Chapter 17: Frost and Flame
The Victorian’s wraparound porch held the cold December air at bay, the warm glow from the Jackson’s living room windows spilling onto the snow-dusted boards. Inside, laughter and the smell of mulled cider filled the space. Dre leaned against the doorjamb, watching Dante hold court from the worn armchair, his hands moving as he explained a complex play to Raj. “Freshman Player of the Year,” Dre’s mom said, squeezing Dante’s shoulder, her voice thick with pride. Dante caught Dre’s eye over her head, a private smile flickering before he returned to his story about the divisional round loss, the missed pass that still haunted him. Later, as others debated, Dre pulled Dante into the quiet kitchen, pushing him against the fridge. “Need you,” Dre muttered, his mouth hot on Dante’s neck. They slipped upstairs to Dre’s childhood room, the familiar space smelling of old turpentine and weed. Dre locked the door and shoved Dante onto the bed, yanking his jeans down. He spat into his palm, slicked his hard cock, and pushed into Dante with a single, deep thrust. “My fucking star,” Dre grunted, driving into him, the bedframe slamming the wall. Dante clawed at the sheets, every punishing stroke a frantic counterpoint to the cheerful noise downstairs. After, they lay tangled, listening to the party below. “The manager says it’s a seventy-hour week this spring,” Dante whispered into the dark. Dre traced the scar on Dante’s throwing shoulder. “I know,” he said, the words heavy.
The silence between them thickened, filled with the unspoken map of a future already shrinking. Dre rolled over, his body a solid line of heat against Dante’s side. “Show me again,” he whispered, his voice rough, and Dante understood this was about memory, about storing sensation for the barren weeks ahead. He climbed over Dre, kissing him with a slow, deep hunger that felt like goodbye, lining their cocks together in his fist. He worked them both, a slick, tight friction, his forehead pressed to Dre’s, their shared breaths puffing in the cold air of the room. “Always you,” Dante chanted, a hoarse promise against Dre’s lips as he came, striping Dre’s stomach, feeling Dre pulse hot against his own hip a second later. They cleaned up in the dim light from the streetlamp outside, the mundane act hollow.
Lying back in the sweat-damp sheets, Dante laid out the brutal calendar: spring training, summer camps, endorsements. “The manager says no downtime, not if I want to keep the starting spot.” Dre stared at the ceiling, listening to the timeline of his own irrelevance. “People will flock to you,” Dre said, the statement flat. “They already do. Men, women… they’ll see the magazine covers and the highlights and they’ll want a piece.” He turned his head, his gaze unwavering. “And you’ll have to let them. For the brand. For the game.” Dante started to protest, but Dre cut him off, his voice quiet with a finality that hurt more than anger. “I know you love me, Tay. That’s not the question. The question is how much of you will be left over for us after everything else takes its bite.” He saw the truth of it settling in Dante’s eyes, the grim acceptance of a sacrifice they hadn’t named until now. Before Dante could formulate a weak argument, Dre leaned in and pressed his lips softly to Dante’s temple, a silent benediction in the dark. “You earned this. I’m proud of you.” They didn’t speak again, the weight of the coming year a third presence in the bed, and sleep eventually pulled them under, one into dreams of flight, the other of waiting.
The morning of their departures dawned brittle and too bright, the packed car idling in the Jackson driveway. Dre leaned against the passenger door, his breath making ghosts in the cold air. “We should take a break, Tay.” Dante froze, his duffel bag halfway into the trunk. “What?” Dre’s voice was soft, final. “I don’t want you distracted, trying to wedge me into a schedule that doesn’t have room. You’ll try, and you’ll hate yourself for failing.” “I wouldn’t—” Dante began, the protest automatic and thin. “You would,” Dre cut in, his eyes knowing. “Because that’s who you are. You’ll exhaust yourself trying to make everyone happy, and I can’t be the weight that breaks you.” Dante’s composure shattered; a raw, choked sound escaped him as he shook his head. “I can’t do this without you.” Dre stepped forward, catching a tear with his thumb. “Yes, you can. You already are.” He pulled Dante into a fierce, crushing hug, his words a whisper against his ear. “We’re best friends first. That never stops. If life circles us back, we’ll see.” He released him, the distance immediate and absolute. “The friendship matters most.” Dante could only nod, the unsaid thing a physical ache in his throat. They drove to the airport in a silence heavier than any argument.
They drove to the airport in a silence heavier than any argument. At the terminal, Dante hugged him once, hard, then vanished into the crowd without looking back. Dre stood there until the flight was called, the hollow echo of departure gates filling his ears.
