Capture & Surrender

by L. A. Witt

  Frank locked eyes with him, which took a hell of a lot more effort than it should have. “Brandon.”

  “Oh.” Brandon gulped. Then he lowered himself into the chair, the slow motion fraught with tension and uncertainty. He folded his hands in his lap, across those trademark camo trousers. “So, um. What’s up?”

  “I’ve been doing some thinking. About us. Our situation.” Frank paused, chewing the inside of his cheek. The sick feeling from earlier was still there in his gut, getting worse by the second, and his heart pounded as he tried to articulate his feelings. “I’m—”

  “Frank.” Brandon’s voice was gentle, but firm. “Just say it. I don’t need it to be sugar-coated.”

  Maybe you don’t.

  Frank swallowed. “Bottom line, you and I both know the reality of this disease. We both know what’s . . . inevitable.”

  Brandon winced, lowering his gaze.

  “And we both also know what it’s like to watch someone go through the, um, final stages.”

  “More or less,” Brandon said softly, and this time it was Frank who winced.

  “You know I’d go out of my way to not hurt you, right?”

  Brandon’s head snapped up, and his eyes were wide. “I . . . yeah, I do.” The sudden panic in his voice was palpable; Frank thought he could even feel Brandon’s heartbeat in the air around them.

  “I don’t want to hurt you.” I don’t, I don’t, I don’t. “And I can’t put you through that same hell again. I’d rather let you go and let you move—”

  “No!” Brandon shook his head. “You’re . . . you don’t want to hurt me, so you’re going to push me away?”

  “If that’s what I have to do to keep you from—”

  “I don’t need you to make those decisions for me.” Fury charged in to replace the initial panic on Brandon’s face. “I’m younger than you, but I’m a goddamned adult.”

  “I know.” Frank made a “calm down” gesture with both hands. “I’m not making this decision for you. I’m making it for . . . well, both of us, I guess. I can’t put you through what I went through.”

  Brandon stared at him, eyes locked on Frank’s. “So that’s it? You were fine with it up until today, and now that I’ve had time to start feeling this strongly about you, you can’t handle it?”

  This strongly? What?

  “Brandon, I—”

  “Fine. Whatever.” Brandon jumped to his feet. “I’ve had enough of people making decisions about what I go through and who I’m around. I don’t need you adding to it.”

  Before Frank could stop him, Brandon stormed out of the room and slammed the door behind him.

  Now that I’ve had time to feel this strongly about you.

  Sinking back into his chair, he let the words echo through his mind a few times. Each time, the undercurrent of pain was louder than the fury, and hit Frank even harder in the chest. He had to do it. He had to hurt him this time. Brandon would get over this and move on. Shake it off and recover faster and more completely than he would if he stuck around to the end. It was some short-term pain to keep him out of long-term hell.

  Now that I’ve had time to feel this strongly about you.

  Frank rested his elbows on the desk and wiped at his stinging eyes. This had to be done. It had to. He coughed a couple of times to relieve the ache in his throat, but it didn’t help. The slamming door still rang in his ears, and the finality of Brandon’s departure was settling in on his shoulders, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t keep himself from collapsing under his emotions.

  So he quit fighting it. He covered his face with one hand and cried.

  He only left his office after Raoul confirmed that Stefan had left the club. Frank could almost hear the WTF in Raoul’s texted response, but being the boss meant you could sometimes be a coward and get away with it. Raoul’s gaze followed him when he left the club, but Raoul was way too busy with several people to get in his way.

  The drive home passed in a blur—literally. And when Frank unlocked the door, it immediately hit him that he was coming home alone, and likely would for the foreseeable future. No banter on the other side, no heated kisses, no barely contained impatience to get to the bed or shower. Not even that quiet companionship that lent depth to a relationship. Spending time together with no other aim but to be together.

  He dropped his keys on the work surface in the kitchen. Nothing but pills to swallow, and then to bed alone. As he went through his routine of setting them out for the next day, he wondered why he was still doing this. If the illness would still get him in the end, why not just let it take him?

