Is he going to take it or is he just going to stare at my hand? The thing about being a big guy is that everyone expects you to be brave. Like, hey, you’re enormous, what could you possibly be afraid of? Right now, I am very afraid that Christian is going to tell me to go fuck myself. In fact, I don’t think my heart has ever pounded so hard. It feels like it might crack a rib.

But I think taking this chance is worth it, since I have literally never felt about anyone else the way I feel about him. One of the things I like about Christian is that he’s never assumed I’m a tough guy because of my size. Has always been surprised and grateful when I’ve used my bulk on his behalf, like when people used to give him shit in school. All I had to do was make it clear that he was my friend and they pretty much left him alone. And in return he allowed me to be myself.

And myself in these pictures… I’m not sure I want him to see me this way. I mean, he has before, but this is recorded for posterity. How many people have photographic evidence of the moment they fell in love with someone? There’s this expression on my face, almost like wonder. I’m looking at Christian like he’s a marvel. My chin draws into my chest, my brows creasing into a frown because him being amazing is not a thing of the past—he fucking is. Why is it surprising that I should think so? It’s more shocking to me that more people don’t see it. How incredible he is.

The thought that convinced me to get off my ass, out of the booth, and over here is, And doesn’t he deserve to know that?

Yeah, he does. And you know what else he deserves? Someone who’s going to hear him out and try to hold off judgment until he’s explained how he feels. And believe him. Because the thing is, the choices people make for themselves don’t have to be the same choices they want everyone else to make.

That doesn’t stop me from wishing, real hard, that Christian would take the envelope out of my hand and trade it for his own. Because maybe, if I’m the luckiest guy on the face of the planet, his pictures will show his face looking anywhere near the way mine does: infatuated, smitten, in awe. Maybe, even, in love?

Christian stands, and my stomach drops, like there are scales between us. He doesn’t want what I’m offering. He’s going to refuse. I hurt his feelings too much, and unlike me, he’s not willing to put it all on the line, to talk this out. He’s done. Maybe I’m more invested in this than he’s ever been. But it’s this bubbling, churning hope inside me that makes me cling to the possibility that he’ll trade me, and we’ll give each other this ridiculously precious gift.

He steps out from behind his kit, and I…I want him, still. Those narrow hips in the jeans that fit him so precisely, the T-shirt for the obscure cartoon he likes to watch, and a hoodie that’s exactly the color of the faded blue in his hair. Yeah, his goddamn hair, too. I want my hands in it again, want to push it out of his face and see his forehead. Of all the body parts to lust over, I’ve got a fetish for my best friend’s forehead. I guess that’s what happens when no one else is allowed to see a piece of a person.

I want to kiss him, let him lead me to the bedroom, and as much as he’s given me leave to explore him at my leisure to let me see how it feels, I’d like to give the same thing to him. Let him toy with me until I’m out of my mind again and again because how easy I am to torment and the responses he’ll be able to elicit will delight him.

But I’m not going to do any of that while he’s got his hands shoved in his pockets. He looks at me for a moment, his dark brown eyes assessing. And he…he looks kinda gun-shy. I don’t like it. There aren’t so many people I want to be afraid of me, and Christian definitely isn’t one of them. But I don’t get the feeling that he’s physically threatened. He wouldn’t move closer, take a breath that makes his skinny-ass ribcage shudder. Is he thinner than he was a week ago? If I could touch him, I think I could tell for sure.

He reaches out a hand and takes the envelope from me with both hands, but doesn’t offer me his in return.

“Thank you.”

The “you’re welcome” doesn’t make it all the way out of my choked-up throat before he gestures with his head, making those long bangs of his swish over his forehead. “Mine are all set out on my kit. You can look. If you want.”

I do want, more than almost anything else I’ve ever wanted before. I’m lucky I don’t trip on my scramble to get back there, and when I sit on his stool, I feel like a giant. His kit’s scaled for him, and it makes me feel crowded, especially with my knees heading toward my chest. But it’s worth it—so worth it—to see the pictures Tasse sent him.

He’s gorgeous, of course, but he also has this almost feral hunger in his eyes. The want mirrors my own, and from the background, I can tell, he’s not looking at his phone. And I know Dylan was nowhere near the shoot. That craving? It’s for me. It’s all for me. The hope that’s been burbling away spills over. I’m overwhelmed by it, choked by a wish coming true.

