Page 15 of The Naked Cleaner

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JONAS: Louis, can you go check on Pontus? He says he has the migraine of the century and is dying.

JONAS: He’s not dying BTW. He gets migraines. He’s usually takes Imitrex, check what he’s taken already, they are stashed in his bathroom cabinet. There is a spare key under his doormat (stupid I know) Just go check he’s OK. Please.

JONAS: I know it’s early, but I am still on shift and we are kind of overwhelmingly busy.

JONAS: I owe you one. And I know Pontus is fine with you. Text me when you get there.

LOUIS: I do have a life my dear cousin. And it’s 5 in the morning? Dude?

JONAS: Just go, please.

I get up and stumble out in the hallway, grabbing my clothes from where I left them last night.

I go, of course I do. Because, Jonas. He’s family and we look after each other. And our granddad is awesome and he’s just like Jonas. Or maybe Jonas is just like Granddad? Awesome. Yeah. I’m rambling in my head as I drag another hoodie over my head and grab a container of muesli from the kitchen, and stuff half of the fruit bowl in my pockets. Breakfast is a thing, and I know exactly what is in Pontus’ cupboards, because I checked, and there is only enough stuff for him for his breakfast today. And I’m starving having kind of slept through dinner last night.

I just couldn’t face it. Couldn’t get out of bed. Didn’t want the small talk and the well-meaning interrogation from Mum and Dad. Well, what’s new? At least I have nothing planned for today and once I have ensured that Pontus isn’t dead, I am going straight back to bed. Then I am Netflixing the hell out of my laptop and perhaps I will drown my sorrows in several cups of my mum’s home-roasted peppermint tea.

I tell you, my life’s one long fucking party.

But no, the stupid git I am, drive my van all the way there, speeding like I stole the bloody thing, then I park up outside Pontus’ building and take a deep breath before yanking the door to the building open and dragging my feet up to his floor. And yes. The idiot has a key right there under his doormat.

I know Pontus does these things for attention, and I know Jonas moans like hell about him, but I also know Pontus has looked after Jonas more than he needs, and I know he is the one who pushed Jonas when he flunked out of medical school and plummeted into depression. I know Pontus took him in and made him put his life back together. He also took care of Jonas’ business when Jonas’ Dad passed away, and I know Jonas loves Pontus to the moon and back, and that’s why he puts up with all his bullshit and drama, and I suppose that’s why I put up with Jonas. Not only that, he’s the only one who is ever honest with me and calls me out on my own bullshit. Basically, he’s pretty much a decent person. Which I am not. I’m a mess. I do know that.

“Hello?” I call into the darkness. Because it’s still kind of in the middle of the night in my world, and if this is Jonas’ idea of setting me up for another go at getting Pontus and myself to fall madly in love with each other and skip into the sunset with freaking flowers in our hair? Well, he will be sadly mistaken, because that’s definitely not happening. Nope.

“Pontus?”

The kitchen is pretty much as I’ve left it, the plates from earlier sitting unwashed on the side, and my heart skips a little beat and sings a very short song of happiness at seeing the tub markedDinnerempty on the side. He ate. Good job.

“Pontus?” I shout a little louder, and I hear movement. From the bathroom where someone is clearly retching. Oh god. I gave him food poisoning. Oh hell. Talk about lawsuit.

But then I am a nurse and I switch on the bathroom light and Pontus almost screams like I have stabbed him, before curling himself into a ball on the floor.

“Light.” He whines.

Bloody vampire. But I know migraines, and I understand. But I can’t help him in the bloody dark, and the whole place stinks of vomit, and Pontus is all clammy and grey and…

Oh fuck. He’s crying. His whole body shaking with sobs and his hands almost cramping over his face trying to shield his eyes.

“Come on, babe.” That’s my mouth. All my ideas of being professional and friendly thrown straight out the window. “Come on, Pontus, let’s clean you up and get you into bed.

He doesn’t respond, just sobs quietly and curls away from me on the tiled bathroom floor. Wearing nothing but the bloody underpants, and there is vomit in his hair and he’s such a mess.

Okay. I get into work mode. I know this stuff, and to be honest there is nothing here I haven’t dealt with before, and hell, Pontus has seen me naked plenty and since he won’t open his eyes whilst the light is on, well...

I drop my clothes and lob them out in the hallway, then get the shower running, nice and warm, flushing the toilet with one hand and grabbing a towel from the floor to mop up the worst of the mess on the floor. It’s going in the bin. Sue me. I’m not cleaning that.

Then, I gently grab Pontus and kind of manoeuvre him to the shower cubicle. Because I don’t fucking care about anything else now than to get this guy sorted out and get some meds in him so he can sleep this thing off. And he doesn’t flinch as I pull his underwear down, because we are kind of all grown-ups here, and he stinks.

He’s also heavy as fuck, but I turn him around so he’s leaning against me and manage to awkwardly shampoo his hair, and mine, because to be honest I’m not sure where his starts and mine begins anymore with him all curled up with his face in my neck. I wash it all. Pour half a bottle of shower gel over us both, then chuck it on the floor as I shimmy us both down. Hoping some of the water hits between us and that we are kind of clean. His armpits get a little rub, and I unhook the showerhead and give us both a good go over as he squirms in my arms.

It’s exhausting for him, I get that, but I am not going to let him suffer longer than he needs to. And I know where he has a clean towel, so I get him all wrapped up and walk him like a truant toddler up to his room, sighing with relief to find he hasn’t thrown up in his bed. He retches again though and I run like the fucking wind to get the bathroom bin, and he sags down into the bed, shivering like he has a fever.

“Here.” My mouth says.

He retches. Dry coughs. Sobs.

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