Chapter 16: Fragile Facades
The rented tuxedo jacket felt like a straitjacket as Dre’s knuckle brushed his hip behind it, a searing point of contact that made Dante’s whole body flush. “Boutonnières are stupid,” Dre muttered, his breath warm against Dante’s ear as their mothers fussed with the white petals. Damon stepped forward, his large hands surprisingly deft as he adjusted Dante’s tie, his voice a low rumble meant only for his son. “Don’t disgrace this family tonight,” he whispered, the joke not reaching his cold, assessing eyes before he forced a loud laugh for the mothers. The camera flash was a physical blow, freezing Dante’s grin into a rigid mask as he stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Dre, a chasm of want screaming in the space between their arms.
They escaped to Dante’s childhood bedroom, the door clicking shut on the downstairs chatter. Dre shoved him against it, his mouth crashing down on Dante’s in a kiss that tasted like fear and rebellion. “I need you right the fuck now,” Dante gasped, tearing at Dre’s cummerbund. They stumbled to the bed, a tangle of formalwear and desperate hands. Dre yanked Dante’s trousers and briefs down just past his thighs, spitting into his palm before slicking his cock. He turned Dante onto his stomach, not bothering to undress him further, and pushed in with one brutal, burning thrust. Dante muffled his cry in the duvet, the stretch exquisite and punishing. Dre fucked him with a hard, deep rhythm, each slam a silent fuck you to every expectation waiting downstairs. “They want a picture?” Dre grunted, hips pistoning, his fingers digging bruises into Dante’s hips. “Let ‘em hear this.” His pace turned ragged, his release hitting deep with a guttural groan. They lay there, breathing hard, the wet spot cooling on Dante’s rented trousers, the world waiting.
They lay there, breathing hard, the wet spot cooling on Dante’s rented trousers, the world waiting. “We’re gonna be late,” Dre finally murmured, his lips brushing the nape of Dante’s neck. Dante just nodded, the motion stiff, and pushed himself up to assess the damage in his mirror. A quick, awkward wipe-down with a cold washcloth and a re-tucked shirt had to suffice. Downstairs, the air was thick with perfume and impatience. “Your corsage, Dante,” his mother said, her eyes lingering a fraction too long on his rumpled jacket. Damon stood by the front door, arms crossed, his gaze a silent drill press. “Limo’s here,” he stated, his voice leaving no room for argument.
Marcus didn’t care how responsible they seemed; he didn’t believe in driving on prom night. As a police captain, he’d seen enough to know better. The long, black car idled at the curb like a hearse. Dre’s hand found the small of Dante’s back, a steadying pressure as they moved toward it, through the gauntlet of parental smiles that didn’t reach their eyes. The door shut with a definitive thud, sealing them in plush, quiet darkness. The divider was up, the driver a vague shadow. Dante stared out the tinted window at his parents’ fading figures on the porch. “You okay?” Dre asked, his voice low. Dante turned from the window, his dress shoes scraping on the limo’s floor. “No, but you’re here and I care about that more.”
Dre’s answer was a low growl, his hands already fumbling with Dante’s belt buckle. “I need to feel you,” he said, his voice shredded. The divider was up, the world outside was a blur, and he pushed Dante back against the cold leather, swallowing his gasp.
He didn’t wait, yanking Dante’s trousers and briefs to his knees, his own zipper a harsh rasp in the quiet. Dre spat into his palm, slicked himself roughly, and guided his thick cockhead to Dante’s hole, still loose from earlier. He shoved in, a single, deep, claiming stroke that stole the air from Dante’s lungs. “Quiet,” Dre breathed against his neck, his hips setting a brutal, piston rhythm, the limo’s suspension groaning softly. Dante bit into Dre’s shoulder to stifle his moans, his fingers twisting in Dre’s jacket, each raw thrust erasing his father’s words. Dre’s hand wrapped around Dante’s throat, not choking, just holding, a visceral anchor as he fucked him deeper, faster. “This is all that’s real,” Dre grunted, his pace becoming erratic, animal. Dante could only nod, a desperate, jerking motion, his own climax ripping through him silently, a hot spill between their bodies. Dre followed, pulsing deep inside with a shattered groan, his forehead damp against Dante’s temple. They floated there in the spent, shaky silence, the city lights sliding over their sweat-slicked skin.
Dre carefully pulled out, using his handkerchief to clean them both with a clumsy tenderness. They righted their clothes in wordless coordination, the faint smell of sex and sweat clinging to their tuxedos. The limo slowed, then stopped. Through the tinted window, the school blazed with light, thumping music leaking into the night. A stream of couples in glittering gowns and dark suits flowed up the steps. Dante’s throat tightened. Dre laced their fingers together, his grip crushing. “Fuck ‘em all,” he said, simply. The door opened, releasing a wave of sound. As they stepped out, Dante immediately saw Raj standing under the entrance awning, watching them, his expression unreadable.