Makes me wonder how I could’ve ever doubted how he felt about me. That’s how intense and weighty his looks of longing and futility are. Also makes me wonder what kind of blockhead I am for not having seen it.

It’s all confusing and moot besides. What’s done is done, and what we have to show for it are some incredible photographs. He’s paging through my own collection, and when he looks up, he smiles.

“I knew, because you told me, but this reminded me and made it concrete, real, not fleeting. I wanted to tell you—and I will, without any expectations, but…” He rolls his lips between his teeth, looks to the side of me like I’m the sun, too bright to be looked at directly. “I’m sorry about what I said to you. You’re not a sellout. You’re pursuing what you want, and that includes commercial and financial success. There’s nothing wrong with that. It’s not a lesser goal than what I want to do. Hell, I should perhaps be more concerned with that, because while I’ve got enough to last me a lifetime if I manage my money right, that doesn’t mean everyone around me will. And maybe, if you’re not too angry with me, you could teach me some of those useful things. I promise not to be a dick, and I’ll be an excellent student. Like, take notes and everything. You could be Professor Martell.”

The smile that shapes his mouth is wobbly, like he’s afraid I’m going to say no. I could, but why the hell would I?

“I appreciate that. And I’m sorry I said you were replaceable. You’re not. Not to me and not to the band. For someone who isn’t all that invested in the goals the rest of us had, you’ve been damn great at pursuing them. You’ve put in the hours and the effort and everything for something you didn’t want in the first place. You’re a good friend, and you’re a really fucking talented musician. I’ll do what I can to help you be successful in whatever direction you want to go and try to respect what success means to you. You’ll probably have to tell me to back it up sometimes, because my instinct is always to go for more, but I swear to you it won’t ever be because I don’t think you’re good enough. I can’t wait to hear what you’ve been working on, whenever you’re ready, and even though I’m kind of jealous of him, I’d like to meet Dylan. He sounds like a cool guy, and I’m genuinely happy that you guys work together so well.”

We stare at each other again, and I watch his Adam’s apple bob in his throat at the same time I swallow. “Can we…can we be okay now? I know there’s still some more talking and we’ll probably fight about this a hundred million times, but I feel like maybe that’ll be okay? I mean, we have to disagree on something, right? And it’s sure not going to be on whether we want each other or not. I mean, clearly…”

I pick up the photo that’s been resting on top of his kick drum and turn it around so he can see the one I’m talking about. Tasse captured Christian’s teeth sinking into the side of his bottom lip, and it makes me want to sink my own teeth into that precise spot. “This might be the greatest thing on earth. Makes me feel like a side of beef, but in a good way.”

Christian takes a few steps toward me, shuffles the photos from my envelope, and shows me one. My head is cocked, and I look like there should be equations floating around my head. Or maybe something already beaned me, because I look kind of dazed. Dazed and confused, that’s me. “This is my favorite. Makes me feel like I’m a mystery you want to solve.”

“You are.”

He comes even closer, and then he’s resting a hand on my shoulder, using me to steady himself as he straddles me, setting my pictures on top of a snare drum. And then he’s coming to rest with his butt in my lap and his fingers knitted behind my neck.

I should be damn well distracted by him, but I find a question nagging at the back of my brain, and it surges forward until it spews out my mouth. “How long have you wanted this? Us? Me? I thought it was new, but if you were looking at me like this in Boston… How long has it been?”

Christian nods, presses his lips between his teeth. Doesn’t say a damn thing for literally a minute. Do you know how long a minute is when you’re dying for someone to say something? It’s feels like a year. Finally, he speaks.

“I, um… This whole, uh…”

He’s killing me. I want to shake the words out of him, but I won’t. I can be patient. Little bit. Finally he takes a deep breath and looks me in the eyes. “For me, this isn’t a new thing. I’ve been in love with you for a long time.”

His statement is like a battering ram to my chest. He has? “Why didn’t you say something?”

I’m met with a shrug and a wash of red on his cheeks. “What was I supposed to say? You clearly didn’t return my feelings, and I didn’t want things to be weird.”