  That was madness, of course, possibly depression. And yet the thought of going back into therapy was unspeakably wearying.

  His friends. They cared whether he lived or died. And he, too, would get over it.

  You did the best you could. You did the right thing.

  He finished swallowing his pills and settled in front of the TV. Nothing on, so he headed upstairs for sit-ups and press-ups. Gym tomorrow, yet another routine that kept him going.

  Travelling might rip him out of this, but not if he planned to actually make the changes to the Garden, not for a fair long while.

  When they’d both been diagnosed, Andrew and he had made a pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela. Not because either of them believed in a higher being (or that a pilgrimage might heal them), but because it was an excuse to leave normal life for a few weeks, doing nothing but walking, eating, sleeping. Nothing focused the mind as much as the bleeding feet and pure exhaustion on some of the harder parts of that route.

  But that would forever be tied to Andrew in his mind.

  He stood and rubbed his burning pecs, then left the bedroom and headed down the corridor. To the room. To that room.

  He placed the hand on the doorknob. Turned it. Moved forwards. Stepped inside.

  He disliked the room, hated it, in fact, though it wasn’t so bad when he was actually standing inside the white walls and the drawn yellow curtains. Peaceful. Part of him always expected to see Andrew lying in the bed in the middle of the room, the bones inside his face visible—his own death image. Expected to see Andrew lying there, dead.

  He’d always expected he’d spend his last few weeks in the same room, staring at Andrew’s favourite paintings on the far wall—colourful, energetic acrylics, large bare canvases on their wooden frames. Fully expected to lie in the same bed: one of those specialist ones with air pumps that prevented bedsores. Part of the insurance money had gone towards buying all the things Andrew needed, and Frank had never gotten rid of them. It seemed only prudent to keep them for later.

  And what he’d done tonight may have been cruel in its own way, and hurt both of them more than Frank liked, but it meant not putting Brandon through seeing him in here. No sitting beside the bed and wondering if this downturn was another setback or if it was really the end. No finding too much hope in every upswing only to have that hope dashed again in a matter of days or weeks. Death was both kind and cruel: the overture was pure torment for anyone involved, but the conclusion was merciful.

  Frank didn’t want Brandon to suffer so much that the final drawn-out tone on Frank’s ECG monitor would be welcomed.

  He sat in the chair beside the empty bed. Resting his elbows on his knees, he pressed his loosely clasped hands against his lips. He wouldn’t be alone when he died here. He had Geoff and Mike. Emily. No family to speak of, at least not anyone close enough—geographically or otherwise—to be in this room, but he wouldn’t be alone. Not completely alone, anyway. Someone would be sitting in this chair, the one he’d been sitting in the night Andrew slipped away, but it would still be empty in its own way. Somebody would be sitting here like he had, listening to his laboured breath that drew out longer. Paused. There would be a sick thrill of fear, anticipation, relief. Then another breath, and a sinking feeling mixed with relief. Then no breath. No breath. Nothing.

  And self-pity never did any man, dying or otherw
ise, a damn bit of good.

  He pushed himself up and left the room without looking back, pausing to pull the door shut behind him before he headed into the bedroom.

  Once today was over, and he’d had some sleep, then he could figure out the future. One step at a time: get through the rest of tonight. Get through tomorrow. Take it from there.

  The sleep part would be complicated, though. Lying awake and staring at the ceiling seemed to be the more likely scenario for tonight. Occasional glances at the clock kept him abreast of how long he’d been like this. Midnight. Half past. One. Half past. Two.

  He scrubbed a hand over his face and sighed. Pure physical exhaustion would take over eventually. He just had to wait it out.

  On his dresser, his mobile buzzed.

  Frank jumped out of bed so fast he nearly knocked the lamp off the bedside table. This late at night usually meant a call from Market Garden, and that wasn’t good.

  He snatched up the phone without checking the caller ID. “What’s up?”

  “We need to talk.”

  He grabbed the edge of the dresser for balance. “Brandon. We—”

  “Please.” Brandon’s voice was soft. “I shouldn’t have stormed out on you like that. We weren’t finished.”

