Chapter 5: The Storm Before the Calm
Dre shifted closer, his fingers brushing Dante’s temple to move a stray curl from his eyes. “When you are ready to talk,” Dre said, his voice a low murmur in the dark. “I’ll be here.” A sudden thunderstorm rattled the windows with a violence that shook the old house. When lightning flashed, the room went white for a fractured second, and Dante saw Dre staring at him across the dark space between their pillows, his expression stripped bare of every easy charm, leaving only a raw, open intensity. The unspoken tension between them crackled louder than the storm outside. “There’s so much shit, Dre,” Dante said, the whisper torn from him by the following rumble of thunder. “I know,” Dre answered, his gaze never wavering. “And when we get past all the bullshit, I’m going to draw the real Dante.” The next lightning strike illuminated the sharp line of his jaw, the determined set of his mouth. “Not that bullshit you try to sell everybody else.” The darkness swallowed them again, heavy with the drumming rain. “Because your eyes,” Dre continued, his voice barely audible beneath the downpour, “tell a story worth being told.” In the subsequent quiet, Dante felt the truth of it sink into his bones, a terrifying and fragile hope. He didn’t pull away when Dre’s hand, which had moved the curl, came to rest gently against the side of his face, his thumb brushing the concealed bruise with a touch so light it was almost imagination. Dante’s breath hitched. He closed his eyes, and for the first time all night, he stopped holding the pieces of himself together.
The mattress shifted as Dre moved. He met Dante’s forehead with his own, a soft, solid pressure that grounded the spinning room. Dante held his breath, his entire world narrowing to that single point of contact.
“I remember we made that pinky promise,” Dre started, his words a warm exhale against Dante’s skin. “To be best friends no matter what.” He paused, the storm filling the silence. “I still mean that, Tay.”
The nickname, unused for years, shattered Dante’s final defense. He opened his eyes. His emerald greens met the golden browns of Dre’s, so close he could see the flecks of amber in the dim light. “I don’t care what you say, Dante,” Dre whispered, the confession threading through the space between their mouths. “But I know that kiss was more than just a dare.”
Another flash of lightning outlined the fierce honesty on Dre’s face. “And I’ve thought about it every day since.” He swallowed, the sound audible. “But hell, maybe it’s just me.”
Dante tried to form a word, any word, but his voice had vanished. Dre’s thumb stroked his cheek once, a silent concession. “Just know I’m here with you, Dante. No matter what.” He lingered for a heartbeat longer, then slowly pulled back, settling onto his own pillow. “Good night.”
He turned away, facing the wall. Dante stared at the outline of his shoulders in the dark, the words I’ve thought about it every day since echoing in the hollow where his fear used to live. The rain softened to a steady whisper against the glass.
The rain softened to a steady whisper against the glass. Dante lay perfectly still, staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling until they blurred. Dre’s words, I’ve thought about it every day since, coiled hot and alive in his gut, vaporizing every last excuse.
THE DAM WAS BREAKING.
Dante started. “You deserve better than me for a friend, Dre.” His voice cracked, raw and ugly in the quiet dark. “I’m fucked up.” He drew a shuddering breath, the truth a rising flood he could no longer contain. “You have a family who actually loves you, you’re an amazing artist, you have schools beating down your door.”
He turned his head, tears spilling hot and fast, carving tracks through the concealer to reveal the yellowing bruise beneath. “Meanwhile I’m… I got nothing.” The words tumbled out, a chaotic, desperate cascade. “My dad found texts between us on my phone, he saw your pictures, and he fucking lost it.”
Dante squeezed his eyes shut, more tears falling. “That’s where this bruise came from. He said no fag lives under his roof. After graduation, I’m cut off.” He gasped, the admission about the cliffside car tumbling out next. “I was up on the overlook tonight with my rejection letters, just chain-smoking and staring at your Instagram.”
A sob wracked him. “I dream about you, Dre. Like, fucked-up, vivid dreams that feel more real than this.” His hand clenched in the sheets. “And don’t say that , you accept me for me or some bullshit like that, because I’ll just drag you down with me.” He was shaking now, the whole bed trembling. “I’m terrified of what it means, and I’m terrified of my dad, and I’m terrified you’ll look at me and finally see how broken I am.”
He didn’t say the most uncomfortable part aloud—the shame in his car, the proof of his desire staining his clothes after the dream. He didn’t need to. The closet door was wide open now, no more hiding. Everything lay bare between them in the tear-soaked dark.
Everything lay bare between them in the tear-soaked dark. The only sound was the rain and Dante’s ragged breathing. Dre hadn’t moved, hadn’t spoken.
