Love Starved (21 page)

It all came to a
head in the third week of November.

Claudia had given them tickets for
A Christmas Carol
at the Guthrie Theater, back in October when she’d learned, belatedly, about Aiden’s birthday. The date had been long set, they’d been excited to go together, and when the day came, Micah felt giddy as he ran up the steps to Aiden’s apartment, all dressed up and ready for a fun evening with his best friend. After the play, they planned to celebrate Aiden being taken off the last of his ulcer medication, so the cars were staying at home and the cab waited downstairs.

Aiden looked dashing when he opened the door, smelled even better and was charm personified. Except—

Except he didn’t smile. Not earnestly, and, while most people would be fooled by his practiced expressions, Micah had known and loved his smiles long enough to see through the fakes immediately. His mood took a sudden dive. This was supposed to be their night, and it was supposed to be spectacular. He’d been hoping that doing something special together could get them back to where they’d been before his ill-advised confession, that it would help remove the invisible barrier that seemed to separate them most of the time lately. Even this morning when they’d planned the details, Aiden had sounded genuinely happy to go. What could have happened since then?

Micah considered inquiring, but Aiden was so clearly trying to put on his best act that he didn’t have the heart to ask. Maybe the night could still be saved. He would try to get Aiden to talk about whatever was bothering him later, after the show, although Aiden would probably say that everything was fine and he was just tired. He’d been saying that a lot lately.

By the time they settled in their seats, the magical atmosphere of Minneapolis’ most spectacular theater seemed to be affecting Aiden at last. He was looking around, his eyes sparkling, and Micah let himself hope that whatever seemed to be the problem earlier had been temporary and could be forgotten now.

The lights went down. The curtain went up.

And then Aiden’s phone started ringing.

Not out loud, of course—they had made sure to silence their phones before entering the theater—but it vibrated in his pocket, a quiet buzz that Micah only heard because it happened at that single moment, filled with expectant silence, before the music began. He would think nothing of it but for Aiden’s reaction—he tensed, clearly distracted, but didn’t take out the device to see who was calling.

And they kept calling, Micah realized a moment later. He could no longer hear it over the music, but the waves of tension coming from Aiden every few minutes, even as he sat straight with his eyes glued to the stage, were enough to distract him completely. Was it an emergency? And if it was, why wasn’t Aiden checking it?

Finally, after much too long, Aiden seemed to have had enough. He fished the phone out of his pocket, hiding it under his jacket so that the light wouldn’t bother anyone else as he glanced at it. In the soft darkness, Micah could see the way his jaw clenched before he powered it off.

The rest of act one passed without further distractions.

“Everything all right?” Micah asked as they made their way out into the lobby for the intermission. “Someone seemed quite desperate to reach you there.”

Aiden made a face. “Yeah. I should call them back, actually. I’ll be just a minute, okay?”

“Sure. Should I go get us some wine?”

Aiden nodded and walked away to a quiet corner.

There was a line at the bar, and Micah watched Aiden make the call as he waited. He seemed to be explaining something to the person on the line—placating, if Micah was to guess by his expression. Every line of his body looked tense; his free hand was clenched in a fist. Micah frowned, worried.

“What can I get you?” The line had shifted and he turned to the bartender to give his order.

By the time he walked away from the bar with two glasses of white wine, Aiden’s stance had changed. He was still holding the phone by his ear, but his head was hung and his shoulders hunched. “Yes, sir,” Micah heard as he approached, in a muffled, tight voice. “I understand.”

When Aiden hung up and turned to Micah, he looked so distraught that Micah was sure someone must have died, at the very least.

“I have to go,” Aiden said.

“What’s wrong? Did something happen?”

“No. It was a work call. I have to go now.”

Micah’s eyes grew wide. “Now? For
work
?”

“Yes.”

“In the middle of the show? Are you kidding?”

Aiden shook his head. “I’m so sorry, I really am, but I have to go. I’ll explain later, I promise. Just… I’m sorry.”

Without looking back, he turned and jogged toward the coat check, leaving Micah alone in the crowd, with his two glasses of wine and his mouth open in shock.

