1.
It was a dismal mid-December afternoon. The air was encased with a sharp cold and thick fat snowflakes danced down from the heavens with uncalculated abandon. It was clear it was a bleak winter. It was one of the worst winters he had ever experienced, if he said so himself.
The front door slammed behind him and he stood frozen for a few moments before the cozy warmth from his semi detached home seeped into his skin; he came to life once again.
He removed his scarf, droplets of water and ice splattering onto the wooden flooring as he did so, and discarded it along with his winter hat onto his heavy black boots. He expected to see another pair of boots in the foyer, sure, but not the distressed red Timberlands discarded haphazardly. It then dawned on him—the foggy memories of last night coming back. He had asked Francesco to come over last night in a drunken frenzy. He had forgotten all about it.
“Moll?” He called, searching for movement as he cautiously entered his home. “How’d you get in?”
A scoff followed by, “are you seriously asking me how I got in?” he emerged from the master suite, a black trash bag flung over his left shoulder. His free hand was on his hip to emphasize his mock annoyance.
Wendell met Francesco several years ago thanks to Malibu.
Wendell had been dating Malibu for a few months and after a-not-so engaging tête-à-tête from the latter, Wendell casually asked to meet the Molly who constantly littered Malibu’s vocabulary. Y’know, just to put a face to the name.
“Okay, sure, lemme see when Molly is free! ” Mali exclaimed excitedly.
When the day came, Wendell wasn’t sure exactly who he was expecting, but with a name like Molly for a man, it definitely hinted at drag or at least an over-the-top twink. He instead was met with a slender, almost lanky adolescent with shoulder length beach wave brunette hair and the most stunning, almond shaped green eyes. He had a swimmer’s figure, for sure. He probably weighed 115lbs soaking wet and was maybe 5’8”, but he held himself in a manner that suggested he thought otherwise. He acted like one mean motherfucker. He had sized Wendell up with those sharp green eyes of his, his bushy brows narrowed and knitted together. Wendell would never admit it, but he had actually been impressed with the way Molly did not waver or bat an eye when Wendell reciprocated.
Wendell though the brunette was pretty, but in a pretty boy sort of way. Malibu was definitely prettier. Anyone would have thought Malibu was a cherub, with his baby face and petit frame. He was 5’2” maybe a tad shorter and was definitely under weight for his size. A high maintenance strawberry blonde. He had flawless and almost sickly white skin and alluring blue doe eyes sounded by long wispy lashes. Wendell’s favorite feature was Malibu’s full, pink lips that looked best stretched around his thick dick.
“This is Molly,” Malibu lisped, gesturing with his right hand. “Molly, this is my boyfriend, Wendell.”
Molly uncrossed his arms and reached out, giving a firm handshake.
“Hey. Sup?” he greeted, pulling his hand back and casually fixing his hair behind his ear. His expression softened slightly.
“Uh—yeah, hey. It’s good to finally meet you. Mali talks about you nonstop.”
“Heh. Likewise.” Pause. “He’s crazy about you.”
“Molly! Don’t tell him that!” Malibu interjected, playfully smacking his friend on the arm.
That same even, the three of them, well mostly Wendell and Francesco, chatted for hours during dinner. Wendell connected through deep and intimate conversations with the clever Francesco with the penchant for sarcasm.
Wendell had known from the minute that he had met Malibu, that he was in all sense of the phrase, a dumb blonde. There was nothing going on in that pretty little head of his, but Francesco? Francesco was the smart brunette every dumb blonde attracted. He was witty and knew a bit about this and about that.
Wendell found himself drawn to Francesco’s intellect. He possessed a uniqueness all his own and was comfortable with himself too. The way he talked and listened, navigating the flow of dialog was mesmerizing—the intricate connections he made between seemingly unrelated ideas. Wendell admired the way Francesco’s mind worked.
One evening, both were watching the game; Malibu was napping in their shared bedroom down the hall, Francesco was nursing a bottle of beer, focusing intensely on the television, and Wendell was seated on a suede couch in the living room. His own beer in hand, asked, “how’d you ‘n Mali meet? You two don’t really have a lot in common.”
He cleared his throat, and took another sip, looking away. Francesco never spoke about himself and Wendell felt like he was prying.
