International Manwhore – Part 22 (Patreon)

July, 2014

The summer of 2014 felt endless in the best and worst ways. Dad's penthouse took up the top two floors of a pre-war building on Fifth Avenue, all marble floors, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Central Park, and furniture that looked too expensive to sit on. The staff kept everything spotless—fresh flowers every morning, linens changed daily, meals appearing like magic if you so much as thought about being hungry. But the place still felt cold, like a museum where people happened to sleep.

I was fourteen, sprawled on the leather sectional in the media room, controller in hand, trying to beat the same level in Call of Duty for the third hour. Seb—eleven, skinny, all elbows and knees—was curled in the armchair opposite me, nose buried in a thick paperback volume of Naruto. The TV speakers blasted gunfire; his pages turned quietly. We hadn't said much since breakfast. Not fighting, just... orbiting each other the way we always did when we were forced into the same space for weeks at a time during summer breaks.

Dad walked in, still in his crisp white shirt and navy trousers from whatever meeting he'd had downtown. He carried a tumbler of something amber, ice clinking softly. He looked at the screen, then at Seb's comic, then at me.

"Bryson," he said, voice smooth, the way it got when he was about to deliver a lesson disguised as conversation. "You planning to spend the entire summer glued to that thing? Or do you intend to do something productive?"

I paused the game. "It's summer, Dad. Productive is for school."

He gave that small, disappointed smile—the one that made you feel like you'd already failed before opening your mouth. "Productive builds legacy. You know that. Your grandfather didn't build this life sitting around shooting virtual guns. And you—" He turned to Seb, who had lowered the book but not closed it. "—still reading those Japanese picture books? At eleven? Come on, Sebastian. When I was your age I was already reading real literature. Hemingway. Fitzgerald. Not... whatever this nonsense is."

Seb's fingers tightened on the spine. He didn't look up. "It's manga. And it's not nonsense. It's storytelling. Like comics, but better art. Besides, I do read Hemingway too, bloody overrated if you ask me."

Dad laughed—short, sharp. "Storytelling. Right. Because that's what gets you into Harvard, or running a company, or anything worth a damn. Very useful." He took a sip, eyes flicking back to me. "And you, Bryson. Always the golden boy, right? Charming the girls at those Hamptons parties. I saw you frolicking with that little cheerleader. Cute. But charm doesn't pay dividends unless it's backed by discipline. Grades slipping again this spring?"

"They weren't slipping," I said, keeping my tone light. "B plus average. That's solid."

"Solid," he repeated, like the word tasted bad. "Solid is for peasants. I didn't build all this—" he gestured vaguely at the view, the penthouse, us "—on solid. I built it on exceptional. No inheritance, no handouts. Just work. You two... spoiled little munchkins who think the world owes you something because your last names open doors."

Seb shifted, small voice careful. "I got straight A's. All terms."

Dad's gaze softened for half a second—almost approving—then hardened again. "Yes, Sebastian. Clever boy. Always the clever one. But clever in books doesn't make you strong. You iron your own socks, for God's sake. We have people for that. It's... beneath you. Makes you look weak. Effeminate, even. A man delegates. A man commands." He paused, then added casually, "Your mother never did teach you much about carrying yourself like a man, did she? Always the Dickens waif, that one—poor little wretch scraping by on charm and secondhand stories. No wonder you turned out so... delicate."

Seb's cheeks went pink. He closed the book slowly, set it on the armrest like it might explode.

Dad turned back to me, eyes narrowing. "And your mother, Bryson—bless her—brainless bimbo with a pretty face and zero sense of legacy. Chasing photographers and Pilates instructors while I built everything you two take for granted. At least she gave me a son who can throw a football. But not much else..."

I felt my jaw tighten. "Mom's not—"

"Save it," he cut in. "Tell you what. Let's make it interesting. End of summer, I want results. Bryson, you bring home a summer reading list—real books, not video games—and finish it. Impress me. Sebastian, put the cartoons away for a month. Try something challenging. Football lessons, build some muscle, get a little dirty. Stop looking like a stiff breeze could knock you over."

Seb blinked. "Football? Like... Beckham does?"

Dad rolled his eyes. "No, Sebastian. Not that nonsense you call football in England—running around in shorts kicking a ball like it's a tea party. Real football. Helmets, pads, contact. The kind that makes men."

Seb's face fell a fraction. "Oh. I don't like that either. I don't like getting grass stains."

Dad exhaled through his nose, the sound pure exasperation. "Of course you don't. Grass stains. Christ." He looked between us, satisfied, like he'd just set up a perfect chess move. "Compete a little. It'll be good for you. Make you sharper. One of you might even surprise me. Bryson, show your brother how a real boy handles pressure. Sebastian, try not to embarrass yourself—or me."

He set the glass down on the glass coffee table—hard enough that the ice rattled—then walked out, leaving the room quieter than before.

I unpaused the game, but the gunfire sounded tinny now. Seb didn't open his book again. He just sat there, knees drawn up, staring at the floor.

After a minute I tossed the controller aside. "Hey. Seb."

He glanced up, eyes wary.

"That was bullshit," I said. "The whole thing. He's just... Dad."

Seb gave a tiny shrug. "He's right about some of it. I do iron my socks."

I snorted, leaning back and crossing my arms behind my head like I owned the room—which, let's be honest, I basically did. "Yeah, well. It's your thing. Screw him. And the manga? Naruto's cool. I watched some of the anime last year when you weren't around. The fights are insane."

His mouth twitched—almost a smile. "You did?"

"Yeah. Don't tell anyone. Ruins my image." I grabbed the remote, switched inputs, then shot him a sidelong look, letting a smirk creep in. "I might call Lyra after, that cheerleader Dad saw me kiss in the Hamptons. She's very pretty. But who am I telling—it really doesn't look like you're into girls at all. She wouldn't give you a second look anyway, little Victorian twig. I was elected Prom King in my class, you know."

Seb flushed deeper, squirming a little. "I do like girls! It's just... I don't... uhh."

"Whatever." I waved it off, already standing up. "Come on, let's get that ice cream from the freezer before the staff hide it again. Dad's in a meeting downtown till dinner. We've got time."

Seb hesitated, then slid off the chair and followed me toward the kitchen.

◆◆◆

Present day

I blinked awake in the villa bedroom, the dream still clinging like salt on skin. The memory had felt warm, almost soft—me and Seb in that stupid penthouse media room, sharing ice cream and Naruto episodes while Dad's voice faded down the hallway. A nice one, for once. The kind I didn't let myself revisit often.

The sheets were cool where Adrien had been. I rolled over, expecting the solid weight of him, the slow rise and fall of his breathing against my back.

Gone.

The pillow was dented, still holding the faint shape of his head. On top of it, a single sheet of villa notepaper, folded once.

I reached for it.

Sorry.