by Amy Lane
Mrs. Bradford was Mason’s administrative assistant, and she had apparently decided Skip and Carpenter needed adopting. The last time they’d eaten in Mason’s office, she’d brought them lemon iced sugar cookies, two apiece, and had given Skip two in a disposable container for Richie. The three of them had privately agreed that they would die for Mrs. Bradford.
“I’ll concentrate on that,” Clay said with a deep breath. He felt better. Maybe it was the thought of cookies, but most of it was Skip’s steadiness. “We can go, Skipper. He’s going to need me.”
“Yeah.” Skip pulled away. “Look, I get that you’re going to get out of the car and bail, but if you give me your keys, I can run and get your clothes, then have Richie drive your car to Mason’s house this evening.”
Clay had to work really hard to fight the burning in his eyes. “That would be the best, Skipper,” he said. “All my clothes that fit are folded in the big drawer right now. The stuff in the closet is too big or too small.”
Skipper pulled up in front of Dane’s obviously hand-me-down tan Pontiac Firebird, and Clay dug into his pocket for his key ring and his wallet. “And here’s money for gas—”
“That I will shove down your throat if you don’t get out of the car,” Skipper said smartly, snagging the keys. “Go. I’m going to go hug my boyfriend in the middle of the auto parts store and watch something sad on TV.”
“That sounds like a plan,” Clay said, wiping his not-burning eyes with the back of his hand. “Thanks, man.”
“Anytime.”
He meant that. Clay wanted to hug him, but he just gave a hard nod and hopped out, then hustled toward the driver’s side of Dane’s sedan.
He tapped brusquely on the window, startling Dane from the fetal curl that was every bit as heartbreaking as he’d imagined. Dane rolled down the window and glared.
“What?”
“Scoot over. I’m driving you home.”
“What about your car?”
“I told you—I don’t have a car. I have a Skipper, and he’s going to IKEA.” Skipper would probably bomb the place first, but if it made Dane feel less indebted, that was fine.
“You lie,” Dane said, trying for cheek and making it to tired snark. “Skipper would jump off a bridge before he willingly walked into an IKEA again.”
“Richie wouldn’t let him jump off a bridge,” Clay said softly. “Now scoot over. We’re going to talk about how much Skip hates IKEA and the next movie we’re going to go see and what takeout we’re getting tonight. That’s the approved list. If you want to pick another topic, you need to clear it first, and I’m not feeling generous. Scoot!”
Dane hadn’t been eating. His thin frame fit easily over the console, and his dedication to yoga really showed. He belted himself obediently into the passenger’s seat and pulled his knees up to his chin again.
“If I tried that, they’d need the fire department and the jaws of life to get me out,” Clay muttered.
“Nah-nah-nah,” Dane returned. “Dumping on yourself is off the approved list.”
“Well played,” Carpenter ceded. He belted himself in and turned the engine over, checking his mirrors and making sure the wipers worked to take care of the rain that was finally being birthed by the pregnant clouds. It wasn’t until he turned around to back out that he saw that Skipper was only just now pulling away. He’d probably waited until the car had started to leave.
“What?” Dane asked fretfully, chin resting on his knees.
“Skip. Watching out for us. Good guy.”
“You should marry him,” Dane snapped, and Carpenter wasn’t surprised. Dane got nasty when he was in this much pain.
“I would, but Richie would shank me. Anyway, I’ve got my eyes set on the crazy goober with the crooked teeth who forgot to take his meds. Why is that, by the way?”
“I thought we weren’t going to talk about it!” Dane said indignantly.
“Not the meds, moron. The teeth. I mean, don’t get me wrong. They’re charming as fuck, and I think you’re totally adorable, but Mason’s teeth are practically ruler straight. I spent my middle school years locked in an iron mask so my teeth are average. Why are your teeth crooked?”
Dane let out a grunt. “Because they’re charming as fuck. Seriously!” He exclaimed at Carpenter’s snort. “No—my mom kept saying, ‘We need to get your teeth fixed, don’t we? But they’re so damned cute!’ And by that time I was getting some action, and the other guys thought so too, so I asked my dentist if there was any other reason to fix my teeth. Like, you know, Mason had to fix his because otherwise his underbite would grind away at his top teeth. Dentist said, ‘Nope, son—they’re just a little crooked in the front is all.’ So I kept them. They felt like me.”
