Chapter Five
Freddie
In the short drive from the Fisherman’s Refuge to his family farm outside of Launceston, Freddie had plenty of time to consider the Maori god with the hamster, tattoos, and deep voice. The man’s strong hand on his shoulder had left an impression, though not necessarily a visible one.
Dating had been practically impossible as a teenager. Not many had wanted to brave the disapproval of Mr Whittle and Mr Rees—now Mr Whittle and Mr Whittle, since they’d finally been able to marry when the law had changed. They’d been intimidating, to say the least.
He hadn’t had much luck since leaving home either, so maybe his parents hadn’t been the issue. With his constant driving to see patients, finding a man to go out with hadn’t exactly been a high priority on his list of things to do. He barely managed to make it beyond a second or third date.
And sex.
Sex.
Freddie hadn’t quite managed to do more beyond orally pleasuring a few of those dates. I’m a virgin. I’m twenty-six and a virgin. I am pathetic. It would’ve only been worse had he still been living in his childhood bedroom.
Is it wrong to pray for the right first partner?
He didn’t necessarily feel his first time should be something monumentally special. His virginity wasn’t exactly some mystical treasure to be gifted to his one and only love. Right, no more reading Auntie Annie’s romances. He simply didn’t want to rush into something only to regret it later.
The closest thing Freddie had to a relationship had been with Tristan, who he had been with for almost eight months. He’d experienced his first brush with something akin to love. Stars had definitely filled his eyes whenever they went out together.
When Freddie refused to immediately fall into bed with Tristan, the bastard decided to find someone who would. He’d found him screwing around with one of the part-time workers at the farm. They’d been visiting for a three-day weekend.
His fathers quickly kicked both the worker and Tristan out of the farm on their arses. Freddie refused any calls from the man after. It only served to cement his belief in not rushing into a sexual relationship.
The image of Fred and Adam Whittle chasing two young men off their property would stick with Freddie for a long while. It almost made up for his slightly bruised heart. His fathers really could be intimidating when they wanted to be.
None of their family were particularly tall or broad. Freddie had inherited his lithe muscles and lanky body from both sides. His thick brown hair had come from the Whittles. The slight tint of colour to his skin came from his Jewish heritage.
The Rees family had come over to Wales in the early 1900s after facing the destruction of their previous lives, changing their last name from Reizen to blend into their new home. Freddie remembered his grandparents telling stories about their emigration from Russia. It had always made him appreciate his own life more.
Perspective.
Always important to have.
The Whittles had deeper roots in Cornwall. They were farmers who had made and sold cheese for close to two hundred years, a long history Freddie had always felt proud to be a part of. Being able to eat a mountain of free cheese had only been an added bonus.
I do love my cheese.
A honking horn drew his attention from delicious treats to the fact that he’d almost missed the turn into the farm. Freddie waved at Uncle Graeme when he drove by him. The man worked on the Whittle farm during the busy months of the year. He’d have taken the mickey for weeks if Freddie had actually missed the turn.
Bastard.
“Adam. Adam. He’s here. Our Freddie’s home.”
Freddie could hear his dad yelling for his tad before he’d even stopped the car or shut the engine off. He smiled brightly at the two men in their fifties who stood with an arm around each other by the front door of the farmhouse. How can I be annoyed, even if they’re acting like they haven’t seen me in years instead of weeks at most? He offered them a cheerful hello in his tad’s native tongue. “S’mae.”
“Frederick, the junior.” His dad and namesake stormed across the gravel path to stop by the racing green Mini Cooper. He didn’t even turn to offer Freddie a hug when he stepped out. His finger shook as it reached out to point towards the damage on the door. The afternoon sun highlighted the edges with annoying clarity. “Who. Did. This?”
His tad moved over to crouch down to get a better view of the hatred carved into their son’s car. “Oh, Freddie.”
“I’m fine. It’s fine. I’ll get it buffed out on Monday.” His protests didn’t make an impact on his fathers, who crushed him between them in a smothering hug. “Breathing is becoming an issue. I’m serious. Dad? Tad? Anyone? You’ll feel awful if I suffocate from a cwtch.”
“And yet, you’re still managing to ramble incessantly while not breathing? Impressive skills. You should put it on your CV.” Adam Whittle, his tad, had always had a dryer sense of humour than either Freddie or his dad, Fred. “Did you at least contact the police?”
“Of course he did. Our Freddie’s a smart boy.”
Freddie wiggled out from between them and tried not to glare at his fathers. “I’m not five years old. I’m quite capable of handling two twmffats who don’t have a brain in their heads.”
“You were such a darling at that age. You watch your language.” His dad went all nostalgic, apparently losing himself in his memories. “I wonder where the family photo albums are. Where did we store them?”
Freddie covered his face with his hands and counted backwards in his head in English, Welsh, and French for good measure. “Not enough cheese in the world to save me from this shit.”
“Watch your language.”
“Yes, Tad.” Freddie wondered if they’d notice if he pulled his hair out. Shit.
“Watch your language.” Tad sent his son a knowing look.
Nothing could humble a man like having his parents treat him like a toddler. His dads always managed to make him regress to his brief rebellious stage. He’d left home to avoid it.
Rebellious might actually be a bit strong of a word for it. Freddie had simply balked at all the constant coddling. They loved him. He knew it, but wished they’d occasionally not try to drown him in it.
His auntie Anna always told him to be kind to his fathers. She often reminded him of the struggles they had gone through as a gay couple during a time when the world was even less accepting. Their deciding to have a son hadn’t made things better.
Not that they would’ve ever complained. Freddie knew his fathers considered him to be their miracle. He only wished they’d at least acknowledge he had not only grown up, but become a working adult who lived on his own.
“So, cheese?” Freddie wanted to move the conversation away from his car. Nothing would be solved by harping on it. The world might’ve improved, but it hadn’t magically become completely free of intolerance. His dads, however, remained staring at the vile words. “I’ll be inside eating all your cheese.”
“Freddie, love.” His dad’s expressive blue eyes pierced his own brown ones. “I hoped you would outgrow your need to hide your hurts from us. We’re family, son. We share—the good and the bad. One day you’ll learn you don’t have to smile for us.”
Additional hugs followed, as always, before his dad wandered off with his phone glued to his ear. He appeared to be calling around to see about getting the paint redone. Typical. They always—his dad in particular—took over getting things done for him.
When Freddie had moved to Cardiff, he’d fought tooth and nail to manage it on his own. It had been akin to treason when he ignored the apartment listings they sent him. His refusing to use the movers they hired had caused a bit of a family incident; his aunt had intervened to calm the situation down.
She was always brilliant at handling them.
His friends always exclaimed endlessly about how sweet his parents were. Sweet? They’d drive him to violence if they didn’t stop suffocating him. Was it wrong to want to be treated as a twenty-six-year-old and not a toddler?
“You’re in time for tea, cariad.” His tad threw an arm around his shoulder and guided him towards the farmhouse. “Cheese toast? You can tell me all about your romance troubles.”
Coc y gath.