“Oh? Uh—” Molly looked to Wendell. He shrugged his left shoulder and put his beer on the kitchen island. “We were both placed in the same foster home.”
He spoke softly and Wendell could see Francesco rebuilding his wall. “I’m sorry. I—that was stupid of me. Mali had told me that he’s known you since he was a child and he’s also told me about his foster parents—I should have made the connection.”
“No—it’s fine. Really. I guess I’m just embarrassed about it?” he sighed and as a coping mechanism, he twirled his hair around his whole hand, playing with it absent mindedly.
“Malibu, um, he’s the best thing to ever happen to me in that Foster Home. I was there for 12 year. 12 years because my mother was a drug addict and couldn’t stay clean to be a goddamn parent. Pfft. If you ask me what I remember about her, nothing really. We probably had good times, but all I can recall is when CPS took me away and I told her I loved her and she said, ‘I love Molly’.”
He sighed again, shaking his head, his eyes downcast. Wendell remembered seeing his mouth curl before pursing and the way his brows lowered. It was obvious the memory haunted him. He half expected Francesco to excuse himself; instead he watched as Francesco rounded the island to sit with him on the couch. Wendell gave him a reassuring smile and placed a supportive hand on his knee. Francesco raked his long fingers through his hair and continued. Wendell could hear the uneasiness in his voice.
“It was probably too confusing for a little child. I mean, I flat out refused to be called Francesco after that. From then on I guess Molly was born. I met Malibu 4 years into my being there, in the group home. He was young, adorable and everything he did was precious. I think he gave me a complex, since he clung to me, and only me, like a lifeline. When he got adopted, it was the worst day of my life.”
That night Wendell felt as though he and Francesco had grown closer. He had told him all his insecurities. How after aging out of Foster Care, he had become ineligible to receive state assistance and was suddenly without food and shelter. How he lived on the streets for a couple years. Was beaten to near death and had started dating a wannabe gangster for protection and shelter. He couldn’t even remember his name. “In fact, I didn’t even know if I was gay, bi or straight!” Just having someone looking out for you in exchange for a quick fuck was a good trade off. Before he knew it, hooking up with a criminal turned into him becoming an accomplice. He’d started joining his boyfriend on B&Es and finally started robbing places on his own. Until he got caught.
“I guess for as shitty as life can be, it can also be amusing? Or is it ironic? The cop that arrested me? Malibu’s Foster father, Mr. Thurman—uhh, Keith— and it was his place I was trying to break into. I dunno what happened. I guess I was terrified. I mean, Keith’s built like a shithouse, so the reactions not unwarranted, but still surprised me that I just started fucking bawling my eyes out. Like snot dripping on my shirt, dry heaving too sort of bawling. I guess he felt bad, you’d think a cop would be desensitized to a little tears especially a guy like him. But he started telling me about his foster son. How there’s hope, blah, blah, blah. Brought me inside and there he was. Little Malibu. Keith said it had to be faith. He gave me a bed—food. Stability. Got my life together. Changed my name to Molly to remember where I started and now I rent a crappy little run down apartment downtown and work a 9-5.” He chuckled and looked Wendell in his deep brown eyes. Wendell had always heard people talking about eyes that lit up or sparkled and never understood what they meant. Wendell fell a little in love—with the way Francesco’s eyes gleamed; with the vulnerability he dared to reveal.
“I-I’ve never told anybody that before.”
The game ended without either of them having watched.
“What’s in the bag?”
Maybe he had asked in a much too nonchalant tone because Francesco beamed while responding.
“What’s in the fucking box?!” Francesco quoted, his smile immediately turning to a scowl when he was met with disapproval. His eyes searching Wendell’s expression. “Bu’s clothes mostly.” He answered seriously.
Wendell swallowed, a lump forming in his throat.
“W-why?”
Francesco sighed, exaggerating the sound. His grip on the bag tightened, his knuckles forced white. “You—you I knew you wouldn’t remember. Wendell, you’re my friend and I love you, but this shit? This is unhealthy. Malibu’s gone. He’s gone and he’s not coming back. You can’t keep his things around like he’s magically going to—!" Somewhere in his rant he had dropped eye contact and now Wendell had him pinned to the wall, bloody murder apparent on his face.
“You don’t have the right, Francesco!” he snarled, his hairy arm pushing into Francesco’s neck.
