AB Chapter 10: Family
After his pecs blew off all the shirt buttons, Michel stood by the window, staring at the vast snow-covered world outside in silence.
Behind him, Simon stood holding the ruined shirt, nervously watching his back.
“Sigh…”
Michel let out a soft sigh, and the hulking figure behind him shivered.
“Baby, how about… I buy a new one? Don’t be mad…”
Mr. Bumblebee was scared—scared his flower would be upset.
“I’m not mad.”
Michel looked at the white outside, fingers pressing into the window frame as the cold seeped through the glass.
“Then—why are you unhappy?”
“I just feel…” Inferior.
Michel lowered his head and hugged his chest, only to find air, some scratchy fabric, and bony ribs.
I look like a monkey, and he looks like… a gorilla.
No—King Kong.
Michel tugged the corner of his lips and sighed again.
No man doesn’t long for a strong, fit, and muscular body—especially in the West, where working out is practically religion. Michel’s kind of build wasn’t called “slender beauty,” it was called “weakling.”
Michel had long been used to this aesthetic. He admired Simon’s body—it made his eyes green with envy. They were both men, so why was the gap so big?
Of course, maybe girls wouldn’t quite get this kind of disappointment, but if you compare it to bra sizes… maybe it’d make sense. After all, there’s a saying: “Cuteness isn’t worth a penny next to sexiness.” And “A-cup? No thanks.”
“When the snowstorm warning ends, let’s go to the mall together and buy clothes that actually fit you.”
Michel took a deep breath to suppress his envy and turned to Simon. He walked up and patted Mr. Bumblebee on the chest. The firm feel beneath his palm made Michel bite his gums slightly.
“You’re more suited for pullover T-shirts. They’d show off your figure perfectly. They’ve got thick long-sleeved ones this season. I bet you’d look amazing in them!”
I’m not jealous, not jealous, NOT JEALOUS… God damn it, I want to touch it again!
Michel grumbled silently and used his knuckle to poke at Simon’s chest, like he was trying to scrape off a bit and stick it onto himself.
Simon looked down at Michel’s face, confirming there was no trace of unhappiness there. He smiled. He didn’t mind the little paw on his chest—in fact, when he noticed Michel’s hand was cold, he dropped the shirt, tossed it aside, and took Michel’s hand in his own, rubbing it gently and blowing warm air on it.
So soft.
I have to be careful not to break it, Simon thought. He kissed the cold, pale fingertips with their slightly pink nails.
Michel’s eyelid twitched. “...What are you doing?”
Simon bent over and cupped his hand, his brown eyes full of care. “Warming your hands… is that okay?”
“…”
“No?”
“Ahem, it’s not… not okay…”
But do you really need to kiss them while warming them?
Michel turned his gaze away, flustered. I thought he was mad at me for getting handsy, but… this big guy is so gentle and dumb. God, how does he not get scammed when he goes out?
He says he’s a combat-type drone… I don’t see it.
Lost in thought, Michel didn’t even realize he was starting to worry about Simon, already thinking about giving him a safety lesson before bed.
The two of them stood face-to-face in the living room until Michel’s hands were warm. Then Simon let go and reached up to tidy Michel’s hair, where it had tangled with the little flower.
Maybe it was the lingering scent of the shampoo, but as Simon raised his hand, Michel smelled that sweet fragrance and suddenly felt sleepy. He wanted to yawn and lean his forehead against the wall of muscle in front of him.
Simon smelled it too, and his movements froze.
Then he stared, surprised and excited, at the little flower no bigger than a fingernail, and leaned in to sniff. He confirmed that this sweet scent was coming from the flower itself.
“Baby!”
“Ah?” Michel lazily looked up.
Simon was thrilled. “Your flower smells now—it must be recovering well! Did you smell it?”
Michel paused. “So that wasn’t the shampoo? That scent is coming from the flower on my head?”
Simon: “Yep!”
Michel reached up and touched his head. He didn’t feel worried or surprised. After accepting the fact he could grow flowers from his head, scent wasn’t that hard to believe.
After all, flowers do have fragrance.
Still, to be safe, Michel asked if it would have any effect on him. Simon shook his head and explained that this was just a normal part of the blooming period—it just meant he was developing well and healthy.
But in Michel’s special case—since he’d once been on the verge of wilting—this was an especially good sign!
“Tonight I’ll cook steak, and make a cake to celebrate!” Simon was practically glowing with joy. “And before bed, I’ll wash your hair, care for the flower, spray some nutrients, and apply the ointment the doctor prescribed—it looked a little hurt.”
Michel: “That’s not necessary…”
Simon: “Of course it is! Baby, go sit on the couch, I’ll bring you some fruit!”
The giant bumblebee practically bounced. He threw his arm around Michel and gently shoved him into the beanbag chair.
Before Michel could say a word, he ran to the bedroom, grabbed two pairs of socks, squeezed into the space between the couch and table, took off Michel’s slippers, put the socks on carefully, then wrapped his feet in a blanket and patted it gently.
Like he was saying: Now you won’t be cold!
“No fruit, I’ll make you some hot milk tea instead! I just learned yesterday, and it’ll warm your hands!”
Mr. Bumblebee’s eyes sparkled like a puppy.
The little antennae on his head twirled around, and his topknot started thumping his head again. Pa-ta pa-ta.
“Okay?”
Michel: “…” God, how could anyone say no to that face?!
Ten minutes later—
Michel sat holding a round white milk tea cup, the heat warming his palms.
His feet, wrapped in two pairs of socks, were starting to sweat from the warmth.
From the kitchen came the hum of the range hood, hard at work.
The sounds of washing, clattering cookware, and a man humming a tune in a deep, muffled, happy voice…
These sounds, mixed with the buttery aroma of seared steak, spiraled out of the kitchen and into the small, crowded living room, stirring Michel’s stomach and making him unconsciously glance toward the kitchen, smiling with joy at the man cooking dinner.
This kind of scene, no matter where it happens, instantly brings to mind home, family, and love.
It was warm—almost unbearably so.
Warm enough to turn a demon into an angel.
Michel took a sip of the milk tea—a sweet, creamy flavor that slipped past his lips and flowed into his stomach, spreading its warmth and sweetness throughout his whole body.
The TV played his favorite football game, but he couldn’t focus.
He reached up to touch the flower on his head and turned his gaze toward the man in the kitchen, humming happily while handling the tiny cooking tools, and his chest felt full—tinged with a strange ache.
It was hard to believe…
He, an orphan, a human… had someone like this.
And it didn’t make life harder or more painful.
On the contrary—he was happier than ever.
A man had appeared in his life, become family, changed his world, and blended seamlessly into his days.
He would do laundry, cook, spend money on treatment, celebrate even the smallest, silliest things with joy and hugs—
“I hope this isn’t a dream.”
Michel blinked, reluctant to look away.
He used to wish the flower and Simon were just dreams—that he’d wake up and they’d be gone. Now, he prayed this was real. Because if he woke up now…
It would be far too cruel.
Comments
Post a Comment