Give and Take (Ties That Bind Book 1)

by Claire Cullen

  “You’re exhausted. Do you know what you need? Sleep, and lots of it.”

  Sam had him on his feet seconds later, slipping an arm around him to prop him up.

  “You can’t be here,” Drew said to him. “How can you be here?”

  “Because you need me to be, that’s how.”

  With difficulty, because Drew’s body wasn’t at its most cooperative, they got into his bedroom. Sam picked him up with ease and set him on the bed. There was a momentary hesitation before he climbed up after him, gathering Drew into his arms.

  “I’ve got you. Now sleep.”

  “Sam…”

  “Go to sleep. We’ll talk when you’re ready.”

  He couldn’t talk but neither could he sleep. Instead, pushing against Sam, he let all the anguish of the previous few weeks come to the surface, in cries and sobs muffled against Sam’s chest. Sam’s hand alternated rubbing circles on his back and stroking his hair, his touch a comfort he’d craved. Would Sam be there when he woke, or was this all some sort of messed up dream?

  Drew slept fitfully in his arms, murmuring under his breath, twisting and turning. Stilling sometimes, his whole body seizing as if in fear. Sam tried soft words and gentle hands but nothing seemed to soothe him.

  He could see and feel that Drew had lost weight. And with the dark circles under his eyes, not to mention his unkempt hair, he couldn’t help but be reminded of Matt at his worst.

  Drew woke a few hours later, his body tensing as his eyes searched the room. Whatever he was looking for, he didn’t find it, and lay back with a sigh only to jump when he came into contact with Sam.

  Turning his head, he stared at him open mouthed for a good ten seconds.

  “Drew?” Sam asked.

  “You… I thought I’d dreamed you.”

  “Not a dream, see.” And he pinched the back of Drew’s hand lightly. Drew jumped at the touch, pulling his hand away. “I don’t understand what you’re doing here.”

  “They were short of staff, they asked around for someone to make up the shortfall and Thomas offered it to me. So here I am.”

  “I don’t think this is a good idea.” Drew ran a hand through his hair, grimaced, and turned his face away. He seemed embarrassed by Sam seeing him so unkempt.

  “Being cooped up like this can be really tough,” he tried. “You lose any sense of self, of time, of routine. Just you and your thoughts.”

  Drew snorted and didn’t look around.

  “How do you and Morton get on? They were saying he’s been with you five days a week since the week after you got here.”

  “What does it matter?”

  “It matters, Drew,” Sam replied, keeping his voice even and resting a hand on Drew’s shoulder.

  Drew yanked himself out from under Sam’s hand, shoving off the bed and turning to face Sam. “Keep your hands off me.”

  Sam, about to follow him, sat back instead, raising his hands up slowly. “Okay, Drew, okay. I won’t touch you if you don’t want me to.”

  He knew anxious Drew, he knew scared Drew, but he wasn’t sure what to make of this angry, frightened young man who was such a contrast to the person he’d walked away from only a handful of weeks ago.

  Drew didn’t seem to know what to do with his declaration. He glanced at the door, then back to Sam. “You shouldn’t have come.”

  Before Sam could form an answer, he’s stepped through to the bathroom and shut the door. A moment later the shower turned on.

  Moving to sit on the side of the bed, he listened, hearing nothing but the hum of the shower and the scattering of water. When ten minutes passed and Drew didn’t emerge, he started to get concerned. Pacing to the door, he knocked loud enough to be heard over the noise.

  “Drew? Are you okay in there?”

  There was no reply.

  “Drew? If you don’t answer me, if I don’t hear your voice, I’ll have to come in.”

  Still silence. Putting his hand on the handle, he pushed inside.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  The shower was just that bit too warm, the heat biting into his skin. Grabbing the scrubbing brush, he dragged it across his skin, not caring that it hurt, only wanting something to drown out the pain inside. Any minute now, they’d barge in the door.