The brunette sputtered, he had dropped the bag and was desperately trying to pry Wendell’s grip on his neck. He tried not to panic, but Wendell was a big man and easily thwarted him in every way. He was 6’4” 285lbs and in good shape, he had a strict gym regime that he stuck to.
Francesco managed a couple of frightened croaks, his façade fading as his oxygen ran out. He was relentlessly trying to break free. Finally he looked into Wendell’s eyes once again and gave a silent plea. In all the years that he knew Francesco, he had only seen him cry once, that had been a year ago—at Malibu’s funeral. So to see the brunette on the verge of tears now snapped him out of his rage.
Molly touched his neck, inspecting it with delicate shaky touches. He also took a cautious step away from Wendell.
“Moll, I’m—”
“Save it.” He shot back.
Wendell knew Francesco was acting tough to save face. Although he was only crossing his arms, Francesco looked as if he was holding himself. Wendell looked away, returning his attention to the black Glad trash bag. Rummaging through, he realized it contained a few of Malibu’s clothing.
“Where is everything else?” he asked, venom in his tone, that he couldn’t contain.
Francesco had flinched. “Some bags in the bedroom. A couple on the curb. “
He stalked off to the master suite, Francesco shifting necessarily, to get out of his way.
The master suite had been an conspicuous mixture of compromises from the minimalist him and the maximalist, Malibu. Wendell had always despised their bedroom. It was covered with stuffed toys, blind box figurines and jewelry. Their closet had been a whole other problem. As he walked in looking at the bare room (aside from the trash bags by the wall left of the door) he missed the chaos, perceiving then, that the mess had made the room feel lived in.
“P-put,” he swallowed hard, “put it all back, Molly.”
Molly had silently walked in and had been watching Wendell navigate the bedroom. He pursed his lips and shook his head slowly.
“No.” He was firm.
As Wendell approached, he stiffened. “If you put your hands on me again, you’re gonna lose a friend.” He held his glare, softening it a bit when Wendell made no indication that he would attack.
“You called me last night. ‘Malibu’s haunting me’, you said. ‘He’s everywhere’, ‘why can’t I move on?’, ‘when does it stop hurting? Please help me Molly. I just want it all to end.’ You asshole, you don’t even know how hard it is for me to hear you say shit like that.” He raked his fingers through his hair.
“I—didn’t realize I said any of those things.”
“Whatever. It’s not like it’s the first time you’ve dialed me.”
Wendell watched as Francesco walked over to another trash bag, placed near the bed, but further from the several bags by the door.
“I put some sentimental crap in this one. Mostly photos.” He spoke softly.
They stood in silence for a while.
“Listen, Big Guy. Bu may have been your boyfriend, but I loved him too. And, maybe it’s not just because he loved you, that it hurts to see you suffer. Maybe it’s because I genuinely care about you too. So, please just trust me when I say that although this first step in healing may feel callous, I believe with all my heart that things will get better. I'm here for you every step of the way.”
They spent the rest of the afternoon, well into the evening, meticulously sorting through Malibu’s belongings in the house. The air was thick with memories, each room held the lingering presence of Malibu within them. Wendell’s voice trembled as he recounted stories about various items—the toy bubble blower, won from an exhibition fair, had become a cherished memento. Malibu’s baby blue eyes had sparkled with admiration as Wendell demonstrated his supposed skill in winning it, but it had been a fluke, a twist of fate, and yet Wendell had never corrected him. The memory of Malibu’s delight hung in the air, bittersweet and fragile.
Francesco moved through the rooms like a ghost, his fingers brushing against this and that. He unearthed frivolous gifts he had once bestowed upon Malibu—a faded postcard, a pressed clover, a shiny button; tokens of affection that had lost their luster over time. They held no real significance, but seeing them again, so well cared for and loved, tore at Francesco’s heart. Each item was a thread connecting him to the past, to the moments when Malibu was. As he reminisced, Francesco’s grief swelled within him. Tears flowed freely, forming rivulets down his cheeks until his eyes were bloodshot and swollen.
Wendell hadn’t meant to invade on Francesco’s intimate moment, but Francesco welcomed his presence, walking over to him and sinking into an embrace as Wendell awkwardly held him. Their anguish merged into a single, inconsolable ache. But amidst the tears, Wendell, who had been drowning in grief alone, had never realized that he wasn’t the only one sinking.
