends well. There’s a reason that we’re only given one brain, and it’s because we can barely cope with the one we’ve got. Don’t presume to know what Misha is thinking. He’s always been a straightforward lad, so just ask him what you want to know.”
Before I can reply, the doorbell rings. And rings. And rings.
“Who can that be?” I say, getting up and walking into the hallway. “Has someone passed out against the doorbell again?” I open the door and freeze. “Misha,” I exclaim, my heart starting to thump madly.
He’s leaning against the doorjamb wearing his suit trousers and a shirt which is half untucked. His tie is at half-mast and… I lean closer. “Bloody hell, you stink of drink,” I say.
“Why thanksh,” he slurs, smiling. “You say the most… the most lovely thingsh.” He leans towards me, misplaces his balance, and lurches forward violently. I step back, instinctively protecting myself, and he falls flat on his face in the hallway.
“Oh my God, Misha,” I gasp, leaning over him. “Are you alright?”
He rolls over and looks up at me and Aidan, who has come to stand beside me. My stepfather is trying hard to repress a smile.
I turn back to Misha, who is staring blearily at me. “I can see two… two of you, Charlie,” he mutters. “Fuck, my eyesight is going. They say it happensh when you get old.”
“There are two of us,” I say patiently. “Me and Aidan.”
“Oh, hello, Aidan,” he singsongs.
My stepdad’s mouth twitches. “Evening, Misha. Nice to see you paying us a visit.”
“I’m so sorry,” I say earnestly, bending over Misha. “I’m so fucking sorry. That argument at the wedding was totally my fault. I was just pissed off about having the turn, and then I saw you talking with that bloke, and it got messed up in my head, and …”
Completely ignoring my stuttering apology, he brandishes his phone wildly at me, almost hitting me on the nose. “Never mind that. This song is for you,” he says forcefully. “You asked me to pick a song for you, and this is my song for you now.”
“What?”
He nods, but then closes his eyes in mute protest at the movement. He opens them again. “I’ve come to out-romantic you, you… you motherfucker,” he slurs, fumbling with his phone.
The phone blares, and we all stare at it.
“With ‘Tragedy’ by Steps?” I say doubtfully.
A blush stains his cheeks. “I can’t imagine how that got in there. Who put that in my phone?” he says, trying hard for indignation, but it’s not working, and I repress a smile. He carries on talking. “Anyway, that’s not the song. This is it.”
“Automatically Sunshine” by the Supremes starts to play.
“What is…?” I start to say.
“Shush! Listen to the lyrics. They say everything about us.”
So we stand in the hall over the prostrate figure of Misha and listen to the song that he’s given me, and it’s the most surreal moment of my life. Aidan looks like he wants to laugh. He’s also holding his phone in a manner that strongly suggests he’s videoing this. I shake my head reprovingly and then swallow hard as I listen to the sweetest lyrics I’ve ever heard. Jesus, is this the way Misha really feels about me?
Misha lies back on the floor, apparently dead to the world, but when the song finishes he opens one eye. “Told you I could be the most fucking romantic man on the whole fucking planet.”
“Yes, you did warn me,” I say faintly.
He shakes his head and closes his eyes again. “Think your neighbour might be a bit pissed off though.”
“Why?”
“Thought he was you. I got halfway through my grand speech, and he asked me to leave.”
“You had a speech? Why aren’t I hearing it?”
“Because I’m very sleepy now.”
Aidan claps. “And that’s our cue. Come on, Misha. Up you get.”
He leans down and grabs Misha’s hand, hauling him up. Misha wavers, and we instantly slot our shoulders under his arms, and half carry, half drag him into the lounge.
“On the sofa,” Aidan gasps.
After lowering Misha onto the huge leather sectional, I race to the cupboard to grab a spare pillow and the old eiderdown that used to be my poorly blanket when I was a kid. My mum made it, and it’s covered in bluebells and smells of lavender. It makes me happy to think that I’m keeping Misha warm with it.
