Chapter 18
GAY bar, round two, had started off on a sour note, and the whole subway ride had been nonstop grumbling and pouting from one jealous Italian.
“Hadta wear the fucking kilt.” Dante had his hands pushed into the pockets of his pea coat. He looked like a sinful sailor stomping around the East Vilage on a chily Friday night. Dante was glaring at everyone who even glanced at Griff—male, female, it didn’t matter.
Griff bumped shoulders with him. “I thought you liked my kilt.”
“You kidding? I love it. I dream about that kilt. Sheesh!” Dante stared at his muscular legs. “But so does everyone else, and I’m not sharing. Jesus. That guy just checked you out too. I’m gonna kil….” Dante turned to chalenge whoever had dared to give Griff the once over. It was like walking with a manic bodyguard.
Griff turned, but his supposed admirer had already moved on—or been scared off. He tugged at Dante to turn him back toward the Pipe Room. “We’re helping Tommy. He’s a mess and we gotta help him out. We buy him a couple beers. Chat like normal, home again. Fuck like dogs, make me as yours as you want.”
“Right.” Dante’s raven brows were a straight line over a scowl.
“D, I’m here with you. I’m leaving with you.”
They were a half block from the Pipe Room when Dante elbowed him. “Heads up.”
Griff looked and saw Tommy across the street sitting on steps leading up to a townhouse. He was bundled against the cold and didn’t look so hot.
They crossed the empty street toward him. Here goes nothing.
Dante carded a hand through his hair as they walked up to the smaler man. “Hey, buddy.”
“Guys.” Tommy glanced up, then back at the concrete. His knit cap was puled low and his colar turned up. Some of his stitches were out, and the bruises on his face had faded, mostly. His nose was stil a little crooked. And one burgundy ring lingered beside it, the stubborn residue of a black eye.
“’S’up, Dobsky.” Griff stepped closer, stomping his feet like it was colder than it was. “I thought we were gonna get a beer.” Dante looked a question at Griff, then sat down beside the short paramedic. “Yeah, Tommy. I’m thirsty and I’m buying.”
“Yeah, no. Bad idea.” Tommy’s voice was stil muffled by his reset nose. “I’m not doing so hot out here.” Griff shifted his weight. Maybe this had been a dumb idea. He’d thought it would be healthy: three friends grabbing a beer, Tommy seeing that being gay didn’t have to put anyone in the ICU. “You hurting, kid?”
“Nah. But the only way you meet anybody in there is if you look good, and, uh, I don’t.” Tommy looked like he was about to lose his shit right there on somebody’s front steps.
Ack.
“The guys in there are gonna be cool with it, huh? They’re gonna be friendly. Hel, they are friendly.” Tricky. Griff had told Dante about his earlier visit, but the jealousy was already simmering.
Dante didn’t like that and shook his head at Griff. “None of us are trying to hook up, huh? We’re just sharing a beer in safe surroundings.” Tommy shook his head. “I can’t fucking go in there. Jesus, look at me.”
“You got beat up. You stil look hot.” He gave Griff a look over Tommy’s head as if to say, “Help me out here . ”
“I’m a monster. A fucking coward.” Then he was crying. “My fucking kids….”
Ouch. Griff hadn’t realized the paramedic was this fragile. “It’s okay. Hey! We can go back to Brooklyn.”
“Fuck that. Hey! Hey.” Dante snapped his fingers in front of Tommy’s eyes. “Skip the pity party, huh? Save that shit for Oprah. Get fucking over it.” Tommy sounded holow. “Like they give a damn. None of those fucks even knew my name. I was just easy meat.” Griff shifted his weight down in the street. “Dante, ease up. He’s—”
“—a big boy and he can take his medicine.” Dante stood and pointed at him on the steps. “Look, Dobsky. You wanna sit out here in the dark and jerk off watching other guys live your life, then you fucking do that. You’re not dead!”
“C’mon….” Griff knew what Dante was trying to do, but the paramedic looked like he was about a noose away from suicide. “Let’s just—”
“Fuck you, Anastagio.” Tommy wouldn’t look up. “It’s easy for you.”
“Yeah? Easy, is it? Fuck you twice! I’m not doing that shit anymore. I took the risk. I’m not curious. I’m a goddamned hero, ’cause I wanna be. You either run out of burning buildings or you run in.” Dante stood and turned his back and walked away. He shouted over his shoulder, “Dumbass! You pick.”
“Tommy—” Griff reached out a hand to pat his shoulder, but it never got there.
“Fuck off. Okay?” Tommy sat on the stoop folded up on himself like an abandoned teddy bear with a sewn-together face and angry-button eyes.
Griff hesitated, watching Tommy’s misery for a moment, and then folowed his boyfriend into the rowdy pub.
DANTE was at the top of the stairs when Griff caught up. They stepped in and it was just as he remembered it. Sticky even remembered him, sort of, caling across the room, “Farm boy!”
“The hel?” Dante muttered next to him, glaring at the bartender, looking over the room, taking the measure of the other men just as Griff had that first time.
Everything was different now.
Griff took Dante’s hand and squeezed it, ignoring Dante’s surprised look. He nodded at Dante. We’re safe in here.
