The Naked Cleaner

by Sophia Soames

  “It’s really good, I promise.” He laughs and my dick jumps. Totally unexpectedly, which makes me blush.

  He’s cute. He’s annoying and weird and chaotic, and kind of slow in the nicest sense of the word, and the nudity? Weird. Very weird. Him standing here tugging at his sleeves and itching the skin on his neck where there is no doubt a label driving him mad? It makes me feel bad. He makes me feel bad. Not about him, but about myself. Because I should be a better person. I should be grateful. I should make him a cup of tea or whatever he tops up his caffeine reserves with. I should be nice, when instead I’m standing here grunting like a loser scrunching my nose up in disgust over yet more spinach in Monday’s lunch salad.

  He itches his neck again and sighs as he closes the fridge door.

  “Just throw all the containers in that box, and I’ll come back next week and pick them all up.”

  “Will you do this again? Next week? Bring me food and help me…”

  Yeah. That’s me. Expecting people to do stuff for me. I haven’t even offered him a sit down, and here I am, demanding meals on wheels like a loser. I am a loser.

  “Would you like me to? I love cooking, so it’s not like it’s a hardship. If I do this, could you do that invoicing thing for me?” He looks excited, though squirming with unease.

  I do that with people. I’m no good with people. It’s easier to behave like a jerk and let people treat me like one back. Then people keep their distance, and everyone is happy.

  I like it when he’s happy.

  He scratches his neck again, and I lose it. Obviously.

  My arms kind of grab him and I swing his whole body around until his neck is in front of my face and my fingers are tugging at the fabric until I find the damn label. I hate those too, the way they scratch against your skin and the double ones are the worst with their little annoying flaps with the size on, and this one in his hoodie is a fucking triple one with that little plastic tag thing still attached.

  I’m obviously the rudest fucker on the planet, because I tug at him so he moves with me, and I yank open the top drawer and rummage around with one hand as the other is holding the hem of his hoodie in a firm grip until I find the scissors.

  Then I cut the whole thing off, the way I would do with my own clothes.

  His breath hitches as I stab the blades into his clothing, chopping away with all the precision of an elephant in an embroidery factory. At least it’s all gone. I cut the last little pieces of annoying polyester out of his life and let my fingers rub his skin, where angry red marks can be seen.

  “Better?” I say. And then I blush. Like an idiot. What the heck am I doing?

  He lets his hand rub the back of his neck, and turns around to face me. Big grin on his face.

  “See? You can be nice when you want to.” He laughs softly. “Thank you.”

  I mean to say something snarky back. Something rude and off-putting to get him to leave. Leave and leave me alone.

  I can’t think of a single thing to say. So, I shrug my shoulders and look over towards the floor, littered with paperwork, and two plates still on the floor, both licked clean. It was that good. It was really good.

  “You didn’t drink your water.” He says.

  Chapter Six

  Louis

  I know the exact second when he gets what I am about to do. It’s just that little sparkle that ignites in his eyes, then he shoves me out of the way and sets off down the hallway with me hot on his heels. I beat him. Of course, I do, pushing him out of the way as we both collide in the narrow doorway, me diving headfirst into the perfectly made bed that I kind of lovingly made up earlier, and him bouncing against the doorframe before pretty much landing on top of me, flattening me on the bed.

  “Get out of my bed, Motherfucker.” He almost shrieks as I am wetting my pants with laughter. Literally. I’m actually wearing pants, and anyway I got there first, and there is nothing he can do to get me out of his bed now.

  “Motherfucker.” I squeal, trying not to die from the look on his face. Because he is all flushed with embarrassment and anger and laughter, all in one. “You know the drill Pontus, drink your damn water and I will quite happily get out of your bed.”

  I am not going anywhere. I am quite happy lying here on my front with Pontus crawling all over my back, using his knee to try to tip me off the edge of the bed, as I have my hand on the wall, edging me firmly in my space.

  “I am not going nowhere, mate.” I hiss out, and he is huffing and puffing behind me.