“I miss him so much.” Francesco wept. He had tried to be strong, if not for Wendell at least for himself.
“I know. Me too.”
They found solace in each other’s company, leaning on their shared memories of Malibu.
Wendell made dinner while Francesco watched a documentary, David Attenborough narrating the scene. The house felt different now—emptier, sure, but also alive; Wendell hadn’t felt so comfortable for quite some time.
“Thank you, Molly.” He said unexpectedly.
Francesco glanced over his shoulder and shrugged. “Don’t mention it.” He responded, pointing the remote at the television set he turned the volume down. “Need help?”
“Sure,” Wendell replied, wiping his hands on a dish towel. Francesco joined him in the kitchen. They worked together in comfortable silence for a few moments, Francesco following Wendell’s lead without need for instruction. Wendell continued stirring the pot absentmindedly, the aroma of the simmering stew filling the kitchen.
Ever since Malibu had passed away, everything had seemed so pointless. Tonight was the first time Wendell had mustered the energy to cook.
They stood there for a moment, the only sounds in the room were the gentle bubbling of the stew on the stove and David Attenborough’s honey thick voice. Francesco squeezed Wendell’s shoulder reassuringly before returning to his seat on the couch.
As they sat down to eat, the silence between them was heavy with unspoken emotions
"Um—you mentioned I’ve been calling you?" Wendell ventured, breaking the quiet that enveloped and suffocated them.
Francesco put his spoon into his bowl and began distractedly stirring the stew. He snorted softly, a bitter edge creeping into his voice. "Basically every night."
Wendell shifted uncomfortably in his chair, suddenly acutely aware of the weight of his own actions—or rather, his inactions. "Oh, uh—"
"You mostly cry," Francesco continued, his tone even almost monotone, but the same time, stoic as he normally was.
He set his spoon down with more force than necessary, the sudden clink against the bowl echoed in the stillness of the room. Wendell looked down at his own bowl, the steam dancing in dainty curls; hypnotic. He hadn't realized how much his grief had spilled over and became nightly conversations—or rather, monologues, where he poured out his heart while Francesco quietly listened on the other end of the line.
“I'm sorry," Wendell murmured, finally meeting Francesco's gaze. "I didn't mean to burden you with all that."
Francesco sighed heavily, running a hand through his hair in a gesture of weariness. "It's okay," he said softly, his voice tinged with resignation. "I just... I wish I knew what to do to help you."
They sat in silence again, Wendell wanted to reach out, to bridge the distance between them, but he felt as though he didn't have the right words—or any words at all—to articulate the tumult of emotions swirling inside him. Finally, Wendell spoke, his voice gruff, tinged with vulnerability. "I miss him so fucking much. Throwing his things away just feels like I’m trying to forget him."
Wendell pushed his bowl away, his appetite gone. He glanced at Francesco, who was watching him with concern. “I’m sorry,” Wendell said hoarsely. “I thought I could handle this.”
Standing up abruptly, Wendell walked over to the liquor cabinet in the corner of the kitchen. His hands trembled slightly as he reached for a bottle of whiskey and poured himself a generous measure. The amber liquid glinted softly in the dim light as he lifted the glass to his lips and took a slow sip, relishing the warmth that spread through his chest. Francesco watched silently, his own heart heavy with a mix of empathy and worry. After a moment, Wendell turned to face Francesco, his expression a mixture of resignation and apology.
Francesco shook his head sympathetically.
”Hey—It’s okay to not be okay.”
Wendell sighed heavily, downing thr glass and pouring another. He leaned against the wall. “I know,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. “But sometimes it feels like I should be stronger than this.”
Francesco crossed the kitchen to stand beside Wendell. He took a glass from the cabinet and gestured to Wendell to pour him a glass.
“You don’t have to be strong all the time,” he said earnestly.
Francesco gave him a small, sad smile and chugged his drink.
“You don’t have to figure it out alone either,” he continued. “I’m here, okay?”
They cleared the table together in silence, each lost in their own thoughts. Francesco volunteered to do the dishes and maneuvered around Wendell to the sink. He watched as Francesco rolled up his sleeves and began to wash the dishes. He noticed how thin Francesco had become. His eyes were lackluster and had dark circles, his shoulders slumped with weariness that extended far beyond physical fatigue, his clothes seemed looser now, almost hanging from his frame. Francesco’s once vibrant energy had dimmed. How had he never noticed?
