Page 22 of The Barn: Frost and Q
Frost stared at him, those gold and green eyes glinting. “So you don’t want me?”
“Will you stop putting words in my mouth?” Quentin shouted. “I didn’t say that either.” Frost was just making him nuts. He wanted to run, but he had nowhere to go. No damn fair.
“Well, what are you saying, baby?” Frost waited, that patient air he always had as a Dom coming out. Butthead.
“I’m saying I don’t know if I can do it!” His voice rose on every word. “I’m saying I’m scared!”
He didn’t get pity or even sympathy from Frost like he expected. He got a nod, acknowledging his words, but the rest was all determination.
And he was terrified he would disappoint his husband. Quentin never wanted to do that.
“You can be scared. I’m still not hearing your words, boy. You know. If you’re scared, you can bring it on, lay it on me. I’ll take care of your fears.”
Q stared at him. Talking. He was going to talk about it, about how scared he was? He didn’t think so.
Quentin just didn’t know if he could face this whole thing with Frost again. The whole situation hurt too much. What if they got in the middle of this scene, and he was in his headspace, and he fell or something happened with his legs, and Frost freaked out, and then he was fucked? It just didn’t work. It was safer this way.
Everything was safer this way.
Frost looked at him and waited with this endless fucking patience.
He glared over, giving Frost his best stink-eye. “I hate it when you do that. I hate it when you just look at me. I don’t want you to look at me anymore. What if I want you to leave? Would you simply go?”
Still nothing. Frost sat here and watched him.
“I want you to get the fuck out. I want you to go away, leave me alone, and just forget about me. Won’t you do that? Won’t you just leave me the fuck alone?” He could remember once upon a time when he would get a swat for every single curse word.
There had been days he was just looking for attention, for Frost’s focus, finding the filthiest, awfulest things he could say just because he needed it so bad.
Now he was never going to get it again.
“I’m going to call security.”
Frost just sat there, one eyebrow arched. Like, what are you gonna do, call them on the boss?
“I could. I could call them and tell them that you’re a bastard.” Because it didn’t matter. He wasn’t going to lie and say what? That his Frost hurt him? Harmed him in some way? He couldn’t do that.
Frost still never spoke, letting him babble. And then he got embarrassed, because who wanted to be the one who couldn’t just leave it well enough alone.
“Why are you doing this? I don’t want this. I can’t do it. I can never be what you need again.”
Frost scowled and shook his head, but he still never answered. Not when Quentin cursed roundly, or when he told Frost this was all his fault.
Finally, Quentin just started screaming.
Just screaming at the top of his lungs, pouring all of his energy into making a sound that magnified his hurt.
It felt so good to just cry out for all of his fury, his pain, his fear. It had been building up, so awful, like an injury that had gotten full of pus and needed to be lanced. Too many days had been so bad, and he hurt so horribly, and he needed Frost to hear that. To hear that he didn’t actually blame Frost, that had been a lie, but he needed Frost to believe in him still.
He needed Frost to listen.
Finally, like anything huge and earthshaking, it ended.
He slumped down, praying that he didn’t just fall on the floor. He didn’t, because Frost’s arms were right there, wrapping around him and holding on tight.
“Feel better, baby boy?”
He nodded, because he did, even if his head hurt. “I might live.”
