The air in the bedroom was thick, heavy with the cloying scent of Drake's arousal and the sharp, metallic tang of Frank's sheer, unadulterated terror. Drake's grip on Frank's waist didn't loosen; if anything, it tightened, his fingers digging into the soft flesh above Frank's hip bones as he anchored the smaller boy against the rigid heat of his front. The friction of their clothes—denim against thin cotton—felt like sandpaper against Frank's sensitized skin.
"Frank," Drake's voice was a low, jagged rasp, vibrating directly into the nape of Frank's neck. "Help me. I'm burning up. This isn't just a want anymore... it's a physical necessity. My blood feels like it's boiling under my skin. You're the only one who can put this out."
Frank's entire body went rigid. A violent tremor started in his knees and traveled upward, shaking his shoulders until his teeth began to chatter. The words 'help me' carried a weight that crushed the air out of his lungs. He had spent his entire life avoiding the spotlight, avoiding conflict, and certainly avoiding the raw, predatory sexuality that Drake Hollander radiated like a solar flare.
"I... I can't," Frank whispered, his voice cracking, a fragile sound in the vastness of the luxury suite. He tried to twist in Drake's arms, his eyes wide and frantic as they darted around the room, looking for an exit that didn't exist. "Drake, please... I've never... I'm not... you have to give me time. I need to adjust. This morning I was just a normal student, and now I'm... I'm this. I wasn't ready for any of this."
Drake's chest heaved against Frank's back, a rhythmic, heavy thudding that spoke of a heart racing at dangerous speeds. He buried his face in the crook of Frank's neck, inhaling sharply, his nostrils flaring. "Time?" Drake growled, the word distorted by the drug-induced haze in his brain. "Who is going to help me right now, Frank? Look at me. I'm sweating through my shirt. My heart feels like it's going to burst through my ribs. You brought this medicine into the school, and now you're telling the patient to wait?"
"I didn't bring it!" Frank cried out, a momentary flash of desperation cutting through his fear. "I swear I didn't! But even if... even if I'm here... please. Just a little time."
Drake let out a long, shuddering breath that scorched Frank's skin. He seemed to fight with himself for a moment, the muscles in his arms rippling as he exerted a Herculean effort to restrain the primal urge to simply take what he wanted. He slowly turned Frank around in his arms, forcing the boy to face the storm in his eyes. Drake's pupils were so blown they looked like bottomless black pits, swallowing the blue of his irises.
"Fine," Drake whispered, his voice dangerously soft. "I'll try to understand. I'll try to be patient. But give me something, Frank. Anything to dull the edge. Can you... can you at least accept a kiss? Just a kiss to stop the shaking?"
Frank looked up at the masterpiece of a face inches from his own—the sharp jawline, the straight nose, the lips that were parted in an invitation that most people would kill for. But to Frank, it looked like the maw of a predator. He swallowed hard, his throat clicking in the silence. "I... I can't, Drake. Not yet. I'm sorry. I just... I need to breathe."
The rejection seemed to snap something inside Drake. The patience he had promised vanished, overwritten by the chemical fire screaming in his veins. "You're killing me," Drake muttered, his hands moving with a sudden, erotic intent.
He didn't wait for permission this time. His large, heavy palms slid down from Frank's shoulders, tracing the narrow, delicate line of his waist. Frank gasped, his back arching instinctively as Drake's thumbs hooked into the waistband of his trousers, pulling him flush against the athlete's massive thighs. Drake's hands wandered further, his fingers splaying across the firm, trembling curve of Frank's buttocks, kneading the flesh through the fabric with a possessive, rhythmic pressure.
Frank froze, his eyes staring blankly at Drake's collarbone. He felt like a deer caught in high-beams, unable to run, unable to fight. Drake's touch didn't stop there; one hand traveled upward, sliding under the hem of Frank's shirt. The cold air hit Frank's skin just before the searing heat of Drake's palm made contact. Drake's fingers flicked over the small, tight buds of Frank's nipples, circling them with an agonizingly slow, expert touch that was designed to ignite a fire Frank didn't want to feel.
"See?" Drake whispered, his voice thick with triumph. "Your body knows. Your heart is beating as fast as mine, Frank. You're terrified, but you're reacting. "
But as Drake leaned in to finally claim those trembling lips, he felt something wet and hot splash onto the back of his hand. He paused, his brow furrowing in confusion. He pulled back just enough to look at Frank's face.
Frank wasn't just shaking anymore; he was disintegrating. Tears were streaming down his pale cheeks, silent and heavy, soaking into the collar of his shirt. His eyes were squeezed shut, his face twisted in an expression of such pure, unmitigated terror that it looked like he was being tortured. He looked small, fragile, and utterly broken beneath Drake's shadow.
Drake stared at him, the fog of The Fever momentarily parting to reveal the reality of the situation. He felt the vibration of Frank's chest—a frantic, hollow rattling that signaled a brewing panic attack.
"Frank?" Drake's voice lost its predatory edge, replaced by a sharp, confused surprise. He let go of Frank's waist as if the skin had suddenly turned to ice.
Drake stepped back, the space between them suddenly feeling like an abyss. He watched as Frank slumped against the wardrobe, his legs barely holding him up, his hands coming up to cover his face as he sobbed into his palms.
"Why?" Drake asked, his voice low and genuinely bewildered. He looked down at his own hands, the hands that were used to applause and victory, and saw them as weapons for the first time. "Why are you so terrified of me, Frank? It's just a touch. People beg for this. I'm offering you protection and you look at me like I'm a monster."
Frank couldn't answer. He just shook his head, his sobs coming in jagged, ugly gasps.
Drake stood there for a long moment, the drug still clawing at his insides, demanding release, demanding sex, demanding Frank. But the sight of the boy's total collapse was a cold bucket of water on his lust. A flash of something like guilt—or perhaps just irritated frustration—crossed his handsome features.
"Fine," Drake spat, the word bitter. "Cry then. Rot in your fear. I can't look at you like this."
Without another word, Drake turned on his heel, his heavy footsteps thudding against the floor as he stormed toward the master bathroom. The door slammed shut with a violence that made the windows rattle, followed shortly by the sound of the shower being turned on full blast—the sound of a man trying to drown a fire that only the boy in the other room could truly extinguish.
Frank remained on the floor, alone in the silence, his tears the only sound in the golden cage.