by L. A. Witt
“It’s not. It’s not come up.” Yet? Bloody hell, Frank. Still counting the time in days and weeks, not months.
“Well, it would also deal with his visa issues. You did say he’s struggling to get one, right?”
“Um, well . . .”
Geoff waved the hand holding his wineglass. “Get him a civil partner visa, problem solved.”
Frank drew a breath against the weight on his chest. Like his pecs had suddenly turned to lead. “I’m not going to marry anybody for a visa.”
“Of course not.” Geoff dinged his wineglass with his own simple gold band. “Just saying. I’d be affronted if you asked anybody before me.”
“I’ll bear it in mind.” Frank smiled, terribly touched. “Thank you.”
They cleaned away the rest of the food. Emily wrapped it all up and filled Frank’s fridge with the leftovers, which would tide him over at least another two days. Then they finished off the wine. They could have all stayed up, drinking and carrying on, until well into the night, but with Emily on a merciless schedule in her own tiny restaurant and Mike working on some patches for the latest release of a big client, they scattered shortly after midnight. Once Emily’s Mini had driven off, and all other goodbyes had been said, with promises to meet up for paintball next Saturday, Frank closed the door behind them, emphatically ignoring Brandon’s unspoken offer to leave, too.
“Stay.”
Brandon smiled. “What’s the plan?”
“I think I’m ready for bed. After I . . .” He made a vague gesture towards the cupboards.
“Okay. I’ll get ready for bed.” Brandon headed upstairs, leaving Frank to sorting and taking his pills, dignity intact.
When Frank eventually came up, Brandon was lying in bed, lamp on the nightstand on, casting a warm light over his shape under the covers. His face. His short hair. Frank stopped briefly in his tracks to take in the image of a gorgeous guy lying peacefully in his bed, not yet asleep, but completely relaxed.
He undressed right there in the bedroom, then headed into the bathroom to brush his teeth. When he came back, Brandon reached out and switched off the lamp.
Sliding under the covers next to him was pure heaven. That silent companionship was as important as the scorching sex, maybe more important in the long run. He could relax with Brandon in his life, and that gratitude was so deep it nearly brought tears to his eyes.
“Thanks for having me over tonight.” Brandon rubbed his cheek against Frank’s. “With your friends, I mean. It was fun.”
Frank drew him closer, sighing as Brandon rested his head on his shoulder and draped an arm over him. Hand resting on Brandon’s, Frank kissed the top of Brandon’s head. “I’m glad you came.”
A hell of a lot of good food and a few glasses of wine took their toll, and they both drifted off to sleep in no time. Frank was vaguely aware of Brandon snoring softly on his shoulder, and before long, he was asleep too.
His eyes flew open in the darkness. Heart pounding, every muscle tense. And Brandon? Where was—
There. They’d moved apart while they’d slept, but Brandon was still there. Frank moved closer to him and moulded his body to Brandon’s. Brandon stirred, murmuring something, and as Frank put his arm over his waist, Brandon lazily grasped Frank’s hand. In seconds, he’d fallen back to sleep.
Frank was still wide-awake, though. It had been a while since a dream had knocked him off balance like that, and he forced himself to breathe slowly and evenly so he wouldn’t disturb Brandon again.
Most of the dream was a blur now. It had probably made sense in the moment, but was now just abstract nonsense he couldn’t quite piece together. The only exception was the last few moments, and the one that had finally jarred him into panicked consciousness.
The hallway had been like it was eighteen months ago. The wall along the left side was bare, where in the present there was a painting. And the door on the right, the one that was always closed now except when the cleaner came, was ajar. He couldn’t hear the machinery, couldn’t smell the antiseptics, but he knew what he’d see when he pushed that door open.
Then the door had opened all the way, and it wasn’t Emily or Mike or one of Andrew’s caretakers.
Brandon.
Pale. Unshaven. Dark circles under his eyes. Shoulders slumped under a weight no one his age should be carrying. He stepped out of the room and leaned against the wall in the hallway. Eyes closed, he rubbed his forehead and took a few long, slow breaths.
