The A & E doctor pressed his gloved fingers under Angelo’s arms and frowned. “Take a breath for me?”

Angelo inhaled a shaky breath, willing his body to stay upright as the devastatingly hot doctor examined him. Seriously. When did British hospitals start getting doctors who looked like him? He thought about snapping a sneaky picture with his phone but then remembered that it was still locked in the gutted deli, and not vomiting became his priority.

“Lean forward, buddy.”

Angelo leaned forward. The doctor’s hands glanced over his bruised ribs, and Angelo winced.

“Almost done,” the doctor said. “You look like you’re about to pass out on me. Is the pain that bad?”

“Not in my ribs.” Angelo fought his heavy eyes. “My head. And my chest.”

The doctor said something, but Angelo missed it and fell forwards. His head hit the doctor’s shoulder and he stayed there for a little while. The bloke smelled nice, though not as nice as Dylan. No one smelled like Dylan.

“All right,” the doctor said. “I’m going to lay you down and take some blood. Breathe the oxygen, okay? It’ll help.”

Help with what? But Angelo was too far gone to form the words. Someone else in the room⁠—Theresa, maybe⁠—spoke and then came closer, gripping Angelo’s hand. But he pulled away, even though he was dimly aware that something had changed between them. A needle pierced his skin and the nice smelling doctor touched cold metal to Angelo’s bare chest again.

“Angelo, buddy . . . look at me.”

No.

“Angelo.” Theresa shook him. “Listen to the doctor.”

Listening and looking weren’t the same thing, but Angelo forced his eyes open, squinting against the harsh overhead light.

“Good,” the doctor said. “How is your breathing?”

Angelo shook his head. “I⁠—I don’t know.”

The doctor seemed to accept the non-answer, like perhaps he was expecting it. He removed his stethoscope from Angelo’s sternum. “I’m sending you for a chest X-ray, but I think you may have pneumonia. It’s quite common in patients with chronic fatigue syndrome, and you might’ve been carrying it for a while.”

Angelo’s head swam as he glanced at Theresa. Her face held no surprise⁠—clearly the ME wasn’t new information to her⁠—but Angelo had no idea when that had happened. He coughed and fire spread through his chest. His eyes watered and his skull throbbed, and it was all he could do not to vomit on the hot doctor’s vintage Nikes.

Almost.

After, he settled for passing out. And he came round sometime later to Theresa holding a plastic cup of stale water to his lips.

Angelo pushed it away. “I’m fine, Mum.”

“You are not fine, Angelo.”

Like you care. But he bit back the retort and thought hard, sifting through his pain-clouded mind. Why is she here? And the only explanation came from his scattered memories of how he’d wound up in A & E in the first place. The mother of all headaches had ended with an afternoon on the kitchen floor before Theresa had discovered him. He remembered staring up at her, his head spinning and his vision fogged, half expecting her to step over him, but then the air had shifted, and in a blur of gentle hands and flashing lights, she’d suddenly become his mother again.

The doctor came back to Angelo’s bed. “Your X-rays show pneumatic infection in both lungs.”

“Does that mean I have pneumonia?”

“Yes. Like I said, it can be quite common in ME patients.”

“Why? Is my immune system fucked?”

“It’s not that simple,” the doctor said. “There’s a lot of research that says the immune system is actually hyperactive when challenged in ME patients and becomes unable to shut down once the danger is passed.”

Angelo heard the words but failed to compute the meaning. “I don’t understand. I can’t⁠—I can’t think straight.”

“I know.” The doctor laid a kind hand on Angelo’s arm. “ME does horrible things to cognitive function when you’re not well, eh?”

“I thought it was my ribs making me breathe funny.”

“I don’t think so.” The doctor sat Angelo up and listened to his chest again. “The bruises are a few days old, and your X-ray shows no injuries to the bones. That also wouldn’t explain why you’re so ill. I’m still waiting for your bloods to come back, but I can tell by looking at you that you’re anaemic, and your white blood cells are probably all over the place.”

“Can I go home?”

