He is Mine

by Mel Gough

  Brad glances around. There’s a bench a few steps away. Its red, wooden slats are covered in rainwater, but they don’t have a choice. Brad urges Damien to make the short journey and sits him down on the bench, supporting him on a slow descent. Damien shudders again, curling up and hiding his face in his hands. Brad goes into a half crouch before him. His heart twists in sympathy as he studies Damien. The way he’s shaking, the pain must be excruciating. His tousled, dark curls stick to his sweaty neck, and an unexpected wave of tenderness rises in Brad.

  “Why’re you out here?” Brad asks. “You should be in bed.”

  “Gotta pick up meds…Imitrex pen…” Damien waves vaguely to his right at a small pharmacy tucked in next to the bodega.

  “Don’t they deliver?” Brad asks, exasperated. “You’re practically next door.”

  “I called…guy didn’t speak…much English.” Damien’s teeth chatter so much, he can barely speak.

  “Where’s the script?” Brad demands, straightening up. Damien reaches into the pocket of his sweatpants and pulls out a piece of paper with shaking fingers. Brad takes it. “Stay right here,” he says.

  The pharmacist needs some convincing that Brad is indeed allowed to pick up the medication for Damien Thomas. Damien was right, the language barrier is considerable. In the end, Brad urges the man to step away from his till to the window, and points out Damien sitting on the bench, looking more woebegone by the minute.

  “See?” Brad says. “He’s sick. He needs the…,” he glances at the prescription. “Imitrex pen.” He’s apprehensive about what the ‘pen’ bit could mean, but one problem at a time.

  Finally, the pharmacist’s expression clears, and he rings up Damien’s medication. With the brown paper bag stuffed into his back pocket, Brad makes his way to Damien’s side. Together, and very slowly, they embark on the journey back to the penthouse.

  Somehow, Damien gets the street-level door open, but when he straightens up to press the fob key against the panel in the elevator for it to go up to the tenth floor, he sways so alarmingly that Brad snatches the keychain from him. Damien leans on him with a groan, his breaths coming in painful gasps, his face white as a sheet.

  Brad unlocks the penthouse’s front door, and as soon as they’re over the threshold Damien pulls away. Holding on to the walls he staggers down the corridor. He disappears into one of the rooms, which Brad assumes must be the master bedroom. In his uncoordinated state Damien bangs his shoulder hard on the doorframe and gives a moan of pain. Brad winces in sympathy.

  When Damien has disappeared from sight, Brad dithers. Will his help be appreciated, or will Damien want to be alone for what Brad fears might be a drawn-out session with the porcelain gods? In the end, the vision of Damien alone on the bathroom floor with the pain, propels Brad down the corridor and into the bedroom. With the blackout curtains drawn almost completely shut the furniture is barely discernible. Brad edges past shadowy obstacles. More light will only hurt Damien, so he doesn’t look for a switch.

  Then Brad knocks on the bathroom door, and carefully edges around it. In here, a single, small nightlight is set up on a cabinet, the only source of illumination. Its presence tells Brad that Damien spends a lot of his time like this and has made arrangements to help him navigate.

  “Hey,” Brad murmurs, and Damien looks up from the floor. His eyes are black pools, liquid and shining. He pushes himself onto his knees, using the rim of the toilet, then even more slowly back to his feet. His hand scrabbles for the flusher before Brad can help.

  Brad beckons to him, and Damien moves close so that Brad can put one arm around his waist. They retrace their steps at snail’s pace. Damien stops by the bed, feeling the bottom of his sweatpants with his hand. “Wet,” he murmurs.

  “Sorry,” Brad says. “That’s from the bench you sat on. Wanna take them off?”

  “Yeah.”

  Brad helps Damien pull down the sweatpants, then lowers him onto the bed. Damien shivers harder than ever. He’s sweated through his T-shirt; there are wet patches on the front and under his arms.

  “You could do with a fresh shirt,” Brad muses, surprised by how worried he feels for a stranger.

  “D…dresser,” Damien says, his teeth clicking together. “Top…top drawer.”

  Brad brings a clean but well-worn tee, seemingly Damien’s bed wear of choice. The material feels nice and soft in his hands. He helps Damien pull off the sweaty shirt, then guides his arms into the fresh one, and pulls it over his head. Then, finally, Damien is ready to stretch out.

