Chapter Eight

swish-swoosh, swish-swoosh, swish-swoosh

Adam’s windscreen wipers are entirely ineffectual against the drizzle that patters down onto his car and threatens to become something more. He can hear them making little protesting noises as they creak against the glass of the windscreen, and hopes this isn’t a sign of some greater problem.

swish-swoosh, swish-swoosh, swish-swoosh

The late night DJ is a tasteless twassock,Adam decides. He lets the arsehole blabber on about this week’s number one (shite, as usual) for all of half a minute before he turns the radio off with a vicious stab of his forefinger. Instead, he listens to the rain. It’s getting heavier, the pitter-patter turning into an insistent drumming. This whole situation feels slightly surreal, like a scene from a movie.

swish-swoosh, swish-swoosh, swish-swoosh

He tightens his grip on the steering wheel.

He’s half-lost, watching the neon signs flicker as he drives past them. Joe’s Bar merges with Tesco and The Late Shop and he can feel himself being inexorably dragged towards that oh-so-tempting sleep. His eyes flicker shut.

FUCK!

Horns blare, Adam swerves, cold dread stabbing him in the gut. That was close.

He switches the radio back on (got to keep awake somehow), deciding that he’ll take an arsehole DJ over certain death.

After a minute and a half of tuneless chart pap, he’s beginning to regret this decision, but he’s nearly there by then and the constant thudding of the rain on the roof of the car is drowning out the more heinous crimes against music.

He turns onto Walden Street. The old church is dark against the skyline. Adam shudders. He hates churches at night. All that ‘gargoyles leering’ stuff creeps him out.

He watched the houses, instead, through the driving rain. One-two-three…

Outside the third house, huddled on the pavement, is a shape Adam knows all too well…

He brakes abruptly, in the middle of the road – fuck parking – gets out of the car, dashes over.

“Micah!”

Micah looks up. He’s soaking. His wet hair lies lank against his face, his clothes (and oh God, he’s not wearing a coat, only a thin blazer) are soaked through.

Adam grabs him and half-leads, half-drags him to the waiting car, which purrs like an oasis of warmth in this freezing street. Micah follows obediently, looking dazed. Adam sits him in the passenger seat. His arms and legs are stiff with cold.

Adam sets off straight away, trying to blast hot air around the car with his somewhat feeble heater. Micah doesn’t speak until Adam is back on the main road, when he turns to Adam and says, with a rather wan smile, “’S fucking freezing out there!”

Adam smiles in reply, without taking his eyes off the road ahead.

- - -

Adam hustles Micah into the living-room, onto the sofa, where he drips rather despondently. “Go and take those wet clothes off,” he instructs. “I’ll put the kettle on.”

Micah disappears off into his bedroom, and Adam puts the kettle on and tries not to think about him sliding off his sodden shirt to reveal his muscular chest, glistening with rainwater…because now is absolutely not a good time for that, no, he’ll think about hot chocolate instead, hot chocolate is a nice clean topic, gosh how much does he want a mug of hot chocolate right now?

But it doesn’t work because he can’t stop thinking about Micah, just through there, naked and wet and so infinitely fuckable…and he squeezes his eyes tight shut to stop it, but that doesn’t help because now he can see Micah, his eyes lidded and his mouth pouting, slightly open, moaning…and ohGodhe’sgettinghardstopitstopitSTOPIT…

He bites his lip. Fuck.

He wonders if he can dash to the bathroom without Micah noticing, but it’s too late because Micah is here already, wearing a pair of pyjama bottoms and not much else, and his skin is gleaming just the way Adam thought it would…and Adam is suddenly intensely grateful for the counter in front of him.

“Thanks,” says Micah, and Adam smiles through clenched teeth and mutters an incoherent noise of diffidence. He wonders what would happen if he just lunged forward and kissed Micah, right now, on the lips, because Micah’s lips are just sitting there on Micah’s face demanding to be kissed…

“There you go,” he says, handing Micah a mug of hot chocolate. “Go and sit down – I’ll be through in a minute.”