Chapter 22. Florian
The smell was stale beer, old sweat, and that scent of humans being sick.
It was the smell of my childhood, concentrated.
I gagged, covering my nose with the sleeve of my cashmere sweater.
Which, on second thought, I shouldn't have brought either.
Too expensive. He'd notice it as well. The room was dim, the heavy blackout curtains drawn tight against the afternoon sun, but the bathroom light was on, casting a sickly yellow light across the floor.
"Florry?"
I found him on the bed. The sheets were gray against his skin. And his skin... God. It wasn't just pale; it was the color of old parchment with a terrifying yellow jaundice. His face was a skull. His eyes were sunken deep into their sockets.
"Hey, old man," I whispered, stepping fully inside and letting the door click shut behind me.
The carpet made a sticky shhhk sound under my sneakers. The nightstand was horrible: three empty vodka bottles of the cheapest brand, a crushed pack of cigarettes, a row of empty bottles of vitamin water.
"You came," he breathed, trying to prop himself up on one elbow. His arm shook violently. He collapsed back down, gasping.
"I brought water," I said, my voice flat. I dropped my backpack on the one chair that didn't look covered in unknown fluids. "And I’m going to get you some food. No money for booze. Not a cent."
"Don't need booze, brat," he muttered, closing his eyes, and I hated that word in his mouth. "Can't keep it down."
He looked so small. He used to be terrifying. Now he was just a dying animal in a fucking trap he’d built himself.
I sighed, the sound loud in the oppressive room. "Okay. Okay, let's... let's clean this up. Drink water. And Gatorade."
It wasn't a rational decision. I couldn't exist in this chaos. Knox’s sense of order had spoiled me.
I started with the trash. I found a plastic bag and began sweeping the bottles, the crumpled tissues, the fast-food wrappers into it. The clink of glass on glass made me flinch. I stripped the bed around him, moving his frail body, pulling the sweat-soaked sheets out from under him.
"You're a good boy," he mumbled, his eyes tracking me. "Always were my good boy."
I wanted to vomit hearing him say those things, but I was quiet. I went to the corner store two blocks down, walking fast with my head down, shoulders hunched against the wind. I bought saltines, Goldfish crackers, baby wipes, and heavy-duty trash bags.
When I got back, I wiped him down. I forced him to sip the blue Gatorade, holding the cup to his cracked lips while his hands shook. I wiped the grime from the nightstand. I opened the window a crack to let the smoke out and the smog in.
I was exhausted. My back ached from bending over the low bed. My beautiful sweater smelled like the room now. I felt grimy. I was afraid soap alone wouldn't be enough to wash this off.
I sat in the plastic chair, watching Finn sleep. His breathing was a wet rattle, uneven and terrifying.
Why am I doing this? I asked myself.
But I knew why. Because if I didn't, I was just like him. And because part of me, the stupid, damaged part, still thought he was my father… someone who stayed while mom left.
I checked my phone for the hundredth time.
On my way, Knox had texted twenty minutes ago. Traffic is heavy. Hold tight.
I held the phone to my chest. I needed him. I needed his clean scent, his hands, his absolute authority. I felt like I was drowning in the soup of my past, and Knox was the only solid ground left in the universe.
"Florry..." Finn stirred, his voice rasping. "My stomach... I need..."
I stood up, weary down to my bones, to help him to the bathroom again. "I've got you," I lied. I didn't have him. I barely had myself.
The door swung open, and Knox stood in the threshold, framed by the dark of the parking lot.
He was a vision from another world with his blue suit that cost more than this entire motel.
He looked like a king who had taken a wrong turn into a fucking sewer.
His eyes swept the room, the trash bags I’d filled, the empty Gatorade bottles, the stains on the carpet, before locking onto me. His gaze softened when he saw me.
"Oh, Florian," he said, his voice low. He stepped inside. "Look at you. Are you alright, baby?"
I looked down at myself. My jeans were stained with water and God knows what else. I felt a crushing wave of shame. "I’m okay, Daddy," I whispered, momentarily forgetting my father there on the bed.
"Who the hell is that?"
The rasp came from the bed. Finn had pushed himself up, his eyes squinting against the dim light.
He stared at Knox. His bloodshot eyes widened, his gaze darting between us.
"Daddy?" he echoed, the word twisting into something ugly.
He struggled to push himself upright, one trembling finger jabbing toward Knox.
"That what you call him? Your... daddy?"
