Brix didn’t blink. “Seriously? I’d have thought that out of everything I’ve chucked at you over the past few weeks, that would be the one thing that didn’t need explaining.”
“It would’ve been if you hadn’t told me your status is undetectable, but—”
“But what?” Brix snapped.
“You’re not infectious,” Calum said carefully. “If you bag up, there’s no reason you can’t have all the sex in the world.”
“Ah . . . you’ve been googling, eh?”
“Course I bloody have. Wouldn’t you?”
“I did, like a fucking lunatic, when I thought the HIV meant I couldn’t ink anymore. I know the science, mate.”
Common sense told Calum to let it go, but the masochist in him wouldn’t quit. “So why can’t you have sex . . . with me, or anyone else—”
“Because I’m scared of it, Cal, like I was scared of putting a needle to someone, but this is worse . . . much worse, especially if we’re talking about me and you.”
“Me and you?”
“Don’t look so shocked. You just said it.”
True, but hearing it from Brix’s mouth was something else. Calum swallowed. “What are you so afraid of? That a condom will break? Because that ‘googling shit’ told me that even if the worst happened, with your status being undetectable, whoever you were with probably wouldn’t need the meds—that the chances of you passing on the virus are next to nil. There’s preventative PrEP I could take if you were really worried . . .” Calum realised that Brix had pressed his lips into a thin line. “What? What’s the matter?”
“PrEP isn’t available on the NHS, Cal. I only get Truvada and the other drugs because I’m positive. If you wanted to take it, it would cost you a fortune, and there’s no way I could live with you being tied to medication like I am when you’re perfectly healthy without it.”
“So no PrEP, then. Fuck me without it. Fuck whoever without it.” Calum stepped forward, nudging Brix’s legs apart, then crouching down, laying his hands on Brix’s thighs. “I’m not pretending I know what I’m talking about, or telling you how to feel, but I can’t bear to see you write yourself off like this. It’s not fair.”
“None of it’s fair,” Brix said dully. “And, believe me, I’ve tried to pull myself out of it, but it’s hard when—uh—I couldn’t do what I did with ink.”
“What did you do with ink?”
“Nothing for the first six months I was back here. Didn’t have it in me. I was still ill too. Could hardly get up some days.”
“What changed?”
Brix shrugged. “The sea, I s’pose. Summer faded and the storms came. I don’t like the cold, but watching the waves batter the rocks was good for my soul . . . cleansing, I guess. In the end, I made a deal with my HIV counsellor that I’d set up Blood Rush anyway, give the cool folks I knew a place to work, then at least try to start inking again . . . and keep inking, over and over, until I’d convinced myself I wasn’t gonna kill anyone.”
Calum couldn’t imagine Brix without a tattoo gun in his hand. The thought alone was enough to make him shudder. “Your counsellor sounds pretty wise.”
“She was.”
“Was?”
“I only had her for six months. After that, I was on my own—apart from the clinic, but I only see them twice a year now.”
Six months? For a disease that would haunt Brix for the rest of his life? Jesus. But it wasn’t the time for Calum’s own outrage. He drew an abstract design on Brix’s clothed thigh. “Her theory worked though, didn’t it? You did more ink the other day than I’ve done all week.”
“It’s not the same as sticking my dick in someone.”
“Isn’t it?”
“No—listen, fuck—Calum, God.” Brix clenched his eyes shut and scrubbed at them, then refocussed with a heavy sigh. “Look, I know it’s irrational . . . I know it all, but I can’t be the reason someone feels like I do now. I can live with everything else, but not that, Cal. I can’t do it.”
Calum sighed too, defeated, and stood. “I think you’re being too hard on yourself. You deserve all the love in the world, and there’s no reason outside of your own head that you can’t have it.”
There wasn’t much left to say, and Calum had probably said too much as it was, but as he turned towards the stairs, there was one last question he had to ask. “What happened between you and Jordan when he found you? You never told me.”
Brix’s troubled eyes flashed guiltily. “I hit him . . . a lot, like the Lusmoore I am. Ironic, eh? The only time I toe the family line and they’ll never know.”