They sidled through the winter-coated crowd toward the bar. Dante looked edgy, like he was waiting for someone to make a move on Griff, feeling everyone’s eyes on the fresh meat. They made it to the bartender, who was wiping his hands on the towel over his tattooed shoulder.
“Aww, you got a kilt! You’re killing me, man.”
Dante’s eyes were black stone as he took in Sticky’s carved eight-pack and the slick tattooed sleeve and the low-rise jeans and the white-blond hair.
Griff felt him stiffen and said, “This is my boyfriend.” He hooked a brawny arm around Dante and tugged him forward. “Dante, this is… Sticky.”
“Stuart. But I’l get as Sticky as you want.” Sticky winked at Griff and held out his hand to shake. Griff did. Dante didn’t. “Did you bring me any apples, son?”
“Just him.” Griff squeezed the back of Dante’s tense neck. “Two Guinness?”
Sticky nodded and flicked his eyes between them.
“Who’s he?” Dante’s simmer was approaching a boil. “I don’t think I can do this. That kid was eyefucking you.”
“So damn jealous! Like I can see anyone but you.” Griff roled his eyes and took a deep breath from Dante’s hair, filing his lungs with the scent. “Just for a second, c’mon. In case Tommy changes his….”
An older guy walked by checking Griff out, eyes glued to Griff’s beefy calves below the pleats. His eyes flicked up to Griff, who shook his head. The older man shrugged and nodded.
“Fucking kilt. I knew it. Your legs.” Dante closed his eyes and took a breath, blowing the lock of hair off his face with it. He was practicaly a cartoon vilain, wicked with rage.
“Dipshit, they’re looking at you, not me.”
Dante angled himself, trying to screen Griff’s body from the other patrons, using himself as a shield. “That’s because I’m with you. I’m competition. They’re going to take me out with poison darts. They’re waiting for me to go to the bathroom so they can bonk you on the head and drag you to their gay-caves.” Griff felt weird being more experienced for once. “It’s just a bar. They’re just guys. You’l see what I mean. I promise. We only gotta stay for a couple beers.”
Dante fumed, impotent in front of him.
Griff nudged his pleats against Dante’s jeans. “I’m gonna wear this thing everywhere if it gets you that worked up.” He kissed the side of Dante’s surprised face.
Apparently they were causing a bit of a stir, but that was like the Stone Bone too. Regulars always noticed when new fish dropped into the bowl. They just wanted to know what the story was so they could gossip.
A hundred eyes clocked Dante’s rock-star hair and Griff’s kilt and their scuffed shoes, trying to put the pieces together. Their thoughts were almost audible: No way are these two from Manhattan. Did they wander in by accident? Are they trouble? And hel, a couple must’ve recognized them from the website.
Griff made a decision, turning and speaking to the whole room. “I’m his! Everyone? Totaly his. And vice versa, yeah?” Someone laughed on the other end of the bar. A couple students gave Dante a disappointed thumbs-up and went back to their own conversations. A few guys toasted them.
“Glad we answered that burning question, huh?” Sticky chuckled and set down two beers. “’Course, a tattoo would be simpler….” Dante grinned and started to say something.
But Griff shot him a look. “Don’t even think it. I don’t need a brand to remind me what we both already know.” He squeezed Dante’s hand and passed him a glass.
Sticky looked down at their beers. “You felas want a tab?”
A low voice spoke behind them. “Can I get one of those?”
Tommy stood there, looking wrung out. He’d peeled off his coat and hat. His eyes were puffy, but it looked like he’d washed his face and calmed down.
“Sorry, guys.”
Sticky blinked at him. “Sure! Sure, bud. One sec.”
Around him, other men in the bar were looking at the bruises, the marks on Tommy’s face and arms. They regarded him not with disgust, but with sympathy, with respect. They knew what they were looking at, what “gay-bashed” looked like. Tommy tried not to pay attention to the stir his marks caused.
Dante gave him a quick hug and kissed the side of his head, classic Anastagio, and muttered at him, “Thank Christ for that.” Sticky was back with the beer. “You okay, fela?”
Tommy nodded and Griff nodded at him. Fucking brave, is what he is.
A stocky guy with a handsome buldog face stepped up to the bar and dropped two twenties. “I got that and the ones after.”
“Nah. It’s on the house.” Sticky clamped his thin lips and shook his platinum head.
The two men had a quick, silent argument while Dante, Griff, and Tommy watched. Griff recognized him as the little fireplug rugby player from the other night… the birthday Marine.
“Uh, no. I think I’m buying his beers. If that’s okay with him,” insisted the Marine. He turned to Tommy, and they were almost identical heights. “If that’s okay with you, huh?” He smiled shyly.
Tommy nodded and smiled. “Thanks. Uh…?”
“Walsh.” He offered an equaly stubby hand to Tommy. “My name’s Walsh.”
“Tommy. These are my friends.”
“Hey.” He nodded distractedly at the others, but his eyes stayed on the little paramedic. “I’m here with some folks, but I wanted to….” They waited for an explanation that he didn’t give. His eyes bulged suddenly and his face turned red.
