Chapter 20: Breaking the Silence
The silence of the penthouse was shattered by the sharp crack of Dante’s keys hitting the marble countertop. “You do this every goddamn time, Dre.” Dre flinched, keeping his back turned as he stared out at the city’s indifferent glitter. Dante crossed the room in three swift strides, his hands gripping Dre’s shoulders, forcing him to turn and meet his burning gaze. “Why?” Dante’s voice was low, frayed with a frustration that had been simmering for years. “Why do you make yourself small when you’re the biggest fucking thing in every room?”
Dre tried to shake him off, but Dante’s hold was solid. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Tay.” “At dinner,” Dante pressed, his fingers tightening. “Huang and Scott are talking residencies and stock portfolios, and you’re sitting on a masterpiece that half of New York is fighting over, and you call it a ‘weird fluke’.” Dre’s eyes flickered away, focusing on a distant skyscraper. “It is a fluke,” he whispered. “It’s just metal and light. It doesn’t mean anything.”
“Bullshit.” Dante released one shoulder to cup Dre’s jaw, thumb stroking the tense muscle there. “Your art is the truest thing I’ve ever seen. It’s the reason your mother let you quit football after my own father looked down upon me. Don't pretend. You know its value.” Dre’s breath hitched, his defiant posture beginning to crumble. “It’s safer that way,” he admitted, the words barely audible. “If I pretend it’s nothing, then it can’t be taken away.”
The raw honesty of it deflated Dante’s anger, leaving behind a hollow ache. “Nothing that’s truly yours can be taken, Dre.” He leaned his forehead against Dre’s, their shared breath warming the space between them. “Not your talent. Not me.” He felt Dre tremble, a fine, almost imperceptible shudder. “I’m scared of wanting it too much,” Dre confessed into the narrow dark between their faces. “Of needing it.”
Dre finally broke, pulling away as the dam shattered.
“I know I shouldn’t, but I’ve always felt like I had to humble myself to fit into these white ass spaces, Dante.” He swiped angrily at his eyes. “I’m the only Black male in my art specialty, hell, the only Black person.”
He paced before the vast windows, his reflection a ghost over the city. “And I hate it, Tay. They circle around me like I’m some spectacle at a zoo.” His voice twisted in a mimicry of condescending praise. “Say shit like, ‘You communicate very well,’ or ‘You’re a very well-versed young man—who are your parents, are you adopted, your parents must have paid a fortune for your education.’”
He stopped, shoulders heaving. “And hell, even the covert shit in high school, where I knew I should have challenged my grade.” Dre turned back, his face wet and defiant. “Because you’re right, Tay, we all know I was the fucking best, period.”
A bitter laugh escaped him. “But there are a lot of white folks who don’t like that.” His voice dropped to a shattered whisper. “They’ve made sure to knock me down a peg to make sure that I know I’m lucky to be here.”
He sank onto the leather couch, hiding his face in his hands. “I know my art is good. They know it’s phenomenal, but they always find something.” Dre said, as he cried.
Dante stood watching him, his own breath caught. He remembered sticking up for Dre when the racist teachers or deans would behave unfairly, shouting matches in oak-paneled offices. But he wouldn’t have thought of all the micro, and closeted shit he had to go through alone.
Dante crossed the room and knelt on the floor before him, his hands gripping Dre’s knees. “Dre, I’m so sorry that you are experiencing that.” He waited until Dre’s wet, shining eyes met his. “I wish I would have known.” His voice broke, scraped raw by a sudden, horrifying clarity. “I’m so blinded by my own privilege that I didn’t even think to consider that even though I see you as Deandre Maurice Jackson, my best friend, my soul mate—that there is a world of folks who look like me that see Black man then Deandre.”
He pressed his forehead against Dre’s, breathing him in. “I will do everything in my power to use my platform to tear down any racist bullshit, period!” The vow was a low, guttural promise in the quiet room. “Because it’s wrong, and because it’s important to the man I fell in love with.”
Dre shuddered, a full-body release, and his hands came up to cradle Dante’s face. He didn’t speak for a long moment, just looked at him, searching. A single, hot tear tracked from Dre’s eye onto Dante’s thumb. “You see me,” Dre whispered, not a question but a soft, awed realization.
“Always,” Dante said. “I’m just finally learning how to look at the world you live in.” Dre pulled him up onto the couch, into the safe harbor of his arms, holding him as if he were the one who needed anchoring. The city lights blurred beyond the glass, unimportant.