Two years unspooled in a blur of sleepless studio nights and football highlights flickering on his laptop screen. Now, in the cavernous university workshop, Dre hunched over his phone, the live draft feed casting a blue glow on his dust-covered hands. The commissioner announced the first pick, and there he was: Dante in a sleek suit, walking across the stage to shake hands, his smile wide and practiced.
Dre cheered quietly, a soft "yes" swallowed by the whir of a nearby angle grinder. He watched His parents—Damon beaming, his mother crying—pull him into a hug that looked both proud and possessive and Marcus patting his back . Dre planned to call him later, after the media circus died down, to say congratulations like a good friend should. He wished he could be there in person, but his group's sculpture—a tangled mass of welded steel and glass—demanded every waking hour.
Sixty percent of their final grade hinged on this piece, and it would be reviewed by critics from places like RISD and the Royal College. It had to be damn near perfect. Still, he was happy for Dante, really happy, even as the hollow ache in his chest insisted otherwise. Dante had mentioned Michelle in a text a month ago, a cheerleader from Indianapolis he seemed pretty smitten with.
Dre would be lying if he said it didn't sting; actually, it felt like a slow puncture wound every time he thought about it. Not that Dre had been waiting around—he'd had more than a few wild nights with guys from the bars near campus, rough, anonymous encounters in dusty loft apartments. He'd let a poet with knuckle tattoos fuck him raw against a brick wall, and a graduate student had come in his mouth behind a strobe-lit DJ booth. None of it ever meant much though; none of them were Dante, their touches leaving no impression compared to the memory of hands on his hips in a limousine.
The sculpture awaited, a monstrous, incomplete thing, and Dre shoved his phone into his pocket, the draft celebration now a muted buzz. He picked up his welding torch, the ignition click a sharp period to the day's distraction, and stepped back into the work.
He picked up his welding torch, the ignition click a sharp period to the day's distraction, and stepped back into the work. Hours later, the studio empty and his body leaden.
Later that night, Dre was exhausted. It was around 10pm when they got done putting finishing touches on their sculpture for the group project. After he showered, he remembered to text Dante. His text read: "Congratulations on being drafted to the Bears, I watched it on my phone. I told you my boy, that one day you’d make it here and look at you. Mr. NFL. I’m really proud of you, Tay. You deserve everything and more. I hate that I wasn’t there in person. I’ll have to buy you a beer. Or better yet you’re buying me a beer, you’re the one with the damn NFL contract and I’m a starving art major, lbs. I hope we can connect soon. We have people coming from the top art schools across the globe to see our sculpture tomorrow, so I had to make sure my group was perfect, lol. TTYS, Tay."
Dante read the text as he soaked in the tub, the steam doing nothing to loosen the knot in his chest. His heart ached because even though his dreams were coming true, the one person who meant the world to him wasn't a part of it. He now understood why Dre had ended things at the time; he would've tried to juggle everything at once, would have chosen Dre over his own soul. The bathroom door opened and Michelle stepped in, her robe already sliding off her shoulders. "There's my superstar," she purred, climbing into the tub to straddle him, the water sloshing over the rim. Her mouth was on his before he could speak, her hands slick with soap sliding down his chest. He kissed her back, trying to lose himself in the familiar curve of her hip, the press of her tits against him. She reached between them, her hand closing around his cock, stroking him to hardness under the cloudy water. "Fuck me right here, Tay," she breathed, her voice hungry, and he lifted her, guiding himself into her with a grunt. She rode him hard, her nails digging into his shoulders, her moans echoing off the tiles. He gripped her ass, driving up into her, the physicality a blunt instrument against his thoughts. He came with a stifled groan, his face buried in her neck, the pleasure sharp and hollow. She kissed his cheek and slipped out, leaving him alone in the cooling water, the echo of Dre's text still glowing behind his eyes. He had met Michelle a year ago; she was sexy as hell, he liked her a lot, but he still had a hollow ache. Michelle didn't fill it.
The hollow ache persisted through the night, a cold spot in his chest that Michelle’s warmth couldn’t displace. By morning, the draft celebrations had blurred into a migraine, and he found himself scrolling to Dre’s contact before his coffee brewed. He called, the ringtone echoing in his sterile condo.
