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Molina heard the jingling of Honey’s keychain through the front door and quickly shoved his secondary tool bag back into its place at the back of the hallway cabinet. He took time to straighten out the boxes of replacement parts and old shopping bags in front of it. Might as well, while he was down there.
The front door banged open with a burst of cold, wet air.
“Fucking hell!” Honey slammed the door shut against the torrents of rain behind him. “It’s the god-damned Armageddon outside!”
Molina leaned around the open cabinet door to see Honey looking like he’d just been hosed down at a car wash. “Oh my. Forgot your umbrella?”
Honey wiped a hand over his face. “Thank you for your sympathy,” he deadpanned as he pushed his shoes under the radiator and walked over in audibly wet socks. Water dripped from his fringe onto Molina’s face as he bent down to kiss him.
“You’re early.”
“Carpooled to the station. Thought I’d make it home before—” Honey made a face and gestured to the front door and the downpour behind it. “Doesn’t matter. Here—” He held out his phone for Molina to take before peeling himself out of his dripping coat. “—look at this!”
Molina glanced at the screen and sighed, recognizing the page instantly. “Why are you still reading that idiot’s blog? He clearly doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”
“No, look at the thing at the top!”
Molina had already seen the sombre black-and-white graphic when he’d secretly checked up on the page this morning, but seeing it again gave him a twinge of excitement either way.
If you have any information on the whereabouts of Grant Endicott after 10 October 2023, please contact…
He didn’t bother to look at the list of phone numbers and email addresses again.
“Huh. Curious.”
Honey swatted at his head playfully. “‘Curious’, is that all you have to say?”
“Well, what do you want me to say?”
“Oh, I don’t know, how about ‘scary how he’s just suddenly dropped off the face of earth’?”
“Scary how he’s just suddenly dropped off the face of the earth.”
With a theatrical eye roll, Honey plucked his phone out of Molina’s hand. “Prick.” He stepped around him and disappeared into the kitchen. “Would it be too much to ask for you to take something seriously for once?” His tone was light, but it was obvious he was genuinely unnerved by the news. No more teasing, then.
“He’s probably just on holiday. ‘Finding himself’, doing one of those detoxes and forgot to tell people.” Molina waited for a response but he only heard the clatter of Honey setting up the kettle. “Why do you care so much? Don’t waste your time on him.”
“Of course I care!” Honey shouted over the loud electric humming. “He’s in my industry.”
Not anymore, he isn’t.
Grant Endicott had been a well-known independent theatre critic who’d reviewed the play that had been Honey’s first theatrical lead role. The review had been mostly positive until it came to his performance. Molina felt anger rising in his throat just thinking about it. “The weakest link,” Endicott had called him; “irritating” and “profoundly unconvincing”.
To say that Honey had not taken it well was an understatement. He’d made a big show out of it not being a big deal, that it was part of the job and just one critic’s opinion, but the light from his phone had kept Molina up for half the night as he apparently read and reread that worthless review dozens of times.
Honey had been so listless on the days after, a shadow of his usually so confident self. He’d even started talking about his old marketing degree again, which he always did when he was unsure about the direction of his acting career.
He had recovered eventually, of course – he always did, from everything, because he was brilliant like that – but it had broken Molina’s heart to see him like that for any length of time at all. It just wasn’t right.
His Honey was so talented. He was always breathtaking, whether he was on stage or on screen or rehearsing his lines in their living room. It was only a matter of time until he’d win his first BAFTA. If some wannabe journo was too dense to see it, fine, his problem, but he had insisted on broadcasting it to the world and making it other people’s. Honey’s.
And if something was Honey’s problem, it was Molina’s problem, too.
“Irritating”, huh? Well, Mr Critic hadn’t shown much restraint either when Molina had started carving into him. Gutted him like a fish. Eventually. He’d had to teach him a lesson first, because if anything was “profoundly unconvincing”, it was Endicott’s babbled apologies and his assurances that he wouldn’t go to the police.
“One more time, from the top!”
“Please…”
“Ah-ah! That’s not your line! I thought you said this was one if your favourites? Don’t tell me you lied about that! Where’s your journalistic integrity?”
“Why are you doing this?”
“Ask me more stupid questions and I’ll do the other knee next.”
The incinerator Molina used to dispose of pathological waste at the hospital he worked at was a godsend, really. He’d watched the clip of Honey’s big break – 3-in-1 dishwashing tabs with a new formula – on his phone on repeat while he waited for this newest batch of garbage to disintegrate in the flames.
Admittedly, it had also been a bit of a self-indulgent affair; he didn’t get to do this much anymore, always worried about what Honey’s reaction might be, should he ever find out about his boyfriend’s more niche interests. Honey liked to put on a tough façade, but at his core he really was a sensitive soul.
At the pop of the kettle shutting off, Molina snapped out of his reverie and finally got up from the floor to slip into the kitchen. There were two cups on the counter and Molina felt his chest squeeze with affection. He padded up behind Honey who was fiddling absentmindedly with a tea bag and rested his chin on his shoulder. Honey’s skin was still cold to the touch and noticeably damp.
“You should go dry off. You’ll catch a cold.”
“Mh.” He didn’t look at Molina, but poured water for both of them.
“Don’t be upset.” Molina pressed a quick kiss to Honey’s neck. “I just don’t want you to worry.”
“I’m not upset. I’m reasonably unsettled because this is concerning.”
“True. If he isn’t just—”
“—on holiday, yes.” Honey shot him a sardonic look. “What, are you a detective now?”
“Been thinking of switching careers, actually.” That finally got a laugh out of him.
“What were you looking for in the hall, anyway?”
“Just tidying up a bit.”
“And it’s not even spring yet. How admirable.” Honey twisted around and taxed him with a mock-serious look. “But have you taken out the bins like I asked?”
Molina beamed at him.
“All taken care of.”