  “My bed. My house.” He huffs, and gives me a well-placed shove at the same time as his arm falls hard on my elbow, and yeah. It’s not dignified. Not smart. Not clever. Me, all fucking almost two metres of me, crash onto the floor with a very... well, embarrassing thunk.

  “Ha!” he shouts, and leans over the side, giving me a triumphant glare. Like he’s proud.

  “How old are we, Pontus?” I snarl out. “Three? That fucking hurt. Thank god for a bit of textile padding. If I have bruises tomorrow, then I am suing you for damages.” I’m not, but he doesn’t know that. Wanker.

  “Three? You are the one being totally inappropriate, violating my personal space, and messing up my bed… Did you wash my sheets?”

  His face kind of faceplants in the pillow as he breathes unnaturally loud into the fabric. Like he is sniffing them. Over-sniffing them. Like. Whatever.

  “Of course, I washed them, all part of the service. If I had left them in your laundry basket they would still have been there, and I couldn’t see another set in your wardrobe. There was like one spare pillowcase. So, yeah, they are bloody clean. You can thank me later. I’ll take your other load home and wash those too. I don’t do ironing, that’s extra.”

  It’s a blooming narrow little space I have managed to wedge my body into, and trying to sit up and he stares at me suspiciously, is near enough impossible.

  “Washing someone’s sheets is kind of… a bit much. Too personal. It’s weird, Louis. I didn’t ask for that.”

  “Changing your sheets weekly, is kind of basic hygiene, Pontus.”

  “They were fucking clean, Louis.”

  “I would suggest if you are going to wank into your sheets, then wipe it on a tissue. Mate.”

  It’s below the belt, I know. And it’s bloody rude and over personal and I am crossing so many boundaries that I am kind of blushing at the cheek of myself. Because, honestly, the little bit of sympathy and like that I had for him is fading fast here, as he pushes himself off the bed and holds his bedroom door open, staring at me with that look that is very hard not to interpret correctly.

  “Get out.” He shouts, as I try to get my legs out from behind his bed.

  “I will, but not until…”

  He interrupts me with one of his death stares. The ones I am kind of learning not to mess with. He’s fuming now, and I don’t blame him. Then he leaves me in my tangled mess as I push the bed away from the wall, then manage to turn around so I can stand up, right in time for him to reappear with a tall glass of water, and he stares at me, pins his eyes right at me, as he downs the water in one, getting a little bit glassy eyed and flushed in the process.

  “Now get the hell out of here.” He hisses.

  “Pontus.” I say, because I should apologise.

  “Just go. “

  “Okay.”

  I push past him, giving him a little shove with my shoulder. He doesn’t even flinch, which somehow makes me irrationally angry. I don’t know what gets into me, but I turn around and walk back up the hallway and get right in his face, totally violating his personal space again.

  I’m so stupid.

  I’m so fucking stupid.

  “I like you Pontus. You are a nice guy underneath all that bullshit, and for some reason, I am being nice to you. I am trying to be your friend, as well as helping you out, and you are helping me back, and I appreciate it, but this? All this bullshit anger? I don’t buy it. And I don’t like it. Just be nice to me and I can be ni
ce to you back, and we can help each other back, and it would be... it would be really fucking nice to have a friend. Because I don’t have many, and according to Jonas, you could do with one. And I know that is a shit thing to say, but please know that I don’t mean that in a rude way, and I am sorry about the wanking comment. It was uncalled for, and I apologise. Okay?”

  He says nothing back. NOTHING. Which is weirder than weird, but at least I’ve said my bit, and I grab my kit and pretty much throw it out his front door, before slamming it shut—probably harder than I should.

  It’s a shit end to what had been a really good day. I actually paid my bills with the cash Mrs Amundsen gave me, and I picked up a new client, and made Pontus happy with my food. That should have made my day, but nope, I had to go and be all stupid and childish again. Instead of behaving like an adult and being professional with one of my clients, I have once again fucked up by being. Yeah. Weird and over-personal and letting my mouth blurt out bloody stupid shit. Weird shit. Yeah, because that is one label that I apparently can’t get rid of. I’m weird. And boy, don’t I know it. Feel it. I even feel weird when I step over the threshold to my own house where my dad is on the sofa reading something on his tablet, and Mum is on the running machine. Something smells delicious coming from the oven and I drop my clothes in a pile on the floor with a sigh of relief.