“… buy you a beer, I guess.” Walsh frowned and bobbed his head and stopped. He nodded at them al and left to rejoin his group.
“The hel was that?” Dante whispered right into Griff’s ear.
Griff shook his head. “A nice guy being nice.”
After a moment, Sticky spoke up. “His boyfriend died. Was kiled. Buncha kids with bats.” He was watching Walsh pick his way back to the rowdy booth.
“Together eight years.”
“Jesus.” Tommy was watching him too.
Dante raised his beer and clamped his lips shut for a moment, looking at Walsh with his friends. “Dying bravely. Living the same.” Clink. They toasted.
Tommy noticed a muscular African American by the jukebox and raised his glass. They toasted each other across the bar. Then Griff saw other men nodding to him, saying a silent helo to the paramedic and raising glasses. Tommy had friends even if he didn’t realize it, even if none of them had known his name.
Sticky rapped the bar with his knuckles and looked at Dante and Griff. “Drop the walets. I got the ones after these. It’s good to see you safe and sound, buddy.” He reached to shake.
“Tommy.” The paramedic offered a scarred hand to the bartender.
“Stuart or Sticky.” He winked. “It’s nice to finaly meet you, man.” He gave the counter a wipe and went back to work.
Griff looked at his boyfriend. “What are you grinning about?”
“They’re not douchebags.” Dante waved a hand at the room and licked foam off his upper lip with his perfect tongue. He hooked an arm around Tommy’s neck. “Plus, once this blockhead distracted them, they finaly stopped trying to figure out how to get under your kilt. Win-win.” He grabbed one of Griff’s buttcheeks with his other hand and squeezed.
Griff sighed, but he wasn’t annoyed. Possessive Dante he could get used to just fine. He flexed his hard glute under Dante’s grip and wanted to be home and in their bed.
Tommy looked embarrassed. “Guys, you’re kinda… uh.”
“Sorry.”
“Sexy. Is al.” The paramedic held his coat in front of him. “Sorry. It’s been awhile since….”
“Wel, get over it. You’re gonna have to hang out with us from now on.” Dante shrugged.
Griff nodded and kissed the side of Dante’s head.
Dante sipped and had another thought. “Because you can’t ever cal me ‘midget’ when we’re hanging out with Frodo here.”
“Hey!” Tommy snorted beer out of his nose and smacked him.
But he laughed and Dante laughed and then Griff gave in and laughed too.
THANKSGIVING dinner with his in-laws. Jesus.
Griff knew it had to happen, and he knew no one was going to die, but he was already sweating just thinking about it, and the pterodactyls were roosting in his gut again. Get a grip, dipshit.
As they were climbing into bed the night before, Dante had said he needed to head up to the new Fulton Fish Market at the ass crack of dawn to get the fixings for cioppino: 4 a.m. or something equaly grim. They’d bought a smal turkey too, but no one actualy liked turkey except for sandwiches, so the fish stew was the real meal.
Dante had been wanting to host the holiday since he’d bought his house, and after two weeks of (basicaly) living together and working like hel, the dining room was finaly finished and furnished. Only his parents were coming over. The other siblings had begged off.
It seemed important that they go shopping together; that was what families did. So even when Dante had leaned over to kiss his creamy hip and tel him to stay in bed, Griff had roled out and climbed into the shower beside his sleepy Italian.
“Morning,” he said, kissing Dante’s happy, surprised face.
“Mmm.” Dante had nodded and wrapped his arms around Griff’s shoulders to hang on.
Showering took far longer and did much more good than it should have.
In the front hal they puled on their heavy coats. “You realy don’t have to.” Dante looked at him with those soft scarab eyes, giving him the okay to just lie around the house. “I’l be back in a couple hours.”
Griff wouldn’t be budged and pushed him out the door and into Griff’s truck. “Fair’s fair.” The drive took nearly forty-five minutes, even before sunup on Thanksgiving. Again, Griff had the odd feeling that doing this together was important.
Once they reached the Bronx and parked and walked through the frost-silvered air to the stals, tables strained under the day’s catch: rows and rows of gleaming fish—silver and red and blue—and shelfish in barrels. Hundreds of people haggling and chatting like it wasn’t a holiday or the middle of the night, practicaly.
Griff wasn’t able to help much with the shopping, but he could carry; he just stood close, watching while Dante joked and haggled and flirted with the vendors like a gameshow host. But for some reason, Dante loved introducing him to people as his “man” and watching the girls stammer and the guys sizing Griff up. At each stal, they paid together, and that felt right too. He’s mine; I’m his.
Thanksgiving.
Griff hugged himself against the chil, but he didn’t blush and didn’t get uncomfortable with the eyes watching him stand there and just belong to Dante. Since the photoshoot with Beth, he’d started to notice the way people watched him out of the corners of their eyes. Like he’d seen them watch Dante. He felt calmer for some reason, like his own skin fit him better.
Stal to stal, Dante put together the cioppino, his favorite. Griff could see the love and care that went into selecting al the elements. That may have been the important thing, the part Dante wanted him to witness, that loving, thoughtful attention. No wonder it was his favorite meal—al that affection and patience stirred together.