”I appreciate you being here,” Wendell finally murmured.
2.
Wendell often found himself seeking Francesco’s company more frequently, craving the warmth of companionship that Malibu’s absence had left behind. They would sit together in the evenings, sharing stories of Malibu’s antics and the joy he had brought into their lives. Francesco was a patient listener, but Wendell already knew that. He offered wordless reassurances and understanding nods as Wendell poured out his heart. Gradually, and Wendell wasn’t sure when it happened, they began discussing other topics without the mention of Malibu. Their conversations meandered through various subjects – books Francesco had read, memories of summers long past, and even dreams for the future. Wendell found himself sharing more than he had intended, drawn to Francesco’s genuine interest.
They developed a routine of sorts, spending evenings indoors, shielded from the biting cold outside during the winter months. Although Wendell was an outdoorsy person, he didn’t mind. He would never admit, but he liked sitting next to Francesco while Francesco read. The latter would occasionally shift to rest his legs comfortably on Wendell's lap. It was during these moments that Wendell allowed himself to relax.
Wendell introduced hiking to Francesco, although he never mentioned it was something he used to do with Malibu. Francesco was a casual smoker and also didn’t have the stamina, but Wendell was confident he could change that.
Sometimes they would stroll through the park, the rustling of leaves and the distant laughter of children creating a soothing ambiance to their conversations. On weekends, they would cook together. Wendell discovered that Francesco had a knack for baking savories, and they would spend lazy Sunday afternoons in the kitchen, kneading dough and filling the air with the aroma of freshly baked bread.
Wendell admired Francesco’s resilience, his ability to find humor even in his darkest of days. Wendell still struggled with bouts of sadness or sleepless nights, haunted by memories of Malibu, only now, Francesco was there with a comforting presence and a listening ear. Wendell wonders how Francesco didn’t seem to be struggling with the same grief that has been swallowing him whole. Francesco said he had grieved for Malibu a long time ago; he had been healing longer than him.
As the months passed, Wendell began to realize that Francesco had become more than just a friend—he had become a pillar of strength and a steady presence in his life.
On the days Francesco didn’t come over, Wendell found himself caught in a swirl of unease. His mind, accustomed to control and predictability, struggled with the uncertainty of not knowing what Francesco was doing or where he was. At times, he would catch himself pacing restlessly, unable to shake off the feeling of helplessness that gripped him. Each passing hour without Francesco’s familiar presence heightened Wendell’s anxiety. He had never felt this way before.
He tried to distract himself with anything to keep his thoughts from spiraling. Yet, the nagging worry persisted. Wendell found himself checking the time more frequently, listening intently for the sound of footsteps outside, hoping for the familiar knock on the door that would bring Francesco back to his side. He drank more on those days.
As the days turned into weeks, Wendell began to recognize the depth of his feelings for Francesco. It wasn’t just about companionship anymore; there was a need to know that Francesco was safe and well and that Francesco needed him just as much as he needed Francesco.
Wendell had never considered himself the jealous type, but lately, something gnawed at him whenever Francesco mentioned work or his visits to Malibu's Foster Parents. He found himself obsessing over Francesco's whereabouts, his interactions with other, the subtle shift in their routine and they way he seemed to be debating on saying more.
Wendell trailed Francesco one Thursday night in April. He wasn’t sure what compelled him to do it, but here he was, stalking Francesco, waiting for him outside of his workplace. Earlier in the day, the brunette had sent him a text:
Don’t make my share for dinner, I’m not stopping by today.
He needed to know what he was doing. So from work, he followed Francesco to Malibu’s Foster Parents. He remembered Francesco saying he didn’t usually stay too long, maybe 3 hours tops. So he waited.
Two hours later a young gentleman escorted Francesco out.
The man was probably in his early thirties. He was well-groomed and dressed in a grey tailored suit that accentuate his lean frame and conveyed a sense of sophistication. His dark blonde hair was neatly styled, complementing his sharp features and piercing eyes. They stood on the steps and shared a moment laughing with abandon. Wendell detest the way he touched Francesco so lackadaisically.