  I love being home. Which is kind of weird too, as I am far too old to still be living here, but hey, Mum and Dad love the company, and we get on far too well for me to be desperate for my own place. I’m not. I’m fine right here.

  Which is a little bit of a lie, because I am, after all, an adult. And I have spent the last five years living on my own, or with other adults, and being back in my childhood room with my mother fussing over me and my father monitoring my comings and goings, it’s just a little bit stifling and sometimes I feel like I am suffocating, and sometimes it’s weirdly comforting. Today, it’s weird. I don’t want to talk about it, and I don’t want a cup of tea and I don’t want to do yoga with Mum after dinner. I just want to lie naked on my bed with the window open and let the cold air prickle my skin.

  I pick up a book. Put it down again. Pick up my phone and try to scroll through social media. I stalk Pontus’ website and screenshot his profile picture. I don’t know why, because it’s an old one of a younger, more serious looking Pontus with shorter hair and less anger.

  He’s so fucking angry at everything and it pisses me off almost as much as I am pissed off at myself. Why couldn’t I just have been nice and normal today and said thank you and goodbye like a normal person after doing my cleaning and sorting out his food. I should have just thanked him and left with a cheery see you next week? Instead I have messed everything up and been childish and foolish and behaved like a weirdo.

  I try to ring Jonas, but he doesn’t reply, which means he’s no doubt on shift, whizzing around with Clara in their ambulance-of-the-day, saving people’s bacon left, right and centre.

  I miss nursing. I miss Aarhus and it’s small town feel. I miss being me. I don’t even know who this idiot is, the one I seem to have become.

  JONAS: Louis, can you go check on Pontus? He says he has the migraine of the century and is dying.

  JONAS: He’s not dying BTW. He gets migraines. He’s usually takes Imitrex, check what he’s taken already, they are stashed in his bathroom cabinet. There is a spare key under his doormat (stupid I know) Just go check he’s OK. Please.

  JONAS: I know it’s early, but I am still on shift and we are kind of overwhelmingly busy.

  JONAS: I owe you one. And I know Pontus is fine with you. Text me when you get there.

  LOUIS: I do have a life my dear cousin. And it’s 5 in the morning? Dude?

  JONAS: Just go, please.

  I get up and stumble out in the hallway, grabbing my clothes from where I left them last night.

  I go, of course I do. Because, Jonas. He’s family and we look after each other. And our granddad is awesome and he’s just like Jonas. Or maybe Jonas is just like Granddad? Awesome. Yeah. I’m rambling in my head as I drag another hoodie over my head and grab a container of muesli from the kitchen, and stuff half of the fruit bowl in my pockets. Breakfast is a thing, and I know exactly what is in Pontus’ cupboards, because I checked, and there is only enough stuff for him for his breakfast today. And I’m starving having kind of slept through dinner last night.

  I just couldn’t face it. Couldn’t get out of bed. Didn’t want the small talk and the well-meaning interrogation from Mum and Dad. Well, what’s new? At least I have nothing planned for today and once I have ensured that Pontus isn’t dead, I am going straight back to bed. Then I am Netflixing the hell out of my laptop and perhaps I will drown my sorrows in several cups of my mum’s home-roasted peppermint tea.

  I tell you, my life’s one long fucking party.

  But no, the stupid git I am, drive my van all the way there, speeding like I stole the bloody thing, then I park up outside Pontus’ building and take a deep breath before yanking the door to the building open and dragging my feet up to his floor. And yes. The idiot has a key right there under his doormat.

  I know Pontus does these things for attention, and I know Jonas moans like hell about him, but I also know Pontus has looked after Jonas more than he needs, and I know he is the one who pushed Jonas when he flunked out of medical school and plummeted into depression. I know Pontus took him in and made him put his life back together. He also took care of Jonas’ business when Jonas’ Dad passed away, and I know Jonas loves Pontus to the moon and back, and that’s why he puts up with all his bullshit and drama, and I suppose that’s why I put up with Jonas. Not only that, he’s the only one who is ever honest with me and calls me out on my own bullshit. Basically, he’s pretty much a decent person. Which I am not. I’m a mess. I do know that.

