Connor is the son of a wealthy tycoon. Maybe something in real estate, maybe something way more shady, anyway Connor doesn’t really care, he’s happy enough that his family shipped him off to New York to study fashion design and live his life as long as he adheres to some family rules and one of them is to always have his bodyguards around. He’s so used to them, they’ve always been around for as long as he can remember, usually some stern older guys. When he was little he’d call them uncles and try to get them to smile by being silly and grinning every time one of them cracked and took him to a bakery or ice cream shop on the way home from school. They’ve always been there, more care takers than guards, really.
They’d always seemed unnecessary, some precaution his family took, but Connor wasn’t that important right? He’d become used to having a shadow, but it felt silly, mostly.
Until that one day. Until that one time. A split second, a “This isn’t about you, sorry kid,” and Connor finding himself pushed to the ground as a shot rang through the street and people started screaming and Uncle’s blood splattered all over him from a bullet that was supposed to be for him instead.
From one moment to the next it doesn’t feel silly at all anymore.
…
The new hire is different: younger than the others, though still over a decade older than Connor; a presence rather than a shadow. He’s just as serious as any of the Uncles, but he’s got a sense of humor too. He’s not just a silent onlooker to Connor’s life, but gets involved as far as Connor lets him; joins him working out, gives his opinion when Connor asks him something rather than just scripted blahblah his father would approve of; humors him modelling some of the early fashion designs when Connor can’t get them right on the design dolls.
Connor doesn’t want to allow them to become close; it wouldn’t be professional from either of them, but it feels inevitable. They just click. It’s almost like a slow dance around each other, both of them aware where this could lead if they’d allow to blur the lines. But they tiptoe it instead: flirt, banter, careful not to go too far.
…
It’s a gala, a place Connor knows he should be safe.
But the loud crash of glasses and silverware still startles him, the way he ducks an automatic response; the liquid splattering over him partly shielded by Francois’ body transports him back two years, out of the gala and into the streets. The redwine stains bloom across Francois’ white button down shirt like blood and Connor can’t breathe. The panic is icy creeping up his spine and clawing into his lungs.
He doesn’t have any memory of how he gets home to his safe apartment, but he does and he knows he’s got Francois to thank for that. And when he asks Francois to stay with him, he does. And when he asks Francois to hold him, he does that too.