In the next few days, Wendell paid Malibu’s Foster Parents a visit. Keith was not home, but Edith was more than happy to welcome Wendell in. She chattered on about nothing in particular, reminding Wendell of Malibu.
“Molly was over recently.” She said while placing a teacup before Wendell. “He’s such a good boy.” She mused to herself.
“Yeah, I know. He’s been staying at mine.” Wendell answered. He picked up the cup, calculating his next sentence.
“He mentioned having dinner with another gentleman while here. I’ve forgotten the name.” he lied.
“Oh yes! Keith’s nephew, Paul, had come to visit as well! He and Malibu were very close as children.” She chirped.
“That’s the name.” he muttered.
Wendell did not like this.
Tuesday, in the late of evening, as Wendell sat in their living room, Francesco engrossed in a novel beside him, he couldn't shake the feeling of unease.
"You've been coming by less and less," Wendell finally voiced, his tone tinged with a mixture of concern and something darker that he refused to name. He watched Francesco turn a page, his expression neutral. Francesco shrugged nonchalantly, his attention still on the book.
"Work's been rough. My apartment was messy too—I finally got around to tidying and doing laundry."
The casual response did little to quell Wendell's uneasiness. He wanted to pry, to demand more answers, but he held back, fearing the confrontation it might spark. Instead, he tried to bury his suspicions beneath the facade of normalcy they had carefully constructed.
Days passed.
He found himself increasingly preoccupied with Francesco's every move and each interaction. The sight of Francesco laughing with that young man on Malibu's foster parents’ porch lingered in his mind.
A few weeks had gone by, unable to resist any longer, Wendell decided to follow Francesco again. He parked discreetly near Malibu's Foster Parents' house, heart pounding with a mixture of dread and anticipation. Hours passed as he waited, watching shadows stretch across the lawn until finally, Francesco emerged, accompanied by Paul.
They stood together on the steps, engaged in conversation that Wendell strained to hear. Francesco's laughter rang out, bright and carefree, a stark contrast to the tension coiled within Wendell's chest. He clenched his fists, feeling a surge of anger and hurt rise within him.
The next evening, when Francesco came over, Wendell confronted him, unable to contain his emotions any longer. "Who is Paul to you, Francesco?" he demanded, his voice edged with accusation.
Francesco looked at him, surprise flickering in his green eyes, especially since he had just walked in.
"He's... he's Malibu's cousin," he replied cautiously, sensing the tension in Wendell's voice.
"Why didn't you tell me?" Wendell pressed, his voice growing sharper despite his efforts to remain calm.
"I didn't think it was a big deal," Francesco replied defensively, setting his workbag aside and facing Wendell fully now. "Paul and I... we've been catching up, that's all."
Wendell struggled to process Francesco's words. He felt a mix of guilt for doubting Francesco and anger at the situation that seemed to be slipping beyond his control. "It feels like you're pulling away from me," he confessed quietly, his tone vulnerable.
Francesco sighed, although he hadn’t meant to. He reached out tentatively to take Wendell's hands into his own.
"I'm here, Wendell," he said softly. "But I have my own life too. I can't just revolve around you."
The words struck Wendell like a blow to the chest.
“Maybe I should go home.” He began.
“No, don’t go. I’m just afraid of being alone, of losing you—like I’ve lost Malibu. This friendship is all I’ve got left.” Wendell said lowering his voice to a slow and distressed tone. He watched as Francesco flinch at his words.
Francesco hesitated, torn between his own needs and Wendell’s deep emotional struggle. He felt the weight of their friendship and the pain they both carried.
“I understand, Wendell,” Francesco began gently, “but you’re not alone, okay? You have friends and family that love you. You have me. And losing Malibu doesn’t mean losing everything. We’ll get through this together.”
Wendell nodded slowly, his expression soft.
“I just… I don’t want to lose you too, Molly.” He reiterated.
“And you won’t,” Francesco assured him, feeling a surge of compassion and commitment. “Let’s take it one step at a time, okay? We’ll figure this out together.”
Wendell gave Francesco space to remove his shoes and grab his workbag.
They sat in silence for a while, the weight of their conversation hanging in the air. Francesco knew there were no easy answers, but he also knew he couldn’t abandon Wendell in his time of need. They had weathered storms before, and he was determined to help Wendell find his way through this one too.
