CHAPTER 487: I’M STILL LIVING IN THE PAST YOU FORGOT (PART ONE)

Clyde slid an arm under Micah’s back and another under his knees, lifting him gently. Micah stirred but didn’t wake.

Clyde tightened his hold, savouring the warmth of his body. Then he carried Micah to the bedroom, laying him down on the bed with care. He removed his shoes, pulled up the blanket, and tucked him in.

He watched the boy’s chest rise and fall, his face flushed. The tension in Clyde’s chest eased slightly. Micah was well and alive.

A soft click drew his attention. Darcy had returned, holding two glasses of honey lemon water. He placed them on a nightstand without a word.

Clyde looked at him, noticing his lingering in the room. Darcy only glanced at Micah, then at him. He opened his mouth, hesitated. And then closed it again.

"I’ll be in the guest room," Darcy finally muttered. He turned and walked out, shutting the door behind himself.

Clyde didn’t care about Darcy’s strange behaviour anymore. He stood beside the bed, eyes locked on Micah. Now that he was here, all those past fears came crashing down on him.

He was reluctant... No, he was scared to leave. He had done it once, and look how that turned out. But the reason told him he couldn’t act that way.

Clyde clutched his chest, breathing unevenly.

****

Meanwhile, outside of the room, Darcy hurried to the guest room, as if running from something he didn’t want to see.

A few minutes ago, Darcy had actually felt relieved when Clyde called and interrupted that unbearable moment.

Micah had been acting like himself at first, babbling nonsense, his smirk wide and carefree, his silver hair falling over his eyes as he talked about how he had ended up in an audition at Ramsy Empire. He had leaned back against the sofa, a glass in his hand, his words tumbling out faster than his thoughts could keep up.

Darcy had simply listened, humouring the silver-haired boy, nodding occasionally, letting him ramble on, all because of the sincerity he had shown toward his mother and sister.

The apartment downstairs was larger than this one. Fully furnished, modern, quiet, with every convenience. Micah had practically dragged them in earlier, showing them glossy catalogues filled with furniture options, and saying they could decorate everything however they liked. But the apartment didn’t need decorating. The rooms already gleamed with new beddings and curtains. The fridge had been filled to the brim with fresh groceries. Even the closets were stuffed with branded clothes in their exact sizes, tags still on.

Flora had nearly stumbled when she saw it, gripping the kitchen counter. Nora had been the same, touching the couch, opening and closing the drawers, and checking every room to see what was inside. Watching their faces light up like that, Darcy had nodded in satisfaction.

So when Micah said, "Come up for a drink," he couldn’t refuse.

At first, he had no complaints. Micah poured himself a drink, made a dramatic toast to "surviving this hell of a week," and downed it in one go. His laughter echoed through the living room, bright and careless.

Then Darcy recalled that Micah was a light drinker. He had seen it before, how quickly he got tipsy. Moreover, his stomach was weak; he had even thrown up blood before. So when Micah reached for another glass, Darcy tried to stop Micah. He grabbed his wrist. "That’s enough," he said flatly.

But the boy was truly persistent.

"Hey! Let me have it. I deserve it after all this shit," Micah said, pushing his hand away.

"Your stomach doesn’t," Darcy muttered, wrestling with the already drunk boy.

Yet Micah was nimble like a cat, dodging his hand, taking a sip from the glass, looking at him smugly.

Darcy’s jaw tightened, and a small vein pulsated in his temple. For a second, he considered threatening him by snitching his condition to Flora, but he let out a breath and leaned back instead. His mother and sister were asleep by now; no need to bother them because of this arrogant young master. Earlier, it had been obvious that something had happened before he suggested drinking.

If the idiot wanted to end up in hospital again with the worst hangover of his life for some cheap excuses, then fine. Who was he to stop him?

Micah poured another drink. And another.

"Fuck this life!" he yelled all of a sudden. "Why did that nurse have to switch us? They should’ve made an example of her! So no one else does the same cruel act! I’ve never seen my mother lose it before. But she crumbled in front of me from guilt. I don’t ever want to see that again."

Darcy’s fingers tightened around his own glass, untouched. He stayed silent, listening. His gaze fell to the table, to the half-empty bottles, to the way Micah’s hands trembled slightly as he poured again.

He had guessed something had happened, some confrontation with the Ramsys, but he hadn’t expected Elina to be part of it.

In his previous life, Elina had adored Micah. She had never once spared Darcy a glance. She had treated him like a stranger, maybe worse.

So Darcy had no expectation of them in this life either.

Micah kept talking, his words spilling out like water from a broken pipe.

Darcy listened absentmindedly until Micah said something that made him freeze.

"Ah... I can’t let them get you... not this time." Micah slurred, reaching forward to grab Darcy’s arm.

Darcy’s head snapped, his expression hardening. "What did you just say?"

"Those fucking bastards!" Micah mumbled, his voice slurred but fierce. "I’ll make them kneel in front of you. Beg for forgiveness."

Darcy’s heart skipped a beat. His hand shot up, gripping Micah’s shoulder tightly. "What did you say? Were you playing with me this whole time?" His voice shook slightly, half anger, half disbelief. "So you remembered everything... and made a fool out of me?"

Micah blinked innocently at him. "Remember what?"

"Don’t play dumb with me. You said you’ll make them apologise to me! For what?" Darcy yelled, eyes flashing.

He was a fool. A clown to believe, to trust Micah again.