Ilan’s eyes narrowed. “Only until I grew six inches and learned to beat the fuck out of them on the playground.”
Preston threw his head back and laughed. “We all figured that one out too. But we all kind of knew it left scars.”
“It wasn’t…it wasn’t me,” Ilan confessed after a beat. He licked his lips and stared across the street because he always felt a little sore when it came to remembering what Julian went through. “My best friend is deaf and has a cleft palate. It was obvious—he had a huge scar from surgeries, and he wore hearing aids. Back in school they were those massive, tan colored things that weighed like four pounds each.”
Preston winced. “I remember.”
Ilan reached up under his glasses and absently scratched at the bridge of his nose. “Kids are dickheads. They made fun of his face, and his accent, and pretty much anything you could think of. And they made fun of me too, because I was poor, and I was Jewish. I was the weirdo in scuffed shoes and hand-me-down uniforms who didn’t get a visit from Santa. I never cared what they said about me, but I saw the way it hurt Julian, and I didn’t find out for a long time that it was also happening at home.”
“His dad?” Preston breathed, and Ilan shook his head.
“No, but I blamed him for a long time. His mom is…fuck. She’s something else. Calling her a narcissist is being kind. And she was like that to all of them, but Julian and Fredric got the brunt of her…distaste.” Ilan took his glasses off and rubbed his eyes. They were dry, but hot, and he remembered why he hated talking about this. “I didn’t know how to make it better for them, so I just decided to stick around and love them as hard as I could. I didn’t think it would ever be more than it was. But Julian moved to Paris, and now this thing with Fredric had changed into something I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to fully understand. I’m terrified of losing him, but I’m also terrified of not trying, and I don’t know what the hell that makes me.”
“I think I know,” Preston said very quietly, and Ilan raised a brow at him. “It makes you a person. And it makes me like you a lot more.” He offered Ilan a tight smile and shook his head. “I’m glad I didn’t know all of this before. My crush would have been ten times worse and ten times more hopeless.”
“God,” Ilan said, leaning forward, “you deserve so much better than me.”
Preston stared at him and said in a tone that made Ilan ache with knowing he could never live up to it, “If I can find a man who loves half as hard as you, I’ll be the luckiest man in the world.”
Chapter 18
Ilan went home a little shaken and feeling unable to live up to his own worth even more than usual. But he walked through the door, reading a text on his phone which was just a screen shot of a wine and paint night at a place a few miles up the road.
Of course he was going to say yes. The date would be a disaster, but he knew he’d laugh a lot and maybe get to hold Fredric’s hand again, and he’d feel woefully inadequate and absurdly grateful that he was allowed to have any of this at all.
His thumb hovered over the reply button as he kicked off his shoes and untucked his shirt, and as he stepped into his bedroom and dropped backward on his comforter, he hit the call button instead.
“I thought you were busy today,” Fredric said, his voice a pleasing rumble.
Ilan stretched, his eyes falling closed as his exhaustion caught up with him. “Mm. I was. The meeting went well.”
“Did you get anything signed?”
Pressing the back of his hand against his mouth to cover his yawn, he shook his head. “No. But I have a meeting next week with a realtor to check out a couple of old med facilities that don’t need a lot of work. And I think we’re close to setting a date.”
“I’m proud of you,” Fredric said, and Ilan felt that like a physical thing. It wasn’t the first time Fredric had said it to him, but it was the first time he heard in the way it was meant to be heard. With love and a hint of want. “You also sound exhausted.”
“Yeah.” He rolled onto his stomach, and his glasses went crooked, so he swiped them off and tossed them onto his pillow. “I didn’t sleep well last night.”
“That was my fault.”
Ilan hummed, because it was the truth, but he wouldn’t have traded it for anything. “To be honest, I hadn’t been sleeping well over the last few weeks. And it’s not just…” he choked on the word for a second, “…us. It’s everything. Starting over from scratch with my practice, moving to a new city, trying to accept that life is different. None of it’s bad—it’s just not exactly restful.”
Fredric chuckled softly. “Why don’t you sleep now?”
“It’s only what…god. Two?”
“Three,” Fredric said. “You have no obligations right now except taking care of yourself.” When Ilan said nothing, Fredric sighed. “For me?”
Ilan groaned. “That is not playing fair.” But unconsciousness was tugging at his edges, especially with the sound of Fredric in his ear. His voice was soothing, comforting. It was home, and it was the promise of a future where he no longer had to be scared or alone.
Darkness crept in, and he fought it, but he could tell he wasn’t going to win the battle.
He came to what felt like minutes later, but the sky outside his window was dark, and he realized he could smell something cooking. For a second, panic gripped him, and he stumbled out of bed, hurrying into the kitchen where he came to a skidding halt. The kitchen was dark, but there was a figure standing at a glowing burner, and there were only two people he knew who would be bold enough to just walk in his house, and one of them was in France.
“You scared the shit out of me,” he said, flicking on the light. Bastian was there, looking up sleepily from his perch at the older man’s feet.
Fredric turned his face toward Ilan and laughed. “Sorry. I was trying to surprise you. I actually did call an hour ago, but you didn’t answer.”
Ilan dragged a hand down his face and winced at the wrinkle in his cheek from where it had been pressed against his blanket. He dragged his hand through his hair and squinted through the blur, then went for his spare pair of glasses that were sitting near his keys. When the room came into focus, he peered over at a pot on the stove and realized Fredric had soup simmering.
“I made it from the leftovers,” he said, as Ilan crept closer. “Agatha gave me a recipe.”
It smelled surprisingly good, though he knew he should stop doubting Fredric’s skills. His stomach rumbled, and Fredric chuckled as Ilan covered it with his hand. “I haven’t eaten all day. I ran into Preston when I was getting coffee, but…”
“Oh,” Fredric said, and his voice was a little tight. “How is he?”
A smile spread over Ilan’s face, and he nudged him in the side. “Are you jealous?”
“Of a wealthy, attractive, young doctor?” Fredric shot back. “Why ever would I be?”
“I don’t know,” Ilan said very softly. “He’s got nothing on you.” Ilan wanted to reach for him, touch him with the softness he was feeling inside, but he wasn’t brave enough for that yet. He did move a little closer though and covered a yawn with the back of his hand. “Sorry, god.” He rubbed his eyes under his glasses, then leaned his temple against Fredric’s shoulder. “If you give me like half an hour, I can totally be ready for date night.”