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.