We cover him up, and then Aidan ruffles his hair affectionately. “Misha, sweetie. I adore you always and think of you as another son. But if you throw up on my new sofa, that adoration is going to take a very painful turn. Do you understand?”
Misha pats his cheek. “Love you, Daddy Aidan.”
“And my work is done.” Aidan straightens up. “You going to be okay with him on your own?” he asks me.
“Of course I will.”
“Okay.” He grabs his suit jacket. “I’m off to the reception. Sam’s waiting, and weddings always make him feel romantic, if you know what I mean.” He winks at me.
I gag. “Far too much information.”
He laughs and bids me goodnight, and within seconds I hear the front door slam.
I bend over Misha. His hair is a wavy mess, his mouth is open, and he smells like a whisky distillery, but at this moment he’s impossibly dear to me.
“You’re a bit of a twat at times, but I really, really love you,” I say fiercely, kissing him on the cheek. My answer is a soft snore.
I put the wastepaper basket next to him within easy retching distance along with some paracetamol and a glass of water, and then settle back on the other side of the sofa. I bunch the cushions behind my head and pull a couple of woollen throws over me from the back of the sofa. Switching the television on low, I settle in for a long night.
I come awake, slowly aware of someone stroking my hair. I open my eyes blearily and look up at Misha, who is bending over me. His shirt is gone as are his socks and shoes. All he’s wearing are his suit trousers, and they hang low on his narrow hips giving me a glimpse of sharp hipbones and the start of his V line. He’s golden all over in the low lamplight.
“Are you alright?” I ask, coming up on my elbows and staring at him.
“I feel like shit,” he mutters. “But hopefully the tablets will kick in before my brain explodes.” He hesitates and then gestures at my nest of throws. “Can I get in there, then?” he says abruptly.
I startle. “Of course you can.”
I raise the covers and edge up on the cushions. Thankfully there’s plenty of room, and it’s insanely comfortable. He settles next to me. His body is warm against mine, and for a few awkward minutes, we lie in silence.
Eventually, I stir. “I’m so sorry, Misha,” I say in a low voice.
“What for?” His voice is even and expressionless, and I wince.
“For making you feel like shit and less. I’ve never in my life thought that about you. I think you’re the best person I’ve ever met. You’re wonderful, and I hate the idea that I made you feel bad because I was tired and grumpy. It was such a shitty thing to do.”
He looks hard at me. “But I don’t know where it came from. It felt like you were picking a fight with me and using a bloke who wasn’t even a blip on my radar to do it. Why, Charlie?”
I hesitate. This is my time to be positive and upbeat, but I think I’ve blotted my copybook so many times today that he definitely wouldn’t believe it.
“I was thrown out by having a turn in front of you,” I whisper. “I was embarrassed.”
“What?” His exclamation is loud, and he immediately rubs his forehead in a pained fashion.
“Come here.” I pull him to me, so he rests his head on my shoulder. I start to manipulate the pressure points on his hands, and, after a few minutes, he gives an easier sigh and nes
tles closer. “That’s a bit better. Okay, talk,” he instructs me.
I shrug. “I don’t know why, but I felt vulnerable coming to completely naked after the turn.”
“But you were with me?” The incredulity is loud in his voice.
“I know that. Before, when we were just friends, it was fine. But it’s not so easy being weak in front of someone you…” I hesitate and draw in a deep bolstering breath. “Someone you love,” I finish in a whisper.
“Charlie,” he says in an awed voice. “Oh, Charlie, really?” I nod, feeling my heart speed up as he gives me a glorious wide smile. He leans up and kisses me hard. “I love you too,” he says with passion in his voice. “So much.”
My head whirls. “When?”
“Always.” He shrugs. “I’ve loved you in some form or another since we were kids. This is just the latest and final version.” He gives me a look. “I’m hoping it will last the rest of our lives if you don’t make any more bad wedding-party choices.”