Dante’s fingers tightened around Dre’s, a cold slick of fresh sweat on his palm. “Don’t,” Dre said, a low warning, but Dante was already pulling away, the force of a decision he didn’t know he’d made propelling him forward across the pavement. The bass from inside the school throbbed in his teeth.
He stopped a foot from Raj, the gaudy prom lights washing the other boy’s face in erratic color. Raj’s eyes flickered over Dante’s shoulder toward Dre, then back, wide and nervous. “You’ve been staring for weeks,” Dante said, his voice lower and steadier than he felt. “Since the lake.”
“I didn’t mean—” Raj started, but Dante cut him off, the words he’d rehearsed in the dark finally surfacing. “You know what, Raj? If you have something to say, then get it over with.” A group of freshmen in too-big suits brushed past them, their laughter grating. Raj flinched, his shoulders hunching. “I just… I saw,” he whispered, the confession swallowed by a synth beat from the open doors. “I came back for my wallet and I saw you two… by the water.”
Dante didn’t blink. “And?” The challenge hung between them, raw and daring. Raj’s gaze dropped to Dante’s bow tie, his face a conflict.
Raj’s gaze dropped to Dante’s bow tie, his face a conflict. Then Raj apologized. His words came out in a frantic, hushed rush under the pulsing music. “I did see you all that night. But I swear I never said anything. I wanted to apologize for my stupid comment I made around the camp fire, especially after… umm yeah it made sense why you got upset but I thought ignoring it was the better option to avoid a awkward conversation, like now.” He swallowed hard, his eyes flicking up, genuine. “Dude, I would never judge you guys. Who you love doesn’t matter. I’m sorry I didn’t say anything sooner.”
A heavy, sudden silence seemed to wrap around them, muting the prom’s chaos. Dante stared, the prepared fight draining from his shoulders, leaving him hollow and light. Dre moved closer, his presence a solid wall at Dante’s back. “You sure?” Dre’s voice was flat, dangerous. Raj just nodded, looking exhausted. “Yeah, man. It’s cool. It’s your business.” Dante finally managed a slow, shaky breath. “Okay,” he said, the word barely audible.
“Okay,” he said, the word barely audible. A shaky breath left him, and he extended his fist. Dre followed, his own knuckles meeting Dante’s in a quick, solid dap that felt like a seal on everything left unsaid. They turned, shoulders brushing, and entered the swirl of their prom.
The Crystal Garden Room at Navy Pier stretched before them, a vaulted ceiling of glass revealing the dark lake and city skyline. Hundreds of tiny lights twined through fake greenery, shimmering off sequined gowns and polished shoes. The bass from the speakers thumped deep in Dante’s chest, a physical pulse that shook the floor. Everyone looked impossibly grown, faces gleaming under the chandeliers, laughter cutting through the synth-heavy track.
Everyone looked impossibly grown, faces gleaming under the chandeliers, laughter cutting through the synth-heavy track. Dante stopped dead, his hand a vise around Dre’s, the spectacle of normalcy suddenly feeling like a foreign and hostile country. He turned, finding Dre’s dark eyes in the strobe-lit chaos, the noise of the crowd fading into a dull roar behind the pounding of his own blood. “Dre,” he said, the word ripped from somewhere deeper than his lungs, raw and unvarnished. “I don’t want to hide tonight.”
He stepped closer, their shared air electric. “I want to enjoy our prom, I want to dance in the open. Like you said. Let them talk.” His voice didn’t waver, though his pulse hammered in his throat. “I’m not ashamed of you. Yes I am scared and anxious, but I love you more.”
Dre’s expression shifted, the hard lines of his face softening into something fiercely proud. He didn’t answer with words. He grabbed Dante by the back of the neck and pulled him into a searing, open-mouthed kiss right there in the middle of the flowing crowd. A surprised gasp erupted nearby, followed by a quick, scattering murmur. Dre pulled back, his lips slick, his eyes blazing. “Then let’s fucking dance.”
He led Dante through the gawking stares to the edge of the packed dance floor where a slow song bled from the speakers. Dre pulled him in, one hand firm on the small of his back, the other clasping Dante’s hand against his chest. They moved together, a slow, circling defiance, Dante’s forehead resting against Dre’s jaw. The stares were like physical needles, but Dante closed his eyes, drowning in the scent of Dre’s cologne and sweat. “You feel that?” Dre murmured into his hair, his voice a vibration against Dante’s skin. “That’s just noise. This is real.” Dante nodded, his fingers tightening in the fabric of Dre’s tuxedo jacket, holding on as if to life itself.
The music swelled, a syrupy ballad about forever, and Dre’s hand slid lower, pressing their hips tighter together. “Fuck this song,” Dre murmured, but he didn’t let go, his breath hot against Dante’s temple. They swayed, a slow, grinding rotation that was less dancing and more a promise of what would come later, Dante’s hardened length pressed insistently against Dre’s thigh.
