Mark nodded. Then he let out a bitter sound. “Didn’t work so well, did it?”
Francis chuckled wryly. “There are a lot of queer people here. The thing is, we’re everywhere, though. A lot of us still live closeted, some people use different kinds of fronts to hide behind. Yours was homophobia and negativity.” He squeezed Mark’s arm. “It’s not uncommon at all.”
Mark thought for a while. “I guess there’s something to that, I mean look at all those conservative anti-gay politicians being caught with their pants around their ankles with male sex workers and all.”
“Yeah. It’s got to be a horribly sad life.”
“It is.”
“Oh darling, I didn’t mean you.” Francis nudged him until he looked up. “I swear I didn’t mean you.”
“I know, but I did. This, having someone like you here, being open about who I am and not having to hide, it….” The tears on Mark’s cheeks Francis brushed away weren’t a surprise. Not today of all days.
“Come here, sweetheart. You’re safe with me.”
Mark knew that to be the absolute truth. Francis would never hurt him intentionally. He supposed being a grown man and feeling intense relief at the thought should’ve felt weird. Like when had his own father care about that sort of stuff, right?
But Mark wasn’t his father and thank God for that. He was everything his father had never been and more. If slowly learning to be more in touch with his feelings took him even further away from the kind of male role model he’d had in his life, then what? He knew what trying to live up to those expectations had done to him for over thirty years.
“I love you,” Mark murmured.
Francis’s fingers stopped in his hair, and then started again. “I love you too, darling.”
Mark burrowed closer to Francis. “Good night.”
“Good night. I’ll make sure you wake up in time to have breakfast.”
* * * *
Luckily, the summer started with heat that wasn’t too oppressive, and Francis made the Grahams go out into the fresh air every day.
Mark had helped him with making sure they’d be comfortable on the porch. He’d gone with Francis to Woodruff for some shopping and they’d come back with Francis’s car full of stuff and some incoming deliveries later.
By the time Francis had finished the porch makeover, there were comfortable sun chairs or day loungers or whatever Francis had called them. The cushions were thick but not enough to make them harder to maneuver in and out of.
Francis had also gotten them some tables and trays and even a handy cooler for drinks.
The sun would shine into their little oasis for about half an hour every afternoon, so Francis had also bought a sun umbrella they could angle just right.
It looked so cozy and lovely, that Mark wanted to just curl into one of the handful of chairs and never leave.
Henrietta and Charles loved it. When Francis found some sort of weird lanterns that would keep bugs at bay without any extra scents affecting Charles’s breathing, it was all set.
Well, at least until Mark saw a collection of herb pots at Millers’ one day and just had to buy them.
He felt awkward when he presented Francis with them.
“Uh, I heard that bugs don’t like herbs and the scent shouldn’t be too much for Charles, and didn’t you say your friends will cook a lot, so—” Francis shut him up by kissing him, and Henrietta chuckled in her chair.
“Thank you, darling. They’re perfect,” Francis murmured against his lips.
The herb pots got a center spot on the railing. Some silly part of Mark preened a bit at the sight every time.
* * * *
Just as Charles had predicted, his condition got steadily worse every day. It wasn’t a huge difference, but when the week before Francis’s friends were due to arrive, Mark worked for four days without going to the Grahams’ house, he was taken aback by how clear the difference was.
“His doctor said that if he gets pneumonia, it’ll likely be the beginning of an end,” Francis said in a low tone as they closed the bedroom door one day after helping Charles into bed for a nap.
