Angelo lay back on his childhood bed⁠—the one he’d finally consented to sleep in now Gino was out of the picture⁠—his cracked phone pressed to his ear as Dylan’s husky voice soothed his soul⁠—a nightly occurrence since Dylan had appeared at his hospital bedside ten days ago.

“So basically,” Dylan concluded a story that Angelo had only managed to half follow, “I’m a little bit drunk . . . and horny, so I’m going home.”

“Fucking hooligan.”

Dylan laughed. “I try, but it’s Saturday night and my partner in crime is still benched.”

It took Angelo a moment to realise that Dylan was talking about him, and a rush of warmth made him glad that Dylan couldn’t see the flush staining his cheeks. “I don’t know when I’ll be up to the real world again.”

“You’re not feeling any better?”

“Actually, I am. Apparently passing out in the kitchen is my thing now, but this time I came round feeling like a new man.”

“I can never tell if you’re being sarcastic or not.”

Angelo snorted. “It’s usually a safe bet that I am, but for once I’m serious. I woke up hungry and breathing like a normal person instead of Darth Vader. It was weird.”

“Good weird, though, right? Oooh, hang on. I’m getting off the train.”

Angelo waited while Dylan got off the train and swiped his way out of the station. His absence seemed to go on forever⁠—the longest ten seconds of his life⁠—and he let out a long breath when Dylan came back on the line.

“Are you tired?” Dylan asked. “I can leave you to it if you like?”

“No!” Angelo said quickly⁠—too quickly. “I told you, I’m feeling good. I just miss you . . . I wish we were stumbling off the train together.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. I want to see you.”

Dylan sighed. “I want to see you too. I just figured you needed some space to get better and sort things out with your mum.”

Angelo couldn’t deny that if Dylan had been around over the last ten days, Theresa wouldn’t have got a look in, though he was glad Dylan hadn’t seen his more undignified moments. “Mum’s asked me to go to the solicitor with her tomorrow. And she’s been feeding me to death. I’ll be a walking lasagne by the time you see me.”

“I doubt that. Your bod is still killer.”

“That’s the worst joke I’ve ever heard.”

“Sorry.” Dylan sounded anything but. “Gallows humour, remember?”

“Piss off.”

Dylan laughed and a pleasurable shudder rattled through Angelo. He remembered the first time he’d heard Dylan laugh in the club⁠—in the basement room where it had all begun.

“So . . . ,” Dylan said. “What do you want to do? I guess you’re not up for going out yet?”

“Actually, I could do with a change of scenery, but I’m still skint, so⁠—⁠”

“Come to mine.”

“Um . . .” Angelo wanted to. Fuck, he wanted to. But Dylan spoke again before Angelo could.

“Pretend I didn’t say that.”

“You don’t want me in your place?”

“Angelo, I want you everywhere, and that’s the problem. We’ve been fucking all this time and not paying attention to stuff that actually matters. We’ve got to change it up if we want to live better.”

Live better. It was the exact phrase Harry the friendly physio had tossed out when he’d visited Angelo at home that morning. And Dylan thought he didn’t know jack about what Angelo needed?

“Listen,” Dylan said when Angelo failed to respond again. “Leave it with me, okay? I’ve got a mental week coming up, but I’ll think of something. I want⁠—I need⁠ to see you. I’ll figure it out, I promise.”

It was on the tip of Angelo’s tongue to remind Dylan that figuring everything out wasn’t his responsibility, but he let it go. He’d do whatever Dylan asked, be anywhere if it brought them together anytime soon.

They said goodnight and hung up. Angelo plugged his phone in and swallowed the palm full of vitamins and supplements Harry had recommended. It would be months before he saw any meaningful results, but as they slid down his throat, he felt better already. Tacit complicity in his own recovery was apparently the greatest tool of all.

* * *

Angelo turned the small white box over in his hands. “You bought an iPhone?”

Theresa shuffled some paperwork. “If that’s what it’s called. It looked the same as that broken thing you spend your days staring at, so I got you a new one.”

There were three things about those two sentences. First, that his mother had noticed his newfound preoccupation with his phone; second, that she cared; and third, that she’d done something about it. He couldn’t remember the last time she’d given him anything that wasn’t a bowl of pasta.

Not that he was complaining about that.