“No. Your oxygen levels are too low. I’m admitting you to a ward upstairs and you’ll likely be in for a few days.”

Angelo lay back down, what little fight he had left all but gone. The doctor disappeared and Theresa took his place. She claimed Angelo’s hand and stroked his face. Her touch felt cold and alien and ten years too late, but Angelo let it happen anyway. With Dylan, the deli, and now his damn fucking lungs giving up on him, their fractured relationship was all he had left.

* * *

“So this is where they stashed you, eh?”

Angelo glanced up blearily. After three long days on the crowded hospital ward, the doctors and nurses were all starting to look the same, but this bloke was vaguely familiar.

And gorgeous.

Ah. It was the hot doctor from the emergency department, and by the look on his face, he’d been waiting too long for Angelo to answer him. “Um, I s’pose so. What are you doing up here?”

“Checking on a few patients. I’m heading back up north in the morning.”

“You’re not from around here?”

The doctor shook his head. “Nah. I got drafted in for a specific incident and ended up getting stuck for a few days. London ain’t my bag, man.”

Angelo nodded slowly. The haze in his brain had lifted as his oxygen saturation had improved, but the ME fog remained, and laced with morphine, it was thick enough for him to take a moment to figure out how to verbalise what he wanted to say. “Thank you.”

“What for?”

“For helping me. A specialist physiotherapist came to see me this morning. Harry something or other. He’s coming again tomorrow.”

The doctor glanced at the notes hanging from the end of Angelo’s bed. “Harry Foster. He’s a mate of mine, actually, so I called in a favour. He’s the best physio in the business for conditions like yours, but you’ll need to register with a GP if you want to continue seeing him.”

“I know. My mum’s on it.”

“Good. Listen, ME is brutal, but there’s plenty you can do to manage it⁠—to give yourself a better quality of life. Find things that make you happy and hold onto them.”

Angelo coughed, which didn’t hurt as much as it had a few days ago. “Is that a treatment plan?”

“It’s the only one you’re going to get from me.” The doctor returned Angelo’s notes to their place and held out his fist. “Take care, mate.”

And then he was gone. Angelo stared after him and shifted on the bed. Inactivity had done wonders for the infection rampaging through his immune system, but his muscles were fucked⁠—seized up, jittery, and crampy. Brief periods of standing helped. Angelo hauled himself upright and eased his legs over the edge of the bed. It took a moment for his ankles to take his weight and the IV in his arm got tangled, but eventually, he was stable enough to shuffle to the window.

He gazed out over the city, the one positive of his corner bed. Without the view, he’d have lost his mind entirely, and the twinkling lights of a city that never slept grounded him now, soothing the scrape of anxiety that plagued him every time he pondered what the hell he was going to do. He had no job, no money, and soon he’d have no home either, at least not one that didn’t involve sharing a retirement flat with his mother.

Fuck that. Angelo had felt pretty close to death over the last few days, but continuing to live with Theresa in any capacity would be a damn sight worse.

An obnoxious buzz pierced the quiet of the near silent ward. Angelo jumped and turned around faster than his healing equilibrium was totally comfortable with. He put a hand to his chest, absorbing the rattle that came with each breath and the thud of his startled heart. It was the middle of the night, and he was surrounded by snoring old men, so why could he hear a buzzing iPhone?

As the thought meandered through Angelo’s mind, his gaze fell on a grubby white cable. He blinked and tracked it to the broken chest of drawers by his bed. Beside the ever-present jug of lukewarm water lay his own battered phone, plugged in and charging. What the . . . ? Angelo stared at it, scrabbling to recall Theresa’s afternoon visit, which was the only logical explanation for the phone’s reappearance in his life. She hadn’t stayed long, but Angelo didn’t blame her for that. He’d spent most of his time in hospital, sleeping, coughing, and throwing up, and in his brief moments of lucidity, he’d had no idea what to say to her. So he’d said nothing. And she’d left but not, apparently, before plugging in his long-abandoned phone.

