by L. A. Witt
Frank nodded. He jogged after Brandon. The kid’s strides were long and fast, and Frank had to break into a faster run to catch up with him.
“Hey. You okay?”
“I’m fine.” Brandon put his barrel cover on with enough force that he almost snapped one of the elastic ties. “I think I’m done for the day.”
“Quite honestly, I think he’s going to be done for the day. Once Geoff catches wind of that, Chris is going to be—”
“That’s fine.” Brandon’s voice was softer now, not quite even. “But I don’t think I’m in the mood to play.”
Frank’s heart sank. He put a hand on Brandon’s shoulder, and his heart sank a little deeper when Brandon shrugged away. “Brandon . . .”
Brandon stopped. The glare on his mask almost obscured his features, but Frank could still see him close his eyes for a moment. Then he looked at Frank through their masks. “Just . . . give me a minute, okay?”
“I . . . okay.”
Brandon walked away. Frank watched him, not sure he could have followed if he’d wanted to. His chest ached as he watched the kid go, and that ache turned to fury as he heard escalating shouts behind him. Chris’s voice. Mike’s. Someone else’s. There was no paintball fire going on. Just shouting. And there was Geoff heading Chris’s way, so this thing would be settled one way or another in short order.
Up ahead of him, Brandon crossed the boundary from the field to the ready area. He tore off his mask and threw it. It hit something solid, the impact making Frank jump, but Brandon didn’t even flinch. He dropped his gun on one of the folding tables and ran a gloved hand through his hair as he sank onto one of the chairs. Elbows on his knees, he rubbed his neck with both hands.
Frank grimaced as he watched him. He glanced back at the others. There was still plenty of shouting going on. Sharp gestures, Geoff stabbing Chris in the chest with a gloved finger. It was impossible to see faces with everyone wearing masks, but the body language and elevated voices said enough.
Frank was tempted to go back out there and give Chris a piece of his mind, but with the way that exchange had affected Brandon, Frank was as likely to give Chris a piece of his fist. Better to let Geoff handle it.
He headed towards the ready area. Brandon didn’t look up.
Brandon’s mask was on the ground against one of the coolers. Frank picked it up, dusted it off, and walked over to Brandon.
“You okay?”
Brandon nodded. Sighing, he sat back and looked up at Frank, and Frank’s stomach twisted as he caught a glimpse of the Brandon he’d seen in his dream a few nights ago.
“So the guys here know?” Brandon asked. “About you?”
“Geoff and Mike do.” Frank handed Brandon his mask, then took off his own. “Apparently they aren’t the only ones. I don’t disclose unless it becomes important.”
Brandon held his mask in his lap, idly thumbing the strap as he stared at the grass with unfocused eyes. “I’m sorry. For causing it to—”
“Don’t you dare apologise for anything.” Frank sat beside Brandon and put an arm around his shoulders. “It wasn’t your fault.” He pulled his hand back, took off his glove, and put his arm around Brandon again. This time, he stroked Brandon’s hair with his fingertips. “Maybe it’s better that the guys know about me, but I’m sorry you had to deal with that.” Because now the story would spread. Hot as Chris was, Frank didn’t trust him as far as he could kick him up a hill.
Brandon sighed, and Frank was afraid he’d recoil again, but Brandon tugged off his glove with his teeth and then put his hand on Frank’s leg. “I guess this kind of thing happens.” He met Frank’s eyes. “That’s the game we’re playing.”
Only I pulled you in on my side, and there are things here I can’t protect you from. “That’s what’s driven me so deep underground. Easier to . . . deal with than . . .” He gestured aimlessly. “This. It’s not that I don’t like playing, it’s what happens if I win. Or lose. That freaks me the fuck out.”
“Did you use to play?”
“Before I caught it? No.”
“Any idea where . . .?” Brandon still touched him. Touch. The main thing he’d been afraid to lose when he’d told people about the results. That nobody would ever touch him again, kiss him again, even hold him again. That people would be freaking out over using his cutlery, his mugs, that people would freak out just being anywhere near him. He’d thought he could live without sex, but not without touch.
He sighed and kept his voice so low nobody but Brandon could hear him, and even Brandon needed to lean closer. “Best guess? In prison.”