Whispers slithered around them like smoke. “They’re actually…” “I told you about the lake…” Dante heard the fragments, his stomach clenching. Dre felt the tension and pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. “Just look at me,” he said, his voice a gravelly anchor in the storm of noise. “Only me.”
Dante did, and the world dissolved into the dark pools of Dre’s gaze, the callused thumb stroking his knuckles. The song shifted again, but they didn’t. They just held each other, moving to a rhythm that was entirely their own, a silent confession under fractured light. A space cleared around them, a buffer of shock and curiosity they both ignored.
Dre’s lips brushed his ear. “I need to be inside you. Now.” It wasn’t a request. Dante nodded, a sharp jerk of his chin, and let Dre lead him off the floor, through a fire exit marked ‘Staff Only’, and into a stark, concrete stairwell smelling of bleach and stale cigarettes. The heavy door thudded shut, muting the prom.
Dre pinned him against the cold wall, his mouth hungry and consuming. “You were so fucking brave out there,” he growled, yanking at Dante’s trousers. The zzer gave way, fabric pooling at his ankles. Dre spat into his hand, slicked his cock, and hoisted Dante’s leg around his hip. He pushed in, a brutal, breathtaking invasion that punched a raw, open-mouthed gasp from Dante’s lungs.
“That’s it,” Dre choked out, driving deeper, each snap of his hips echoing off the concrete. “Let ‘em hear.” Dante clawed at Dre’s shoulders, every nerve alight, his moans bouncing off the walls as Dre fucked him with a relentless, possessive fury. “I’m yours,” Dante sobbed, the words ripped from him with each penetrating thrust. “Always, fuck, always yours.”
Dre’s rhythm shattered into a final, driving plunge, his groan raw against Dante’s neck as he emptied inside him. A harsh, metallic banging echoed from the door above them. They froze, still joined, hearts hammering against each other’s ribs. “Hell is that?” Dante whispered, breathless.
“Clean up,” Dre muttered, withdrawing and quickly fixing their clothes with practiced, hurried hands. The knocking came again, impatient. They stumbled up the stairs, adjusting ties and smoothing hair, bursting out into the hallway to find Marcus, arms crossed. “Limousine’s leaving in five,” he said, his eyes missing nothing. “You two look… flushed.” They whispered excuses and rushed out into the cool night, the stolen moment already a brilliant, secret scar.
Prom was perfect.
The next week, they were enjoying their graduation party at Dre’s house. The backyard was strung with fairy lights, music blending with laughter, but they’d stolen a quiet moment on the back porch. “Miami,” Dante said, the word still foreign on his tongue, leaning against the railing. Dre nodded, staring at his phone screen showing the acceptance email from Parsons School of Design at The New School, in New York. The silence between them was vast, filled with the unspoken map of the distance soon to come.
Dre pushed off the wall and moved close, his hand finding Dante’s hip. “We have the entire summer,” he said, his voice low. “Yeah, dante added. People have long distance relationships all the time.”
The summer burned away in a haze of sticky skin, the roar of lawnmowers, and desperate, sweaty couplings in Dante’s childhood bed, each fuck a silent prayer against the coming separation. Their parents stood together in the airport’s chaotic fluorescence, a united front of forced smiles and glistening eyes, as Dante’s flight to Indiana and Dre’s to New York were called minutes apart. Dre crushed him in a final, breath-stealing hug at the security line, his mouth against Dante’s ear a desperate whisper. “Don’t you fucking forget.”
Two weeks later, the smell of Dre’s new loft—turpentine, fresh drywall, and cheap takeout—filled Dante’s ear through the phone. “My roommate’s a ballet dancer from Oslo who meditates at 4 a.m.,” Dre said, his voice a warm blanket of familiarity. “He’s quiet, though. Classes are… intense. Everyone’s so fucking good.” Dante lay on his stiff dorm bunk, the vinyl covering squeaking under him. “Mine’s a linebacker from Dayton who snores like a chainsaw and already has a shrine to Tom Brady. History 101 is a nightmare.” A comfortable silence stretched, both listening to the other breathe across a thousand miles.
Dante’s fingers tightened on the phone. “So, the starting QB, Henderson. Tore his ACL in scrimmage yesterday.” He swallowed. “Coach pulled me in today. They’re putting me in. First game is next week.” The line was quiet for a beat too long. “Holy shit, Tay.” Dre’s voice was full of awe, then immediate concern. “You ready for that?” Dante stared at the water stain on his ceiling tile, his stomach a knot of thrilled, nauseous electricity. “I’m terrified. But it’s a shot. My name, my tape… it starts now.” He could almost see Dre’s proud, fierce grin. “Then go be a fucking star. Just… don’t get hurt.” “I won’t,” Dante whispered, and for a moment, in that staticky connection, the distance didn’t exist at all.