  Morton liked to do that, make him jump, force him out when he was only halfway done, soap on his body, shampoo in his hair. He’d learned to be quick but Morton cottoned on to that, finding other ways to get to Drew. Like turning the thermostat down so he was stuck with freezing cold water, or turning it up so he’d jump out, away from the scalding water.

  The knocking took him by surprise, as did Sam’s voice calling. It sounded far away. He sounded far away. Because he was. Sam couldn’t be here. It made no sense. Which meant the problem was Drew. He was broken.

  He had his back to the door when it opened and he didn’t turn around, his hand clenched tightly around the scrubbing brush. There were words spoken to him but he couldn’t make them out, before a hand reached around him and he braced himself for the onslaught of cold or heat. The water shut off instead, the sudden silence loud. The brush was tugged from his hand, leaving him grasping nothing but empty air.

  “Here,” someone said and there was a dressing gown around his shoulders before hands urged him backward. “Out you come.”

  He stepped out onto the tiles at the urging of those hands, firm but not harsh. Those same hands turned him, then tucked his arms into the sleeves of the gown before drawing it closed and cinching it carefully with the belt.

  “There, that’s better,” the voice said, followed by a murmur of discontent as one wrist was lifted and a hand brushed across his skin. “Damn it. You scrubbed yourself raw with that brush.”

  “Sam?” The voice, the hands, they all matched. He didn’t know how, but he knew who, as much as his mind tried to tell him otherwise.

  “Yeah?”

  “I think I’m losing my mind.” The word were enough to start the tears again, empty, lost.

  Hands reached for him then seemed to think better of it.

  “You’re not losing your mind. You’re sleep deprived, your circadian rhythms are out of whack, and I think you’re running a fever. All very good reasons to be disorientated.”

  “What now?”

  “Now we get you dried off and dressed. Then we have some dinner and then you go back to bed.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “You won’t feel better if you don’t eat.”

  Fingers under his chin tipped his head up and he met Sam’s eyes, startled again at seeing Sam’s face, not daring to believe what he could see in front of him.

  “Are you sure you’re here?”

  Sam smiled at that, caressing Drew’s cheek with his hand. “I’m sure. Come on, let’s go back into the bedroom.”

  His arms were weak and he was exhausted by the mere effort of trying to dry himself off. Sam took over, using a soft towel to dry the red, excoriated skin before helping Drew slip into some clothes, just a T-shirt and sweatpants, soft and well worn.

  “There,” Sam said with another smile before helping him back to his feet. “Let’s go eat.”

  Sam sat him in a chair at the small dining table and he watched the other man root around the kitchenette.

  “I think soup,” Sam said, holding out two tins. “Tomato or chicken?”

  Drew shrugged.

  “Chicken it is,” Sam replied, not missing a beat. A few minutes later, a bowl and a spoon were set down in front of him. The bowl was only a third full. Sam sat next to him with his own bowl and dug in. Drew watched him for a few moments before mimicking him and swallowing a spoonful. It tasted like nothing, but a warm nothing. He tried a second spoonful, then a third, his stomach getting that pleasant feeling. That was funny, he could have sworn food was the last thing his stomach wanted these days. It was always in painful knots, food being forced into it when he got his mind in gear.

  He reached the end of the bowl a lot
quicker than he’d expected. Would Sam give him more? But no, all he did was clear the bowls away.

  “Let’s see how that goes down,” was all he said, giving Drew a small smile.

  Drew was tired enough to go back to bed, but Sam insisted on moving him to the couch and switching on the tv. He flicked around until he found a comedy. “Just stay up and awake until the end of this, okay? I have to go out for a few minutes, I’ll be back. Stay awake, remember?”

  Drew was bemused by Sam’s warning at first, but within minutes his eyes were slipping closed. Sitting up, he tried to focus on the screen in front of him, but the words kept squirreling around in his brain, repeating and repeating until they made no sense.

  The door opened signaling Sam’s return, and he peered at him over the back of the couch. Sam was really there, there was no getting away from the fact. But why? They’d agreed to part ways, they’d said goodbye. Yet Sam had arrived and Morton was gone. Morton had been his punishment, his penance, for staying silent about Russell for so long. That’s what he told himself and that’s what Morton had told him too, though not in so many words.

