Death's Muse

Chapter Eleven;

It was morning the next time Mikey opened his eyes. He was flat on his back, shivering, sweat running down his face. He was staring at the ceiling, breath shallow and shaking. His brain had woke him up so suddenly, but he was unsure why as he lay there still trying to catch his breath and identify the situation.

He sat up very slowly, feeling a surge of dizziness in his head, so he closed his eyes, pressing his right palm over his forehead, waiting for the head rush to pass. Mikey was incredibly disoriented. As he sat there, he tried desperately to recall the night before. He remembered blood and pain... And Frank. Mikey furrowed his brow. Why had Frank been there in his memory? 

As if as an answer, a tiny bite of pain occurred in his nose, and Mikey moved his hand to the bridge of his nose. He recalled now the nature of his injury. Armando. An open fist that had so easily knocked his nose out of place, causing more blood to pour from his nose than Mikey had ever seen, and Frank had came to his rescue like some sort of super doctor.

Mikey blinked his eyes open. That was the precise moment he realized the lower half of his face was not coated in blood. Mikey ran his fingers over his upper lip. It was entirely clean, and he could breath rather well. Mikey lowered his eyes and noticed that, as well, his shirt had been changed too. The night before, it had been black. Now, it was white. Somebody had changed his shirt.

For some reason, the thought of this made Mikey's spine tingle. There really was no question of who had cleaned his face and changed his shirt. It was obviously Frank, but it still made him feel strange. The thought of Frank seeing his bare chest and stomach. Mikey rubbed his chest nervously. He wondered what Frank had thought of his pale skin. No. He didn't want to know.

Mikey raised his eyes and directly across his bed, something caught his gaze. He had to blink and stand to make sure he had saw it properly. Hung on the wall directly across the bed was the test painting from the first painting session that Mikey and Frank had together. The one where Mikey had draped the blanket over Frank's crotch at the last second. Mikey approached the picture shakily, his hands trembling. He knew he hadn't hung that there. He was certain. There was only one answer.

Frank had hung it.

Downstairs, Mikey could hear the soft sounds of movement. For a moment, he was scared just the slightest, thinking for a second of the possibility of an intruder, but, then, the smells of breakfast hit him. Eggs and bacon. An intruder wouldn't make breakfast. Slightly confused and mostly wary, Mikey took a step out of his bedroom in a sort of haze and made his way down the spiral staircase that led right to his kitchen. He felt weak and incredibly tired. He assumed that was from losing all that blood the night before.

When Mikey was nearing the bottom of the stairs, he craned his head out. At his stove was a sight he never expected to see. An attractive man frying bacon, one hand on his hip, and a very large husky standing beside him, gazing up at his master with wide, expecting eyes. Mikey couldn't hardly believe it. It was like all of his dreams come true.

The husky licked his lips and let out a low whine, brushing his nose against Frank's leg. Frank turned his head slightly to look towards his dog. "Oh, silly Alabaster," He said playfully, cooing towards the whiny dog on the floor, "You cannot have any. It's for Mikey when he wakes."

Mikey felt obligated to make Frank aware of his presence then, so he cleared his throat quietly. Frank turned around completely, and a small smile crossed his face when he saw Mikey standing there on the stairs. "Ah... Good morning, Mikey," He greeted coolly, his face soft and nearly shy, "I figured you would be awake soon." The man gestured behind himself towards the sizzling bacon, lips curled up into a smile, "I made you breakfast."

Mikey could feel his cheeks turn pink. He couldn't even find the words to thank Frank. He simply nodded his head and sat down at the table, folding his hands across his chest. Across the kitchen, the painter slyly watched his muse move about, flowing his arms around as he finished up the bacon and slid it onto a plate with beautiful, silky movements. Mikey felt obligated to say something. He had to.