And then he’d continued down the hall like Frank wasn’t even there.
Lying here now, in the present, with his arm over Brandon and listening to the soft, gentle breathing, Frank wondered who he would have seen in the dream if he’d stayed in it long enough to go through the doorway.
In spite of his fatigue, Frank lay awake for a good long time, replaying that scene over and over in his mind and wondering if it was his subconscious fucking with him, or if there were lines he needed to read between. Finally, though, sleep took over.
And mercifully, he didn’t dream this time.
When Frank awoke again, the bed was empty. He sat up, looking around. Then the sound of the shower in the next room put the pieces together. He felt ridiculous, being so relieved that Brandon was still here. Wasn’t like the kid was going to slip out through a window in the middle of the night.
A few minutes later, Brandon came out of the bathroom, a towel around his waist. “Morning.”
“Morning.” Frank rubbed his face. “Sleep well?”
“Very.” Brandon smiled. Though Frank’s temples throbbed dully, Brandon didn’t show a single sign of a hangover. Brat.
Brandon ran a hand through his spiky wet hair. “I have to bail on breakfast.”
“Oh?” Frank tried not to let his disappointment show. “So soon?”
“Yeah.” Brandon picked up his shirt. “I almost forgot until my cell phone reminder went off. I’m supposed to go look at a new flat this afternoon.”
“You’re moving?”
“Downsizing.” Brandon slipped into his shirt. “Trying to save some money, and the place I’ve got is going to suck me dry.”
And here I am with five bedrooms, three of which I’m not even using.
“Central London? Most people share flats. You could get a couple people in to share the rent.”
“Not on my hours. That wouldn’t be fair on housemates with like, nine-to-fives, me coming and going when I do.”
“Fair enough.” Frank swung out of bed and cracked his neck. He was shattered, but that was nothing a few hours in the gym couldn’t take care of. “I think Nick’s going to rent out his studio up in Angel. That way, you wouldn’t have to pay an estate agent or any number of middlemen.”
“Nick? The famous Nick?”
“Yeah. He moved in with his partner, last thing I heard.”
And you could move in with me.
“Do you have his phone number? I mean, in case that flat I’m seeing isn’t habitable.”
“Sure.” Frank picked up his trousers and fished his phone from the pocket. “I’ll text it.” He forwarded Nick’s contact details to Brandon. A few moments later, Brandon’s phone buzzed.
“Thanks. Appreciate it.”
“Look, I’d . . .” Hallway. Brandon looking horribly broken and sad. “Don’t commit to too long a lease. I’m not . . . ready.”
“What?” Brandon frowned. “Oh. No. No, Frank, that’s not what I meant.”
“I’m just saying. I don’t want to take over your life and everything.” Like some needy arsehole.
“It’s no big deal. At the start, moving too fast . . .” He shrugged. “Besides, I still have those crazy hours, and I’d need something closer to the club, anyway.”
Not if you quit.
Needy arsehole again.
“Call Nick and meet up with him about that studio if this one doesn’t work out.”
Brandon held up his mobile as if to remind Frank he had the info. “I will. Thanks.�
��
Frank showered, dressed, and filled a couple of travel mugs with coffee so they could get on the road. Brandon tried to insist on taking the bus, but Frank needed to run a few errands himself before he went to the gym.
Conversation stayed light. Brandon was well rested and in a good mood, which rubbed off on Frank, but Frank still couldn’t shake the cold, prickly feeling that had taken up residence along the length of his spine. At every red light, he stole a glance at Brandon to make sure he was still this Brandon and not the one he’d seen in the middle of the night. Brandon was unshaven, yes, his hair a little mussed because he’d only given it a cursory once-over with his fingers before they’d left, but he was well enough. Certainly oblivious to how exhausted and beaten down he’d been in Frank’s dream.
Frank pulled up in front of Brandon’s flat. “Before you go, the guys want to get together for paintball again this Saturday. You game?”
And there it was: that Cheshire cat grin, which melted all the ice along Frank’s spine.