The phone, though . . . “Thanks, but I can’t afford to put credit on a phone right now. I only use the one I’ve got because it’s logged into next door’s Wi-Fi.”

“The one I bought has a contract.”

“What?”

“That’s what they called it in the shop. Data things and minutes.”

“Mum, I can’t have a contract either. My finances are all tied up in the DRO I told you about this morning.”

That had been a fun conversation. To an outsider, Theresa’s reaction would’ve seemed cold, but Angelo was beginning to know her better than that again. Naively, he’d thought that she’d listened.

Theresa tucked the folder of papers relating to the house sale into an envelope. She labelled it in neat block capitals and set it aside.

Then she folded her hands in front of her and fixed Angelo with a look he didn’t quite understand. “While you were in hospital, I went to see the business advisor.”

“In Dagenham?”

“Yes.”

“The one you called a puttana?”

“Don’t pick at me, Angelo. I’m trying to talk to you.”

Resisting the urge to roll his eyes, Angelo sat back in his seat at the kitchen table and pushed his half-eaten lunch away. “Sorry. Go on.”

“So, I went to see the advisor and discussed with her the sale of all our assets.”

“Your assets.”

“Angelo! Let me speak, child.” Fire flashed in Theresa’s dark eyes. “That was precisely why I went to this woman when you weren’t here. I’ve had enough of you men thinking you can talk for me.”

Angelo said nothing; merely gestured for Theresa to continue while he fought to keep his own temper in check. How could she accuse him of talking for her when she’d been intent on saying nothing at all for so long?

“The house will be sold,” Theresa said. “And the business too. Our debts are vast, but there’ll be money leftover for me, for you, for your sister⁠—⁠”

“Mum⁠—⁠”

Theresa held up her hand. “I know that you can’t accept it right now, Angelo. Despite what you think, I do listen to you, but I want you to know that I will put your share aside until you are able to use it. Also, there is an investment fund that your father paid into for a while when you were younger. I think he had forgotten about it⁠—though I’m sure Gino knew it was there⁠—and I’d like you to have it.”

“Have it?”

“Yes, to live on while you recover and to pay you back for your work and the money you’ve been sending to your father all these years. I had no idea about that until the advisor went through the accounts with me.”

Of course she hadn’t. Silvio Giordano had been much better at keeping secrets than he was at anything else. “Mum, that’s amazing of you to offer me money, but it’s the same as the leftover money from the house and business sales. I can’t accept it unless I use it to pay my creditors.”

“I know, Angelo. And I’ve thought of that. I’ve set up a monthly payment into a cash account in my name. It has a debit card”⁠—Theresa slid a VISA debit card across the table⁠—“and a chequebook, and the monthly payments should be enough to feed and house you for a year if you want to stay in Romford when I move.”

Angelo opened his mouth. Shut it again. Of everything Theresa had done for him in the last fortnight, this was the most unexpected. Damn, a month ago, she didn’t know how to put petrol in her own car. There were snags in her plan⁠—he’d have to pay his rent in cash and live somewhere where utilities and furnishings were included⁠—but it was still a lifeline, and the permanent knot of tension in his chest eased a touch.

“The phone is in my name,” Theresa said when Angelo failed to respond. “I got your sister one too so she calls home more than once a year.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Then perhaps we’ve done enough talking for one day.” Theresa stood and gathered her paperwork. “You are a stubborn boy, and for that I blame myself and your father both, but I also know that we failed you. I told that poor business advisor far more than she wanted to know, and she asked me only one thing. Do you know what that was?”

“Um, no?”

“She asked me why you were as ill and alone here as you had been on the other side of the world, and I was so ashamed of the answer that I left.” Theresa laid her hand briefly on Angelo’s shoulder. “Take the phone, Angelo, and the money. And perhaps we’ll all sleep a little better tonight.”

Theresa swept out of the kitchen, leaving Angelo alone with a debit card and a brand new iPhone. He stared at both for a long moment, and then reached for the phone. Chewing on his lip, he inserted the new SIM card and powered up the phone. While it was booting, he retrieved Dylan’s number from his old phone, along with Harry’s contact details, and entered it all into the new phone. Then he dropped the battered handset in the bin, torn between the long-forgotten excitement of playing with a new gadget and the guilt of enjoying it while his creditors went without their payment.