Dre had fallen asleep in Dante’s lap, the steady rhythm of the rain and thunder finally pulling him under. Dante didn’t move. He just sat there, staring out into the storm as lightning split the sky open in blinding flashes. Each crack of thunder seemed to echo the chaos running through his head.
Dre’s confession had completely messed with him.
Dante couldn’t wrap his mind around it—how someone could be the best in their field and still be denied the recognition, respect, and opportunities they deserved. But that was Dre’s reality. Hell, it was the reality for a lot of brilliant Black people who had to work twice as hard just to be seen as half as good.
It made Dante’s chest tighten.
Because Dre wasn’t just good. He was exceptional. Maybe the best. And most of it he’d learned on his own, driven by pure instinct and talent that couldn’t be taught. No classroom or institution could claim that. No gatekeeper could take that away from him.
So why the hell should he have to shrink himself?
Why should Dre have to dull his brilliance just to make a bunch of privileged, insecure white folks feel comfortable?
If anything, Dre belonged in those rooms more than they did.
Dante looked down at him then, at the man sleeping peacefully against him, completely unaware of the storm raging in Dante’s mind.
Something hardened in Dante’s chest.
Because one thing was certain—Dre wasn’t going to fight that battle alone anymore.
The rain streaked the windows like veins, blurring the sharp lights of the city into watery gold. Dante gently carded his fingers through Dre’s curls, feeling the solid weight of his head in his lap anchor him to the moment. A low rumble of thunder vibrated through the building’s steel bones.
He thought of those framed trophies in the press room, his own easy accolades, and felt a sick twist of shame. Dre’s quiet excellence had been forged in a different, colder fire entirely. "Hell no," Dante whispered to the storm, his voice a gravelly promise lost in the sound of the downpour.
This wasn’t about grandstanding or a press conference soundbite. It was deeper, messier. It meant listening, really listening, even when it scraped him raw.
It meant leveraging every bit of his privileged access to carve out space Dre shouldn’t need a key for. Lightning flashed, bleaching the room white for a second, illuminating the fierce protectiveness on Dante’s face. He wouldn’t just be a shield.
He’d be a wedge. He’d use his celebrity like a crowbar against those closed doors. Dre murmured in his sleep, a soft, incoherent sound, and nestled closer.
Dante’s hand stilled on his hair, his thumb tracing the shell of Dre’s ear. He studied the way Dre’s eyelashes rested against his cheeks, the complete vulnerability he allowed only here. The storm inside Dante began to quiet, settling into a cold, clear resolution.
He would start tomorrow. First, he’d call his agent. Then, he’d make some very specific, uncompromising demands about the team’s community partnerships.
The couch leather creaked under his shifted weight as he reached for the soft throw blanket draped over the arm. He carefully tucked it around Dre’s shoulders, watching the even rise and fall of his breathing. Outside, the city shimmered, washed clean and waiting.
Outside, the city shimmered, washed clean and waiting.
The next morning, steam curled from two mugs of coffee on the penthouse’s kitchen island, cutting through the quiet. “So, you’ve got that scrimmage at eleven?” Dre asked, pushing a bowl of sliced fruit toward Dante. Dante nodded, his mouth full of toast. “Film study after. You?”
Dre stirred his coffee, avoiding eye contact. “Meeting at ten with some people from the Chicago Institute and a rep from that new museum in Millenium Park.” He tried to sound casual. “They want to discuss acquiring ‘Entwined’ for a permanent collection, or maybe a long-term loan. Talk numbers.”
Dante stopped chewing. “Numbers. Who’s ‘they,’ exactly?” Dre shrugged, a defensive gesture Dante now recognized. “Just some vice presidents of acquisitions. Development people. It’s just a conversation, Tay. I own the piece outright, so…”
A cold knot formed in Dante’s stomach. He slowly set his toast down. “You own it. And you’re going to negotiate its value alone with a bunch of institutional buyers?” The red flags his business professor had drilled into him began waving violently. “Dre. Tell me you have an investment attorney going with you.”
Dre blinked, taken aback. “For a conversation? It’s not a courtroom.” Dante stood up, his chair scraping loudly. “It’s a negotiation! They have teams of lawyers who do this every day.” He leaned across the island, his voice low and urgent. “They’ll have their own appraisals ready to lowball you. You need your own person in that room, someone who only works for you.”