“I wouldn’t miss it.” Brandon leaned across the console and kissed Frank. “I’ll see you tonight.”
“Right. See you tonight.”
He waited until Brandon had disappeared through the door, and then he drove off. With his coffee half gone, the throbbing in his temples relieved, and his eyes adjusted to the morning light, Frank felt like an idiot for being so hung up on a damned dream. He vaguely remembered some paratroopers landing in the garden at some point during the dream, probably a throwback to watching Red Dawn a week or two ago, and he hadn’t been eyeballing the overcast sky for parachutes. Because it was only a dream. Just like seeing Brandon coming out of Andrew’s room had been.
It was only a dream.
“You have any more of those grenades?” Frank overheard Brandon asking Chris as everyone geared up for the first game of the afternoon.
Chris grinned. “I have a few. You going to throw them at me this time?”
Brandon returned the grin. “Don’t want to get hit? Don’t let your enemies get so close.”
“That how that works?” Chuckling, Chris pulled a couple of paint grenades out of his bag.
“How much do I owe you?”
Chris shrugged. “Take them. We’ll call it a prize for killing me last time.”
Brandon laughed and took the grenades. “So what’s my prize if I kill you this time?”
Chris stiffened. He gave Brandon a weird look, one that struck Frank as cold and maybe even mildly disgusted, but without a word, he picked up his gear and headed into the crowded ready area.
Brandon rolled his eyes and clipped a grenade to his belt beside one of his extra hoppers.
Frank eyed Chris, then Brandon. “You two back on speaking terms?”
“Just had to sort out a misunderstanding or two.” Brandon fixed the second and third grenades into place. “We didn’t have the same expectations that first time, and . . .” He trailed off with a half-shrug.
“And now you do?”
Brandon smirked. “You’re not getting jealous, are you?”
Frank laughed. “No, of course not.”
“Sure you’re not.” Brandon winked. “But yeah, I think he thought since I went home with him that night, I was game for something a bit more serious. And I guess I didn’t make it clear enough I wasn’t. So now we’ve cleared the air. It’s all good.”
“Good. Wouldn’t want the two of you shooting each other for spite.”
Brandon sniggered. “Competitive as the two of us are? That might happen anyway.”
Frank put his hands over his ears. “The ref didn’t just hear that.”
They both laughed and continued getting their equipment together. Once they were ready—Brandon with his gun and paint, Frank with his orange tape and a whistle—they joined the others.
Geoff gave the usual pregame speech. Rules, safewords, scenario, and all of that.
The teams went out on the field, each gathering at one end. Frank watched Brandon huddled with his own team. All the team members looked down at the ground, where Brandon seemed to be drawing something with his finger. Then he gestured sharply in the air, reminding Frank of SWAT and military movies.
The team broke apart and jogged in pairs towards different sides of their end of the field. Brandon used his boot to erase whatever he’d drawn in the dirt, and then he trotted off too, keeping his head down and moving almost silently across the ground.
The siren sounded, and the players were in motion. Frank watched the middle of the field, keeping an eye on any players he could see. He glanced in the direction Brandon had gone.
Surprise, surprise: Brandon had vanished.
Even though it was completely impossible short of inventing teleportation, Frank glanced behind himself. The skin on his neck prickled from being unable to see Brandon. The man’s skill for moving on the battlefield made him paranoid, and he was glad for the ref job, even if Geoff as field owner was more than happy to bet his arse, too, as amply proven. However, a player had to deal with a great many more factors. Opponents. Paint left. Moving through the territory. The objective of capturing the flag or a player from the opposing camp. Whereas he only kept an eye on the players. The ones he could see.
Far to the left, the first heated exchange started, pretty close to the red team’s base. Frank immediately peered right, assuming it might be a distraction from what was really going on. In any case, it seemed the reds were going for all-out assault on the blue team’s position, rolling right over them before Chris could lead his team out into the field. Chris wasn’t much of a leader anyway—too keen to score his own point; people followed him not out of loyalty but because he was a very good player and some people moved in his wake, like weak players often rallied around strong ones. Not an example of the spirit of a small combat unit, but it worked for a while.