Get a grip. It’s not like you owe a little old lady for her bread. Those insurance companies ripped you off in the first place. Thousands of dollars for a simple blood test? Angelo’s hands shook. Back then, he’d been so desperate to get better that he’d have paid a million dollars for whatever those quacks had suggested. Now? Fuck. Now he was happy to wake up with the ability to walk to the bathroom.

Stop fucking wallowing.

He picked up the new iPhone and scrolled through the app store, installing Instagram and Facebook and logging into his long-dormant profiles. Facebook was as vacuous as ever, but he’d always enjoyed Instagram⁠—seeing people’s lives, however staged, through the tiny lens of a phone camera. Most of the profiles he followed were dancers and performers. He ignored them and clicked on the search icon, typing in Dylan’s name in various forms until he scored a hit.

Damn. Angelo scrolled through Dylan’s feed, taking in the black-and-white catalogue of what was clearly a colourful life. Parties, concerts, friends . . . and maybe lovers. Was that the Dylan that Angelo knew? As he took it all in, he wasn’t quite sure.

Dylan’s infamous BFF⁠—Sam⁠—was impossible to miss, though. Tall, dark, and handsome, he had the air of a brooding rock star, and even if he turned out to have the personality of a dead fish⁠—unlikely, but it made Angelo feel better⁠—it was easy to see why Dylan had fallen for him.

Christ, I’d let him fuck me.

The thought warmed Angelo’s blood. He tapped out of staring at Sam and followed Dylan’s profile, hoping that Dylan would return the favour and take a much-needed glimpse at the life Angelo had left behind. Somehow, it seemed easier than explaining it a thousand times over.

He didn’t have to wait long. His phone chimed with a flurry of notifications a few minutes later. Dylan had followed his profile and sent him a private message.

D: Tell me it’s really you

A: Who would pretend to be me???

D: Good point. But still. Caught me off guard

A: Sorry

D: Nah. It’s awesome. I’m drooling over how bendy you are

A: Was

D: Are

A: Whatevs. I’m still wearing your hoodie btw . . . and I’m drooling over your BFF

D: IKR?

A: Yup

D: You make me hotter, tho

A: For real?

D: You know it

A: I want to see you

D: When?

Angelo paused. Up till now, Dylan had been coy about meeting up and Angelo hadn’t had the energy to push, but this felt different. The buzz in Angelo’s veins was tangible, pleasurable, and he knew they’d been right to wait.

And that he couldn’t wait any longer.

A: Whenever ur free

D: I’m free tonight

* * *

Angelo stood on the front steps of the smart semi-detached house, his hand hovering over the heavy doorknocker. What the fuck am I doing? But for once, no answer was forthcoming from his usually vocal subconscious.

He took a deep breath and knocked on the door, half-expecting it to be instantly wrenched open by a stern giant version of Dylan. But, of course, it wasn’t. Dylan had invited Angelo to his father’s house, but he hadn’t given any indication that his father would actually be there.

Footsteps sounded in the hallway. A fair-haired shadow appeared in the glass of the door, and then it opened, and Dylan was right there.

Angelo drank in every inch of him, from his messy hair to the fair stubble that made him such a perfect combination of delicate masculinity. His long legs in the skinny jeans that matched Angelo’s. His Metallica T-shirt. And his eyes. His perfect fucking eyes.

It took Angelo a moment to realise that Dylan had opened his arms.

“Come here.” Dylan grabbed Angelo’s hand and yanked him forward, enveloping him in the kind of embrace he’d dreamed of since they’d last been together. “God, I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you too,” Angelo mumbled against Dylan’s chest. “You smell so good.”

Dylan laughed. “I shouldn’t. I’ve been to the gym and I haven’t had time to shower.”

“You go to the gym?” That was news to Angelo and a reminder that they still had much to learn about each other.

Dylan released him and stepped back, coaxing Angelo over the threshold. “I don’t go often because it’s full of wankers, but a bit of half-hearted exercise sometimes helps me sleep.”

“What’s been keeping you awake?”

“The usual.” Dylan shrugged. “Missing you and fretting about the mountain of work waiting for me each morning. It’s still tax credit season, so the office is nuts.”

“Tax credits?”

“Long story. Come through and I’ll tell you all about it.”

Darting his gaze around, Angelo followed Dylan through the house to a large kitchen that was strategically lit by spotlights built into the low wooden beams. “Wow. This is cool.”