“Misha,” I gasp and grab him close, hugging him tightly and inhaling the scents of whisky, bergamot, and laundry powder. Happiness run through me.
“I meant that song,” he says earnestly into my hair. “I know I was pissed, but I still meant it. Every word was us.”
“But how can we be automatically sunshine? Surely that’s not realistic?”
“Oh my God. Charlie Burroughs has missed the point of words. Let me get my phone and record this auspicious moment.” I pinch him. He laughs but then quickly sobers, pushing the hair back from my face. “The song’s not saying that, Charlie. It’s saying that we’ll face hard times, but as long as we’re together even in those bad times there will always be warmth and comfort. That’s us in a nutshell.” He shakes his head disapprovingly at me. “Don’t start that crap anyway,” he advises me.
“What crap?” I squint at him.
“The crap where you think you’ve got to be perfect for me.” I bite my lip, and he smiles fiercely. “I knew it. I knew you were doing that. You’ve done it for every single boyfriend you’ve ever had, and it’s never got you very far.”
“I do try to do it with everyone,” I admit. “But I don’t think I’ve managed to be all sunshine for you and that fucks me up because I want to be the best I can for you, and I haven’t managed it.”
Misha smiles. “And can I just say how fucking happy I am about that?”
I’m shocked. “What do you mean?”
He shrugs. “I don’t want the face you show to the rest of the world. I want the real Charlie with his very occasional grouchiness. I want the man that no one else sees. That’s my reward in our relationship. The ability to see you unvarnished.”
“Why on earth would you want to see me pissed off? Is there something wrong with you?”
“Because that’s you, and I want all of you. That’s what partners see.” He shrugs again. “And let’s face it, Charlie, compared to most people, you’ve got the temperament of Saint Stephen.”
“Wasn’t he stoned to death?”
“Don’t nitpick.” He pulls me close and kisses my head, and we lie quietly together for a while. Then he stirs. “It’s possible to be in love and not feel trapped, you know.”
I stiffen because this is the heart of my fears, and Misha has unerringly homed in on it. “How?”
“When I think of you, I don’t think of chains. I think of laughter in the dark and the sweet smell of all your bloody candles which means that we’ll never be caught short by a power cut. I think of the man who builds dangerous book towers on his bedside table that threaten life and limb, and who makes my house a real home by making me buy fucking orange sofas. The man who makes me face the prospect that I’m going to have to continue buying bookshelves until one day either our floors collapse or we give up and buy a new house. I think of being in love with my best friend and staying that way.”
“But you seem to always end up looking after me. And you have enough of that with everyone else. It isn’t fair, Misha.”
He looks at me in disbelief. “I like looking after you. I always have done. Because you’re mine.”
“But I could get worse. I might end up needing surgery. You’ll be responsible for me.”
“That might happen,” he admits. “But we’ll deal with it, the two of us.” He hesitates, obviously looking for inspiration. “If I was close to death, would you leave? Say it’s been nice knowing you and go off to live in one of those little beachside cottages with a thatched roof in Turkey where you’d drink tequila with a scorpion on your hand in a beach bar while the locals cheer you on until you pass out at the bar?”
I blink. “That’s alarmingly detailed.” I pause. “And also heavily lifted from Skyfall.”
He ignores me. Something he’s good at when I’ve spotted an error.
“The thing is, if that did happen, we’d deal, and do you know why, Charlie? Because you wouldn’t be some random responsibility. Like food that’s gone past its sell-by date. You’d be my Charlie who is funny and the kindest, happiest person I know. Who is clever and cares far too much about the council’s long-range planning strategy for libraries. The Charlie who makes me smile when I think of him and gives me butterflies when I see him. The Charlie who rescues spiders and stray moles in girls’ shoes and makes toast and marmite for me because I love it even though he hates it. Why would I give up that amazing person for some random bloke who might never have a problem but will still never in a million years be my version of Charlie Sunshine? And one more thing. You might be my responsibility, but I’m yours too. You know you’re inheriting my mother and sisters, don’t you? That some days you’ll have to work to calm me down and you’ll intervene and employ that legendary ability of yours to make everyone happy?”
