Written as part of a music prompt game. The prompt was "Green Eyes" by Coldplay. Mike's father has been holding a little length of pink ribbon all morning, winding it round his fingers in an endless figure eight. Mike wants to put a hand over them, stop the fidgeting, but he doesn't. His father needs whatever comfort he can find.
David comes into the kitchen and pauses at the sight of them. He says gently, "I stopped the clocks. Do you want me to cover the mirrors, too?"
"Oh," Mike's father says, distantly as if he's just waking up. "Yes. Please. Thank you for thinking of that."
David touched Mike's shoulder and Mike smiled up at him, and then David quietly withdrew again.
"Dad, will you be okay if I go help David?"
"Yes," Mike's father said, still in that distant way. Mike patted his hand and rose, and his father said, "He's a good boy."
"Who, David? Yeah, he is."
"I used to worry about you. I don't anymore. You'd got a good boy and I don't worry anymore."
Mike smiled, uncertain how to answer that, and went in search of David.
Sixty percent of the world's population has brown eyes. Blue, grey, hazel -- all minorities. Green, thinks Mike, is the most rare--not a dishwatery green, either, but a true bright green, the color of springtime.
He found a green-eyed boy of his own, and has somehow managed to keep him. David, green eyes and freckles and slender hands, a quiet laugh and a mouth made for kisses. But he's more than that, more than that warm beautiful body. He's solid. He's an anchor.
As Mike's mother was dying and Mike spent his days at the house, helping his father and easing the way for his mother, it was David who reminded him to eat and sleep and change his clothes, to be patient with his father, to give his mother the proper doses -- and he was the one who called the county coroner and Mike's sister and was thinking of the small things, like these old traditions.
He finds David in his old room, where there is still a narrow twin bed made with a nubby dark blue coverlet and books about knights and dragons on the shelves. He's trying to cover the mirror with an old hockey jersey from the closet, and he smiles when he catches sight of Mike. "It sounds so romantic, covering the mirrors, but I have no idea how you're actually supposed to do it."
"I think you've got the right idea." He leans in the doorway. "Davy."
"Thank you for being -- you know. The practical one."
"I don't think this is all that practical. I just don't know what else to do."
"Lie down with me," Mike says, and David lets the shirt slip to the bureau top. They lie together on the narrow bed and David holds him and kisses his hair. "My dad says you're a good boy."
"Little does he know," David murmurs and Mike huffs a laugh.
"No, he's right. Everything's that good in my life is because of you. Everything that I worried about is gone because of you. Everything that I felt was going was going to sweep me away has receded. And now, I can do this -- I can handle this, because I've got you with me." He tilts up his head, looks into those green eyes, brilliant and shining and warm. "How did I deserve you, honey?"
David smiles at that. "You don't. Close your eyes."
Mike does so and feels David's hands spread over his back. It feels like being anchored into place, but not in a way that holds him down. It keeps him from floating away.