“My dad’s a sparky.”

“An electrician?”

“Yeah, so he did most of the house himself.”

“Nice.”

“Tell him that. He rips it all out every couple of years and starts again. Drove me up the wall when I lived here.”

Angelo glanced around again. “Is your dad here?”

“Not yet. He’ll be in the pub till dinnertime.”

The mention of dinner made Angelo’s stomach growl⁠—a new phenomenon since Theresa had become obsessed with feeding him. The more he ate, the more he wanted to eat, and it felt good.

“You look well, by the way,” Dylan said. “Better than when I last saw you.”

Angelo winced. “That can’t have been pretty. I was off my tits on morphine.”

“I couldn’t tell.”

“Liar.”

“It’s true. Hey, do you eat curry?”

“Huh?”

Dylan chuckled. “My dad would live on fish and chips if I didn’t cook for him every once in a while. I’m making a ruby. You game?”

It was the best offer Angelo had heard since the last time Dylan had asked him if he was game for something. “Can I help you cook?”

“If you want,” Dylan said with a shrug. “There’s not much to it.”

Still, the motions of moving through a kitchen felt natural⁠—right⁠—even if the kitchen was unfamiliar. They worked side-by-side, grinding spices and browning chicken pieces in a huge pot. The air around them was warm, soothing, and Angelo slipped into a contented daze.

A little while later, Dylan slid his arms around him from behind. Angelo leaned back and arched his neck to look at him. Their lips were millimetres apart and Angelo longed for one of those kisses that set his world on fire, but Dylan simply smiled and knocked their heads gently together. “It’s got to simmer for a while now. Let me stick the rice cooker on and we can go chill.”

Chilling turned out to be a cold beer and lounging on the most comfortable sofa in the world.

“It’s the same as the one in my flat,” Dylan said.

“Is it?” Angelo tilted his head back and closed his eyes. “I’ve never been in your living room.”

“No, I suppose you haven’t.” Dylan sniggered.

Angelo cracked an eye open to meet his smirk. “I don’t know what you’re giving me that look for. We haven’t fucked at your place.”

“I’m sure we will.”

“Are you?”

Dylan shrugged. “Yeah. I know we’re keeping things cool at the moment, but we’ll get back to the mad sex at some point.”

“So why aren’t we having mad sex right now?” Though Angelo couldn’t deny that it would take a crane to move him off the marshmallow-like couch.

“Because.” Dylan sat up and swung a leg over Angelo’s waist, straddling him with his sinfully long legs. “There’s a lot going on, and I want whatever happens between us to be more than a co-dependent horn-fest. That’s why we’re here and not at my place.”

Angelo gripped Dylan’s hips, trying not to picture what had happened the last time they’d struck this particular pose. “Codependent hornfest? Does that mean you’ve been using me for sex?”

“No!” Dylan swatted Angelo gently upside his head. “It means that we got the screwing bit down early and messed everything else up.”

“Hmm. I think you spend too much time trying to figure things out.”

Dylan shrugged. “You’re probably right, but I really want to get to know you better, and I can’t concentrate on that when you’ve got your dick in me.”

It made sense, even if Angelo didn’t like it. Not that he had the energy to keep up with Dylan right now. “I get it. We need to find our feet in the real world before we go out to play.”

“I’m not talking about the club.”

“I know.” Angelo ghosted his hands up Dylan’s sides, noting that he didn’t seem to be the least bit ticklish. “I meant in every sense. You know me for who I am now, but I’m still getting used to it. The club gave me a way to go back in time⁠—to block out my reality⁠—and I need to let that go, at least for a while.”

Dylan nodded slowly. “I love playing with you in the club, and I’d never want to give it up, but I want to fuck the real you.”

“The real me, eh?” Angelo’s hips flexed of their own accord, and heat pooled in his groin. “What about the real you? Are you gonna surprise me?”

Dylan smirked and leaned in close, but the front door banged an agonising millisecond before his kiss reached Angelo. “Shit. That’s my dad.”

He sprang lithely from Angelo’s lap and landed like a cat. Angelo was too jealous of his easy agility to consider the heavy footsteps in the hallway, and so the startlingly good-looking man who appeared in the doorway a few seconds later caught him off guard.

Angelo scrambled to his feet as the bearded silver fox clapped Dylan on the back and sniffed the air.