There. Chris crawling along the left side, as expected.
Frank moved closer along the right side to get a better look at what was going on, keeping low, though, so people taking potshots at Chris wouldn’t hit him instead. Chris briefly aimed at him, and Frank wagged a finger. Shoot me, and there’ll be hell to pay.
Chris saluted him with two fingers.
Right behind Chris, a player appeared, marker low but ready, and crept up on him.
Holy shit, one of the reds must have walked straight through the blue camp, either evading the other blues who’d attempted to protect it, or maybe finished them off, and was now creeping towards Chris from the back. The way he moved gave away it had to be Brandon. Frank noticed another ref creeping up in the back. Mike, likely getting a huge kick out of watching Brandon playing counting coup.
Frank grinned behind his mask, but didn’t do anything. No nod or other signal that would have given away what was going on to Chris.
Just then, Brandon lifted up a bit, reached out with his marker, and tapped Chris on the shoulder. Frank could almost hear it: Dead.
Startled, Chris twisted around, coiled and ready to run, and Frank’s instinct told him the movement was all wrong before he saw Chris lash out with the marker. A pure reflex. Much, much too fast to be premeditated, completely fuelled by surprise and tension and a primal animal self-preservation, but those fuckers were heavy, solid metal.
In a movement that was equally swift, Brandon brought his marker up and defended against the blow that could have cracked his mask or even cost him a row of teeth if it had landed.
Frank was too surprised and shocked to blow the whistle, but he ran towards them.
Brandon and Chris stood facing each other, breathing so heavily their chests were visibly moving.
“You’re dead.” Brandon’s voice was muffled in the mask.
Chris growled. “Fucking arsehole.”
Lowering his marker, Brandon glanced at Frank. Mike was coming up from the rear.
“Bran— Stefan, you okay?” Frank drew closer. When Brandon nodded, he turned to Chris. “I did not just see that. Are you fucking out of your
mind?”
“It’s all right.” Brandon lifted a hand. “He didn’t hit me.”
Chris tucked his marker under his arm. “He startled me. I wasn’t out to hit him.”
Frank and Mike exchanged glances. Mike shrugged.
“All right.” Frank inhaled deeply to calm himself. “Take it easy, all right? No one’s out for blood out here.”
Brandon laughed. Chris didn’t.
Mike gestured at the two of them. “You boys play nice.” Then he put a hand on Frank’s shoulder, and they started to walk back out towards the rest of the game.
“Don’t even think about it.” At Chris’s snarl, both Mike and Frank stopped dead in their tracks.
When Frank turned around, Brandon had both hands up in a show of defensiveness.
“Uh, what about the rules?”
“Fuck the rules.” Chris turned to go. “You can shoot me all you want, mate, but you’re not capturing me.”
“Whoa, whoa.” Mike turned and stepped in Chris’s way. “Hang on a minute.”
Chris faced him and Frank, his stance echoing the impatience that was visible even through his tinted visor.
“Chris, everybody wants everything to be consensual out here, but if you’re gonna play . . .”
“And I was fine with that.” Chris lifted his mask just enough to spit the words out. “Totally fine. And totally fine letting him capture me and do whatever he wanted to me.” He pointed sharply at Frank. “Until he started fucking him.”
Frank’s throat constricted and his blood turned to ice water.
Mike glanced at him, eyes wide.
“I’ll play paintball with anyone who can hold up a marker.” Chris adjusted his mask again. “But that? Fuck no. I’m out here to have fun and get laid, not get AIDS, thanks.”
Frank blinked.
Brandon looked at Chris. Frank. Chris again.
Then he threw up his free hand. “Fine. Whatever.” Brandon tore off the red armband and let it flutter to the ground as he stormed off.
Frank couldn’t move. Follow Brandon? Chew Chris out? What the fuck was he supposed to do now? And how did Chris know?
Mike put a hand on his arm. “Go make sure he’s cooled down. I’ll handle this one.”