I want to tell him he should’ve, but would he have then become part of the flock? I have enough people who want to fuck me, but I don’t have so many true friends. And maybe if he had confessed his feelings, we never would’ve been close enough for me to develop these incredibly inconvenient feelings for him. Which have turned out to be more convenient than I could’ve ever dreamed. Is it possible that, when I told him I wanted him, he got that same soaring feeling of hope I just had? God, I hope so.

Besides, that’s the kind of person Christian is. He wouldn’t have wanted me to be uncomfortable. He’s given me his friendship for years and never let on that he wanted more from me. Not until he was utterly certain that I had more to give.

And as immature as it makes me feel, and as much as I am so not proud of it, it wipes any lingering worries about Dylan. He’s had feelings for me. Wanted me. I suppose I could ask for more details, but that doesn’t feel important. What does feel important is that he wants me, has wanted me. Plus, he’s looking at me with those hungry eyes again. I want to say something to let him know how very much I appreciate him and everything he is, but I can’t find the words. Thankfully, he’s more articulate than I am.

“I…I love you, Teague.”

Before I can answer, he tilts his head and comes in for a kiss, pressing his mouth to mine while his thumbs press behind my ears. Makes my cock stir in my pants, makes me want to kiss him back, and not in the sweet vein he’s opened. I want to part his lips with my tongue and taste his mouth, grind up against him until we’re both panting. But before I do, I want to tell him…

“I love you, too.” Our foreheads are pressed together, and our breathing is already labored. I put my hands on his hips to draw him farther into me, and he lets me. We’re full on making out when there’s a shout from the other side of the room.

“Holy shit! What the—?”

“Are…are you guys, like, together?”

Right. We’re in Benji’s garage, and Nicky and Benji were bound to catch on sooner or later, even though our conversation’s been relatively quiet and the space isn’t all that small. They’d finished chowing down on their snack and had headed back to wagon-wheel central where they’d definitely been able to see what’s going on over here.

Christian winces and scrubs a hand over his face, even though he’s facing away from the guys, who are now standing with their hands on their hips just beyond the kit. They’re giving us some space, which I appreciate for a few reasons—one of them being that, from that vantage point, they can’t see the pictures that render us emotionally naked and raw. They don’t need to.

Christian’s gaze lifts to the ceiling as if he’s hoping some deity will float down and answer Nicky and Benji’s questions so we don’t have to. But no divine being is necessary.

“Yeah, we are. For real. Not fuck buddies either. Your bassist and your drummer are boyfriends. Anyone got a problem with that?”

At that, Christian dares to glance over his shoulder to look at Benji and Nick.

They exchange looks and then shrug. And then, wisely, it seems they’ve elected Benji as spokesperson. “Not at all. We were just surprised; y’all kept this totally under wraps. You’re going to have to spill about how long this has been going on because I have no freaking idea. But, for now, quick question: you guys aren’t going to play shows sitting like that, right? Might be distracting.”

I snag Christian’s sticks out of his back pocket and beat out a little rimshot. Christ, that is something they do not need to know about. Just like I know Zane and Rowan must get it on in ways that could make it into the Kama Sutra, but I don’t need confirmation. Or details. Of course, Christian punches my arm because he hates it when people touch his sticks. Some things won’t change, and that’s great.

“We’ll keep it professional when we’re working, but when we’re hanging out, you guys are probably going to have to deal with some schmoopiness. I’m not even sorry.”

“Just don’t fuck on the wagon wheel. It’s sacred.”

Christian snickers at Benji’s request. “No worries there. It would probably break if Teague looked at it crooked, never mind put his whole weight on it, not to mention mine.”

I pinch his side, and he laughs, smiles at me with that big smile I don’t think many other people get to see. It makes my blood skip through my veins, that’s how foolishly happy I am that we’re going to make this work, no matter what the future of LtG brings. I circle his ribcage with my arms, slide a hand into his hair at the nape of his neck so I can draw him in for another kiss. Not a big, showy, wet thing, but a confirmation for all of us that, yeah, this is real.

And when we part, it seems our audience has grown. Zane is standing with Nick and Benji, hands on his hips and a pink cast to his cheeks, probably a wash of happiness from talking to his girl. He looks slightly perplexed but not upset or incredulous, and I’m glad that, whatever issues we might have, our bandmates being shitfaces about this won’t be one of them.

“Okay, what did I miss?”