“Jalfrezi?” the man Angelo assumed to be Dylan’s father asked.

Dylan nodded.

“Good.” Dylan’s father grunted, nodded at Angelo, and then he was gone, his boots on the wooden stairs the only reassurance Angelo had that he hadn’t imagined the whole thing.

“Wow.” Angelo sat back down. “He didn’t say much.”

“He never does. Trust me, he’ll scarf his dinner in two seconds flat, check that I’m still using condoms, and then lock himself in the cellar with his model airplanes until it’s time for bed.”

“Model airplanes?”

“Yeah. Dad’s not good at doing nothing.”

“Sounds familiar.” Angelo cast Dylan a pointed look.

Dylan stuck his tongue out. “I’d rather be like him than a flake like my mum.”

“You think your mum’s a flake?”

“I don’t care if she’s a flake anymore.” Dylan tilted his head towards the kitchen, gesturing for Angelo to follow him. “My dad’s not exactly tactile, but he was a good parent⁠—and he wanted to be a good parent, which is half the battle won, right?”

“I suppose. My dad was a selfish prick.”

They moved into the kitchen. Dylan took the lid off the pot of curry and gave it a poke. “Let’s forget about the both of them then. Hey, do you think this is done? I can never tell with chicken.”

Angelo peered into the pot. “It’s done.”

“How do you know?”

“Because the thigh bones are loose. My parents didn’t teach me much, but I can cook pretty well.”

“We should probably get married then,” Dylan deadpanned. “Because that’s literally all I want out of life⁠—great sex with a shit-hot cook.”

Angelo laughed. “What would your dad say about that?”

“Not much. He’s down with the queer stuff, but he’s a total prude. Actually, I think he’s more uncomfortable when I bring girls home.”

“Oh yeah?” Warmth spread through Angelo again. “Do that a lot, do you?”

“No. I haven’t brought anyone other than Sam here in years, and Dad was always a bit iffy about him because he thought us being so close stopped me meeting anyone else.”

“Thought he didn’t say much?”

Dylan opened a cupboard and retrieved a stack of artfully chipped bowls. “He has his moments⁠—oh hey, speak of the devil.”

Angelo turned as Dylan’s father entered the kitchen. Dylan grabbed the older man’s arm and tugged him forward.

“Dad, this is my friend, Angelo. Angelo, this is my dad, Mick.”

Mick Hart was broader than Dylan⁠—taller too⁠—but their features were the same even down to the natural shape of their facial hair. Mick’s smile was easy, despite the gruffness he clearly wore like a second skin, and his handshake warm and firm. “Nice to meet you, son. Come take a seat. My stomach thinks its throat’s been cut.”

He preceded Angelo to the kitchen table. Lacking any better ideas, Angelo followed him and slid into a funky chair that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a Camden bar. Mick poured himself a glass of wine from the bottle on the table, then offered it to Angelo.

Angelo shook his head. “I can’t drink at the moment. Antibiotics.”

“That’s a bugger,” Mick said. “Haven’t got the clap, have you?”

“Dad!” Dylan banged the bowls down on the table. “How do you find a way of asking that every time you meet one of my friends?”

Mick chuckled and swigged his wine like it was cheap lager. “You know I’m only joking, son.”

“Of course I do. It’s the only joke you have.”

Dylan huffed and stomped back to the stove. He was back a moment later with the curry, and as he’d predicted, Mick inhaled his food and disappeared again, thumping Angelo on the back and taking the wine with him.

Angelo sat back in his seat, pleasantly full from his first non-Italian meal in weeks. “That was short and sweet.”

“Always is.” Dylan picked at his food. “He likes you, though.”

“How can you tell?”

“Because he offered you his wine.”

Angelo snorted. “Bollocks. That was the most pointless interaction ever.”

“No interaction is pointless, Angelo.”

“Ain’t it?”

“Of course not.” Dylan pushed his bowl away. “People don’t have to talk to express themselves. I knew that before I met you, but somehow I forgot.”

“Is this your way of telling me that I’m a shit communicator?”

“More like it’s my way of telling you that it doesn’t matter and that there’s plenty of things that I’m shit at too. Perhaps I don’t listen enough.”

“Listening is your job.”

“Right. And I hear the same problems recycled over and over again. What are the chances that I’ve stopped paying attention?”