He shuffled back to his bed and sat down before tentatively reaching for his phone. The cracked screen was alive with the messages Dylan had sent him the day the bailiffs had cleaned out the deli, but there was nothing since. Angelo deleted the messages without reading them and wiped his voicemail. The hurt in Dylan’s eyes that night was all the reminder Angelo needed for just how badly he’d screwed up.

He set the phone down and, worn out by his jaunt to the window, curled up on his bed, wishing he had another pillow to wedge between his knees and some food that didn’t smell like reheated linoleum. That he was hungry was progress, but he still felt like carving his lungs out and flinging them at the wall.

Angelo closed his eyes, but despite the quiet of the ward and the ever-present weight of exhaustion, couldn’t sleep. He stared into the darkness for a while, and then shifted his attention to his dormant phone. Don’t. But he reached for it anyway and searched for a Wi-Fi connection. A café downstairs had an open account. Angelo logged on and opened WhatsApp. A single message buzzed through the shaky Internet connection. It had been sent an hour ago and simply read I’m sorry.

It was from Dylan.

Angelo’s heart skipped a thudding beat. He sat up, rubbing his face, willing his mind not to be playing a cruel trick on him. And when he looked again, the message was still there . . . and Dylan was online.

With shaking hands, Angelo attempted to tap out a reply. Nonsense filled the screen, and panic that Dylan would go offline before he typed anything coherent sent him into a coughing fit. Dying inside, he did the only thing he could think of and snapped a picture of the IV in his arm.

The photo hurtled into the abyss before he could check himself, and a reply from Dylan buzzed back almost instantly.

D: WTF? Are you ok?

Damn it. Angelo wrestled with his treacherous focus and painstakingly composed a reply.

A: Pneumonia. Probs ME related.

D: Shit. Has that happened before?

A: No. Might have had it a while without realising tho

Dylan didn’t reply straight away. Angelo lay back and squinted at the screen. Perhaps talking would be easier than typing, but then again, even breathing was a ball ache right now. Besides, it was the middle of the night, and despite the cacophony of snoring going on around him, he didn’t want to disturb anyone.

His phone buzzed again.

D: Are you in Queens?

A: Yup. Shit hole.

D: All hospitals are.

A: Yeah.

D: Are you on the respiratory ward?

A: No. It was full, so they put me on some spillover ward

D: Bluebell?

A: Yeah.

Angelo closed his eyes, willing away the dizziness and accompanying stabbing pain behind his eyes, then forced them open and texted again.

A: Bluebell A, I think. There’s two.

D: Bluebell B is for children. Um . . . are you game for visitors?

Angelo sat up again. The flutter that had danced through his burning chest when he’d first seen Dylan’s message suddenly had bigger feet.

A: Would you come?

D: Of course. I miss you.

A: I miss you too.

And God, it was true. Life had imploded in so many ways over the past few weeks, but the wreckage of his relationship with Dylan had taunted Angelo more than anything. Everything hurt, but the cracks in his heart hurt the most.

Dylan didn’t reply to Angelo’s last text, and Angelo took that to mean that their conversation would perhaps continue in the morning. He plugged his phone in again and lay back down, pondering the possibility of Dylan coming to see him. Visiting hours started at ten, but Dylan would probably be at work then. The evening session was at six. Would Angelo be able to stay upright in the shower before then?

He’d bloody well try.

* * *

Dylan pulled a chair up to Angelo’s bed. In the dim light of the quiet ward, he looked asleep, but the ward sister seemed to think he’d been awake a few minutes ago. Dylan found his hand, bruised and swollen from the IV jammed in the back. Jesus. How the hell did this happen?

Angelo’s elegant fingers seemed to wrap instinctively around Dylan’s before his eyes fluttered open. The surprise in his tired gaze was obvious. Dylan caught his shoulders as he struggled to sit up, easing him back down and stroking his face.

“Shh. It’s just me.”

Angelo took a breath that turned into an obviously painful cough. Dylan rubbed his chest and reclaimed his hand, squeezing gently until he was able to speak.