The silence that followed was heavy with the unspoken weight of last night’s revelations. Dre looked down, his shoulders tightening. “I just… I didn’t want to make a big deal. It feels like assuming the worst.” Dante reached for his hand, his grip firm. “It’s not assuming. It’s you finally understanding what you’re worth and protecting it.”
It’s you finally understanding what you’re worth and protecting it.” Dante’s voice was absolute, leaving no room for Dre’s old habit of shrinking. “After my scrimmage, I’m going with you, Dre!” He pulled out his phone, his thumbs already moving. “I’ll get my manager on the phone to have someone come with us to do their own evaluation.”
Dre gave him an annoyed look, his jaw set in that stubborn line Dante knew so well. Dante softened his voice, leaning closer. “Please trust me on this, Dre.” After a heavy silence, Dre reluctantly obliged with a sharp, resigned nod.
Hours later, after his scrimmage, Dante, his manager, and an attorney named Adam picked Dre up in a sleek black sedan. The drive to the sleek gallery offices was tense and quiet. Dante noted the looks on those vulture’s faces when they realized Dre didn’t come alone—a flicker of surprise, then recalculating coolness. He knew in his spirit that they thought they were going to easily finesse Dre.
They saw a raw talent, with a face they didn’t want represented. Discussions about the material, art details, and provenance went on for hours in a stark white conference room. Then came the offers, numbers that made Dre’s breath catch. But Adam had his own paperwork, sliding forward independent appraisals from experts he’d sent to view the exhibit throughout the day.
The two offers were night and day. Dante had to press a steadying hand on Dre’s trembling leg under the table when they talked real numbers. Looking at Dre’s wide, disbelieving eyes, Dante knew he wouldn’t regret his decision for a single second.
Looking at Dre’s wide, disbelieving eyes, Dante knew he wouldn’t regret his decision for a single second. Adam slid the two sets of documents across the polished table, his voice a cold, clean blade. “Your investors’ offer ranges between five hundred twenty-five and nine hundred seventy-five thousand.” Dre swallowed, the number a physical weight. “But the five independent appraisals I commissioned today,” Adam continued, tapping the second stack, “value the piece between six-point-one and eight-point-two million.”
The air in the room crystallized, sharp enough to cut lungs. One of the suits began to speak, a rehearsed apology already forming. Dre held up a hand, his artist’s fingers steady for the first time all afternoon. “You all thought I was stupid.” His voice was quiet, lethally calm, and it shut the man up faster than a shout. “Unfortunately for you, my partner here informed me y’all were going to devalue my work.”
He stood, the chair legs scraping harshly against the floor. “I almost didn’t believe him.” He looked at each of their carefully composed faces, seeing the calculation and the condescension beneath. “So no, I don’t want your rebuttals or anything else for that matter. Thank you for your time.”
Dante let out a stiff, incredulous laugh, pride roaring in his chest as Dre turned for the door. He followed, pausing only to turn back in the threshold. The investors were statues of chagrin. “Don’t contact him again,” Dante said, each word a promise. “Trust me, if I make a post with these receipts, it will fuck y’all over.” He let his gaze land, heavy and final, on the man who’d spoken first. “He is not your n-word boy. Now y’all have a good day.”
The heavy door hissed shut on their silence. The sterile hallway buzzed with overhead lights. Dre was already paces ahead, his shoulders a tight line, walking with a speed Dante had to stride to match.
Dre hit the elevator button with the heel of his hand, the ding too cheerful for the fury vibrating off him. “You knew,” he said, the words hitting the mirrored walls. Dante didn’t deny it. Unbeknownst to Dre, Dante had seen the figures earlier from his own research; he wanted Dre to see that institutional condescension for himself, in real time, to truly feel its shape.
The elevator descended in a thick silence. “They thought I was just some dumb kid with a welding torch,” Dre finally muttered, staring at his own reflected anger. Dante moved to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with that reflection. “Now you know what we’re really dealing with. And you know what you’re really worth.” The doors opened to the garage, its cold, damp air smelling of concrete and exhaust.
Dre stopped walking, turning to face him under the flickering fluorescent light. “That number…” He shook his head, disbelief momentarily overtaking the anger. “Eight million dollars, Tay.” Dante grinned, a fierce, proud thing. “Told you you’re the biggest thing in the room.”
The following days were a deliberate, quiet buoyancy. Dante focused on practice and covertly finalized plans, watching Dre move through his final graduation preparations with a new, steadying certainty. Not only that, Dante had planned a surprise get-together for him after his graduation in a few days. Scott, Huang, his parents, his sister, and a few of his art school friends were coming to celebrate Dre. They were going to celebrate inside of Dre’s graduation gift.