Brandon jerked a bit, but didn’t pull away.
“I went for possession with the intent to distribute. Couple years.”
“Drugs?”
“Human growth hormone.” Frank almost laughed, but didn’t have either the air or the humour to do it. “Supplements that weren’t legal. I was taking them, had a good source. Easy money. Nothing you can’t still get in some of the more hard-core gyms.”
“Okay.” Brandon just listened.
“I was pretty seriously into all that. Not quite competition standard, but I got used to being big. Trained with rough guys, North London gangs, rough guys, as I said. That connection might have got me busted, but, yeah, I went for that. Maybe that was the only thing they could pin on me. Hell, it was the only thing I did. I was a bouncer back then.”
Brandon tightened his hand on his leg. “You don’t have to tell me.”
“I went behind bars, had a cellmate. Wasn’t like the American prison movies at all, you know? I’m big, anyway. So anything that happened in that cell was completely consensual. He wasn’t gay, I don’t think, but he’d been in there five years. Me, I discovered I was. Had had a vague idea, of course, but didn’t manage to wrap my head around it. Thought it made me weak or something, and that’s not something I am easily. Weak, I mean.” He glanced down at his knuckles and briefly tightened his hands. “Got out, cleaned up, went looking for more. Met Andrew. Dated. Fell in love.” Terrified of those emotions. Utterly screamingly terrified. “Bought a house. Settled. Figured I had a shot at a respectable life and all that. Then my health started acting up. Got weird rashes, felt like shit, couldn’t lift my usual weights. Andrew got it worse, and he figured out what it was.” Frank closed his eyes. “I’m still amazed he didn’t leave me then and there.”
Brandon swallowed. “So he got it . . . from you?”
Frank nodded. “As far as we know.” And hadn’t that guilt gnawed at him relentlessly all this time? The money made it even worse. He still felt guilty, going from nobody with barely a regular income to “rich” by his own standards, “comfortable” by Andrew’s. Like he was reaping massive rewards for killing the only man he’d ever cared about. It didn’t seem fair, felt like the universe slapping him in the face and laughing at him.
Emily hadn’t wanted a thing but photos and had reminded him that Andrew had wanted him to be “all right,” that Andrew found dying easier because “Frank is taken care of.” Same guy who’d infected him, set for life because of him.
“Wow,” Brandon whispered after a while. “That must have been hell for both of you.”
“I’d say you have no idea, but”—the dream Brandon flashed through his mind, and instead of shuddering, he made himself pull Brandon a little closer—“I think you do.”
“Yeah. Pretty close, anyway.”
Frank stroked Brandon’s hair for a moment, then kissed his cheek. “I’m sorry you’re having to deal with any of that again.”
“It’s not the same.” Brandon’s Adam’s apple jumped. “Not even close.”
“How so?”
Brandon moistened his lips. “You’re healthy. And the treatments are getting better by the year.”
“It’s still—”
“I know.” Brandon put up a hand. Closing his eyes, he shook his head. “I know. The facts, the realities, all of that. But right now, you’re fine.”
Bran
don reminded Frank right then of a kid trying to talk reality into changing. And really, what was to be gained by insisting that while Frank was fine now, there was no way to predict the future? Brandon had already been made to feel like a leper out on the paintball field. There was no need to pour salt in that wound before it was necessary.
And what do we do when that conversation can’t be delayed anymore?
Brandon touched Frank’s face, and gently turned his head so they were facing each other. Frank braced himself, expecting Brandon to say something else that he wasn’t sure he could handle right now, but instead, Brandon’s hand slid into Frank’s hair. He drew him down and kissed him. It was a light kiss, gentle, but went on. They wrapped their arms around each other, and Frank stroked Brandon’s sweaty, spiky hair as they shared the kind of kiss he’d led himself to believe would never happen again.
I’m here, and I want to make sure you are.
I know what’s happening, but I’m not going anywhere.
I need you.
A movement to the side broke Frank’s focus on Brandon, and he pulled away, feeling Brandon’s hand slide to his shoulder, then down his arm as he half turned.