  Closing his eyes, Frank sighed. Yeah, they were finished. Why rub salt in the wound? But still. “All right. Let’s, um, let’s talk.”

  “Will you come downstairs?”

  Frank’s head snapped towards the bedroom door. “Are you—”

  “Yes, I’m already here.” Brandon exhaled. “I should have called before I came over, but all I could think of was needing to talk to you and—”

  “I’ll be down in a minute.”

  He slipped into a pair of jeans and a T-shirt and then barefooted into trainers. Then down the stairs, into the kitchen to pick up his keys, and back into the foyer.

  When the door opened, Brandon lifted his head. Frank thought he looked about as miserable as he’d expected, and his stomach knotted up and sank towards his knees.

  “Come in. Tea?”

  Brandon eyed him quizzically, then nodded. “Sure, yeah.”

  Frank headed into the kitchen, saw the tray of pills that stood in full view, and grimaced. As if he’d needed a reminder. He reached over it and flipped the switch on the kettle. His hands went through the motions of making tea—take tea bags from a tin, toss one each into a mug, pour hot water, leave for a little, extract tea bag, and pour in a splash of milk—half-expecting Brandon to bridge the gap between them and touch him again.

  Frank took one mug and handed it to Brandon, then took his own, turned around and pushed up against the work surface, arms crossed.

  As long as you stay the responsible adult, there’s nothing to worry about.

  “At least you look like shit, too.” Brandon lifted his mug as if to salute him.

  Frank sipped his tea and shrugged. “Some nights, I barely sleep at all.”

  Brandon’s eyes raked up and down his body. Frank fought the urge to straighten up, but he was too tired for any kind of posturing.

  “How can you do that? Offer me a way out and then tell me to get the fuck lost? One moment you care, and the next you don’t?”

  I care too fucking much. Frank sighed. “That’s not what I said.”

  Brandon nodded. “Okay. No, you didn’t. You said you don’t want to hurt me, and that’s why it’s over.”

  “Bottom line, yeah.”

  “Disregarding that breaking up hurts, too.”

  “It does.” Frank pressed his lips together. “But nothing like watching somebody die that you . . .” Love. Oh, God. Let’s keep that word out of this discussion. “Care so deeply about. I’ve been there. You’ve been . . . been there. Do I want you to wish I’d die already so I’m no longer suffering? Do I want you to get to the point where you want me to die because that’s the merciful option? No.”

  Brandon flinched. Folding his arms across his chest, he shifted his weight and kept his gaze away from Frank. “There are worse things, you know.”

  “I can’t think of many.”

  “I’ve lived one.” This time, Brandon met Frank’s eyes. “Not knowing. Trying to go through my life like normal, even though the . . .” He paused, lowering his gaze again. “Even though my partner is sick and might be dying. Not being able to be there with him, and . . . not knowing. That was worse than any night I spent with him when he was really sick and we thought it might be the end. Far worse.”

  Frank exhaled hard. “And you think I want you to go through anything like that again?”

  Brandon pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed heavily. “No one wants anyone to go through that, for God’s sake.” He dropped his hand and turned to Frank. “But you could send me packing right now, and I could walk out that door and get flattened by a fucking bus. Or I could get cancer or . . . hell, anything. Because you’re—” He snapped his teeth shut.

  “Because I’m what?”

  Brandon swept his tongue across his lips. Some colour bloomed in his cheeks as he shifted his weight again. “Just because you know something will eventually . . . will eventually kill you doesn’t make me or anyone else any less mortal.”

  Frank lowered his gaze into his tea, letting that hold his attention while he digested what Brandon had said.

  Brandon arched an eyebrow, some playfulness slipping into his voice and expression. “And for all either of us knows, you’ll get flattened by a damned bus.”

  Frank couldn’t stop himself from laughing at that, and Brandon chuckled too. Frank set his cup down. “Point taken.” His humour didn’t last long, though, and he watched his thumb trace the handle on the cup instead of holding Brandon’s gaze. “You deserve to be happy, Brandon. Not taking care of someone who’s on his way out.”