“Tay?” Dre’s voice was rough with sleep, a familiar sound that instantly unknotted something in Dante’s shoulders. “Hey, man, sorry for the early call – just wanted to hear about this sculpture you’ve been killing yourself over.” They fell into easy banter, Dre describing the welded steel and glass, his words painting a chaotic, beautiful image in Dante’s mind.
Dante listened, grinning at the passion in Dre’s voice, but beneath his own laughter, a sharp longing cut deep. He missed the way Dre’s eyes crinkled when he talked about art, missed the smell of turpentine on his skin. “The critics from RISD are coming today,” Dre said, a nervous edge to his casual tone. “Feels like the fucking super bowl.”
“You’ll crush it,” Dante assured him, and he meant it, but the words tasted like distance. They talked about nothing – mutual friends, stupid movies, the brutal Chicago winter – each sentence a careful bridge over the canyon of what they didn’t say. Dante’s grip tightened on the phone, imagining Dre in his dusty workshop, covered in metal shavings.
He wanted to say, “I dream about that stairwell sometimes,” but instead he asked, “You seeing anyone?” Dre’s pause was a beat too long. “Nah, man. Just… fucking around. You know how it is.” “Yeah,” Dante breathed, the image of Michelle’s robe slipping off suddenly feeling like a costume he wore.
The conversation wound down, comfortable yet charged with all the unsaid years. “I’m proud of you, Dre,” Dante said, and it was the truest thing he’d uttered in months. “Back at you, superstar,” Dre replied, his voice softening. “Don’t be a stranger, okay?” Dante hung up, the silence in his condo now louder, more accusing. He stared at his reflection in the black screen, knowing the call had been a Band-Aid on a wound that never truly closed.
He stared at his reflection in the black screen, knowing the call had been a Band-Aid on a wound that never truly closed.
Four months passed in a grind of punishing two-a-days and film rooms that smelled of sweat and desperation. His Bears teammates were cool, the veterans offering gruff tips over lunch, but the weight of the first-pick quarterback label in his hometown was a constant, suffocating pressure. He knew these fans, their brutal, loving honesty, and the fear of being labeled ‘subpar’ dogged his every throw. He found quiet evenings with Marcus and Ma, a familiar anchor, but returned each night to the sterile luxury of his condo and to Michelle, whose presence was beginning to feel like furniture.
On one particular day, bone-tired from camp, Dante entered the condo’s cool silence and stopped. Michelle was sitting rigid on the modernist couch, her Louis Vuitton suitcase and a duffel bag packed at her feet. “What’s going on?” he asked, dropping his keys on the console.
In reply, she snatched the leather-bound journal from the couch cushion and hurled it at his feet. It skidded across the polished concrete. His stomach plunged. “Your therapist’s little homework assignment,” she spat, her voice trembling with a fury he’d never heard.
She stood, holding her phone, its screen illuminating her furious, tear-streaked face. “I was looking for a fucking receipt,” she said, each word a shard of glass. “And I found this poetry.” She jabbed a finger at the journal. “December seventeenth. Let me refresh your memory, since you clearly need it.” She looked at her phone and began to read his own words aloud in a cold, mocking monotone. “‘His hands on my hips in that stairwell felt like the only real thing in my life. I still taste him when I close my eyes. I still wake up hard, aching for it to be his weight on me, his cock in me, not hers. This is a sickness. I am a lie.’” She looked up, her eyes utterly vacant. “Who’s ‘he,’ Dante? Huh? Who’s ‘her’?”
The word hung in the air, a final verdict. “Her is you,” Dante said, his voice scraped raw. He didn’t look away from her shattered expression. “And he is my best friend. The one I grew up with.”
He sank onto the arm of the couch, the fight gone. “I thought I could get over him, Michelle. I really fucking tried.” He explained the stolen moments in locker rooms and limousines, the promises whispered in dark bedrooms. “He was my first everything. My first kiss, my first... fuck, my first love.” He apologized then, looking directly into her glistening eyes. “I care about you so much. You’re amazing. But you’re right.”
Michelle nodded slowly, a single tear tracking through her perfect makeup. “But you don’t love me, Dante.” She zipped her duffel bag, the sound final. “You love him.” She walked to the door, paused without turning around. “Good luck with your season.” The click of the latch was softer than he deserved.
Later, in the profound silence of the emptied condo, he cried himself to sleep. The tears were hot and silent, soaking into a pillow that smelled like her shampoo. He missed his friend so fucking much it hurt, a physical cramp beneath his sternum.