The other players—most paint-splattered—were on their way back to the ready area, herded by Geoff, who gave him and Mike irritated looks. They should probably have stopped the game rather than let Geoff fend for himself.
Mike ordered Chris to stay the fuck away from Frank and Brandon for the moment, and then he walked over to Geoff, who wiped his face and gave Mike his full attention, head tilted somewhat as he listened. Mike and Geoff were one of those couples who could very quickly communicate complex problems; their trust was implicit and explicit, and they seemed to have some kind of shorthand, too.
It didn’t take even fifteen seconds before Geoff stepped up to Chris, who rested his fists on his hips.
“Stefan. Frank.” Geoff motioned for them to join him.
Frank stood and walked over. “I don’t think we need to make a big deal out of this, Geoff. I honestly don’t.”
Chris’s lip curled in obvious disgust. “I think we should.”
Here we go again.
Frank glanced at Geoff, who nodded for him to continue. “I’m a ref, Chris. I’m not getting involved. At all. It’s not like I’ve been hiding anything from you. Unless I put my dick in you, it’s none of your fucking business, either. I disclose when and if it’s necessary.”
“And that’s great. But it’s not at all about you.” Chris stared at Brandon.
Frank glanced at Brandon, who’d stood up and come closer, and Frank didn’t like that icy expression on his face. “I can assure you that nothing he and I have done was risky by any stretch, not that it’s any business of yours. We’ve always played safe on this field. Anything less would be crazy.”
Brandon stepped close, giving off a cold menace that had nothing to do with Stefan. Just murderous anger that radiated from him. Frank moved a bit closer to him, if only to catch a punch before it came.
Geoff turned to Chris. “Bottom line is that you should have safeworded or raised the issue off the field. None of this bullshit was called for.”
Chris snorted derisively. He spat in the grass and glared at Brandon. “Yeah, well, I wasn’t expecting to get barrel-tapped by Typhoid Stef—”
“Oh, fuck you!” Brandon launched himself towards Chris, but Frank grabbed him and held him back. Brandon struggled against him, eyes still locked on Chris. “Fuck you, you son of a bitch.”
Geoff stood in front of Chris, a hand up and ready to block him if he decided to have a go at Brandon. “That’s enough. Both of you.”
“Take it easy.” Frank held Brandon tighter, both embracing and restraining. “He’s not worth it, and you know it.”
Brandon struggled for a second against Frank’s arm, but then relaxed. Exhaling through his nose, he turned his head away. Frank kept a hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently.
“You guys have a problem, you sort that shit out here. Not on my field.” Geoff waved a hand at both Chris and Brandon. “You’re both sitting out this game. Everyone else? Get some water, refill your paint, and let’s get back out on the field.”
Everyone scattered. Frank squeezed Brandon’s shoulder again. “You want to get out of here?”
Brandon nodded.
“Get your gear together.” Frank dug out his car keys and handed them to Brandon. “I’ll be right there.”
“Okay.” All the fight had left Brandon. He picked up his mask and marker and didn’t look at Chris.
Frank and Chris, however, exchanged murderous glances. Wisely, though, the fucker took his gear to the other side of the ready area.
As Chris walked away, Mike joined Frank. He glanced at Chris’s back and shook his head. “Sorry about all that.”
Frank waved a hand. “Not your fault. I’m going to get Brandon out of here, though. Maybe we’ll try again another weekend, but . . .”
“Understood.” Mike nodded. “I’ll let Geoff know.”
“Thanks.”
Frank didn’t say anything in the car. Neither did Brandon. At least not until the field was long out of sight behind them.
Brandon kept his eyes fixed on something outside the passenger window. “Do you think I am being reckless?”
“By sleeping with me?”
“Yeah.”
Frank swallowed. “We’re careful. Very safe. And you were careful with . . .”
“Stefan.” Brandon kept his gaze fixed on something outside the window and absently fingered the abstract tattoo on his arm. “That’s where my name came from. My partner’s name was Stefan.”
Frank swallowed. “And you two were careful, right?”
“Always. And I was that careful with everyone before and after him.”
Frank put a hand on Brandon’s leg. “Then you’re not being reckless. But if you’d rather not take the risk, I’ll understand.”