  Brandon moved a little closer, and Frank’s forearm prickled as he anticipated Brandon’s hand on his skin. Brandon didn’t reach for him, though. “Honestly? Taking care of someone who’s on his way out beats the fuck out of knowing that someone is on his way out and not being able to be there.” This time, he did put his hand on Frank’s arm. To Frank’s surprise, Brandon’s voice wavered. “And it’s a hell of a lot better than not having that person at all.”

  Frank closed his eyes. He put his other hand over the top of Brandon’s, knowing damn well he should pull away rather than create more of this warm, heartbreaking contact. A hundred arguments were on the tip of his tongue, reasons why they both knew they shouldn’t do this no matter how much they wanted to, but as long as he was touching Brandon, he couldn’t bring a single one of those arguments to life.

  Finally, calling on every bit of strength he possessed, he drew back his hand, and then gently slipped his arm out from under Brandon’s. “There’s nothing I want more in the world than for us to—”

  “I love you.”

  Frank’s breath halted in his throat. He met Brandon’s eyes, and wondered when they’d gotten that extra shine. “What?”

  Brandon swallowed. “I love you. It’s that simple.”

  And wasn’t it ironic that his first thought was, I love you too, but you’re wrong.

  Frank looked into Brandon’s flushed face betraying all those emotions, and something coiled and flipped inside his chest. He couldn’t dismiss it as an immature crush, either, though that would have made everything easier.

  I love you.

  The game changer, the biggest calibre he could think of. And yet Brandon clearly meant it, gazed at him with all the courage saying those three words required. Bright-eyed, emotionally naked and raw. Frank wasn’t sure he’d ever seen anything more beautiful.

  “Oh damn.” He reached up to touch Brandon’s face and winced when Brandon turned his head to kiss his wrist.

  You fool.

  He pulled Brandon closer and felt him rest against him, one arm around his waist, face pushed into his neck. The man was vibrating with emotion, nothing at all like the smart-arse that he could be. Or even
very dominant. A young man in love with balls enough to admit it, knowing damn well he was in love with the absolute worst option available to him.

  “You’re crazy, Brandon. This makes no sense. And we shouldn’t.”

  Brandon jerked back, but Frank held him against his body, craving that touch too much.

  “But I’m a fool, too. I’d never have thought . . .” He kissed Brandon’s ear and stayed close. “I could love again like this. But I do.”

  Brandon pulled back again, but with less force. Frank loosened his embrace. Brandon’s eyebrows were up, eyes wetter now than before, and the unspoken question came across loud and clear: You do?

  Frank tipped Brandon’s chin a little bit higher, and as he leaned down, he whispered, “I love you, Brandon,” just before their lips met.

  Brandon’s entire body relaxed against Frank’s. All the tension he’d carried in with him eased, and he felt almost boneless in Frank’s arms as they held onto each other. They didn’t deepen the kiss, but didn’t break it either. It wasn’t foreplay this time. Maybe not even affection. Simply a full stop to a painful conversation that had, in the end, put his world back on its axis.

  Brandon was the one to finally break the kiss, but he didn’t try to get out of Frank’s arms. He searched Frank’s eyes, his own unreadable. Then he touched Frank’s face, brushing the pad of his thumb across his cheek. “So what do we do now?”

  Frank stroked Brandon’s short hair. “You tell me.”

  A faint smile pulled across Brandon’s lips. “Sleep would probably be a good start.”

  Frank laughed. “Yeah, I guess it would.” The very mention of sleep was like an incantation, summoning up all the fatigue that the tense conversation had held at bay. Frank’s eyelids were heavy. Hell, his whole body was heavy. And Brandon wore his exhaustion on his sleeve too: the slight slump in his shoulders, the way he slowly blinked, the shadows under his eyes.

  Brandon swallowed. “Would it be too much to ask to stay tonight?”

  “No.” Frank pressed his lips to Brandon’s forehead. “I wouldn’t want you to stay anywhere else.”