“Dante.”
“You know, it’s weird,” Dante said. “Almost everyone I’ve been with since . . . fuck, since childhood, has called me Pope. It’s only you and my probation officer who call me Dante.”
“What do you prefer?”
Dante shrugged. “Either. Both.”
“Neither?”
In spite of the dark cloud hanging over him, Dante smiled for real. And it felt good. “Is it multiple choice every time you ask me a question now?”
“Maybe, but to be fair, you started it.”
“Did I?”
“Dunno. Can’t remember.”
Neither could Dante, who remembered everything.
Maybe people do change.
Whatever. Sid was still staring at him like Dante held the answer to life’s great questions.
Dante sighed. “I don’t understand.”
“Understand what?”
“Why you want to have dinner with me after what I said to you by the lake.”
“Why wouldn’t I? We have breakfast and lunch together every day. It’s not different, except you get access to my weed stash, and you said it helps your self-esteem, so . . .”
Sid’s grin was gentle, but irritation flushed through Dante all the same. “That’s not what I said.”
“Yeah, well. You’ve said a lot of stuff since we met. I can’t remember it all.”
“You should.”
“Are you trying to shock me, Dante?”
“What?”
Sid didn’t answer. Just stared some more, and Dante decided he preferred it when he was quiet like he had been all afternoon. Every conversation that wasn’t about plants seemed to intensify before he could stop it, and he couldn’t stomach another one. Not with that damn fucking envelope burning a hole in his pocket.
Quieting his thoughts with a spliff was tempting, though. Almost as tempting as the prospect of spending the evening with Sid instead of his own thoughts, and perhaps sensing Dante wavering, Sid stepped forward again. “Come on,” he said softly. “We can smoke and talk some more. It doesn’t have to be about heavy shit.”
“What if shit is all I am? Heavy or not?”
“Mate, if you want to talk about literal shit, I have horse manure all over my legs.”
Dante glanced down at Sid’s legs and instantly regretted it. Dirty or not, Sid’s leanly muscled calves were a walking wet dream, especially in utility shorts. “How did that happen?”
“I dropped the bag, but that’s not really my point.”
“It should be. I’ve seen you lift bags three times that heavy. If you dropped it, then it’s my fault because I didn’t see that you needed help.”
Sid’s expression soured.
Dante offered him a saccharin smirk in return. “See? You don’t want to have dinner with me.”
“I do.”
“You don’t.”
“Why not? And why don’t I get to decide?”
“I already told you why not a thousand times, and you can decide all you want, just prepare to be wrong.” Dante turned away with iron-clad intentions to be anywhere but in the snare of whatever Sid was feeling right now.
“Wait.”
Sid caught Dante’s arm, and Dante reeled back before his brain caught up with the don’t touch me instinct he couldn’t shake. He stumbled back, colliding with a wheelbarrow behind him. The clanging metal was unnaturally loud, and Dante cringed as it seemed to echo in the deserted yard. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay.” Sid held out his hands in clear surrender, one shaking in a way that was unique to him, twitching to its own beat. “It was my fault for lunging at you. I’m sorry—for grabbing you, and for hassling you about dinner. Fuck, I’m an idiot. Forgive me? I promise I’ll leave you alone.”
Dante took Sid’s outstretched hands without stopping to think about what he was doing or even if Sid wanted him to. The rain fell around them and on them, saturating their already soaked clothes. Sid’s hair was wet gold, stuck to his forehead. He’s so beautiful. Dante squeezed his fingers, just once, then let him go, grieving the loss of his touch before the sensation had truly left him. “Thank you for inviting me. It’s probably the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”
Sid smiled through the thundering rain. “Does that mean you’ll come? Actually, don’t answer that. Just know I’ll have cooked enough for you and your grandad’s aunt, and my door is always open.”
As had become their SOP over the last few days, he walked away without waiting for an answer.
7
Temperature was Sid’s worst enemy. Too hot and his body went haywire with spasms and twitches. Too cold and it hurt. His muscles bound too tight, and moving his limbs made him groan out loud.
His afternoon in the rain caught up with him approximately six seconds after he shut his front door. He staggered to the shower, dropping his clothes along the way, and sat beneath the hot spray, hugging his knees as the heat worked slowly into his tense flesh, thawing him out joint by aching joint. Timing was everything. If he got it right, he’d spare himself a night of discomfort. A minute wrong either way and he was fucked.
Tonight, for the most part, it panned out. He dressed in loose trousers and a festival tee and limped to the kitchen on legs that were pain-free but still misbehaving enough to make him mutter under his breath with every step. Fuck this motherfucking shit.
Negative thoughts weren’t his jam, though, and with Dante on his mind, they were easier to push aside than ever. Not that the prospect of Dante ignoring his dinner invitation filled him with much joy. Damn, this dude. Why is he so complicated?
There were a million answers to that question, and Sid didn’t know ninety-nine per cent of them. Sure, Dante had shared today, but a few bleak, unforgiving sentences didn’t make a person who they were.
Sid opened the fridge and found the soup he’d defrosted overnight and paired it with the proved bread dough one of the kitchen mother hens had gifted him the day before. It was one of the pros of being known as fragile: people gave him food, and even on a good day, Sid never refused.
He shaped the dough and left it to rise again. While he waited, he poured the soup into a pan—all of it, because positive thoughts kept him alive—then he retreated outside with his weed tin and rolled the joint he’d been craving since cold-fuelled pain had crept into his legs. It was gone for now, but he knew a smoke would keep it at bay for longer and help him sleep. If he could skin up anything worth lighting.
As if his treacherous body had heard him, his tired fingers slipped on the papers. He laughed and tried again, but it wasn’t happening. “Awesome.”
Sighing, he kicked his head back against the wall and closed his eyes, ignoring the risk of falling asleep on the porch where the whole world could see him. It wouldn’t be the first time, or the last, though he could live without Benjamin lecturing him on keeping his weed stash discreet. “I know you need it, Sid, and it’s basically legal, but I don’t want to suffer that conversation every time someone reports you.”
“Hey.”
Sid lifted his heavy lids.