“But they come with you. They’re a part of you.”
“And epilepsy comes with you. It’s just another part of you, like your exceptionally long toes, the freckles on your shoulders, and those sexy knickers. I hate that you’ve got it, but at the same time it’s just a tiny part of the awesome whole of you, and I’ll take it happily because if I don’t, I won’t have you, and I’ve come to realise that you’re the best and brightest part of my life.”
I kiss him, wrapping him tightly in my arms. I love him so fiercely at this moment I’d like to absorb him into my blood.
“Always,” I whisper.
“Always,” he echoes.
We snuggle up for a long while, and he’s just starting to relax into sleep when a thought occurs to me, and I repress an evil smile.
“It was lovely that you proposed to me so beautifully though,” I say earnestly into the silence of the room. “It was honestly the most romantic thing that has ever happened to me. I mean, I can hardly believe that I’m actually going to be Mister Charlie Lebedinsky. I can’t wait to sign my new name.” I idly mime scrawling my new signature in the air.
“What?” He pushes up, eyes wide, and splutters, “I proposed to you? Oh my God, what did I say?”
I try to look winsome and innocent, but I can’t hold it, and break into laughter instead.
“Wanker,” he says, shoving me gently. We lie back down. “You had me,” he admits.
“Let that be a lesson to you,” I say demurely, and a comfortable silence falls as he plays idly with my hand, tracing the veins on my wrist in seeming fascination.
“I will one day though,” he says suddenly.
“You will do what one day?” I ask idly.
“I will propose one day.”
I stare at him in astonishment, feeling warmth wrap around me.
“I’m just warning you,” he says. “I’m going to make the proposal so fucking lovey-dovey that your head will explode.”
“Not sure that’s quite the outcome you should be looking for, but thank you for warning me.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Just so you know, I’m going to say yes to you, Misha Lebedinsky, because you’re the love of my life.”
“I
know,” he says calmly and kisses me.
He pulls back and snuggles down into the sofa, dragging me with him until we’re curled tightly together. Once we’re situated to his satisfaction, he falls asleep with the suddenness of a child, and I stroke his hair, pressing a kiss to the black wavy strands.
Words fail me as I try to determine how I feel. I’ve read all the classics with their descriptions of love. I’ve read wildly romantic books and their stories of passion and I’ve absorbed every word, but they still can’t describe Misha and me. All I can say is that I’ve never felt so seen by someone before. I’ve never been loved for everything that I am—the full me—before. And I’ve never felt like this about any other person. I love him with a depth and a breadth I didn’t know I possessed, and I would go to the ends of the earth to make him happy. It all feels right. Warm and bright. Like together, we’ve managed to bottle real sunshine.
Epilogue
Fourteen Months Later
Charlie
I come awake to find Misha staring at me an inch away from my face. “What the fuck?” I mumble. “Misha, you’re being weird again.”
“There is nothing weird about giving you this,” he says.
He forces a card into my hands, looking at me expectantly until I tear open the envelope. I open the card and, after a second, a huge bang sounds. I blink at the sight of multicoloured confetti twirling madly around our bedroom and mingling with the dozens of yellow balloons that are bobbing against the ceiling.
“Happy Birthday, Charlie Burroughs,” Misha shouts.
“Oh my God,” I breathe.
“No, but close,” he advises me. He has a rose tucked between his teeth, and he looks a bit like a pirate. I eye him consideringly—a naked pirate.
He removes the rose and throws it rather cavalierly over his shoulder. “None of those naughty looks from you,” he says. “You’ll have to resist the glory of my naked body for a little longer.”