As they were finishing up, the old Chinese woman who had sold them some gigantic blue crabs said, “Such handsome boys.” Dante winked and thanked her, then bent and kissed her knuckles like a fairytale prince. “Happy Thanksgiving.” Griff thought that might be part of it too: Dante wanted them to be seen together, someplace safe. That’s important to him too.
They headed out of the market, making sure they had al their ingredients as they walked back to his truck with the box and bags.
Dante snickered. “That old gal gave you crabs.”
“Hardly!” Griff made a face and then teased back a little, “Ya know, Anastagio? If I flirted like that for raw seafood, you’d have mauled that poor woman.”
“Shut up.” Dante grunted but gave a guilty shrug and smiled to himself. He opened the back of the truck to stash their purchases and then went around to climb into the passenger seat.
Griff climbed in and started the truck. “’S’funny. I don’t mind it anymore for some reason. ’Cause they can’t ever have you, can they? How sick is that?” He rested his hand on Dante’s thigh and squeezed. “Love you.”
Dante started to get an erection again. Fucker. He hunched his hips a little .
“Uh-uh. No spooging in my truck today. You got work to do, sir.” Griff smiled over and Dante crossed his arms and grumbled. He closed his eyes and pretended to nap in protest, but next to Griff’s knuckles his cock was grinding lightly, stealing enough friction to keep it hot steel the whole way home.
The round-trip drive wound up taking longer than the shopping; Griff didn’t mind a bit. They got home when the sun was realy up for good. It felt like a whole extra day.
Dante spent the whole morning prepping and cooking.
Griff drove over to his father’s to get another load of clothes and a couple other things that he’d missed: a pile of mysteries he wanted to read, the rest of his underwear, his hockey stick. It freaked him out how little he had in that cold house that he wanted to take with him. A few days after the photoshoot, he’d finaly seen his dad and said he was moving out; his dad had just nodded at him like he’d been expecting it for ten years. “About time, Griffin. Maybe now you can find another woman.”
Uhh. Not exactly.
The time to have that fight would come, but Griff had enough shit to deal with. Like surviving Thanksgiving dinner.
Someday soon, he and Dante had to talk to the chief at their firehouse. It was totaly unsafe for them to work on the same shift, or even at the same house.
Something had to change there, and they’d already made the decision to do whatever needed to be done.
Of course, then his father would find out, and so they had to be ready. Those were conversations he dreaded but just part of a price he was happy to pay.
The FDNY was a whole can of worms that they would open carefuly together.
Worst case scenario, he’d be disinherited and retire early, and the department, his dad, and anyone else who squawked could go fuck themselves with an axe, sideways.
But first came dinner with his real family, the people who’d raised him. In a way, that was the only thing that realy mattered to either of them.
When Griff got back to the house, to their house, he opened the door and shouted, “Back!” He shifted the boxes in his arms and hitched the bag-strap higher on his shoulder.
There was no answer. Dante was probably listening to music or in the basement getting something.
“Babe?” He clumped upstairs to their room and stashed the duffel and the boxes against a bronze-papered wal; before he stood, he heard Mrs. A.’s voice from over his shoulder.
“It looks perfect on the wals, the bronze.” She was standing in the dark of the little sitting room that looked over the back garden. She waved a tiny hand at the wals. She was wearing one of her knit suits, this one dark yelow. Her curvy shadow was silhouetted against the back window. Her hair was up.
“Beautiful. And the diagonal is right too. Like a surprise? A little twist that you don’t expect. Quirky.” Quirky?
Griff wasn’t sure she was stil talking about the paper and couldn’t make out her expression. He could feel her roling the little sharp kernel of the truth as she spoke around it, testing it gently. He took a step toward her. “Hey, Mrs. A.”
She turned, looking at the new wals in the handsome rooms, and as Griff approached her he could see she was smiling, squinting at the diagonal bronze stripes around them. She turned back to the window, looking down at something in the yard. “Soon as I found it in the trunk, I knew that paper belonged in this room. I didn’t….”
Griff walked up beside her at the window and looked at her delicate profile, the sweep of black hair she got dyed every other week because her son’s vanity and beauty hadn’t sprung out of thin air. He held his breath.
“I didn’t know it was for you too, Griffin. And I feel like I should have.” She looked apologetic and embarrassed and uncomfortable and wouldn’t meet his eyes. She knows.
Griff let out the breath and took another. He felt himself wanting to lie, to explain, to apologize, to reassure her, to flee. Instead he kept his mouth shut and just let the seed of truth rest between them, a stubborn sprout struggling toward the light.
I love him.
He nodded at her anxiety, letting her know it was okay, it would al be okay. Please don’t make me say it. He kept his gray eyes on the window, wiling her to look up.
She didn’t seem to disagree yet, but her gaze stayed locked on whatever was down there. She was standing so close that her breath was fogging the cold glass.
“And Lord knows there are more than enough rooms to love someone properly, even if they don’t al have floors or ceilings.” She glanced at the gap that led to the dining room, the gap that had let Griff overhear the father-son conversation that had almost wrecked everything. “It’s going to be a beautiful house. It is now, I should say.”
Griff nodded. “Al the guys from the firehouse kinda pitched in.”