Angelo frowned. “Are we still talking about the same thing?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Dylan stood with a sigh and gathered the dirty bowls. “I guess I’m a bit frazzled at the moment.”

Angelo trailed Dylan to the sink with the curry pot. His legs had gone to sleep, but for once the persistent tingling didn’t bother him. “You were going to tell me about tax credit week at your work. Is that what’s stressing you out?”

“Mostly. It’s worse than January when the credit card debts kick in.”

Angelo gestured for Dylan to explain and hustled him sideways so he could get to the sink and turn the taps on.

Dylan looked as though he might protest, but after a fleeting standoff, moved aside. “Tax credits are a wage top-up the government pays to low-income households. Recipients have to renew every summer, which inevitably leads to total chaos. The system is shambolic and makes no sense even to me, and I’ve been on every craptastic training course under the sun.”

“So it takes a while for renewals to go through?”

“If they go through.” Dylan opened the dishwasher and began to stack it with the rinsed crockery Angelo passed him. “Delayed renewals don’t matter so much because claimants continue to get paid. It’s when a renewal gets lost, fucked up, or cancelled that things get shitty. People get pretty pissed off when they can’t feed their kids.”

“I’ll bet. I heard someone yelling at one of your colleagues when I came in that first time.”

“Yeah, that happens a lot at this time of year. Clients expect us to fix everything for them, but when we’re dealing with a broken system, we just can’t do it.”

Angelo washed the curry pot and set it on the draining board. “At least you’re there for them at all. Where would they go otherwise?”

Dylan shrugged. “I’m there because I get paid to be. Most of the other advisors are volunteers.”

“They pay you for a reason. And I know for a fact that you work way beyond your nine-to-five, so take that look off your face.”

“What look?”

Angelo dried his hands and stepped into Dylan’s personal space, swiping at his frown lines with his thumb. “You’re always so worried that you’re not doing enough.”

“How do you know that?”

“Dunno. But I ain’t wrong.”

Dylan didn’t deny it. Angelo let his hands travel to Dylan’s soft hair and toyed with the silky strands. They seemed to be back in that vortex where the air between them was ever shifting, tying them closer, bonding them. How was it possible that he’d lived a whole lifetime without Dylan?

No answer was forthcoming from his subconscious, or Dylan, and the moment passed. Angelo’s hands dropped to his sides, and Dylan turned away.

By the time the kitchen was cleaned down, Angelo was flagging. Eagle-eyed as ever, Dylan slipped an arm around his waist and guided him to the living room, laughing when Angelo fell face first onto the squishy couch.

But his expression sobered quickly. Angelo sat up and patted the space beside him. “What’s up?”

“Hmm? Oh, nothing.”

“Liar.”

Dylan poked his tongue out. “Am not.”

“Yeah, you are.”

Dylan sighed. “It’s hard to explain.”

“Try? Please?”

“It’s just that even though you’re tired and still recovering from the pneumonia, and I know the ME never goes away entirely, I can see how much better you are.”

“And that upsets you?”

“Yes. Because it reminds me how wrong I got it before.”

Angelo was lost. He leaned against Dylan when he finally sat down and lolled his head on his shoulder. “I don’t understand.”

“When we met at the club a few weeks after you first told me about the ME, I thought you were better, but I know now that you weren’t, that you were still struggling.”

“Oh.” Angelo could barely remember the last few weeks he’d worked at the deli and couldn’t imagine how he’d fooled Dylan into thinking he was anything close to okay. “Well, that’s my fault, isn’t it? Not yours. How would you have known any different when I was so used to keeping it all to myself?”

“I don’t know,” Dylan muttered bleakly.

Angelo sighed. That Dylan cared for him so much had proved a lifeline, but Dylan didn’t deserve to be angsting over it like this. “I’m always going to struggle. There are things I can do to feel better, but I’m never going to be like I was before.”

“Like you were on your Instagram profile?”

“Yeah, ’cause the Internet constitutes reality.” Angelo sat up and glared half-heartedly. “No, in general, not just the narcissism I chose to share back then. And what I actually mean is that I don’t want you to worry about things we can’t change.”

Dylan chewed his lip. “Are we going round in circles with this?”

“A bit⁠—⁠” Angelo broke off with a yawn that made his head spin. “But that’s my fault. I’m getting better at talking, I swear.”