Micah wasn’t able to enjoy
the rest of the play. Between the angry disbelief he felt and the double serving of wine drunk too quickly, everything seemed unreal and distant. His head was pounding by the time he left the theater. His mood got even worse when he had to walk in the cold for six blocks before he managed to get a cab. Back home, he quickly stripped off the stupid tux and crawled into bed at eleven, shooting a quick text to Aiden—
I hope the rest of your night was better than mine
—before switching off the lamp.

He lay in the darkness for a long while, fuming, though the more time passed, the more his anger was tinged with worry. But he refused to be concerned and caring and forgiving now. He would get there tomorrow, but for now, he wanted to let himself be upset and mope over his ruined evening.

His phone ringing startled him out of the first deep sleep some time later—just a single ring, and then silence. The room was still pitch black, the clock showed it was just past one a.m., and when he picked up the phone, squinting at the screen, Aiden’s name was under missed calls. Cursing under his breath, because his headache had gotten worse instead of better, Micah called back. There was no answer, so he tried again, and just as he decided that Aiden must have drunk- or pocket-dialed him, a text came in:
Its nothing sorry I just

It was immediately followed by the next one:
home now, call you tomorrow

“Oh no, you’re not waking me up only to refuse to talk to me,” Micah grumbled under his breath, dialing again. But the call went right to voicemail. It seemed Aiden had turned off his phone.

Micah lay under the covers, grinding his teeth and trying to summon back the resentment he’d felt earlier, but it wouldn’t come. Instead, worry was seeping into his mind through the cracks made by everything that had bothered him tonight, so clear now without the blinding haze of anger. The look on Aiden’s face as he was talking to the unknown person on the phone resurfaced in Micah’s memory, haunting him: anguish, misery, anxiety—a volatile mix that couldn’t have meant anything good, and Micah would have realized that if he hadn’t been so focused on his own selfish reactions. Aiden wouldn’t have left like that if he hadn’t had a really good reason.

Something must have happened; Micah was suddenly sure of it—something that made Aiden reach out to him despite the late hour. Something bad enough that for the first time since Micah had met him, he’d forgotten all about his super-correct texting style. Micah doubted Aiden was just drunk.

There was no way he would be able to wait until morning.

Driving might not be the best idea—he never drove after any amount of alcohol as a rule—but there was no time; the conviction that something was wrong was getting stronger with every passing minute, sending Micah’s heart into a nervous gallop. It had been four hours, most of the alcohol should have left his system anyway. He pulled on the first set of clothes he found, grabbed the car keys and ran out of the apartment. Ten minutes later he was parking in front of Aiden’s building.

The lights were on in the third floor windows. His heart pounding, Micah ran up the stairs and knocked on the door. He heard footsteps on the other side, and then silence that stretched far longer than looking through the peephole should take. Finally, when he was raising his hand to knock again, the door opened.

Aiden must have just showered. His hair was still wet and he was out of the suit he’d worn to the theater, dressed in yoga pants and a simple gray hoodie zipped all the way up to his neck. He stood in the doorway without a word, neither asking why Micah was here, nor offering any explanation for his aborted phone call.

He didn’t have to.

Across his throat, in red already darkening to purple, was a large fresh bruise, ending with four distinct finger marks on the right side and a single one on the left. Micah felt the blood freeze in his veins.

Aiden didn’t move for the long moment it took Micah to stop staring; he just stood there, his face blank and his body slumped against the open door, only his unsteady breathing betraying the turmoil inside him. His shock finally passing, Micah reached out, but afraid to cause any additional pain, stopped before his fingers could ghost over the edge of the abused flesh. Instead, he laid a gentle hand on Aiden’s cheek. The world blurred around the edges as unexpected tears stung Micah’s eyes. He had too many thoughts and emotions all at once to make sense of, too many words getting tangled in his throat.

The most important thing to focus on, the one to anchor him, was that Aiden was safe right now.

But he had been hurt by somebody tonight, and Micah hadn’t felt a rage like the one that was rushing through him since, well, probably ever.