“You more than anyone, I expect. You always do.” She was nodding at him, stil watching the garden. “I think I’m older than I realized. But I understand.
Yes?”
Griff looked down too, running a hand over the red thatch on his head. A smile crept over his face.
Below them in the garden, Dante was talking with his father about something with a serious expression. Mr. Anastagio was gesturing at the brick wals enclosing the yard. Dante nodded and said something that made both men smile.
“It’s going to be very hard.” Mrs. Anastagio’s voice was low, almost hoarse. Finaly looking at him, she took his broad hand in her delicate one and squeezed. “The world is different, but folks are the same, huh?”
Griff just nodded and looked back at her, feeling like a stupid giant in a fairytale. Please. Please don’t make me say it.
The smile on her face was almost Dante’s. Tears pricked his eyes, then hers, while al those impossible things passed between them. While the truth was sending down roots and throwing out branches until it filed the silent room with impossible blossoms.
I love him.
“So you need to love each other hard. Love hard.” She pursed her lips and cocked a head at her handsome son and his father. She flicked her soft eyes sideways to him, confessing a secret. “Anastagio men wil never give up on you. Loyal like rabid dogs, they are. That’s as much a curse as a blessing sometimes.
So you just keep that open heart.”
Griff nodded. He almost understood. He was trying to, but his head felt swolen and mushy.
“Thank you for giving it to my son, Griffin.” She raised a hand and wiped his face. She squeezed it, shook her head, and rose up to kiss his cheek. “I’m so proud of you. Both.” She looked down to the yard again. “We are.”
Anything is possible. Anything is possible.
Griff’s ears were ringing and his face was hot with tears and the words floated out of him, shining in the air….
“I love him. So much.”
“I know.” She sounded so calm and happy. She made sure he heard. “And he loves you.” At that exact moment, Dante looked up at them from the garden and smiled at Griff. He waved, his handsome face so soft and strong that Griff’s heart sweled to the size of the room, the house, so huge it could just barely contain that big truth growing. Below them, Mr. Anastagio looked up and waved too and nodded helo.
Griff raised a hand in kind, then turned to promise her, this woman who had saved his life al those years ago, “I’l do anything. Everything.” She thought about that, her brow creased, but didn’t say anything.
Griff waited to see if she had any objections to that plan. “And that’s okay?”
“If it isn’t, then I’m even crazier than my son.” She laughed, wiping her eyes carefuly so they didn’t smudge.
Griff found himself wanting to tel her everything would be okay, that no one would get hurt, that they’d be safe and happy—but the way she was walking with him through their bedroom, admiring her father’s paper and the handsome furniture her son had salvaged, she seemed even more confident than he felt.
The truth just kept growing between then, sturdy and lush, filing their room and their house with promise.
Griff stayed stil and explained the work they’d been doing while she patted his arm. He showed her the floors, the plaster, the new molding, the tin ceiling they’d scraped clean. Again he was glad for that crazy photoshoot; he didn’t feel awkward or embarrassed standing beside the bed, their bed. But neither did she.
Finaly, his traitorous stomach rumbled.
“Hungry? Me too. Lord knows Dante can feed you properly.” Mrs. Anastagio hooked her elbow through his. She puled him back toward the stairs. “Let’s go see if he’d like a hand.”
AS THEY passed the dining room, Griff said, “One sec. I think I’l help set,” and tipped his head toward the clatter of silverware and plates. He doubled back and stepped inside.
“Griffin.” Mr. A. was right behind him holding a stack of bowls. Behind him, the massive table was laid with gleaming stainless and mismatched plates.
“I thought I could help.”
“Thanks.” The older man handed him half the dishes and nodded, smiling. Together they worked quickly, setting a bowl in front of each chair. Mr. Anastagio hated silence, but he wasn’t teling jokes or gossiping or even complaining about his neighbors. Nothing.
He wants to murder me.
Griff chewed his lip and tried to come up with a safe topic. He knew that they needed to get this out in the open. For al intents and purpose, this man had raised him, and he didn’t want to disappoint him.
Then the table was done and they stood to one side looking at it. A moment passed with neither man knowing what to say to each other. That’s a first.
Finaly Dante’s father held out a hand, looking him square in the eye, as if Griff had come to ask for Dante’s hand in marriage, or vice versa.
I promise.
With a smile, Griff shook it firmly and was puled into a hard hug. Relief sliced through him, flayed him open.
Mr. A. waved a hand in the direction of the kitchen. “Does my son wanna serve the cioppino in here or at the stove?”
“Let me find out.” Griff squeezed his shoulder and trotted back to the hal, folowing the delicious smels.
“Dante! Your father wants to know—” As he stepped into the kitchen, Griff saw Mrs. Anastagio starting to uncover the food and— holy crap—Loretta washing the counter. The smile withered on his face. What was she doing here?
“I,” she crowed triumphantly, “knew it! I-knew-it-I-knew-it.” She snapped the towel at him and dropped her hands to her hips, gloating shamelessly.
“Hush.” Mrs. Anastagio glowered at her hyperbolic daughter as she unloaded the fridge.
Griff’s first instinct was to bluff. “What are…?”