  Sam appeared in front of him, blocking the television, a thing Drew was grateful for.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Okay.”

  “The food’s staying down?”

  He glanced down at his stomach, which wasn’t doing the usual post-meal flip-flopping. “Yeah, I guess.”

  “Good.” He held out a glass of water in one hand and a white pill in the other. “This is a sleeping tablet, like the one I gave Matt that time.”

  “You want me to take it now? It’s only the afternoon.”

  “I know, but you’re exhausted. We need to reset your sleep pattern. First, you need to start catching up on some sleep. Your body keeps track of a deficit, you needs to make it up.”

  Drew wasn’t sure any of what Sam was saying made sense, but he took the pill and popped it into his mouth, washing it down with a long swallow of the cool water.

  “You’re doing great. Sit up for a few minutes to let that go down, then we’ll get you back to bed.”

  Drew’s second sleep was much calmer, thanks to the pill he’d taken. Sam stayed with him until he was sure he’d fallen into a deep sleep, then popped in and out of the room for the rest of the afternoon and evening. When it came time for him to go to bed, he opted for Drew’s room instead of his own. If Drew wound up awake in the middle of the night, Sam wanted to be there.

  Around four am, Drew started to stir. Sam sat up and watched him, until he was sure it was just a dream. He kept his hands to himself, as Drew has asked, despite how he longed to try to soothe away Drew’s fears.

  He had a second dream about two hours later but didn’t wake that time either. Just after eight am, noting Drew had been asleep for sixteen hours, Sam called him. His voice wasn’t enough to bring Drew from his slumber, so he tried a gentle shake of his shoulder.

  Drew woke with a yawn, stretching out slowly. “Morning.” He even smiled, but the smile faded as he remembered where they were. He sat up, a frown on his face, and looked around. “You’re still here.”

  “That’s right.”

  “I wasn’t dreaming or seeing things?”

  “Nope, I’m real. You can pinch me if you like.” He held out his hand. Drew did reach out, fingers just brushing the back of Sam’s hand before wrapping around his wrist in a firm grip.

  “You feel real.”

  “I am.”

  “Morton’s been complaining for weeks about not having enough staff to take all his vacation time. That’s why you’re here?”

  “I guess. I’m on loan for the next two weeks. That Morton guy sure likes to complain.”

  Drew let go of his hand and dropped his gaze to the duvet.

  “He also told me I had to keep an especially close eye on you because gay people were weak and much more prone to suicide.”

  His words were a test, to see if what he suspected was true.

  Drew tensed, his shoulders stiffening.

  “I see you’re familiar with his attitude,” was all Sam said. Drew wasn’t ready to talk about it and that was okay. Sam could wait.

  “So, here’s our timetable for today.”

  That got Drew’s attention, his head coming up. “We’ll have breakfast. Then shower and get dressed. Then we’ll do some exercise, we’ll alternate the exercise bike and some weights. Then I was thinking we’d read the paper and do the crossword. Then lunch. Then watch some tv. After that some more exercise. Then dinner, then a movie, and after that, it’ll be time for bed.”

  He waited for Drew’s response.

  “I’m still tired, and I’m not hungry. I think I’ll just stay here for a while.”

  “No, you won’t. The bed is off limits from nine am to nine pm. If you’re tired, you can nap on the couch.” Small, narrow, and uncomfortable were the best three words to describe the couch and he knew Drew knew that.

  “You can’t make me get out of bed.”

  “No, I can’t. And I won’t need to. Because you’re not a kid or a stroppy teenager. You’re a grown man stuck between the same four walls and slowly losing himself. The only way to stop that, to hold on to who you are, is to have a routine. That means regular times for sleeping and eating, it means exercise, physical and mental, and it means conversation with other people. This isn’t for me, Drew. Guard duty would be just as easy, if not easier, with you in bed asleep all the time. This is for you. Because I know what you need and I care enough to make sure you get it.”