  “Thanks,” he says, pulling the covers up to his chin.

  “Is there someone you want me to call?” Brad asks. Now that he’s gotten Damien to the safety of his own bed and the crisis has abated, he feels suddenly awkward about intruding into the other’s home like this.

  Damien hesitates for a moment, then shakes his head. A blush creeps up his pallid face, and he won’t meet Brad’s eye. Brad frowns. Does this famous guy have no friends he could call on? And where’s the girlfriend?

  “Do you want me to stay, then?” Brad asks. He’s not sure this is a good idea. This guy’s problems are none of his business. But Damien looks too unwell for Brad to leave him all by himself, and his misery tugs at his heart.

  Damien face is now crimson. “Only if it’s not too much trouble.”

  “It’s no trouble,” Brad reassures him, since he can’t see another option.

  There’s the ghost of a smile on Damien’s face. “You got the Imitrex pen?” he asks.

  Brad pulls the slender package in its brown paper bag from the back pocket of his pants. “What is this, exactly?” he asks, handing it over.

  “Rescue treatment, for migraines. Extra powerful,” Damien says, extracting the pen with shaky fingers. “I gotta inject it in my leg.”

  Once again Brad is undecided. Damien can’t unwrap the pen, his hands are shaking so much. And since he’s here already… “Do you want me to do it?”

  “You know how?” Damien asks.

  “Well, I know how to use an epi pen,” Brad says. “We get taught that in first aid.”

  “That’ll do,” Damien says. He holds out the little box, then groans and buries his head in the pillow.

  “I’ll go and read the instructions. Won’t be a minute.” Brad goes into the bathroom and shuts the door. He turns the ceiling light on and unwraps the thin device. It seems to indeed operate on a similar principle as an epi pen. When he’s sure he can administer the medication, Brad switches off the light and goes back into the bedroom.

  “All right,” he says. “Give me two seconds while my eyes get used to the gloom again.”

  “Thanks, man,” Damien says. “I hate doing this myself, makes me feel sick every time.”

  “Like you need more of that.”

  “Right.” Damien rolls onto his front and, with his head turned away, pulls down the top of his boxer shorts until half of his left buttock is exposed. That stops Brad in his tracks. The instructions talked about injection into the thigh, but it makes sense to inject into bottom fat if someone else is doing it. Much less painful.

  Trying to only look at Damien’s exposed skin to find a good place to wipe with the little alcohol swab that came with the pen, Brad sets to work. He swabs quickly, then squeezes a fold of fat between his fingers and places the pen against it. Then he presses down the lever. The pen clicks, and Damien flinches.

  “All done,” Brad says and gets up off the bed. He goes into the bathroom, places the pen into the box and discards that into the trash bin. He washes his hands and dries them on the only towel he can see, hanging on the back of the door. When he gets back to the bedroom, Damien has wriggled under the covers again. Brad’s heart twists with worry as he observes the deep lines of pain on Damien’s forehead. He hates to see people suffer. He has to fight the strong urge to run his fingers through the tousled curls.

  “Um, can I get you anything else?” he asks.

  Damien shakes his head and squint
s up at him. Brad turns toward the door. “Get some sleep, then. If it’s okay with you, I’ll stick around for a while and see how you are in a little while.”

  “You don’t have to.” Damien’s voice is hoarse.

  “I know, but I want to,” Brad says. He’s not sure that came out right, so he adds, “I just don’t think you should be alone. Call if you need anything, okay?”

  “Thanks,” Damien says quietly. “Help yourself to a coffee or something.” He curls up, and Brad leaves the room, propping the door open with a shoe from the hallway.

  He climbs the stairs to the living area. After a moment’s hesitation he goes over to the sofa, shrugging off his jacket, then pulling out his notebook. He’s not thirsty and rummaging around another man’s kitchen on top of everything else just feels like too much of an intrusion.

  For a while, he works on his notes for the Liu case, brainstorming and organizing ideas. There’s not a lot in this case to give him an epiphany, so after about three quarters of an hour he puts his notebook away and gets up.

