Everything, Brandon. “We need to talk about a few things.”
Brandon took a cautious step towards the vacant chair. “We as in you and Brandon? Or you and Stefan?”
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.