We’re just friends. I’m gonna be his roommate. A coupla single guys. Skirt-chasers. Bachelor pad.
He bit his lip to stop himself lying: only truth in this house.
“I got it out of my brother. Don’t spaz. I’m not gonna say anything.” Loretta roled her eyes, one breath away from a self-righteous aria of gossipy glory.
“Goofy bastard. I knew you were mooning over someone. And I for one think it’s fuckin’ fantastic.” She reached out a hand and smoothed imaginary dust off his shoulders.
Griff’s mouth opened but nothing came out. Then it did. “You do?”
She shook her head and smiled and hugged him. “Wel if I can’t have you, at least one of us does.”
“Honestly!” Mrs. Anastagio opened the oven to pul out a foil-covered tray. “My own daughter and she didn’t bring anything.” Mrs. Anastagio pursed her lips in annoyance. She huffed, “Not even bread!”
“Ma! There’s too much already. They don’t care. Do you, Griff?” Loretta pushed back dishes to make a space on the counter.
Then— thump-thump-thump— little legs chugged toward them in the hal.
“Monster!” With the lunatic loyalty of children, Nicole had decided she was excited to see Griff. She barreled into his knees.
He scooped her up and kissed her. “Hey, bug!”
“Can we eat?” Nicole patted his red hair with a chubby hand. Patpat. “Soft.” Loretta groaned and smoothed curls out of her daughter’s face. “In Dante’s house, she eats! Ugh. And a hot boyfriend. I hate him.”
“Loretta….” Mrs. Anastagio raised her eyes to the ceiling and prayed under her breath, shaking her head.
Footsteps approached from the yard, then up the steps. The back door creaked open, and Dante’s eyes were ful of apology, looking between his sister and Griff.
Griff shook his head and smiled. It’s fine, D.
Loretta snorted. “Pfft! Please! Like I’m not the world’s biggest fruit fly.”
Dante smiled too, relieved, and stepped close to murmur. “You sure? She just started—” Loretta waved a hand at him. “I feel stupid for not noticing before and encouraging—” Griff surprised everyone by laughing out loud, deep bely laughs that broke the tension. “I wish you had.” Al the tension drained out of Dante. Mrs. Anastagio half-smiled. Griff passed Nicole over to her gloating mother.
“It would have saved us a lot of stupidity.” Dante mock shoved his sister.
“Or not.” Mrs. A. washed her hands in the sink, pushing her sleeves up. “Sometimes the stupidity has to come first.” She looked at them both while drying with a dishtowel.
From the front of the house the television came on with a blare. A crowd was roaring under an announcer’s voice caling out stats. Footbal and a ful stomach sounded like heaven right about now.
Dante stood beside him at the counter and asked in a low voice, “Everything cool?” Dante glanced at his mom.
Griff nodded.
Mrs. A. announced, “Starving to death, he is. You want him to pass out? He gets hypoglycemic, and that isn’t healthy.” She turned her head and caled,
“Agosto, is the table done? You’d better not be in front of that television!”
From in front of the television, Mr. A. gave an affirmative grunt.
His wife shook her head, but she was smiling.
At the stove, Dante checked the cioppino, breathing in the steam. “Hey, why don’t we just eat in front of the game…? Joke!” Loretta threw up her hands. “What is it about men on Thanksgiving. If you’re gonna be gay, couldn’t you at least like musicals or opera? Jesus.” She said the word. Nothing blew up. The ceiling didn’t cave in. The world kept turning.
Griff chuckled then shook his head at her. “Uh. No. Sorry. I only like it when you sing and hop around.” Loretta smacked him, and smacked him again. They were both laughing. The doorbel rang.
Mrs. Anastagio turned at the sound. “Is someone else coming?”
“A friend. He didn’t… uh… he doesn’t know it’s open.” Dante trotted to the front hal.
Griff finished the thought and started toward the front door himself. “He needed a place to come for the holiday. He knows about, uh, y’know, us. And he’s… having some family trouble.”
“Wel, good. I set an extra place anyways. It’s good luck to have a stranger to dinner,” announced Mr. Anastagio, emerging from the living room, as if this were a known fact. Maybe it was. He kissed his wife as she came from the kitchen to greet the newcomer.
Dante puled open the door, beaming. Griff smiled at him from the sidelines— a full house is a happy Italian.
Tommy came in, unzipping his down parka. Almost a month later, the fading marks and bruises on him were stark from the cold. The stitches over his eye looked itchy and black against his gray skin.
Griff prayed that this would go okay, for al their sakes. “Hey, buddy.”
“Hey.” When the paramedic saw the unfamiliar faces, the smile on his face dimmed a little.
Dante started to introduce the family, but Nicole walked right up and introduced herself. “Hi.”
“Wel, helo.” He nodded at her and looked at the rest of the family, standing apart. “I didn’t realize this was—”
“It isn’t.” Mrs. Anastagio stepped over and took his hand and squeezed it. “We’re Dante’s parents. And this is my granddaughter, Nicole. We wanted to be here for the boys’ first Thanksgiving together.”
Toonk. Like a stone dropping into place, Mrs. Anastagio’s words gave Tommy permission to relax and her son’s boyfriend a place in her world.