They were supposed to share all of these experiences. Dre had promised to marry him someday on that creaking porch swing, a lifetime ago. Now he was out there in New York, living his best life, building beautiful things while Dante was here, a curated image in a hollow box. Dante felt the familiar feeling of drowning, his chest too tight to pull in air. His life raft wasn’t here.
His life raft wasn’t here. The air in the condo thickened, coating his throat. Dante scrambled for his phone, his hands shaking as he scrolled past Dre’s name, the act physically painful, and found the number labeled ‘Dr. Vance.’ The call connected on the fourth ring, and Dante gasped, “I think I’m having a panic attack,” the words tumbling out in a ragged, wet rush before the therapist could even offer a greeting.
He paced the vast, empty living room, the floor-to-ceiling windows reflecting a fractured man. “Michelle left. She read my journal. She knows everything.” He described the journal’s contents, the raw hunger for Dre’s hands, the visceral memory of his cock. “I can’t fucking breathe, Doc.” Dr. Vance’s voice was a measured anchor. “Describe the room you’re in. Five things you can see.”
Dante forced his eyes open, listing the cold chrome lamp, the abandoned throw pillow, a water stain on the ceiling from the upstairs neighbor. His breathing hitched, slowing marginally. “Good. Now, the memory in the journal—the stairwell. You called it ‘the only real thing.’” Dr. Vance paused, letting the silence push Dante deeper. “Why did you write that down?”
“Because it’s true,” Dante whispered, sinking to the floor, his back against the cold glass. “Everything else is noise. The draft, the fans, the money… it’s just static. That feeling in the stairwell, when he was inside me, when I knew he owned me… that was quiet.” He ucould smell the bleach and cigarettes, feel the brutal slam of Dre’s hips, the delicious burn. “I miss his weight. I miss how he’d spit on his hand and shove into me like he was claiming territory.” The explicit admission hung in the silent condo. Dr. Vance didn’t flinch. “And the feeling now, with Michelle gone?”
“Relief.” The word was a confession. “A horrible, guilty fucking relief.” The therapist guided him through the sensation, urging him to sit with the shame until it lost its jagged edge. “The journal wasn’t a mistake, Dante. It was a truth you buried. Now it’s above ground.” They talked about the unsustainable performance, the lie of the curated life. “What is your next, smallest, authentic action?” Dante stared at his reflection in the dark window. “I don’t know.”
“Sit with that, too,” Dr. Vance said. When the call ended, the silence felt different—charged, waiting.
When the call ended, the silence felt different—charged, waiting. Dante stood on legs that still trembled, the phantom smell of bleach and Dre’s sweat clinging to him. He grabbed his keys, needing motion, needing the one place that had always meant sanctuary.
The late evening sun bled orange across the west side as he drove, the familiar streets a blur. He used his key at the Jackson’s back door, the click of the lock a sound from childhood. The warm, savory smell of roast chicken and Ma’s cornbread hit him first, then the softer scent of baby powder.
“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” Marcus boomed from the stove, not turning around. Ma wiped her hands on her apron, her smile warm but her eyes sharp, missing nothing. Mia was at the table, rocking a tiny bundle—Brielle—whose soft coos punctuated the cozy kitchen noise.
They ate, the conversation easy, full of jokes about toddler hijinks and Mia’s lack of sleep. Marcus asked about camp, his training, the team’s prospects. Dante answered in practiced, upbeat clips, his smile a strained performance. He felt Ma’s gaze lingering on the hollows under his eyes, saw Marcus clock the way his fingers tapped a nervous rhythm against his thigh.
After Mia left with the baby, the quiet deepened. Ma served peach cobbler, the sweet smell suffusing the room. Marcus pushed his plate aside, leaning forward, his forearms resting heavily on the table. “Mind telling us why the number one draft pick is sitting in our kitchen, on a Tuesday, with no prior heads-up?” he asked, his voice low and direct. “We know you, boy. Now spit it out.”
Dante stared at the vanilla ice cream melting into a sweet, creamy puddle. He told them about the therapist’s homework, the leather-bound journal, how Michelle had found it. “What was in the book?” Ma asked softly, her hand resting near his.
He wasn’t detailed, for obvious reasons. “An admission,” he said, the words ash in his mouth. “That I still love Dre. That I wished he was here with me, not her.” He stared at the wood grain of the table, its patterns swirling like choices he couldn’t unravel. “You know what, this is a lot to spring on y’all randomly,” he muttered, pushing his chair back with a harsh scrape. “I’m just gonna go.”
“Boy, sit down,” Marcus said, the command softening at the edges. “Always running. This ain’t the damn field.”