He just listened, a still silhouette against the faint light from the window. Dante felt hollowed out, scraped raw by his own confession. Shame followed the relief, cold and immediate.
“I’M SORRY.” The words burst from him, too loud. Dante sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. The mattress springs groaned.
He stood, his body moving on a frantic, automated drive to escape. “You don’t need to have this shit, trauma dumped on you, bruh.” He found his jeans in a heap on the floor, fumbling with the denim. His hands shook too hard to thread the button.
“What are you doing?” Dre’s voice was calm behind him. “I’m leaving. This was a mistake.” Dante wrestled his t-shirt over his head, the cotton catching on his ears. He needed air, needed the cliffside smog, needed to be anywhere but this room where he’d just spilled his insides.
A hand closed firmly around his wrist from behind. The touch was electric, stopping him mid-motion. “Dante, stop.”
He didn’t let go. “Just listen for one second.” Dre’s grip was warm and unyielding. “You don’t get to say all that and then just bail.”
Dante tried to pull away, but Dre held fast. “You think I don’t know broken?” Dre’s voice was low, fierce. “I see it every day I pick up a pencil.”
Dante looked at Dre now. “What are you talking about?”
“All my portraits,” Dre said, his voice thick. “The ones that got me the scholarship offers? They’re all of you.” He let go of Dante’s wrist, the absence of his touch immediate.
Dante stood frozen, his jeans still undone at the waist. The storm outside had softened to a steady tap-tap against the windowpane. “What?”
“Every single one,” Dre whispered, his face half-lit by the streetlight’s glow. “Your eyes on the field, the back of your head in class, you laughing in my kitchen.” He ran a hand over his own face, a weary gesture Dante had never seen before. “It’s why I quit football.”
The confession hung between them, immense and silent. “I couldn’t focus on the plays because I was too busy watching the light hit your jaw under your helmet.” Dre’s laugh was short and bitter. “My dad still hasn’t forgiven me for that.” The rain picked up again, drumming a frantic rhythm on the roof. Dante could only stare, the world tilting on a new, unsteady axis. Dre had been watching him, studying him, all this time.
Dante could only stare, the air thick with the scent of rain and old wood. “Why?” The word scraped his throat raw. “Why, Dre? Why would you fuck up your chances at going D-1 because of my mug?” He chuckled, a sharp, pained sound with no humor in it.
Dre didn’t smile back. “Because your mug is the only thing I’ve ever wanted to draw.” He took a step closer, the floorboard creaking under his weight. “That day in the art room, when you finally sat still?”
He reached out, his fingers hovering near the now-visible bruise on Dante’s cheekbone. “I wasn’t just seeing the shading or the planes.” His thumb finally rested, feather-light, on the discolored skin. “I was seeing you.”
Dante flinched back from the touch, but Dre’s hand remained, a steady, warm pressure against the hurt. “What does that mean, Dre? Seeing me?” The question burst out, edged with a frustration born from years of hiding. “Of course you see me, we are always around each other.”
He gestured wildly between them, the space feeling suddenly too small. “You’ve been my only anchor for years, my best friend.” Dante’s voice broke, raw with confusion. “So what the hell is different now?”
Dre didn’t pull away. His thumb smoothed over Dante’s cheekbone, a slow, deliberate stroke that erased the last of the concealer and the pretense. “I see the way you hold your breath when you’re nervous,” he said, his voice low. “It’s a tiny hitch, right before you smile for the cameras.”
He moved his hand, his fingers tracing the line of Dante’s jaw. “I see how your left eye closes just a fraction more when a laugh is real.” His gaze was unwavering, a physical weight. “And I see the terror in your greens right now, because you think this is a trap.”
Lightning flashed, bleaching the room white for a second. In that frozen light, Dante saw it all on Dre’s face: the years of quiet study, the fierce protectiveness, the want. The thunder cracked, shaking the windows. “I’m not your anchor, Dante,” Dre whispered, his breath mingling with Dante’s. “I’m the guy who’s been drowning right beside you.”
“I’m the guy who’s been drowning right beside you.”
Drowning. Dante said, looking back up to meet Dre’s eyes.
“Yes, drowning.” Dre’s hand was still on his face, a steady anchor in the storm.
“But, you’re not…, I’m not g…we’re not. We have just been close for so long, we’re normal, man.” Dante says, his nervous tremor coming back, a faint vibration under Dre’s palm.
“We’re not normal to some people, Dante.” They held each other’s eyes, the space between their lips measured in heartbeats.
“I don’t want to date or fuck any of the girls or guys at our school, Dante.” His eyes held his, unblinking. The admission was quiet, absolute, and it dissolved the last of the air in the room.
