Page 61 of A Mistake of Worth
Michael’s grip tightened involuntarily with his frustration, and Henri didn’t even flinch. Just accepted it. Expected it. Michael forced himself to relax his grip, though he didn’t let go. His hands were shaking now.
“You don’t need to clean,” Michael said, the words tumbling out, desperate and ragged. “Or cook. Or reorganize the fucking linen closet. You’re not a maid. You’re not my servant. You don’t have to earn your place here by making everything perfect. And you sure as hell don’t have to starve yourself or eat burned toast or follow some ridiculous diet designed to keep you weak.”
Henri’s lips trembled. “I-I’m sor—”
“Don’t.” The word came out too harsh. “Just stop.”
Henri flinched, his whole body recoiling.
And then something in him broke.
“I’m trying!” he shouted, but not at Michael. At the floor, at himself, at years of conditioning. His whole body shook with the force of it. “I don’t... I don’t even know what’s mine yet! The towels, they have to be… but they don’t? You said they don’t, but how do I... I don’t know how to live in a place where nothing has to be perfect! I don’t know—” His voice cracked. “I don’t know how to eat food that isn’t measured or approved! I don’t know what I’m allowed to want! I don’t... I can’t... how do I argue withsomeone who doesn’t hurt me for it? How do I know when to stop? When is it too much? When I’ve—”
Henri’s eyes went wide. His breath caught. The sudden awareness of what he’d done, of raising his voice, of losing control, washed over his face in a wave of panic. His knees buckled.
Michael caught him before he could fall, pulling Henri fully into his arms, holding him tight against his chest.
“Thank you,” he whispered into Henri’s hair, his voice rough with emotion. “Thank you for saying that.”
Henri was panting, his heart pounding against Michael’s chest. “I didn’t mean to yell. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’ll be better, I won’t—”
“You’re allowed to be angry,” Michael said, his voice steady despite the way his hands trembled against Henri’s back. “You’re allowed to fuck up. You’re allowed to yell at me. You’re free to organize my towels or leave them as they were. You’re allowed to take the good mug. You’re allowed to eat whatever you want, whenever you want it. You’re allowed to have cream in your coffee and butter on your toast and seconds if you’re still hungry.”
Henri’s body stayed tense against him, rigid and coiled. His breathing remained shallow, controlled. Michael felt him try to pull back slightly, that familiar retreating motion, before stopping himself. Henri’s fingers twisted in Michael’s shirt, gripping tight, then releasing, then gripping again. Uncertain. Disbelieving.
Michael leaned back just enough to look Henri in the eyes, cupping his face tenderly with one hand. Henri’s gaze darted away, then back, struggling to hold the contact. His jaw was clenched tight, a muscle jumping beneath Michael’s palm.
Michael’s thumb brushed away the tear on Henri’s cheek, and Henri flinched at the gentleness before leaning into it, the conflict playing out in real time across his features.
“You don’t have to be perfect to be loved here,” Michael said. “You don’t have to earn it. You don’t have to make breakfast or fold towels or fix anything. You just have to be here.”
“What if I don’t know how?” Henri whispered.
“Then we’ll figure it out together,” Michael said. “But first, I need you to understand something.” He waited until Henri’s eyes met his again. “There is nothing you could do, nothing you could say, nothing you could break, nothing you could leave messy, that would make me hurt you. Do you understand?”
Henri’s eyes filled with tears he was trying desperately not to shed.
“I know you don’t believe me yet,” Michael continued. “And that’s okay. You don’t have to believe me today. But I need you to know that I see what you’re doing. The burned toast, the chipped mug, the way you make everything perfect for me and broken for yourself. The way you still eat as though someone’s watching, measuring, judging every bite. I see it, and it breaks my heart.”
Tears were flowing in a steady stream down Henri’s cheeks now.
“You deserve the good towels too,” Michael said softly. “You deserve the good everything. The good food, the full meals, the right to choose what goes in your own body.”
Henri let out a sound that was half sob, half laugh. “I don’t know how to do that. I don’t even know what I like anymore. What if I choose wrong? What if I want too much?”
“Start small,” Michael suggested. “Tomorrow morning, take the good mug. Have cream in your coffee. Eat the unburnt toast. See what happens.”
“What if I break it?”
“Then we’ll get new mugs.”
“What if I spill coffee on your shirt?”
“Then I’ll change shirts.”
“What if—”
Michael silenced him with a gentle kiss, soft and careful and full of promise.