  “And I trust you,” Drew declared out of the blue. It took Sam a moment to realize that the words were as much about affirming that to himself as they were about letting Sam know where he stood.

  “Come on.” He held out a hand. “Let’s start with breakfast and take it from there.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Three days into the new routine and Drew was looking more himself. He had some color to his cheeks, the dark circles under his eyes were lighter, and his appetite had rebounded. He ate with the enthusiasm of someone who’d been starved and Sam had to continue to be careful with portion control. The last thing he wanted was Drew making himself sick. Sam felt they were ready to tackle the next stage, but he wasn’t sure how Drew was going to feel about it. He was still tight-lipped about Morton but Sam knew there was a lot to be said that needed to come out and sooner rather than later.

  He waited until after lunch, then set a stack of paper and pens down on the table before ushering Drew into a seat.

  “What am I doing now? Drawing? You do remember me telling you of my complete lack of artistic ability?”

  “I remember,” he said, pressing a calming hand on Drew’s shoulder. “This is free writing. An hour where you write whatever you want. It can be real, it can be fiction, you can doodle for all I care. Just write it out.”

  “Write what out?”

  “Whatever you’re feeling.”

  Sam set a timer and left him to it, sitting on the couch and reading a book. Minutes passed before Drew even picked up a pen. Even longer before he put pen to paper. Sam got absorbed in the story, looking up again when the timer buzzed to find Drew scribbling furiously on the paper.

  He went over and knocked off the timer but didn’t stop Drew who continued to write. There was anger there, Sam could tell, from the way Drew held the pen, from how it gouged into the paper. Returning to the couch, he sat and waited. When Drew finally finished, he simply dropped the pen on top of the paper, crossed the room and threw himself into the chair opposite Sam. Sam could see he was worked up, his hand clenched into fists.

  “Exercise time,” he said. “How about we push the furniture to the side and run sprints?”

  Drew seemed to like that idea, and Sam managed to program his phone to time them. By the time they finished, they were sweaty and out of breath.

  “Better?” Sam asked.

  “Yeah,” Drew said. “Better.”

  While Drew sho
wered, he put the room to rights, not touching the pages Drew had written on. He hoped, when Drew was ready, he’d come to him.

  He didn’t have long to wait, as Drew slipped onto the couch next to him after dinner, the sheaf of papers held in his hand.

  “What am I supposed to do with them after?” he asked.

  “You don’t have to do anything with them. Some people keep them, some people shred them, for some, it brings up stuff they want to talk about.”

  “I should have written about Russell. Or maybe my Dad.”

  “There’s no should in this, no hard and fast rules.” He didn’t ask what Drew had written about.

  “Do you… do you want to read them?” It took Drew two tries to ask the question and then he went very still next to Sam.

  “Do you want me to read them?”

  Drew considered that for a minute before nodding and thrusting the sheaf of papers into Sam’s hand. He stood up, went to the kitchenette, and started cleaning. Sam glanced down at the papers in his hand and began reading.

  Sam wished the apartment had a punching bag. The more he read, the greater the urge to hit something, anything. Drew’s first few pages were random words, sentences, sometimes repeated over and over. It was only later that he put it all together. Morton was a real bully, from his words to his deeds. He’d tried the kind of techniques used on prisoners to disorientate and confuse them, so they didn’t know when or where or what. No wonder Drew was in bad shape, after four straight weeks of being subjected to that.

  When he finished reading, he set the papers down with care and went to the exercise bike, giving himself ten minutes to ride out all his anger. When he finished, Drew was leaning against a wall nearby, watching him.

  “We need to talk,” Sam said as he got off, fetching a towel to dry off before setting both himself and Drew’s writings down at the table. Drew took a seat opposite him, nervously tapping the tabletop.

  “Here’s what we need to do. Tomorrow, I want you to rewrite this. Try to put it in chronological order as much as you can but don’t worry if you can’t remember dates or times. I’ll write my own report, we’ll get copies to Cora, and I’ll kick one up the chain as well.”