A week later, they all cheered as Dre walked the stage. “Deandre Marcus Jackson,” they called. Masters of Fine Arts. The auditorium roared, but Dante only heard the crack in Dre’s mother’s voice as she shouted, “That’s my baby!” Later, Dante guided a blindfolded Dre into the converted loft, the scent of fresh paint and polished concrete hanging in the air. “Just a nice venue for the party,” Dante said, his voice tight with anticipation as he removed the blindfold.
The space was breathtaking—raw beams, immense north-facing windows, and immaculate workstations. “What is this place?” Dre whispered, turning in a slow circle as their friends and family erupted from behind a half-wall. Confetti rained down. Hugs and laughter echoed under the high ceilings. Dante watched him absorb it all, the joy, the pride, the sheer scale of the space.
He wouldn’t tell him until everyone had gone home.
The last guest's laughter faded into the elevator shaft, leaving a hollow echo in the vast space. Dre leaned against a steel support beam, surveying the confetti-strewn floor with a tired smile.
"Hell of a party, Tay," he said, rubbing his eyes.
Dante's heart hammered against his ribs as he crossed the room, the polished concrete cool through his socks.
He stopped in front of Dre, the city's neon glow painting his best friend's face in blues and golds. “Thank you,” Dre said, a slow, genuine smile softening his features. “The party was great, Tay. I really didn’t suspect anything, so you did a good job.” They both laughed, the sound bouncing off the high ceilings, but Dante’s was tighter, edged with nerves.
He watched as Dre’s gaze traveled past him, truly observing the building for the first time without a crowd in it. “The proportions in here are insane,” Dre murmured, walking a few steps to run his palm along the concrete wall. “This ribbed texture, the way the beams intersect… it’s pure function, but someone saw the artistry in it.” He glanced up at the skylights. “The attention to detail is something only an artist would see, or commission.”
Dante swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. “So,” he said, shoving his hands in his pockets. “How do you like the space?” Dre turned, his expression open and appreciative. “It’s incredible. A perfect blank slate. Whose is it?” The words tumbled out of Dante in a rush of released breath. “Yours.”
The single word hung, absolute and immense. Dre didn’t move. “What?” “The deed is in your name,” Dante said, his voice gaining strength as he closed the distance between them. “You don’t owe anyone anything… it’s handled.” He reached out, taking Dre’s still hand. “It’s your studio, Dre. For real.”
Dre’s eyes widened, scanning the vast room anew—no longer just interesting architecture, but potential, a future. “Tay… you didn’t… this is too much.” “It’s not,” Dante insisted, his thumb stroking Dre’s knuckles. “It’s what you’re worth.” He let out a shuddering sigh, all his planned eloquence vanishing. “Seeing you in here… it makes me so fucking happy, Dre.”
“Why?” Dre whispered, his fingers curling tightly around Dante’s, his eyes searching Dante’s face with overwhelmed curiosity. Dante leaned his forehead against Dre’s, the city’s noise fading to a distant hum. “Because,” he said, the truth simple and profound, “now the world gets to see you the way I always have.”
Dre tried to stop his tears, but they came anyway, hot and silent. “Dante, I don’t know what to say.” Dante stood quietly because he had another surprise, the weight of a small box in his pocket feeling like a stone. He tried not to look too nervous.What’s wrong, having regrets already?” Dre joked, his voice wet and cracking. Dante shook his head, a smirk fighting its way onto his face. “No, Tay. No regrets with you, ever.”Dre was really looking at him then, seeing the tremble in his hands. Dante took a deep breath, the air cool in the vast, empty studio. “You told me one day that we would have all the bullshit figured out.” He stepped closer, his voice dropping. “I’m not sure if we do, but it damn sure feels close enough, Dre.”Dre was silent, his breath catching. “You said the only thing that mattered was us,” Dante continued, the words pouring out now. “And you were so fucking right, Dre.”He swallowed, his vision blurring. “One day, when you’re in the NFL and I’m doing street art.” Dante watched the memory click behind Dre’s eyes, saw the moment it hit him all at once what was happening. Dante had tears in his eyes as well as he got down on one knee, the concrete hard and cool through his jeans.His voice was choked. “When you’re in the NFL, I’m doing street art, and what else did you say, Dre?” He fumbled for the box, the velvet small in his palm. “Say it, Dre.”