Or Brandon, who hadn’t accepted his help, likely never would, and maybe that was pride, or independence. Maybe, as a Dom, Brandon chafed at the idea of owing him anything. Brandon did things on his terms, and normally Frank liked that in people. He respected the willingness to go through a wall if need be. Andrew’d had that in spades.
And after all the shit he’s been through, you’re going to saddle him with your aging carcass and your hang-ups and your battle scars and the time bomb ticking in your blood?
Frank sighed and rubbed some stiffness out of his neck. For all that he wanted to protect Brandon, just being together would eventually hurt him. They took precautions, but the fact remained that Frank was infected. And unless science had an earth-shattering eureka moment in the next few years, this would eventually kill him. Frank had already watched Andrew wither away. No one should have to watch someone go through that. To make Brandon watch two lovers in a lifetime die like that? Inhumane.
Closing his eyes, Frank continued kneading at his stiffening neck. He could buy all the camera gear Brandon wanted. Help him get a visa by whatever means necessary. Give him whatever he needed to get out of this line of work. But the one thing Frank couldn’t protect Brandon from was him. Not as long as they kept doing this.
The kid had been through enough hell, had gone across an ocean to lick his wounds and start over. Frank couldn’t put him through that again.
Which left one option.
Frank opened his eyes. His legs felt like lead as he started towards the door. He went back out into the lounge.
Stefan and the john he’d been seducing earlier were gone. Frank didn’t let himself think of where they were or what they were doing. He tried not to, anyway. Easier said than done.
“Hey, boss.” Raoul eyed him over the bar. “You all right?”
“Yeah.” Frank gestured at the colourful backlit bottles of top-shelf liquor. “Pour me a double.”
Raoul didn’t move. “Uh, boss, are—”
“I’m not one of the boys.” Frank tapped his fingers on the bar. “Give me a bloody drink.”
“All right, all right.” Raoul poured the drink and handed it to him.
Glass in hand, Frank nodded towards the back. “I’ll be in my office.” He took a step, but paused. “When Stefan comes back, tell him to come see me.”
Stefan. Not Brandon. They shouldn’t have crossed that line in the first place. Raoul shouldn’t have brought him in. Frank shouldn’t have made him part of his life. Learned where the name Stefan came from. Introduced him to his friends. Maybe asked their approval. And received it.
“So, if that matter comes up, I’m claiming that best man spot before Mike snags it.”
Oh, Geoff.
Frank dropped into his chair, feeling sixty or seventy years old all of a sudden. Old, tired, and ill to his heart, ill to his stomach, and worse, to his soul.
You want to protect him? This is how you do it.
Once the whiskey was gone, he desperately craved another, to take the edge off, to numb himself, though he despised drunks and hated the loss of control. With his looks and easy manner, Brandon would find somebody else. Somebody like Chris, or hell, any man out there with a pulse. Closer to his age, healthy, and with more good years in him. Nobody would suspect him or treat him like a leper. No longer guilty—or diseased—by association.
He put his elbows on the desk, ran his hands through his hair. The rasp reminded him of Brandon’s fingers on his scalp, which didn’t help at all.
Being alone wasn’t so bad. He’d managed before. He had friends who’d stand by him. Things to occupy his time. Market Garden, staying healthy. Exercise. After Andrew, that was it. Most people were lucky to find love once. Twice? Once was a lot. He could cope. There was more to life than sex.
He wiped over his face and shook his head, trying to psych himself up, to take all the invisible weight he’d shed in the last few weeks back onto his shoulders. It was a blessing not to have to carry that for a while, but now that rest period was over, and he should just get on with it.
It’s a good look on you.
Damn you, Geoff, so I was happy there for a while.
Frank resisted the urge to go get another drink and instead forced himself to focus on paperwork. Even the minute shit he didn’t need to worry about—bills that weren’t due for a couple of weeks, the liquor order that could wait until tomorrow—was, though tedious, better than staring at the door and waiting for Brandon to show up. For all he knew, Brandon wouldn’t even be back in this evening. Could be a late night with the john, and by the time Brandon swung by, exhausted and bleary-eyed, to drop off the money, Frank would already be home and asleep. Well, in bed and staring at the ceiling, but probably not asleep. He didn’t see that happening any time soon.
A light knock at the door made Frank jump, and sent a couple pages of invoices fluttering to the floor. He leaned down to pick them up. “It’s open.”
Brandon. No, Stefan.
He closed the door behind him. “Raoul said you wanted to see me?”
Frank nodded. He stacked the papers into some semblance of neatness, if only to occupy his hands. “Have a seat.”
Brandon hesitated. “Is, um, something wrong?”