GOD HE’D forgotten how much he loved sitting around listening to Quinn babble. There was a song to Quinn’s mind, a diving, swooping gleeful dance with somber passages as the conversation grew dearthen taking off again on a gallivant when something intriguing came up. He’d taken the plates from the waitress when shecame by, sliding Quinn’s around so his fries were near his left hand and a napkin right above that. Everything came back to him easily. The caring of Quinn—taking the small steps in easing some of the roughness around them before the burrs caught on Quinn’s velvety soul.
Rafe’d missed that. Missed him. Something about Quinn Morgan soothed even as it ruffled other parts of Rafe’s mind… of Rafe’s body and soul.
He’d hesitated before trying to steal a piece of swiss cheese from Quinn’s sandwich, not knowing if he still had that right—that permission—to intrude on Q’s world. This Quinn was older, yes—a little bit looser—but the rules governing Quinn’s delicate balance remained the same. Ask. Don’t push. And let him fly.
There was nothing more glorious than to see Quinn Morgan flying in the spectral rainbow of the world he’d plunged into.
Little bits of things suddenly became enormously important. The pop of a mustard seed on Rafe’s tongue held a tart wonder he’d not have stopped to see if Quinn hadn’t pointed it out to him. They’d spent at least five minutes dissecting the different flavors in the shop’s homemade bread-and-butter pickles, chortling when Rafe dared Quinn to taste the pickling juice, then finding himself intrigued at the flavor of it on a piece of sourdough from his pastrami sandwich.
Then Quinn was off again. Running along the weaving paths of his mind, dragging Rafe along for the ride.
They eventually found music, a commonality they’d shared from the very beginning. Of everyone Rafe’d ever met, it’d been Quinn who’d gotten his love for the deep, rolling thread beneath the music, the river feeding the land a song was built on. Before he knew it, they were scooted up together, debating a sweet from the menu, and the sky outside was pitch black through the frosted panes.
And discovered he’d placed his hand across Quinn’s, stroking at Q’s long fingers with his own rough touch.
“Do you have school tomorrow?” Rafe didn’t want to stop touching Quinn. Especially not when Quinn turned his hand over and rubbed his fingertips across Rafe’s palm. “Shit, all these years of trying to get out of school, and you go and jump right back in with both feet.”
“I have a few student meetings tomorrow, and you hated school because they made you do homework,” Quinn pointed out. “Which you tried to shove off on me.”
“Hey, you liked it. ’Sides, what was smarter? Doing it myself or bribing a resident genius to give me a hand?”
“Once. I helped you once.” Quinn held up a single finger—and not with the hand Rafe was playing with. “And that’s because I felt sorry for you. Learned our lesson, didn’t we?”
“Yeah. When writing a paper for an idiot, write like an idiot.” Rafe snorted, recalling the thunderous roll of Donal’s voice when the school’s dean dragged them all in for punishment. “Your dad went to the mat for me there. I thought I was out for sure. One too many fuckups.”
“And all because you had to see if that band would let you play with them.” Quinn leaned against the chair’s arm, his shoulder nearly brushing Rafe’s. “I was scared Da was going to skin us alive.”
“Yeah, the one time I wished your mom showed up.” Rafe chuckled. “But she didn’t. Neither did mine, though, so there’s that.”
“She worked,” Quinn pointed out softly.
It was a long-standing truth. Rafe lived in the Morgans’ back pocket, and his mother worked to keep him there.
“It’s hard if there’s only one parent. She spent a hell of a lot of time working.”
“Not anymore.” Rafe reached for his second latte, then saluted his absent mother. “I’m glad she’s… not here, you know? That sounds fucked-up, but it’s rough between us right now. And that’s not on her. I mean, she did her best. Me, not so much. But at least she’s taken care of. No more working for her. Not ever again.”
“You doing okay?”
And now, Rafe thought, came the dramatic portion of the evening.
“Seriously, Q, don’t I look okay?” Rolling his shoulders back, Rafe tangled his fingers into Quinn’s, tightening his hold. Lying was easy. Or it should have been, but his tongue stumbled over the words he was forcing over them. “All the rock-star money, none of the responsibilities.”