Chapter 378: The Du Pont Puppy on the Bench (part 1)
Micah sat propped against the bed frame, phone loose in one hand as he scrolled through the bright, endless scroll of social media, checking updates on Leo. Sunday evening, he had a meeting with that black fan, Leo’s manager’s ex-girlfriend. Earlier, he had used the selfie camera and was shocked by his looks. But then he thought some sunglasses and a mask would do the job. And his family... he had to convince them somehow to let him go out, ugh! That would be a pain in the ass.
Darcy closed the door behind him with a soft click. He moved across the room, carrying the folded blanket. He laid the blanket across the pull-out couch with practised motion.
"Why did you take so long?" Micah complained without looking up.
Darcy’s lips curved slightly. The boy was back to himself, or at least back to his familiar grumpiness. "I was talking to him."
"Who?" Micah lifted his head before his expression twisted. "Is he outside?"
Darcy spread the sheet over the couch. "Yeah. Sitting on a bench. Cold and stiff."
"Tsk," Micah clicked his tongue. He jabbed a finger toward the door. "Are you fishing for sympathy? He deserved it."
Darcy sat on the couch and looked at Micah. "You know he is a Du Pont. This hospital belongs to him, doesn’t it? Then why do you think he is out like that?" His tone was gentle, but probing.
"What? Are you taking his side now? Speaking for him?" Micah scoffed.
"I’m not taking anyone’s side." Darcy leaned forward, elbows on knees, fingers clasped. "But your childish behaviour won’t help you get what you want."
"Childish behaviour?" Micah exclaimed. "And how do you know what I want? No, scratch that. Don’t talk nonsense instead."
Darcy exhaled, a sound filled with exhaustion and something like exasperation. He flopped back against the couch. "Alright then. Sleep. We’ll talk tomorrow."
Micah bit the inside of his cheek until pain flared from his bruise, forcing a hiss out of him.
Darcy snapped his head up. "What happened?"
Micah pouted. "It’s all your fault.. No, you and that stupid man! Ouch." He touched the bruise reflexively.
Darcy sprang to his feet and rummaged in a small fridge. He returned quickly, pressing an ice pack to Micah’s cheek.
After a few seconds, Darcy spoke softly. "Micah... I’m not blind. The way you two treat each other... it’s different."
Micah averted his eyes. Others, like Emile or Clyde’s friends who didn’t fully know him, had assumed Clyde was the one chasing him. But it was the way around, wasn’t it?
Darcy knew him too well, surprisingly, despite the short time they had spent together.
He had caught on to the way he had behaved around Clyde. That there was more to it.
And truthfully, Micah was the one who had put pressure on Clyde to confess, to show a reaction to him. If not for that, perhaps Clyde would never have stepped toward him.
"I heard from Emile that he was out of town... is that why you got drunk?" Darcy asked gently, eyes watching every detail on Micah’s face.
Micah’s ears turned red. He opened his mouth to deny, but his breath hitched.
There was a look in Darcy’s eyes... it was raw, full of sadness and tenderness, as if he had already forgiven Micah for sins Micah did not even know he had committed. His heart skipped a beat. Crap... Darcy had even caught on that...
"Why?" Micah whispered instead, the single syllable soaked with something between accusation and plea. "Why are you..."
Darcy pressed the ice pack with more force. The cold made Micah flinch and stop talking. For a moment, the hospital room held nothing but the two of them and the steady sound of breath.
"I’m sorry I dragged you into his sight," Darcy said, suddenly changing the subject. "Silas Durant... he will probably not go after you the moment he realises who Mr Clyde is. Maybe it’s better I don’t be near you..."
"Wait a minute!" Micah snapped, irritated. "Why are you cutting garments and sewing by yourself? Did I ever say anything about him hurting me? Why are you distancing yourself from me?"
Darcy peeled the ice pack away slowly and set it on the bedside table. "But he is dangerous," he said simply, completely ignoring the rest of Micah’s words.
Micah closed his eyes, trying to calm himself. "I know he helped me get to you," he admitted, "But he could have used more terrible methods, don’t you think?"
"Are you seriously defending him?" Darcy asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Of course not! I’m saying you are punishing yourself before even something happened," Micah said, jabbing a finger at Darcy’s chest.
The two locked eyes in a silent battle neither dared to voice.
In the end, Darcy gave a small nod. "You are right."
Micah’s nerves relaxed, and relief filled him.
Darcy rose to his feet and turned toward the couch. "Let’s sleep." There was a fatigue under his words.
Micah studied Darcy’s face, searching for credibility. Seeing that Darcy had really let go of the matter, he nodded.
Darcy turned off the overhead lights with a soft click, and lay down on the couch, knees bent, one hand draped across his chest, the other on his eyes. For a moment, he surprised even himself. Why had he said those words to Micah?
What was he trying to gain by talking about Clyde? Was he itching to torture himself? Did he want Micah to deny it? Or admit it? Why force Micah to confess that he was important to him? That the boy didn’t want to lose him?
Darcy closed his eyes, thinking maybe a good night’s sleep could help him think more clearly.
Meanwhile, Micah curled under the blanket, the fabric rolled around him like a cocoon. He stared at the sliver of light that showed between the curtains’ hem. The minutes stretched like elastic; he counted the beads, one, two, three, hoping the rhythm would lure sleep. The ache in his beaten and bruised body had eased with the medicine somehow. But his mind would not quiet.
Darcy had given him a scare. He couldn’t stand the thought of this reserved, kind man distancing himself from him. Fortunately, Darcy had not openly voiced it.
Besides Darcy, Micah’s mind was on the man outside as well. Was he shivering? Was he waiting? He should have just left... why was he here? Why had he not gone home? Why did he always stand in the cold like a lost puppy? Micah turned his head slightly toward the door, butterflies dancing in his stomach.
Author’s note:
The phrase ’cutting garments and sewing by itself’ is a direct translation of an idiom from my native language. It describes a situation where someone makes assumptions and decisions entirely on their own, without asking for or listening to others’ opinions and advice. Like a tailor who creates ready-made clothes without the customer’s measurements or input.