“What? No! I’m not suggesting we stop.” Brandon looked out the window again. “But playing with other guys. My job. Maybe that’s . . . maybe that’s not such a good idea.”
“Maybe not.” Frank squeezed his thigh. “You don’t have to . . . it’s your decision entirely. There’s other work to be done anyway. The Garden’s making enough to pay more staff behind the bar, in security, wherever. Raoul’s definitely up for a raise, and . . . ah, damn. I don’t want you to worry about this shit or money.”
Of course, any john could be carrying the virus. Precautions could fail. Maybe Brandon already had it. Outside a test, and regular updates, it was impossible to tell. The thought made him sick.
Frank tensed his jaw. “Do you think you can tell me about Stefan? Not if it’s too painful. I don’t want to tear all the scars open again.”
Brandon took a long, deep breath. “What do you want to know?”
“Anything you’re willing to tell me. He was obviously a big part of your life. I’m curious about him.”
Brandon rested an elbow below the window and rubbed the back of his neck. “I met him at the VFW. Veterans of Foreign Wars. Couple of my buddies and I were eligible to join after our Iraq tours, so we checked it out. He was one of the bartenders on weeknights. I wanted to learn to tend bar, and he said he’d teach me.”
Frank briefly recalled the conversation with Raoul, when he’d said he’d stumbled across Brandon tending bar at a strip club. “So you like that sort of thing? Bartending?”
“Yeah. It’s a fun job.” Brandon smiled when Frank glanced at him. “Stefan taught me to mix all kinds of shit. Taught me some of the tricks, too. Flipping bottles and stuff. I’m out of practice, but I can still do it.” For a moment, he was quiet, gaze fixed out the windshield this time, and his smile was a mix of sad and nostalgic. “And one night while he was teaching me a few things after closing, we ended up staying until almost seven in the morning because we kept coming up with excuses not to leave.”
“Excuses?”
Laughing softly, Brandon
nodded. “Yeah. I’d say I needed to practice this one trick a few more times. Make sure I got it right. And about the time I did, he’d turn around and say that as long as I had that one down, I could probably try another. I mean, we were both exhausted. You know how when you haven’t slept in too long, you start getting slaphappy?”
Frank chuckled. “Yeah, I do.”
“You would’ve sworn we were drunk. Probably just as well nobody was around, because we looked and sounded like idiots. And after the sun came up, we finally decided we should get home, but he didn’t think I was in any condition to get myself home. I had a motorcycle then, and he said he was terrified of me winding up splattered across the pavement, so he insisted on driving me home. Then he kissed me in the car, and that was it. No turning back.” His smile faded. “Not for two years, anyway.”
“Did he know?” Frank asked. “When you guys met, I mean?”
Brandon nodded. “He’d known for a few years. And I guess I kind of knew he wouldn’t be one of the ones to live for years and years. He was . . .” Brandon glanced at Frank. “He was a lot sicker. I don’t know if he was ever as healthy pre-virus as you are now.”
Frank winced. “That must have been hard on both of you.”
“Oh, yeah. But we had a good run. We really did. That first year, it was amazing. People turned up their noses at us because he was so much older than me, and because it was Virginia. Nothing quite like being gay when you’re spitting distance from the damned 700 Club.”
“The what?”
“You don’t want to know. Anyway, the second year, he started going downhill. I took care of him as much as I could, but once he had to go to the hospital at the end . . .” Brandon stared at something outside the car. His cheek rippled as he clenched his jaw.
Frank touched Brandon’s leg again and offered a gentle squeeze but didn’t say anything.
Finally, Brandon cleared his throat. “I didn’t see him the last six weeks of his life.”
Frank’s heart stopped. “What?”
Brandon cleared his throat again. Once more. “His relatives made sure I wasn’t allowed into the hospital or the hospice. He tried to fight them on it, but I had a friend give him a message for me. I told him I loved him, I knew he wasn’t the one keeping me away, and I didn’t want him using up his energy arguing with them. And I guess I kind of held on to some hope that he’d get better. He’d had a pretty bad scare a few months before and pulled through, but this time, he just . . .” Brandon shook his head, and his voice was hollow. “He didn’t have anything left.”