“You came,” Angelo whispered.

Dylan smiled. “I did.”

“What time is it?”

“A little after three.”

“In the morning?”

“Yup.”

“But⁠—how? I mean, how did you get in here?”

Dylan slid his chair impossibly closer and shrugged. “I went to school with the ward sister, and she’s let me in a few times to see Sam when he’s been admitted here.”

“Orgy BFF?”

“That’s the one, though there won’t be any orgies for a while. He moved to Poland yesterday.”

Angelo cocked an eyebrow. “He did? Wow. You’re going to miss him.”

It wasn’t a question, and Dylan didn’t deny it. How could he when it was so true? “Anyway. I kind of figured that as you were awake an hour ago, you were probably having trouble sleeping in this place, so I might as well visit you straight away. I can come back in daylight if you like⁠—⁠”

“Don’t go.” Angelo tightened his grip on Dylan’s hand. “I’m having a hard enough time believing that you’re really here as it is.”

“I’m here, mate.”

Angelo closed his eyes, and for a while it seemed that he’d fallen asleep. Dylan took the opportunity to look him over, taking in the dark smudges under his eyes, the marks and bruises on his arms from needle sticks, and the oxygen mask hanging within easy reach. Coupled with the IV and the unmissable rasp in Angelo’s chest, it was clear to see that he’d been⁠—and likely still was⁠—horribly ill.

“Are you okay?”

Dylan blinked to find Angelo very much awake and staring at him. “What?”

“Are you okay?” Angelo repeated. “You look traumatised.”

Dylan forced a low laugh. “Maybe I am. And maybe I deserve to be. I should’ve been here when you were admitted, not rocking up however many days later in the middle of the night.”

“Three days,” Angelo said with a weary sigh. “And as much as I appreciate the sentiment, I’m glad you weren’t here when they brought me in. I was a mess, and I’m pretty sure I puked on some hot doctor in A & E.”

Dylan winced. “Really? Yeesh. Why is it always the hot ones?”

“I dunno. He was nice, though. He came to see me up here and referred me to an ME physio.”

“That’s good. It’s about time you had some help with it⁠—⁠” Dylan stopped. “Sorry, I’m not here to lecture you.”

Angelo smiled tiredly. “You’re not lecturing me if you’re telling the truth. I might have got pneumonia anyway, but it probably wouldn’t have been this bad if I’d been in a better state beforehand. The doctors here reckon I’m anaemic as fuck and totally run down.”

Dylan could believe it. The hand Angelo had been dealt was brutal, even without chronic illness thrown in on top. “What happened to get you here? I feel like I’ve missed a lot.”

“You have, but it’s not your fault, so wipe that guilt shit off your face.”

“Guilt shit?”

“Yeah. That frown you get when you’re blaming yourself for everyone else’s problems. I saw you do it at work that first time I saw you in Stratford. You ran through the waiting room like a walking migraine.”

Dylan laughed and then clapped his hand over his mouth, remembering the ward sister’s warning about keeping quiet. “That’s pretty much my life when I’m not in The Pitt or Lovato’s, and I haven’t been to either for a while.”

“The Pitt is that mysterious metal club you’ve never taken me to, right?”

“Yeah. Why? You wanna go?”

“Sure. I can dig a mosh pit. When I was with the EBC, we performed with Mötley Crüe at Glastonbury. It was proper mental. I loved it⁠—⁠” Angelo broke off with a harsh cough that went on and on.

Dylan passed him some water and helped him drink, then eased him back down, frowning when Angelo winced. “What’s the matter? Apart from the obvious.”

Angelo shifted onto his side. “My hips are killing me. I need to wedge something between my legs⁠— Don’t fucking smirk. I’m serious.”

Dylan swallowed a grin and stood, searching for something to help. He opened and shut a few battered cabinets but came up blank. “What about a pillow?”

Angelo rolled his eyes. “You think I haven’t thought of that? I asked for one yesterday, but I was asleep when the pillow fairy came around.”

“Pillow fairy?”

