Staas took the picture back gratefully, and continued to look at it. He saw it every day, of course, but he didn't stop and take the time to look as often as he used to. And when he did, it was usually with happier memories in his mind, though always with an underscore of guilt.
It was stupid. He knew that. It certainly hadn't been his fault. But still, he couldn't help feeling guilty. Guilty that he hadn't tried to get Carey help. Guilty that he hadn't ever tried more to get him to be open. Guilty that he hadn't loved him enough. Hadn't loved him the way Carey had loved Staas.
He didn't even realize he was losing the battle with his eyes until a drop of moisture landed on the glass of the picture frame. "Dammit," he muttered, wiping it off as he bit his lip. Hard. Anything to make it stop. He scrubbed at his cheeks next, willing himself to fucking stop it. It was done, and he had a lot of good memories, and it hadn't been his fault.
He took a deep breath and leaned forward to lay the picture on the table. He nodded, a belated reaction to Ira's words, and tried a smile for the guy. "He's the reason I'm so easygoing about gay-bi-whatever shit. After he told me, he was still Carey. Nothing changed. And, you know. I didn't do enough to make it okay for him to come out. So I try to do it now instead."
He was at least self-aware enough to have worked that one out. He had been a member of PFLAG in Vegas, and had donated to causes when he could. He'd let his active activism lapse when he'd become a parent, but he still did his part, trying to make small changes, one mind at a time whenever he had the opportunity.
"He told me when we were sixteen, seventeen. He told me at the same time he told me he loved me." He had to bite his lip again. "I loved him too, just . . . I'm not wired that way. No matter how hard I tried."
Fuck. He pressed both hands to his eyes this time. "Fuck," he muttered.