Carpenter chuckled. “Both adorable and vain as hell. How very you.”
“I’m not vain,” Dane mumbled.
“Are too.”
“Am not.”
“Why haven’t you cut your hair?”
“’Cause the man bun looks good with the teeth. Goddammit, Carpenter!”
“And you use that super-fancy baking soda deodorant because…?”
“Because it makes my pits smell daisy fresh. You’re killing me here.”
“I’m just saying….” Carpenter eased onto the freeway, knowing that people drove like assholes in the rain, particularly when he passed Truxel. “You’re a little vain. A lot adorable. I can live with the vain because I also get the cute and the snarky. So whatever spiral of self-hatred you’re currently dealing with, know that I really do see you for who you are, and you’re fine.”
“Aurgh!” It was a sound of exasperation, but it was also a last stand. Dane leaned his head against the window after that and made small talk about how hot all the Marvel stars were and how he might even do the raccoon if he got desperate enough, and somehow, they managed to make it home.
They spent the evening doing normal.
First, Clay made him go upstairs and shower. Then he fixed a snack of whole-wheat crackers and cheese, because he was pretty sure Dane hadn’t eaten. By the time Mason got home, they were watching old Cary Grant movies on TV and reciting the lines before Cary could get to them. The empty plate was on the coffee table in front of them, which felt like the ultimate indulgence to Carpenter, and Dane was sleeping, his head in Clay’s lap.
“How is he?” Mason asked softly, checking to make sure he was really asleep.
Carpenter just shrugged and shook his head. “He called his professors so he doesn’t go in tomorrow, and has an appointment set up at the shrink’s office. I told him I’d take him. So, uh, if you could get me off work…?”
Mason didn’t even blink. “Yeah. Sure. I’ll tell Veronica I’ve co-opted you for something special. It’ll make her insane.”
Carpenter flashed him a smile. “Yes, yes it will. Maybe send Skip out to lunch or something too—I want to watch her hit on you again, because that was hysterical.”
Mason’s ears turned red. “The only woman in my entire life,” he said, sounding panicked and a little nauseated. “I don’t understand it at all.”
Against his knees, Carpenter felt Dane’s breath coming a little faster, like he was just awake enough to laugh. “I was going to wake him for dinner. Did you bring takeout?”
“I brought better,” Mason said. “Don’t worry. I’ll bring it in.” His limp was hardly noticeable, and as he made himself busy in the kitchen, Carpenter realized he’d brought groceries.
About half an hour later, an amazing aroma filled the air—one Carpenter was familiar with, but for once, it didn’t fill him with horror and self-recrimination. Shortly afterward, Mason came in with a plate for each of them, and as Carpenter urged Dane to sit up so he could eat, Clay realized what Mason had done.
“Oh God, Mace—I love it when you do this!” Dane moaned, smelling the doctored pizza. “He gets one of those big fresh-made ones from the grocery store and then adds extra pepperoni and sausage. It’s a-maz-ing!”
/> Carpenter looked at the thing on his plate—it had extra Romano and Mozzarella too—and tried not to groan.
“It looks awesome,” he said, his voice weak. In fact, it looked like the thing he’d been craving but hadn’t eaten in six months, but he didn’t want to crush Dane’s high.
“I only gave you one piece,” Mason said, putting a gentle hand on his shoulder. “And I used turkey pepperoni. Also, the salad is vinaigrette.”
Carpenter blinked and remembered the days when he’d devour a large pizza, by himself, in his apartment alone. No salad, no turkey pepperoni, no friend who’d made dinner.
“Progress, not perfection,” he said gamely. “Thank you.”
He ate his slice slowly, appreciating every bite, and really appreciating that he had friends who got it. The pizza was for Dane, and he would have dug in and pigged out, but Mason knew that wasn’t what was good for any of them.
It was a reminder—if he could keep up his calorie diary and continue to exercise, he wasn’t eliminating pizza from his diet. He was just moderating the entire package.
Dane ate two pieces and ignored the salad, but came out of his funk long enough to offer to help clean up. Carpenter was just about to wrap the pizza in plastic wrap when there was a knock at the door.
“I’ve got clothes,” Skip said, holding up Carpenter’s gym bag. “And keys.”
