The silence of the marble-clad bathroom was absolute, a stark contrast to the chaotic storm of longing and self-loathing raging inside Drake's chest. He sat on the cold floor, the phone still clutched in his hand after the call with Shame, feeling the weight of his own deception pressing down on him like a physical burden.
The biological pressure of the "Fever"—the fake drug he had used to chain Frank to him—was still a thrumming ache in his groin, but now it was divorced from the predatory anger of earlier. He closed his eyes, his hand moving with a slow, mechanical rhythm.
He closed his eyes and whispered a name into the stillness: "Frank."
In the darkness of his mind, he wasn't a captor. He imagined Frank's ivory skin flushing not with terror, but with a genuine, heavy heat. He imagined those doe-like eyes looking at him with a spark of recognition, of wanting. As he reached his peak, the image of Frank finally leaning in, his lips parting in a willing invitation, shattered his composure. When the release finally came, it wasn't a victory; it was a hollow, lonely ache that left him feeling smaller than he had ever been.
As the fog of arousal cleared, the silence of the room allowed his memories to drift back to the very beginning—back to the day the obsession had first taken root.
It was Admission Day, three years ago. The campus had been a sweltering hive of new beginnings. Drake had been walking past the administration block, surrounded by his teammates, their laughter loud and confident as they enjoyed their status as the kings of the university.
Then, he had seen him.
Frank was sitting on a low stone wall, hunched over his papers, looking utterly overwhelmed. He was with an older man—his father—and the two of them looked so out of place among the flashy cars and wealthy socialites. Frank had looked like a porcelain doll amidst a field of jagged rocks. He was fine-featured, his skin so pale it looked translucent in the sun, a beautiful little boy who seemed to emit a soft, quiet light.
Drake had stopped mid-sentence. His teammates had kept walking, but Drake's feet had stayed rooted to the pavement. He had stared, mesmerized by the way Frank pushed a stray lock of hair behind his ear. For the first time in his life, the best footballer felt a jolt of genuine, heart-stopping interest.
He had tried to catch Frank's eye, a cocky smile already forming on his lips—the smile that usually brought anyone to their knees. But Frank had looked up, seen the group of athletes, and immediately divorced his eyes. He had looked away with a shyness so profound it was almost a physical wall. He hadn't seen a "God"; he had seen an intrusion.
Drake recalled with a bitter, self-deprecating smirk how he had actually tripped over a curb that day, his coordination failing because he couldn't tear his gaze away from the beautiful boy on the wall. His friends had roared with laughter, but Drake had only felt a strange, tightening knot in his chest.
The years that followed had been a masterclass in frustration. Drake was the sun around which the university orbited. People skipped class just to watch him practice; girls and boys alike left anonymous notes in his locker, begging for a single minute of his time.
And yet, Frank Heifer treated him like he didn't exist.
Drake recalled the rainy Tuesday during sophomore year. He had seen Frank standing under the library eaves, shivering in a thin jacket, waiting for a bus that was clearly late. Drake had pulled up in his luxury car, the window sliding down with a purr.
"Need a lift, boy? It's pouring," Drake had offered, his heart hammering against his ribs.
Frank hadn't even looked at the car. He had kept his eyes on the road, his voice small and polite. "No, thank you. The bus will be here soon."
He hadn't even recognized him. To Frank, Drake Hollander was just another wealthy student in a loud car.
Drake had tried everything. He had sent scouts to "recruit" Frank for the football team as an equipment manager, hoping to force him into his orbit. Frank had declined within the hour, citing his need to study. Drake had sat in the back of the library for weeks, pretending to read, just to be in the same room as the boy who smelled like old books and laundry detergent.
The obsession had grown into a sickness. He watched Frank from a distance, admiring the way his eyes lit up when he solved a complex equation, the way he walked with his head down, a silent ghost in a loud world. The "straight boy" was a fortress Drake couldn't siege, a puzzle he couldn't solve.
Finally, in a moment of whiskey-soaked despair, he had confessed his obsession to Shame. It was his older brother who had suggested the plan—the framing, the syringe, the fake drug.
"If you can't make him love you from a distance," Shame had said, "make him need you up close. Bring him into your world. He'll see the real you once the walls are down."
But the walls weren't down. They were higher than ever.
Drake sat on the bathroom floor, a single, hot tear tracking through the dampness on his cheek. He had Frank in his house. He had Frank in his bed. He had Frank's future in his hands. And yet, he was further from Frank's heart than he had been on that first day at the admin block.
The popular boy was a fraud. He was just a lonely, terrified man who had kidnapped a bird and was now wondering why it wouldn't sing.
"I'll take it slow," Drake whispered to the empty room, his voice thick with a vow. "I'll be the help, I'll be the shadow, I'll be whatever you need me to be. I'll endure the fear, I'll endure the rejection. I'll wait a thousand years if I have to."
He stood up, his legs shaking, and looked at himself in the mirror. He looked like the man everyone wanted, but he felt like the only person in the world who was truly invisible. He would go back out there. He would lie. He would play the role of the demanding master. But underneath the silk robe and the arrogant smirk, he would continue to be the boy who tripped over a curb because he couldn't believe something as beautiful as Frank Heifer existed.
He would wait until Frank was his by choice. Even if it broke him.