“She didn’t tell me her name.”

“She could’ve left it anyway, even if you were asleep.”

“I think you have to sign something. Stop you nicking them.”

“That’s fucking ridic⁠—⁠” Dylan caught himself mid-rant again. “Never mind. I’ll just go ask Jade for one.”

“Jade?”

“The ward sister.”

“Blonde with tattoos?”

“That’s her.”

Dylan briefly deserted Angelo and cadged a pillow from the nurse’s station. When he got back, he helped Angelo get comfortable and then covered him with the thin hospital-issue blanket. “Still cold?”

Angelo shrugged. “I’m all right.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Dylan unzipped his beloved Judas Priest hoodie and held it out. “Borrow this. It’s clean, I promise.”

After a fleeting standoff, Angelo took the hoodie, and the faded gunmetal grey was awesome against his light olive skin, and warm too, if his contented sigh was anything to go by. “Thanks. I’ve only got the clothes I came in with and some random shit my mum found in the loft.”

“Your mum?”

“Yeah. She’s retraining as a parent but forgot that I’m not sixteen anymore.”

Angelo said it with humour, but Dylan sensed the tale simmering beneath his wry grin. “What’s been going on with your family? The deli’s been closed for a week now.”

“Damn. Is it that long?” Angelo pulled his hood up and propped his head on his folded arms. “The bailiffs turning up feels like yesterday.”

Bailiffs. That made sense. Dylan had been waiting on a hammer blow to hit the Giordano family business from the start. He poured Angelo more water and gestured for him to continue.

“There’s not much to it, really,” Angelo said. “One of our suppliers took us to the small claims whatsit and sent high court bailiffs to collect what they were owed. Add in costs and the fact that all our stuff was so ancient that it wasn’t worth squat, and they pretty much cleaned us out.”

“What happened next?”

Angelo’s expression darkened. “I was on my own when they came⁠—obviously⁠—so I locked up and went home. My mum and my uncle’s family were there talking bullshit about how I hadn’t tried hard enough to make the business work.”

“That’s⁠—⁠”

“I know, I know.” Angelo found Dylan’s hand. “And for once I didn’t let it go. I threw the keys at my mum and got lairy with my uncle. It kicked off and we had a bit of a punch-up.”

Dylan whistled. “Awkward. How bad did it get?”

“I broke his nose, and he fucked my ribs up.” Angelo pulled Dylan’s hoodie and his T-shirt up to reveal ugly bruising on his torso. “But it was a good thing, I suppose. My mum finally figured out that Gino was manipulating her and sacked him off.”

“That’s good.” Dylan couldn’t tear his eyes from the bruises. He reached out and tugged Angelo’s clothes back down. “So you’re getting on better with your mum?”

“It’s hard to tell. I haven’t spoken to her much, but she did peel me off the kitchen floor and bring me here, so I can’t complain too much.”

“The kitchen floor?”

“Yeah. I don’t really remember, but apparently the oxygen in my blood was really low and I passed out.”

Dylan shook his head slightly to disperse the images of Angelo unconscious and helpless on the floor. “Sounds like you’re lucky she was there.”

“I am, and she’s visited every day since. Oh, and she’s put the house on the market too. She’s downsizing to a retirement flat in Peterborough.”

“Peterborough? Why on earth would she want to go there?”

“Because it’s dirt cheap compared to round here and full of Britalian’s like her. Either way, it’s what she needed to do all along; she’s just a week too late.”

“Wow.” Dylan let out a whoosh of air. “Sounds like your whole world is upside down. What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know. Nothing’s going to happen fast, so I guess I’ll stay put until she moves then see where I’m at. She said she’ll give me some money to help me find a place around here if I want, but I’m not relying on that.”

“You can’t take money from her,” Dylan said. “Not if you want your DRO to stand. You’d have to pay your creditors in full before you have anything for yourself.”

“I know. I’m still fucked, aren’t I? I haven’t even got a job.”