Dante lit up and stepped over to take Griff’s hand. He gave it a squeeze. “Yeah. And then Loretta crashed ’cause she’s too annoying to get invited anywhere civilized.”
The relief on Tommy’s face was priceless. Griff could see gears turned in his head as he processed the scene: the two men holding hands, the smiling family, the smels from the kitchen, the big, warm ramshackle house keeping them safe and together.
Tommy peeled out of his coat and unwound his scarf, hanging them on the hook like he had a hundred times for footbal nights. He was with friends.
Mr. A. spread his arms and herded his whole family toward the dining room. “Let’s get inside. I’m freezing my bony ass off out here, and the food’s not gonna eat itself.”
Mrs. Anastagio took Tommy’s arm and they led the the way back to the dining room. The table groaned under the weight of the food. The cioppino was on the sideboard waiting for them to dive in. Griff fought the impulse. They made their plates and, one by one, found places around the table. Dante sat at the head, and Griff very consciously chose the seat at the other end. Our house, our family.
Somewhere in the street a horn honked, and someone drove by listening to Dean Martin in a car with open windows.
“‘… some-body looooves you….’”
Outside, kids laughed—probably Mrs. Alonzo’s nephews, playing in someone’s garden while the grownups watched the game that Mr. A. was trying not to think about.
“‘So find yourself somebody….’”
Dante winked at Griff sitting at the other end of the table. Once the whole family was served and seated, he looked at his sister.
Loretta knitted her fingers and bowed her head. “For what we are about to receive, may the Lord make antacids available.” She ducked before her brother could swat her.
Mrs. A. giggled but had the grace to try and hide it with a cough behind a napkin.
“What’s atasid?” Nicole asked Griff. “Monster?”
Griff whispered, “It’s medicine, bug.”
From the other end, Dante whispered too. “Because your mother is a headache.” Loretta snapped at him with her napkin, and then her parents let the chuckles out.
Griff just smiled across the length of the table at Dante.
Dante smiled back and winked across the meal and their family. I love you too.
Tommy leaned over to ask Loretta, “Why does she cal him Monster?”
Griff shook his head. “Long story.”
Loretta nodded. “Long, scary story. At least he’s part of the family now.”
“Loretta! He already was.” Her father looked indignant over a spoonful of broth.
Griff smiled back at her. “I know what she means.”
“So do I.” Dante nodded and mouthed a kind word at his sister: Thanks.
Tommy stood and spooned cioppino into Nicole’s bowl with the patient humor of an experienced parent.
Loretta was not so silent. “On one condition.”
Mrs. Anastagio turned to argue and Griff raised his eyebrows to protest.
“I get to be there when you guys tel Flip you’re an actual, honest-to-Christ gay couple.” She squeezed the paramedic’s arm. “Tommy can do CPR.”
“Okay…?” Tommy blushed and nodded as he sat again.
She saluted her brother with a fork. “That wil just make my”—she glanced at her daughter—“eff-ing decade! Flip out!” She put the bite of pasta in her mouth triumphantly. Her chewing face was such a smug caricature that they al laughed.
Mr. A. scooped up a pile of crisp, buttery green beans. They wobbled on his fork as he observed, “You children are terrible.”
“But”—eyes on Dante’s pirate smile, Griff spoke what they were both thinking—“very, very grateful.” Over Brooklyn, over Manhattan, even over Ground Zero, the sky was darkening and the sun smoldered golden. Smoke and fire. Like ten years after the world had ended, the whole crazy city was sitting down to dinner with thankful survivors. Like New York was grateful too.
LATER, when the dinner was done and the game was won, their little family had headed to their own homes to sleep off their food comas.
Their family had already cleaned the kitchen and stashed leftovers in the fridge. Dante and Griff sat together for a while on the couch, half-dozing, with Dante leaning back into the circle of Griff’s arms. They both drifted off, too happy to move.
When it was fuly dark outside the windows, Griff woke and shook his boyfriend—
Boyfriend!
—gently. “Babe?”
Dante’s face was pilowed against the swel of his chest, the blue-black stubble starting to show. He looked like a suave storybook bandit. The gentle, happy bend of his mouth made it look like he was faking, but his breath was deep and regular. He nuzzled a milimeter closer but kept on dreaming.
“Baby.” Griff touched his jaw.
Dante roled his head into the caress, but he didn’t open his eyes. His smile deepened and he groaned. “Mmm. I had the best dream.”
“You did, huh?”
“Yeah.” Dante licked his lips, and his forehead creased a bit like he was trying to remember something behind his eyelids.
“Let’s go to bed.”
“M’kay. Good.” Dante put his face back down between Griff’s pecs and dozed off again.
Griff chuckled and slid a hand down Dante’s torso, folowing that crisp treasure trail into his pants. He squeezed the spongy shaft nestled there.
Dante arched and humped up into his hand. His cock started to wake up, but his eyes stayed closed. “That was part of the dream too.”
“It was?” Griff milked him to an erection and kissed the top of his tousled head.
“Ughhmm.” Dante puled his hips in to get away from the big hand. He roled over completely to lie between Griff’s thick legs and shifted up so they were face to face. His lids were stil shut like he was trying to see something inside them.
