S2/04. Old habits die hard

4.1 Francesco De la Cruz
Summer 1998, Francesco's apartment

Fuck, fuck, fuck!

Francesco was so mad he could scream. He thought he was done with Diego. But that asshole just had haunted him in the worst possible moment, totally unexpected; and after so many years.

He took another drag from his cigarette.

He stopped mid-movement. No, his hand didn't shake. It just felt like it.

"Hey." 

Of course, it was just a matter of time until Drake would come looking after him. Barely a minute; way too soon.

Francesco didn't want to see him, he didn't want to talk, and even less explain anything.

"Are you okay?"

Of course Drake had to ask, being an actual decent guy.

"Yeah."

"Did I-"

"No, it's not you."

Okay, literally it was Drake. After so many times they'd gotten down and dirty; suddenly there's a movement, a touch, a something-something that Francesco couldn't quite put his finger on, and it'd kicked him over the edge.

He had to get out.

How long had it been? A good five years?

Once he'd left Diego – definitely and irrevocably – he'd gotten over his abuse surprisingly quickly. Not that he had much time to recover. Once back on the street, he'd gritted his teeth and do what it took to get a roof over his head and occasionally free dinner; but it wasn't for long until Diego completely vanished from his mind when it came to sex. It wasn't always good, but at least not dreadful either.

Not much later, Mae'd been the first person he'd slept with without any ulterior motives than plain, ordinary lust. And very soon he'd started to notice other people, attractive people, too.

Luckily, Mae'd loved her own freedom as much as he then needed his, and he'd jumped the opportunity and test the waters. 

He relished reclaiming control over his body and his mind. Sex in itself, felt good; and the feeling wasn't tied to a person anymore. Neither was it ruined by his previous bad experiences, nor was it worse when he wasn't in love with his partners.

He was fine.

By the time he'd met Rosa, he'd already forgotten Diego ever existed. His first love'd became nothing more than source material for deliciously lurid love songs, nothing more.

And suddenly – out of the blue – this.

Drake sat down, providently a generous distance between them for which Francesco was grateful. He lit himself a cigarette, too.

"I guess you want me to leave," he said after taking two drags. He always did, two in a row, without taking a breath in between.

"Hm." Francesco didn't manage to say more. He wanted to be alone, but he also didn't want Drake to leave.

Drake didn't say more, but Francesco caught him observing when he risked a glance. Instantly Francesco regretted it. Drake's light blue eyes were full with a calm, curious concern. 

So inviting to cave; tell him everything, fall for him.

No thanks.

Francesco searched for pity, or annoyance, anything that would make him angry instead, but he couldn't find it.

For a while they just smoked together in silence and stared into the night sky.

"Gotta go." Drake said and squeezed out his cigarette in the ashtray. "We're recording early tomorrow."

"Get out, then," Francesco forced himself to smile. "Why did you even come tonight? Later you'll blame me when your record turns out trash."

He wouldn't have taken Drake for one of those phonies that partied harder than work. Still, he was relieved he found something off-putting about him, prevent himself from falling too deep.

Not now, not yet.

Drake's lips curled into a very unmistakable, suggestive smirk.

Okay, it was hard to resent Drake. Even when he was a lazy ass; sitting on all that talent for the easiest instrument of the world.

Drake smacked Francesco's shoulder and squeezed it gently.

"See ya."

Fuck.

Nothing went as it should.