Dylan’s mind went into overdrive, scouring his brain for the cases he’d worked on where debt relief orders had been revoked. “That might work in your favour. If we can get your GP and your physio to write letters confirming your condition, the receiver might let the order stand.”

“We?”

Dylan flushed. “I⁠—er⁠—took your case back from Romford. It’s my boss’s name on it, but we’re working on it together. Your order came through a couple of days ago.”

Something akin to relief coloured Angelo’s tired face. “Thank fuck for that. Romford are clowns.”

“I can’t argue with that. Just keep the office informed, okay? We can’t help you if we don’t know what’s going on.”

“Story of my life,” Angelo muttered.

Dylan grinned. “And mine. Oh, and if you ever meet my boss, Helen, don’t tell her that we’ve been fucking. It’s kind of inappropriate.”

“Fucking. Hmm.” Angelo squeezed Dylan’s hand again. “Is that what we’re doing?”

Of course it wasn’t. Dylan had been in love with Angelo pretty much from the start, but so much had happened⁠—and not happened⁠—since then that it was hard to see the light. “I don’t know what we’re doing, but I do know that I was wrong to hassle you for commitment when you had so much shit going on.”

“That’s not fair,” Angelo protested. “You didn’t ask me for commitment⁠—just some friendly communication, and I messed that up, not you.”

“Not deliberately, though. I thought I’d got my head around what ME means for you, but I was wrong, wasn’t I? I had no idea how badly it was affecting you⁠—um⁠—mentally, if that’s not a totally offensive way to put it.”

“It’s not. I wish I could’ve explained it better so you knew it wasn’t that I didn’t care, but please don’t feel bad. None of this is your fault, Dylan.”

Dylan traced a careful finger over Angelo’s knuckles. “I never gave you a chance to explain, and for someone who gets paid to listen, that’s pretty unforgivable. And it’s something I’ve been guilty of before⁠—letting my imagination have a fucking rave. Maybe I’ve got mummy issues.”

He tried for a laugh, but it came out too bitter to see Angelo smile in return. Angelo stilled Dylan’s fingers. “You’ve never told me about your mum. Was she a bitch?”

“No idea. She ditched me and my dad when I was two.”

“You don’t remember her?”

“Nope.”

“I don’t believe you,” Angelo said softly. “But that’s okay. We don’t have to know everything⁠—understand everything⁠—to move forward. Sometimes, we have to let things be.”

“We’ve said that before and look where we are.”

“We’re here,” Angelo said. “Both of us.”

Green shoots of hope flared in Dylan’s belly. Every part of him screamed to lean forward and kiss Angelo’s chapped lips, but Angelo’s increasingly heavy eyes stayed him. Despite a desperate need to be as close to Angelo as possible, it was probably time he left.

Perhaps sensing the war going on in Dylan’s convoluted brain, Angelo brought Dylan’s hand to his lips and kissed his fingers. “Don’t go.”

“I’ll have to eventually.”

“I know, but not yet . . . please? Stay a bit longer?”

Dylan couldn’t refuse. Didn’t want to. He disentangled his hand from Angelo’s and cupped Angelo’s face, stroking his darkly stubbled cheek with the pad of his thumb. “You do something to me.”

“Do I make your heart feel like it’s stuck on a spinning top?”

“Yeah, actually. You do.”

“Good.” Angelo’s eyes closed. “Because that’s how you make me feel too.”

Dylan felt suddenly lighter, like he always did in Angelo’s rare moments of sentiment. “You know I’m not talking about the club, don’t you? I mean, the things we’ve shared there have been amazing, but that’s not why I’m sitting here.”

Angelo opened his eyes with a barely audible sigh. “I know you didn’t come here to fuck me, Dylan. And I know that’s not what you got so upset about. I do kinda get the feeling that playing in the club is . . . Shit, I’ve lost my words. Uh, cathartic, maybe? You always seem calmer after.”

“I’m not calm before?”

“I don’t know. But I need to learn if we’re going to get better at this.”