  “Hello?” I call into the darkness. Because it’s still kind of in the middle of the night in my world, and if this is Jonas’ idea of setting me up for another go at getting Pontus and myself to fall madly in love with each other and skip into the sunset with freaking flowers in our hair? Well, he will be sadly mistaken, because that’s definitely not happening. Nope.

  “Pontus?”

  The kitchen is pretty much as I’ve left it, the plates from earlier sitting unwashed on the side, and my heart skips a little beat and sings a very short song of happiness at seeing the tub marked Dinner empty on the side. He ate. Good job.

  “Pontus?” I shout a little louder, and I hear movement. From the bathroom where someone is clearly retching. Oh god. I gave him food poisoning. Oh hell. Talk about lawsuit.

  But then I am a nurse and I switch on the bathroom light and Pontus almost screams like I have stabbed him, before curling himself into a ball on the floor.

  “Light.” He whines.

  Bloody vampire. But I know migraines, and I understand. But I can’t help him in the bloody dark, and the whole place stinks of vomit, and Pontus is all clammy and grey and…

  Oh fuck. He’s crying. His whole body shaking with sobs and his hands almost cramping over his face trying to shield his eyes.

  “Come on, babe.” That’s my mouth. All my ideas of being professional and friendly thrown straight out the window. “Come on, Pontus, let’s clean you up and get you into bed.

  He doesn’t respond, just sobs quietly and curls away from me on the tiled bathroom floor. Wearing nothing but the bloody underpants, and there is vomit in his hair and he’s such a mess.

  Okay. I get into work mode. I know this stuff, and to be honest there is nothing here I haven’t dealt with before, and hell, Pontus has seen me naked plenty and since he won’t open his eyes whilst the light is on, well...

  I drop my clothes and lob them out in the hallway, then get the shower running, nice and warm, flushing the toilet with one hand and grabbing a towel from the floor to mop up the worst of the mess on the floor. It’s going in the bin. Sue me. I’m not cleaning that.

  Then, I gently grab Pontus
and kind of manoeuvre him to the shower cubicle. Because I don’t fucking care about anything else now than to get this guy sorted out and get some meds in him so he can sleep this thing off. And he doesn’t flinch as I pull his underwear down, because we are kind of all grown-ups here, and he stinks.

  He’s also heavy as fuck, but I turn him around so he’s leaning against me and manage to awkwardly shampoo his hair, and mine, because to be honest I’m not sure where his starts and mine begins anymore with him all curled up with his face in my neck. I wash it all. Pour half a bottle of shower gel over us both, then chuck it on the floor as I shimmy us both down. Hoping some of the water hits between us and that we are kind of clean. His armpits get a little rub, and I unhook the showerhead and give us both a good go over as he squirms in my arms.

  It’s exhausting for him, I get that, but I am not going to let him suffer longer than he needs to. And I know where he has a clean towel, so I get him all wrapped up and walk him like a truant toddler up to his room, sighing with relief to find he hasn’t thrown up in his bed. He retches again though and I run like the fucking wind to get the bathroom bin, and he sags down into the bed, shivering like he has a fever.

  “Here.” My mouth says.

  He retches. Dry coughs. Sobs.

  “It’s okay. I’m sorry Jonas couldn’t come, but I’m here now, and I will stay with you. Have you taken anything? I need to know when you last took anything, Pontus. Pontus?”

  “Threw it up.” He sniffles. “Two of the green pills. Couldn’t keep them down.”

  “Okay.” I say softly, my fingers awkwardly stroking his head. His sodden hair all over the pillow leaving a wet outline around his head as I tug the duvet up over him. He looks small. Tiny.

  I find his pills and sort him out, holding the glass to his mouth so he can get his meds down. He looks really scared, and it breaks my heart.

  “Thank you.” He whispers.

  “No probs. Just try to sleep.”