  Brad is curious to see the view, so he goes out onto the terrace. Again, it strikes him how little space and privacy there is in Manhattan. The houses across the street feel close enough to touch. At least Damien’s building is taller than its fellows and no prying eyes can peek into the windows. The terrace isn’t very big. From out here, Brad realizes that the penthouse was a late addition to the building, built on the roof and sitting aloof, feeling somewhat out of place.

  The air has cooled down. Brad takes a deep breath, feeling better in the light breeze than he has all day. Hopefully, Damien will benefit from the drop in temperature, too.

  He goes back into the living room and settles down with a few magazines. Damien seems to have eclectic taste—sports, photography, travel. The magazines, even though they’re almost all last month’s editions, have hardly been touched. As Brad flicks through them, a small brochure slides out of one and falls to the floor. He picks it up. It’s a glossy sales flyer for a house in Beverly Hills. Brad’s eyes bulge as he sees the price tag.

  Just then, there are halting steps on the stairs. Brad puts the flyer on the table and gets up to offer the sick man a hand. But when Damien appears he waves him away. “It’s all right,” he pants. “I’m feeling better.”

  He doesn’t look it, but Brad keeps that to himself. He goes around to one of the armchairs so Damien can lie down on the sofa, which he does with a groan.

  “Should you be up?” Brad asks, an accusatory edge to his question.

  Damien ignores him. “There’s a button.” He waves at the door to the terrace. “For the blinds. Could you…?” Brad gets up and goes to press the button. Narrow ribbons of black canvas slide across the window. Damien speaks again before the blinds block out all the light. “Thanks,” he says. “We still gotta see.”

  Brad takes the armchair again. “Are you sure you wouldn’t feel better downstairs?”

  Damien shrugs. “I might not look it, but I really am feeling better. I don’t like being in bed during the day. It fucks me up for the night. And I still gotta take my normal meds real soon. If I take those on an empty stomach, there’s always hell to pay. So,” he lifts his phone which Brad hadn’t noticed he’s clutching in his right hand, and presses a speed dial button. “Hi, yeah, Damien here.” He rattles off his address. “Can I have the usual, and uh…a vegetable Pho?” He listens for a moment. “Great, thanks.” He hangs up and lets his head drop onto a cushion. “Dinner’s gonna be twenty minutes. I hope you like duck.” He shivers a little and pulls his legs up.

  “Duck?” Brad gets up, retrieves a blanket that hangs over the back of the other armchair and drapes it over Damien, who clutches it to himself.

  “It’s what I usually have from the Vietnamese place around the corner. I ordered it for you. Sorry I didn’t ask. It was easiest.”

  “It’s fine. Yes, I like duck, thanks.” Brad considers the bundle of misery on the sofa. “Where’s Vivienne?” He feels they’re past pretending they’re strangers, after this evening.

  Damien makes a face. “She’s…well…”

  “Not so good at this?” Brad prompts. “Not all girlfriends are made to be nurses, I suppose.”

  “She’s not my…,” Damien starts, blushing.

  “I know,” Brad says, feeling embarrassed himself now. What made him say that? He knows Vivienne Aubert is married, and whatever is going on here is none of his business. Though he wants to ask Damien why she made up that tall tale the other day, but now isn’t the time. “Hey, you want some water or something?” he asks instead.

  “I think there’s a can of ginger ale in the fridge,” Damien says. “That’d be nice.”

  Brad goes and pours the ginger ale into a glass, which he takes into the living room. Damien pushes himself up onto one elbow. “Thanks,” he says as he takes the glass. “You’re good at this.”

  “I think you activated my mothering instinct,” Brad offers, deadpan.

  “I’m real glad you stayed,” Damien says with a smile that gives Brad a peculiar feeling in his stomach. Just then, the doorbell rings.

  “That was quick,” Brad murmurs.

  “They’re right around the corner. Scruffy neighborhood has its perks,” Damien says, pushing himself to sitting. “The food goes on my account, but there’s some money in a box on the hall table. Tip him ten?”

  Brad goes downstairs to deal with the food delivery, contemplating Damien’s words. Ten dollars is almost a fifty percent tip, if he’s gauged the prices right. Before he inherited Hedda’s house he would’ve shaken his head at such sangfroid, but money doesn’t faze him much anymore. It’s nice to have it, sure, but it doesn’t solve life’s problems the way people think. Just look at Damien. Brad pulls out his own wallet and gives the delivery boy fifteen dollars.