The rain slapped the window in a sudden gust. Dante’s breath fogged between them, a tiny, private cloud. He was breaking apart, and the only thing holding the pieces together was the warmth of Dre’s hand.
He felt a tear track from his other eye, a hot path Dre’s thumb didn’t reach. “What are we supposed to do?” The question was a child’s whisper, lost and scared.
Dre’s other hand came up, cradling Dante’s face fully now, his touch blotting out the bruise, the rejection letters, the cliffside smog. “We breathe,” Dre said, his own voice rough. “We just breathe first.”
He leaned in, his forehead touching Dante’s again, a solid promise in the dark. Dante’s eyes fluttered shut. The world shrank to the shared heat of their skin, the scent of Dre’s lavender soap cutting through the stale smoke on Dante’s own.
For a long moment, they just stayed there, anchored. Then Dante’s hands, which had been limp at his sides, slowly came up. They fisted weakly in the fabric of Dre’s t-shirt, not pushing away, but holding on.
He was trembling again, but this time, he wasn’t alone in it. He felt the fine tremor in Dre’s arms too, a mirrored current running through them both. The storm outside was fading, leaving behind a whispered aftermath.
The storm outside was fading, leaving behind a whispered aftermath. Dante opened his eyes, their foreheads still pressed together, and the silence felt newly fragile, like blown glass.
He could feel the steady thump of Dre’s heartbeat through the thin cotton of his shirt where Dante’s fists were still clenched. “Can… I please kiss you, again?” The words left him in a fractured rush, instantly staining the air between them. “I… just need to be sure, ya know.”
Dante asked, now his eyes focusing on the floor between their bare feet. Dre was silent. Too silent. The quiet stretched, thin and sharp as a razor wire. Maybe this was a bad idea.
Maybe he pushed too soon. Of course the fag couldn’t help himself, he berated himself mentally. His grip on Dre’s shirt began to loosen, the fabric slipping from his sweating fingers. Shame, hot and liquid, poured back into the hollows his confession had carved out.
He started to pull back, muscles coiling to flee. Dre’s hands, which had been cradling his face, slid down to clamp firmly onto his shoulders. “Look at me.”
Dante forced his gaze up, expecting pity or worse, revulsion. He found neither. Dre’s expression was all fierce concentration, his brow slightly furrowed as if studying a complex line in a sketch.
“You never have to ask me for that,” Dre said, his voice low and certain. He leaned in slowly, giving Dante every chance to turn away. Dante didn’t move, couldn’t breathe.
Their lips met, not like the first chaotic dare, but with a deliberate, aching softness. It was an answer, a confirmation, a silent scream into the quiet room. Dante’s mind finally went still.
Dante’s mind finally went still, the noisy static of fear and doubt dissolving into the simple, overwhelming reality of Dre’s mouth on his. Dre’s full lips were so soft, so fucking perfect. Heaven was all he could imagine.
They took and they gave, a slow, exploring pressure that tasted of salt and spearmint. Years of pent-up frustration, all the cliffside staring and art room glances, had tunneled directly into this moment. If hell harbored Dre, and his kisses felt like this, then he’d gladly accept being hell-bound.
He whimpered involuntarily into Dre’s lips, a raw, surrendered sound he didn’t recognize as his own. He felt Dre smile against his mouth, a slight curve at the corner that acknowledged his vulnerability. That sobered Dante up, scaring the fuck out of him.
He broke the kiss, pulling back just an inch to breathe. Dre watched him, his own breathing uneven, as Dante looked past him toward the window where the storm had quieted to a drizzle. Dante’s chest was heaving, his heart hammering against his ribs like it wanted out.
“Okay, Dre,” he whispered, the words scratchy. “That wasn’t bad.” He managed a shaky, real smile of his own. “It was enough for me to accept that I’m not 100% normal.”
Dre’s laugh was a quiet huff of air, a release of shared tension. They shared a laugh, soft and bewildered in the dark room. Eventually, after hours of talking in hushed tones about everything and nothing—the scholarships, his dad, Dre’s portraits, their future—the dawn began to bleach the edges of the blinds.
They both fell asleep next to each other, on top of the rumpled comforter. No cuddling, but close enough that their hands almost touched on the sheet between them. Close enough to cause suspicion, if anyone had been there to see.
The first thing Dante registered was the smell of frying bacon, cutting through the residual scent of rain and lavender. The second was the solid warmth of Dre’s back pressed against his side, their fingers now loosely tangled on the sheet between them.
A floorboard groaned in the hallway. Dante’s eyes snapped open, his body locking with a familiar, electric fear. The door creaked open a sliver, and a sliver of hallway light cut across the bed.