“What else happened?” Griff tipped his head up and bit his lower lip gently until Dante shivered and kissed him. Griff smoothed the hair out of his lover’s handsome face. “In the dream. You were saying….”
Dante shook his head lightly, like he was trying to jostle something loose. “Dunno… I can’t… remember exactly. ’S’funny.” Griff kissed one eye.
Dante let him, his lashes soft against Griff’s lips. Then he raised his eyebrows. “Oh, yeah. I’d nearly wrecked my life. I was in love with my best friend.
Bonkers, horny, impossible.”
Griff kissed the other. Lashes, lips.
“Come to find out he was too. Right back. And he saved me, every inch of me. Like puling me out of a burning building.”
“Are you sure you’re remembering this right?” Griff rubbed their stubble together, slow and scratchy. He licked Dante’s throat, bit it lightly.
“Oh! And he agreed to move in with me. And gave me a sexy picture, just for me. And we’d built this weird house that was ours.”
“And a family?” Griff’s voice was gravely as he breathed the scent of Dante in, filing his lungs and sighing contentedly. “I like this dream.” Dante was grinning and fuly awake now. He pretended to remember, squinting. “Thaaat’s right. Then our family was here and we had dinner.” He opened his black-green eyes, smiling across the two inches that separated their noses.
Griff cupped those round buttocks and ground their hips together; he nipped Dante’s earlobe and rumbled right into it. “Mm-hmm. I don’t think that was a dream, mister.”
“Thank God! Then we don’t have to get up.” He plunked his face back onto Griff’s chest and squeezed his ribs hard, snuggling closer.
They were both laughing quietly together on the couch where they’d first….
Without warning, Griff growled and reared up, gray eyes flashing.
“Hey!” Dante slid off him, protesting. “Where’s the fire?”
“Right here.” Griff bent his knees and slid his arms under Dante.
Dante squirmed, ticklish. “Geez! Uh… Mr. Muir? Are you gonna haul me upstairs and attack me?”
“I’m afraid so, Mr. Anastagio.” He hefted Dante and dropped him over his shoulder in a dead lift, heading for the stairs.
“C’mon! Put me down. C’mon, G! I’m up. I’l walk!”
“Don’t want you waking up in the middle of your dream.” Griff laughed and smacked the hard buttocks next to his face, taking the steps quickly and carefuly.
“Real fucking romantic! Help!” He bit Griff’s buttocks and shouted with laughter. The stairs creaked under their combined weight.
Then they were up in their bronze room. The city outside was quiet; a sugar cookie moon hung over the Brooklyn streets.
“Sir, I am a trained rescue professional.” Griff bent to rol Dante off his shoulder onto their enormous bed.
Dante flopped back and blew hair out of his grinning face. He started to sit up against the pilows.
“You seemed unresponsive and were having difficulty standing.” Griff wrestled him back down.
“I want to test your vitals….” He shucked Dante’s pants off roughly and raised his shirt, licking his hip to his bely to his nipple to his throat to his mouth. He held Dante pinned under him, smile to smile. “Because I might need to provide CPR.” Keeping their mouths close, Griff toed off his own shoes and peeled out of his holiday clothes in record time so that their skin was pressed close the way it was supposed to be.
Oh!
The moment they slid together, they both moaned at the heat between them, the desire that licked up their bones, the perfect puzzle fit of each other as they grappled playfuly. “Now, you mustn’t struggle, Mr. Anastagio.”
But Dante kept squirming and laughing and bucking under him, to no avail. It felt like heaven.
Griff kissed him once, licking his teeth, and tried to look serious. “You might be in a state of shock.” And just like that, Dante went stil, his eyes wide and warm and scarab dark.
“I should be….” He raised a hand to trace Griff’s broad chest, his soft lips, his fiery hair, then took a handful to pul him down so that their mouths were an inch apart again. “I should be. Huh, G? But I’m not.”
Griff roled over slowly onto his back, taking Dante with him to lie on top. The black curls tumbled around their faces, almost shutting out the bronze wals so it was only them together, breathing the same air, lips just brushing… brushing… brushing.
“Wel,” Griff whispered. “Maybe I can shock you….”
About the Author
DAMON SUEDE grew up out-n-proud deep in the anus of right-wing America and escaped as soon as it was legal. Having lived al over (Houston, New York, London, Prague), he’s earned his crust as a model, a messenger, a promoter, a programmer, a sculptor, a singer, a stripper, a bookkeeper, a bartender, a techie, a teacher, a director… but writing has ever been his bread and butter. He has been happily partnered for a decade with the most loving, handsome, shrewd, hilarious, noble man to walk this planet.
Though new to M/M, Damon has been a ful-time writer for print, stage, and screen for two decades. He has won some awards but counts his blessings more often: his amazing friends, his demented family, his beautiful husband, his loyal fans, and his sily, stern, seductive Muse who keeps whispering in his ear, year after year.
Damon would love to hear from you. You can get in touch with him at http://www.DamonSuede.com, http://www.goodreads.com/damonsuede, or http://www.facebook.com/damon.suede.