  When he gets back upstairs, Damien sits cross-legged on the sofa, the blanket draped around himself. His head rests back and his eyes are closed. Pushing aside his last few misgivings about intruding, Brad rummages in the kitchen until he finds a tray. He transfers Damien’s Pho to a bowl and his own duck and rice onto a plate. Then he assembles cutlery and carries their dinner through to the living area.

  Damien plays with his food more than he actually eats it. He sips a few spoonfuls of broth and slurps some noodles, but his portion looks almost untouched by the time Brad has finished his duck.

  “That was kinda pointless,” Brad says as Damien puts the bowl back on the tray.

  Damien makes a face. “I’ll try again later. Can you put it in the fridge?”

  “Sure.” Brad gets up and clears away the remnants of dinner. He tidies things away in the kitchen—leftovers into the fridge, cutlery and crockery into the dishwasher. When he comes back, Damien has stretched out under the blanket, looking drowsy. But he fixes Brad with his gray eyes and smiles a little.

  “This migraine sucks even more than usual, you know?”

  Brad raises an eyebrow. “Why’s that?”

  “I’ve got a gorgeous detective in my house, and we’re all alone.” He gives a theatrical sigh. “And I can take no advantage of it whatsoever.” The look he gives Brad is impishly suggestive despite the shadow of pain, and even though Damien is a pale, sweaty mess, Brad feels an undeniable attraction. The expression on Damien’s face tells him that the nascent stirring is mutual.

  Brad isn’t sure what to do with that realization, so instead he asks, “Do you need anything else? Can I help you back to bed?”

  A shadow crosses Damien’s face. “I suppose.” He sighs and pushes himself up.

  They take their time, Damien leaning into Brad heavily like a drunken sailor. Feeling the other man’s body against his is distracting, and Brad almost loses his footing on the stairs.

  “You okay?” Damien asks, his voice full of concern.

  Brad gives him a quick look. The sick man’s eyes shine, and Brad isn’t sure that it’s just from the fever.

  “If we go sprawling I’ll try my best
to catch you,” he says, trying for levity but not sure it comes across right. Damien’s hands tighten on Brad’s arm, and he presses closer. The touch sends shivers up and down Brad’s spine, and his heartrate speeds up. Brad is both relieved and disappointed when he lowers Damien back onto his bed.

  “You’ve been so nice,” Damien says, wonderment in his voice. “Thank you. I didn’t expect that.”

  “I feel weird, to be honest,” Brad admits. “It’s not exactly a daily occurrence, to find…someone in the street like that.” He almost says a celebrity, but stops himself. Damien doesn’t seem to notice.

  “Was nice, to have another person here,” he says. “I’m not so good at this asking for help schtick.”

  “You should try it sometime,” Brad suggests. “You’ll find that people are kinder than you think.”

  A shadow crosses over Damien’s face. He looks for a moment like he wants to disagree, but then just sighs. “Hey, do me one more favor?” he asks instead.

  Anything, Brad nearly says, but catches himself. “Sure. What is it?”

  “Bring me the blue pill bottle from over there and a glass of water before you go? Put them on the nightstand. I’ll take them when I wake up again; that’ll be soon enough.”

  Brad goes over to the chest of drawers where several pill bottles are lined up and carries the blue one over to the bedside table. Then he goes into the bathroom and gets the water. When he returns to the bedroom, Damien is already fast asleep.

  Brad can’t help but let his eyes linger on the other’s face for a little while. Damien’s features are finally relaxing and smoothing away the lines of pain as he drifts into deeper sleep.

  Brad takes his notepad out of his pants pocket. He rips a piece of paper off and scribbles on it.

  In case you need anything, call me (I mean it!) 718.555.0164

  Brad M.

  He puts the paper on the bedside table next to the water and the pills. Then he stands for another moment and listens to Damien’s quiet and even breaths. The sleeping man’s curls lie across his forehead and over one eye. Without thinking, Brad reaches down and gently smooths them back. Damien gives a small sigh, and Brad straightens up hastily. What’s the matter with him today?