Dylan smiled and coaxed Angelo to lie down again, stretched out on the magical sofa, his head in Dylan’s lap. “You’re better at it already.”

Angelo chuckled hazily as Dylan moved his fingers over his scalp. “I’ve been practising with my mum. She keeps trying to give me money. Did I tell you she gave me a phone and a debit card in her name to use for a while?”

“No, but you probably shouldn’t. The less I know about stuff like that, the better.”

“Should I make her take it back?”

“That’s not for me to say, but as we’re in my dad’s house and not my office, I’m going with no. You need to live, Angelo, not just survive.”

Survival had been all Angelo was capable of for so long that Dylan’s words took a while to sink in, and by then he was half asleep. With his head in Dylan’s lap, he listened to Dylan humming along to Kerrang! and dozed until instinct told him it was time to go home.

Dylan walked with him, his arm comforting and solid around Angelo’s waist, keeping him upright in more ways than one. They stopped at the end of the driveway and Dylan pushed him gently against the wall. “When can I see you again?”

Angelo shrugged, breathless from the walk or maybe the fact that Dylan’s lips were mere inches away. “Whenever you’re free. It’s not like I’ve got much on.”

“I’d argue that you have way too much on.” Dylan’s grin was a beacon in the gloom of their dark corner. “But it is pretty cold so I guess I can’t strip you.”

“If you wanted to strip me, you should’ve said before we left your dad’s place.”

“I was trying to be good.”

“Stop.”

Dylan laughed. “Maybe next time. I’m working late tomorrow, but I’ll call you. Maybe we can grab a drink or something?”

Angelo nodded, but fatigue had caught up with him and his head bobbed alarmingly. “Sounds good. If you’re gonna kiss me tonight, though, you’d better do it now before I’m too tired to remember it.”

“You want me to kiss you?”

“Is that a real question⁠—⁠”

Dylan’s lips cut him off, crashing against his with the sweet force that Angelo had been dreaming of. He pushed Angelo ever tighter to the cold brick wall and shoved his hands under Angelo’s jacket and T-shirt, his smooth, warm palms gliding over Angelo’s tingling skin, and Angelo caught fire. He fell slack in Dylan’s arms, all the while kissing Dylan back with a wild, wretched groan. Why had they wasted the night talking when they could’ve been doing this? Why were they outside in the cold, wrestling with layers of clothes, when they could’ve been rolling around on a bed⁠—any bed⁠—Dylan’s, his own, even a plastic-covered mattress at the club?

Angelo groaned again and fumbled desperately for any part of Dylan that he could reach, pulling him impossibly closer. Reason abandoned him, and he’d have been on his knees in a heartbeat, swallowing Dylan whole if Dylan hadn’t broken their crazed kiss.

“I should go,” Dylan said, panting.

“I don’t want you to.”

“I know.” Dylan flexed his hips pointedly, grinding their crotches together, his cock as hard as Angelo’s. “But I still should. You’re exhausted, and we’ve got all the time in the world to get back to fucking.”

Dylan was wavering, Angelo could tell, teetering on the edge of doing the right thing or giving into the fire that was making him tremble as hard as Angelo. Another grind, another kiss and he’d crumble. Theresa slept like the dead, she’d never hear Angelo leading Dylan upstairs and fucking his brains out on his childhood bed, especially if he pressed his hand over Dylan’s mouth, a club-born fantasy that could easily find a home in the real world. But . . .

Angelo closed his eyes and banged his head softly on the wall behind him. Dylan was right. If they fell into bed now, they’d crawl out right back where they’d started. They both needed more.

Besides, as active as his imagination was, the reality was that right now he’d be lucky to climb the stairs on his own, let alone with Dylan wrapped around him, and sleep was the only thing calling his name that would truly get an answer.

He kissed Dylan one last time, sweeping his tongue over Dylan’s lips, biting down hard enough to make them both groan. And then he pulled away. “You’ll call me tomorrow?”

“Yes. As soon as I’m done.”

Angelo nodded slowly. “Okay. Guess this is goodnight then.”

“Uh-huh.”

Dylan stepped aside, and Angelo forced himself away from the wall. Turning his back on Dylan was torture, and each step toward the house lanced his heart with pain, but he didn’t look back. Couldn’t. Because one more look at Dylan would’ve crumbled his resolve to dust.

Fuck. I love him.