“He's my partner, dad,” I said. Finn looked appalled. He knew I was gay and had known it forever. He had better things to care about, so he never said anything when I brought boys over to his place when we lived together. But now he seemed feverish and furious.
"What the fuck?! He’s my son! You’re just some... some sick old freak playing house with a boy half your age!"
I stepped between them, my hands raised. "Dad, stop. He’s here to help."
"I don't want him touching you, Florry! Look at him! He’s old enough to be your actual father. Like me!"
"He’s the only one who takes care of me, which is more than you ever did!" I screamed. “Where were you when I got evicted? Where were you when I was sleeping in a shelter? I needed you. I needed you my whole life, and you were never there. Mom and you. You only care about booze and yourself."
Finn flinched as if I’d slapped him. But then his face twisted. "I’m your father!" he roared, lunging forward. He stumbled, catching himself on the nightstand, but his momentum carried him toward me, hand raised, whether to grab or hit, I didn't know.
I flinched, bracing for impact.
But it never came.
Knox moved. One moment he was beside me, the next he was a wall between me and Finn. He simply stood there with so much authority that Finn retreated.
"Do not," Knox said, his voice terrifyingly quiet, "take another step toward him."
Finn stopped, panting, his eyes wide. He looked at Knox and saw what I saw: not money, but a dangerous, disciplined power that Finn’s chaotic rage couldn't touch.
Finn's shoulders slumped. "That boy belongs with me," he wheezed through yellowed teeth, though his eyes had already surrendered.
Knox's jaw tightened. "No," he said. "He belongs somewhere safe. You failed him."
He reached for his phone, tapping a single button. "Kyle. Room 12. Bring the team."
Two men in dark suits appeared in the doorway seconds later.
"Get Mr. Freeman to urgent care," Knox ordered, still standing between me and the bed. "The one on 4th. Pay for his treatment. He should stay there until he’s better."
Finn blinked, confused. "You're... you're paying?"
Knox turned to look at him then. "I am ensuring you do not die on my conscience or Florian’s.
But hear me clearly. Once you are discharged," Knox said, his voice dropping to a whisper, "you will disappear from his life.
No calls. No messages. No 'accidental' encounters.
My lawyers keep very busy, Mr. Freeman, and they would be delighted to make an example of you. Have I made myself perfectly clear?"
Finn slumped back onto the mattress, defeated, small, and suddenly very old. He looked past Knox’s shoulder at me. "Florry?"
I peeked around Knox’s arm. I looked at the man who had shaped my life with his absence and his needs.
"Go to the hospital," I whispered. "Get better. But... don't call me. I can't do anything for you, and I don't want to, either."
Knox turned, wrapping his arm around my shoulders. "Come," he said.
He guided me out of the room, past the security team who were already moving in to collect Finn. I didn't look back. I walked into the cool night air, let Knox put me in the car, and finally, finally, I let myself cry.
The transition from the motel to Knox’s bedroom was disorienting.
I was clean now. I had scrubbed my skin until it was pink, trying to wash away the smell of the Starlight. I wore Knox’s silk pajamas, the sleeves rolled up, engulfing me in his scent.
We lay on the massive bed, the room lit only by the soft glow of the city through the glass. Knox was propped up against the headboard, and I was curled against his chest, wrapped tight in the throw he kept at the foot of the bed.
My body felt heavy. Knox’s hand stroked my hair, a rhythmic, soothing motion. "You were very brave today," he murmured.
"I was stupid," I muttered, pressing my face into the silk of his shirt. "I shouldn't have gone. You were right."
"You weren't stupid. You are compassionate. It’s one of the things I love about you. You’re too good for this world.
Even after all the things you went through, you have so much love in you.
" He tightened his arm around me. " But you are not responsible for him, Florian.
You never were. A child does not owe a parent their survival. "
"He looked so sick," I whispered.
"And now he is in a hospital, getting care," Knox said firmly. "We have done what was necessary. Kyle texted. He’s admitted. He’s stable."
I let out a long breath. "And the bills?"
"Handled. Consider it a severance package." Knox kissed the top of my head. "He is part of your past now, little one. He does not get to infect your future. I won't allow it."
I looked up at him. His face was shadowed, lines of fatigue around his eyes, but his expression was soft, full of that fierce, protective love that still baffled me.
"Thank you, Daddy," I said, my voice thick. "For coming. For... saving me again."
"Always," Knox vowed. He shifted, pulling the cashmere tighter around us, cocooning us in warmth. "Close your eyes. Sleep. I’ve got you. Nothing gets past me."