“Who says I need to grieve?”
“I do,” Alec said. “Tyler’s here to accept the award and enjoy himself, not be cornered by the mother of the man he used to live with.”
“I just…” Emily Johnson blinked owlishly at her son. “I just expected to see you happily married by now, Alec.”
The air around them grew thin, as if pulling enough oxygen from the atmosphere took more of an effort. Alec’s shoulders sagged as he shifted his gaze elsewhere, a little bit of misery and a whole lot of guilt in his expression, and the painful catch in Dylan’s chest made breathing that much more difficult.
All Dylan wanted was to offer him a little comfort. Standing by Alec’s side, Dylan had no trouble discreetly reaching out to link their fingers together. Alec sent him a wistful smile, squeezing Dylan’s hand in a clear message of appreciation and sidetracking Dylan with smooth skin and the heat of his palm. Even more distracting was the way the fingers curled around Dylan’s so easily.
Half listening to Alec’s mother ramble on, Dylan realized the handholding represented the most intimate act he’d ever engaged in, which was a friggin’ ridiculous notion, really. They’d spent countless hours wrapped around each other, Dylan’s front pressed to Alec’s back or vice versa as they’d driven each other higher.
Reassured by the hot memories, Dylan squeezed Alec’s fingers back. Alec visibly relaxed. And when he smiled and those blue eyes crinkled in response, the wave of relief nearly bowled Dylan over.
Jesus, maybe this was more than friendship.
A suffocating feeling started in his chest and spiraled outward. Panic rising, Dylan dropped his gaze to Alec’s nails—clean and well-trimmed and lacking any of the stains Dylan constantly found on his own—and a memory of the only other time he’d held a man’s hand slowly seeped into his consciousness.
As the morphine pump whirred softly in the background, Dylan stared down at the hospital bed sheets and the fingers threaded through his. The fingers were too pale and too thin, and Rick far was too young to be so weak.
“You’re gonna be fine, kiddo,” Dylan said, squeezing his hand.
He’d used the nickname intentionally, hoping to get a response, and he waited for Rick’s laughing protest. The one-year gap in their ages had always felt more like a hundred. Rick had been born optimistic and kind while Dylan was convinced he’d dropped from the womb bitter and angry. His nickname for his friend was more a reflection of their personalities than their ages.
But Rick didn’t comment on Dylan’s use of the name.
“Fine?” Rick said.
He didn’t open his eyes, and Dylan wondered if he was now too weak to lift his lids. Panic crowded the back of Dylan’s throat, cutting off his air.
“You’re king of the bullshitters,” Rick muttered, his lips curving at the corners.
Dylan smiled, so friggin’ grateful his friend could still speak that, for a moment, the simple joy bubbled up and spread, infusing him with a warmth that had been hard to find lately. Learning to appreciate the little things was new for him, something Rick had always been ragging on Dylan to do. But, as Rick’s condition grew worse, and the end closer, those little moments were the only thing that got Dylan through the day.
And they were becoming harder and harder to find.
“King of BS? That’s totally me. Until my last breath,” Dylan said, squeezing Rick’s hand again and regretting the words that were a reminder of Rick’s current condition.
Rick murmured something Dylan couldn’t make out, and he leaned closer to catch the words on his second try.
“Hopefully your last breath won’t be for a long time.”
Dylan tightened his fingers around Rick’s because, Jesus, pushing forward hardly felt doable right now. They’d spent years holding each other’s spirits up, refusing to let the crappy weather, the rain, or a cold night spent in a back alley get them down. But right now it took all of Dylan’s energy not to scream and rant and bang his fists against the wall.
Because life was so fucking unfair…
“Dylan?”
Dylan blinked, bringing his focus back to Emily Johnson as she continued talking. Dylan was very aware that Alec was looking at him with concern.
“Sorry,” Dylan murmured, a heated flush of embarrassment creeping up his neck.
“Four to five percent of geese and duck pairings are homosexual,” Emily said. “I’ve heard females will lay eggs in a homosexual pair’s nest. Some say they’re better at raising the young than the heterosexual couples.” She turned to address Dylan. “Do you plan on getting married and having kids?”
The words landed like a swivel kick to the chest.
Married? Kids?