He saw Mia’s wide eye in the crack before the door immediately snapped shut. He heard a muffled, gleeful squeal from the other side. His heart plummeted through the mattress.
Before he could even untangle his hand, another shadow filled the space under the door. “Girl, what are you doing peeping in folks’ room?” Ms. Jackson’s voice was a low, unamused murmur through the wood.
“I was just seeing if Dre was woke!” Mia’s whisper was defensively bright. “Mmmhmm,” her ma replied, the sound dripping with a knowing that froze Dante’s blood. “Get your black tail downstairs and eat breakfast.”
Footsteps retreated. Dante was already sitting upright, his mind racing with a thousand catastrophic scenarios. Dre stirred beside him, blinking sleepily. “Who was that?”
“Your sister. And your mom.” Dante’s voice was tight. He was already off the bed, searching for his shirt like it was body armor. Dre sat up, running a hand over his face, the events of the night before settling back into his eyes.
He watched Dante pace. “My ma already knew you were here, Dante. You know that.” A firm knock rattled the door. “Y’all need to wash your behinds , eat, and get to school,” Ms. Jackson called through the wood, her tone leaving no room for discussion.
The morning routine that followed was a study in quiet tension. They moved around each other in the bathroom, brushing teeth in silence, the air thick with everything they hadn’t decided yet. Downstairs, the smell of eggs and syrup was a lie of normalcy.
Mia kept her eyes on her plate, a poorly concealed smile playing on her lips every time she glanced between them. Jackson served Dante first, piling his plate high like always. “Eat,” she said to him, her eyes soft but unreadable. “You look like you didn’t sleep a wink.”
Dante managed a nod, the food tasting like ash. Dre’s sneaker found his under the table, pressing down once, a silent question. Dante didn’t pull his foot away.
Dante didn’t pull his foot away. The kitchen clock ticked loudly over the clatter of forks.
MR. JACKSON FINALLY JOINED THE TABLE. “YOU BOYS MIND TELLING ME WHY I’M MISSING 4 BEERS.” He set his paper down with a firm slap, his gaze shifting between Dante and his son. The air in the room stiffened, syrup-sweet and suddenly suffocating.
Dante’s fork froze halfway to his mouth. Dre’s sneaker pressed harder against his, a silent warning. “Wasn’t me,” Dre said, his voice carefully even as he scooped up some eggs.
“I know it wasn’t you, son.” Mr. Jackson’s eyes, the same gold-flecked brown as Dre’s but sharper, landed squarely on Dante. “Your car was spotted up at the overlook last night.” He leaned back, the chair creaking under his weight. “Trash can’s full of empty Miller Lite cans this morning.”
Mia stopped chewing, her eyes wide. Jackson sighed, a slow, disappointed sound that cut deeper than a shout. Dante felt the cliffside chill seep back into his bones right there at the warm table.
“You drink and drive, son?” Mr. Jackson’s question was deceptively soft. “No, sir,” Dante managed, the lie thin and automatic. “I… parked. Drank. Slept it off.”
He couldn’t look at Dre. The secret of the cliffside, his private collapse, was now public family business. Dre’s foot withdrew from his, the connection broken.
“You slept in your car?” Dre’s voice was quiet, tight with something between hurt and anger. “After you left here?” He’d assumed Dante went home. The truth was worse.
Dante just nodded, staring at the congealing yellow on his plate. Mr. Jackson watched him, a lawman assessing a suspect. “Your daddy know about this new hobby?”
“No, sir,” was his reply.
“Well it ain’t like your folks are around enough to give a damn anyway.”
“Marcus!” said Mrs. Jackson.
“Shit, I ain’t lying!” Mr. Jackson shoved a piece of bacon in his mouth, his gaze still locked on Dante. “That’s why I have one black son, and an Italian one now. Eating up all my damn groceries.” Then he looked at Dante and winked.
The wink changed everything. The tight coil of fear in Dante’s chest unraveled, leaving him lightheaded. A stifled snort came from Mia’s direction. Dre let out a long, slow breath beside him, his shoulder brushing Dante’s.
“But for real,” Mr. Jackson said, his voice dropping its performative edge. “That overlook ain’t a bedroom.” He pointed his fork at Dante. “You got a key here. You use it.”
Dante could only nod, the words lodging in his throat. Mrs. Jackson reached over and piled two more pancakes onto his plate. “Eat,” she said softly, her eyes saying everything her husband’s wink had. The normal sounds of breakfast resumed—clinking silverware, the rustle of the newspaper—but the atmosphere had shifted. It was a fragile, newfound belonging, warm as the syrup pooling on his plate. Dre’s knee found his under the table again, a solid, undeniable pressure. This time, Dante leaned into it.