Page 6 of Give Me What You Will

Jesus Christ, his pops would die right now if he told him about Sammy kissing him. His pops tolerated Sammy at first and eventually got used to him being around all the time. It helped that he was Papi’s grandson. But the second he found out Sammy was gay, the kid might as well have grown antlers, and that’s all his pops ever fuckin’ saw because, well—he was a piece of shit who still believed men loved women only, no other option.

Occasionally, his dad would give him a hard time about being around Sammy, saying all kinds of ignorant fuckin’ shit. And most of the time, he’d let it slide. Knowing his Pops was just an ignorant old dog that thought his small little universe was it. But it wasn’t.

And now, his universe just got a hell of a lot smaller in the nursing home Frankie had to put him up in. Frankie pushed thoughts of his pops away, refusing to dwell on the man who raised him to think men couldn’t love men.

Because he did love a man. He loved Sammy, and that’s why this was so fucking confusing, and that’s all it was. He was his best fuckin’ friend, and he missed the hell out of him.

The waitress returned with the beers, and he gratefully took a long gulp, needing something to take the edge off a bit.

After another minute, the door to the restaurant opened, and Sammy appeared, pushing down his dark blue hoodie over his gray, curly brown hair, raking a finger through it quickly as though dusting off specks of rain. The hostess pointed toward their table, and his dark green eyes swung in Frankie’s direction. He exhaled when their gazes met, body relaxing further into the booth.

Sammy had that ability. He could find him anywhere, either walking into a bar, or sitting in the stands at one of his fights, and once their eyes connected, something in Frankie’s body relaxed, soothed even. He had told Sammy that while a bit drunk and sitting on Papi’s bed, arm tossed over Sammy’s shoulders, holding his crying best friend at his grandfather’s funeral, and he had told him that, thinking—what exactly? He didn’t fuckin’ know. Only that Sammy was loved, and somehow, if he could, he’d do the same for Sammy.

It had gutted him seeing him like that. Papi was a good man, and the only good fuckin’ thing in Sammy’s family. Frankie had tried his best to take care of Sammy all day, trying hard not to leave his side. So, when he had found him crying in Papi’s bedroom, he had instantly gone to him, needing to take care of him… hold him…. comfort him the way Sammy always did for him.

Sammy said some shit about ‘co-regulation’ as they sat there, and then looked at him for a long time, his eyes the deepest shade of emerald Frankie had ever seen. He remembered the smell of beer on his lips and whiskey on Sammy’s, the warmth of both their bodies pressed snuggly together on the bed. Frankie remembered his hand clasping Sammy’s shoulder, fingers tracing to the back of his neck, feeling the muscle and skin and the heat…

And that was when Sammy had kissed him, surprising him.

Frankie’s throat tightened at the memory, and he waved Sammy to him, slapping a smile on his face and attempting to shake the feeling of butterflies eating away at his insides.

Sammy was still dressed in his hospital scrubs, now with a hoodie and a backpack over his shoulder. Frankie suddenly remembered the first time he saw him—a young man, sitting alone in his pop’s bar, a stack of textbooks in front of him, nose buried in a book, the hood of his sweater pulled over his curly, disheveled hair. Sammy hadn’t changed, and that, for some reason, reassured Frankie a bit.

“Sorry I’m late. Massive car collision on the highway, we took the overflow,” Sammy said with a grated edge to his tone.

Frankie had learned some medical terminology over the years and understood the demands of Sammy’s job, at least as much as he'd told him. But he knew nothing about how LA compared to Boston. He frowned, wondering if Sammy liked California more.

I hope fuckin’ not.

“Started without you,” Frankie said as Sammy took the seat across from him.

“Good,” he settled across from him, the bags under his eyes evident. He noticed the beer in front of him, and Frankie merely nodded as he drank heavily from the fancy pint glass. Sammy set it down and glanced around the restaurant, frowning. “This place felt like a good idea four hours ago.” He waved the waiter down. “It feels too much for my dark ass mood. Let’s get outta here.”

Frankie smirked, feeling his old, familiar friend coming back.

Relaxed, not giving a fuck. Not guarded and distant.

Thank God.

Frankie wasn’t sure how to deal with the other version of Sammy quite yet.

Twenty minutes later, Sammy drove them into a dive bar restaurant called the Hot Dog Palace. Frankie arched an eyebrow at the name, but once he entered, it reminded him of the bars back home and he smirked.

“Here we go,” Frankie patted Sammy’s shoulder approvingly as they entered. He felt Sammy stiffen, and he carefully slipped his hand away, pretending not to notice.

“Lots of us from the hospital come here. It’s become an unofficial doctor-nurse bar,” Sammy explained.

“Fine by me, as long as they have good beer.”

“They do, and hot dogs.”

“Fantastic.”

Another five minutes later, they were settled in a cracked, aged leather booth, the dim light of neon beer signs and dusty English-style table lamps illuminating the rickety but clean wooden table between them. Beers sweating with condensation sat in front of them, along with a couple of hot dogs.

“I like the service here,” Frankie commented, taking a bite of his hot dog.

“The owners know we’re usually starving by the time we’re off shift, having probably skipped lunch, so they always have hot dogs going.”