He’s so fucking right. Dylan sucked in a deep breath, Angelo’s warm skin against his palm tying him down to the world. “I’m a pretty anxious person⁠—in case you haven’t noticed by now.” He choked out another harsh chuckle. “I don’t mean to be, but my brain works a million miles an hour, and sometimes I can’t catch it before it’s fallen off a cliff, you know?”

“I remember that feeling,” Angelo said softly. “It’s been a while, but I remember it. And I was a selfish prick when I was well⁠—probably still am. I can’t imagine how it must be to be like that when you care more about other people than yourself.”

“What makes you think I’m so selfless, eh?”

Angelo shot Dylan a hard look. “Every moment we’ve ever spent together.”

“Bollocks. Maybe it’s just you I’m sweet on.”

“So it’s a coincidence that you waited for your BFF to find his soulmate before you stepped away?”

“An unintentional one.” But was it? Dylan had lost many nights to worrying about Sam. Had that changed when he’d met Eddie? Or had he got caught up in fucking them both as a way of holding on? “I don’t know. Sam was too easy to fret about, and angsting over shit is like an addiction sometimes. I know I’m not doing anyone any good, but I can’t stop.”

“How do you feel about Sam moving to Poland?”

“Sad. Relieved. Lonely.” There were other emotions that Dylan couldn’t quite decipher. “But I don’t worry about him so much anymore. Eddie takes good care of him.”

“Who takes care of you?”

“What?” Dylan looked down to find that Angelo had somehow hauled himself upright again. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that you spend all day at work fixing people’s problems, then you go home and keep doing it. What about you? When does it stop, Dylan?”

A thousand words passed through Dylan’s mind, but none of them fit. He leaned forward and pressed his forehead against Angelo’s. “When you’re inside me.”

For a long moment, Angelo simply stared, then a slow smile spread across his face. “That’s sweet, and the world comes to a standstill then for me too, but you’ve got to have other ways of taking a break.”

Dylan sighed and reluctantly pulled away. “I’m working on it.”

“Are you?”

“No, but I’ve got plans to.”

Angelo rolled his eyes. “I s’pose that’ll do for now. I’m not exactly in a position to be doling out life advice.”

“You should probably lie down,” Dylan observed. Was it his admittedly overactive imagination, or had the rasp in Angelo’s chest got louder? “Jade told me not to tire you out.”

“Was she taking the piss?”

“I don’t think so, and we should probably humour her. She threatened to put Sam in restraints once.”

“I like that shit.” But Angelo lay back down all the same, though his smirk remained, glinting through his obvious fatigue like a devilish beacon. “Can I ask you something?”

Dylan covered Angelo with the blanket. “Sure.”

“When did you first realise that you like fucking in front of other people? I spent a decade on tour with a hoard of horny queer teenagers, so it came with the territory, but it must’ve been different for you.”

“Your way sounds fun.”

“It was, and I’ll tell you about it sometime, but I’m too tired now. I wanna hear you talk.”

Dylan smiled, as much for the memories as for Angelo. “It was a long time ago⁠—back when I was a student. I was working⁠—⁠”

“As a waitress in a cocktail bar?”

“Shut up. As a kitchen porter in a student canteen, actually, but that’s hardly the point. Anyway, I got friendly with one of the owners, and after I’d left the company, we met up again and ended up shagging . . . and, uh, his fella saw us doing it.”

Angelo whistled. “He caught you?”

“No, it wasn’t like that. They had a cool-as-fuck open relationship, and he never bottomed, so he got a kick out of watching Cass top other blokes.”

“And you got a kick out of him watching you?”

“Yes.”

“Wow.” Angelo let out a long breath. “I was worried that my dick was broken, but that little anecdote has woken it right up.”

“Oh yeah?”

Angelo yawned around a painful cough. “Yeah. Don’t worry, though. I’m going to save it for you.”

There was so much Dylan wanted to say, about possible uses for Angelo’s rejuvenated libido and so much more, but Angelo was done. He faded out so fast it was hard to imagine he’d been awake and talking, and all Dylan could do was hold his hand just a little while longer and then leave him to his dreams.