“Honey,” he whispered, “What happened? Who did this to you?”

Aiden’s lower lip was trembling; his breathing was getting faster, shuddering. Micah opened his arms, an instant reflex to comfort him, and Aiden stepped into them without pause. But as soon as Micah embraced him, he tensed and gasped.

Micah instantly moved his hands away from Aiden’s back. “There’s more?” he asked.

After a beat of hesitation, Aiden nodded.

“Would you show me?”

More hesitation, then Aiden stepped aside to let Micah into the apartment and locked the door behind him. He moved to the middle of his living room, not reaching to undo the zipper of his hoodie, but not protesting when Micah did it. He just hung his head and waited, silent.

Micah gasped when he finally stepped behind Aiden and carefully slipped the hoodie off his shoulders.

He thought the mosaic on Aiden’s back that dreadful night in August had been bad, but seeing the marks just after they’d been inflicted, so fresh they were still swollen and raw, made him dizzy. There were at least two dozen of them, probably more, judging by the way they disappeared under the waistband of Aiden’s pants. Micah was afraid to breathe near them for fear it might hurt Aiden.

But he needed to put pity aside. The welts should be properly cleaned at least—the skin was broken in many places, and the last thing Aiden needed was an infection. Taking a deep breath, Micah stepped away to look at Aiden’s face.

“Sweetie, do you have any disinfectant, anything?”

Aiden inclined his head towards the bathroom. He waited there, shirtless and unmoving, as Micah went to wash his hands and look through the cabinets until he found a surprisingly well-stocked medicine box. Returning to the room with gauze, peroxide and a tube of Neosporin, Micah looked around. The couch was too short to get this done properly. He took Aiden’s hand and led him, unprotesting, toward the bedroom.

“Come on, lie down. I’ll just clean the cuts, okay? The cream has lidocaine in it; that should soothe them, too.” Micah paused with the piece of gauze in his hand. “No, wait. Shouldn’t we report it to the police? Get your injuries documented?”

“No.” It was the first word he heard Aiden say since he left the theater, and it was hoarse, barely above whisper, yet somehow frantic. Aiden didn’t say anything more, but his eyes were pleading as he moved to lie on his stomach, and Micah nodded.

“Okay, how about the hospital? Shouldn’t you get your neck looked at, at least?” he asked. Aiden shook his head. “Do you have trouble breathing? Have you lost consciousness at any point?”

“No. It’s just a bruise,” Aiden managed, and Micah sighed, but accepted the assurance. It was so much more than “just” a bruise, but for now, he would take care of the most immediate things. One step at a time. They could talk later.

“Okay, if you’re sure. I’ll clean your back now. I’m sorry if it stings.”

He worked as gently as he could, dripping the peroxide over the cuts and when it dried, smoothing the cream along every welt. Aiden didn’t move all through the process, only his tensing muscles betraying the discomfort. When the whole expanse of his back had been taken care of, Micah hesitated.

“Are there more under your pants?”

“Yeah,” Aiden rasped, face hidden in his pillow, and Micah didn’t even think of embarrassment as he eased Aiden’s pants down, wincing at the abused flesh all the way down to his thighs.

It took a while, but finally all the marks had been cleaned up. Micah found himself with no immediate task to focus his attention on, and the anger burned higher again. He stood up.

“I’ll put these away and bring you some warm water with lemon, okay? I’ll see if I can find some honey, too.”

Aiden slowly turned to his side and sat up, wincing when his ass took his weight. “You don’t have to.”

“Right. Like I would actually leave you right now.” Micah huffed and left the bedroom.

When he finished preparing the warm drink, he found Aiden back in the living room, curled in the corner of the couch looking exhausted, but in no visible discomfort. Micah passed him the glass and settled cross-legged at the other end to face him. They needed to talk, and he had no idea where to start. Aiden seemed so fragile.

“So…” Micah began. “I have to ask. Because you said you had to go to work, but these injuries scream assault to me. And yet you don’t want to report them.”

Aiden shook his head carefully. “It wasn’t an assault,” he said, his voice slightly better now that he’d drunk a bit of water. “Just work.”