“Oh man, that’s great.” Carpenter pocketed the keys and ushered Skip and Richie in. “Come in, guys. Have you eaten?”
“Feed them the rest of the pizza,” Mason said, coming into the kitchen. “We owe you guys.”
“Not a problem.” Skip closed his eyes and sniffed appreciatively. “But we’ll take you up on the pizza.” He grimaced. “As long as it’s quick, because we left the dog outside in the backyard, and he starts to eat the fence when we do that.”
“You mean chew on it?” Mason asked, smiling, but Carpenter and Dane had actually seen the beast.
“Nope, I mean, he, like, eats it,” Richie said frankly. “Like kindling, because he’s the size of the fuckin’ porch.”
“But he’s only a puppy!” Mason blinked. “That’s right, isn’t it? You guys only got him what? A month ago?”
“He’s doubled in size,” Skipper muttered. “We have to buy two bags of kibble at a time and hide them in one of those locking garbage cans in the garage. We learned that the hard way.”
Dane chuckled weakly. “Do you guys run him in the evening? That dog had a lot of go.”
“Every day,” Richie confirmed. “Either we go jogging and take him with us or we throw him the stick until he passes out. It’s like I used to think Skip’s backyard was perfectly sized, but when Ponyboy gets full grown, he’ll be sailing over the fucking fence.”
“You should bring him here,” Dane said, giving his chin a nod. “We’re sitting on a couple of acres, if you count the ravine and the woods behind the patio. You could run that dog until he drops.”
“That would be a blessing,” Skipper said, after Mason nodded and seconded the offer. “Thank you.”
The guys sat down and ate the pizza and finished the salad, shooting the shit politely but not extensively. About halfway through, Dane sort of drifted into the living room and curled up in front of the television with a vacant stare, and Mason’s shoulders sagged. Carpenter felt his own expression melt, the happy social mask slipping for the moment, and it took a couple of heartbeats before he realized nobody was talking.
“Rough day?” Skipper asked, all gentleness.
“It’s going to get worse,” Mason said, and he sounded tense, like he knew.
“Let us know how we can help.” Skipper polished off his pizza, and Richie stood and took their plates to the sink. “Right now, it looks like we can help best by going. I’ll give your regards to Ronnie.”
“Just don’t let her grab your ass,” Mason said glumly. “She’ll give you anything you ask.”
Richie stared at him. “Skip, can I bring the dog to work?”
Skip rolled his eyes at Mason. “You just had to, didn’t you? Just had to bring that up.”
Mason scrubbed his face with his hand. “Sorry, Skipper,” he said repentantly. “Do you still want me at practice?”
“Sure. Wrap your ankle and we’ll have you stretch and scrimmage, as long as it’s not still raining.” He looked outside, where the rain pattered, and probably would continue to do so for the next three days. “The field’s gonna be shit. Bring your mud gear.”
Richie blew a raspberry. “Fuck that, Skipper. I’ll just sit on your ass and use you like a toboggan. Rest of the guys’ll push. It’ll be great. And whatserface won’t be grabbing it.”
Skip crossed his eyes at Mason. “Now do you see what you’ve started? Come on, Richie, let me explain to you why Veronica Haynes is just lonely and not really a threat to our happiness, okay?”
Richie shook his head, but he followed Skipper out. “Skip, some guy could be on his knees with your dick in his mouth, and you’d be telling me that he didn’t really have evil intentions; he was just pining for his girlfriend. Then you’d put your dick in your pants and buy the guy a beer and send him on his way. And the whole scene could have been totally avoided if you’d just let me kill him from the get-go, you understand?”
Skip broke into a cackle of totally delighted laughter. “You’re all talk. As long as I’m putting my dick back in my pants, you totally wouldn’t kill a soul!”
Richie sent them a dark look over his shoulder and put his hand in the small of Skip’s back. “You just keep believing that, Skipper. That’s fine with me. Night, guys!”
Skipper turned his beaming, besotted smile back over his shoulder and called his goodbyes as Richie shut the door behind them.
As soon as the door closed, Carpenter and Mason met horrified gazes.
“He would so totally kill someone who moved on Skip,” Carpenter said, with no irony whatsoever.
“And then he’d use the body as mulch,” Mason confirmed. “We really have to get a handle on your guys’ supervisor. That’s a disaster waiting to happen.”
The phrase fell between them, and they both turned worried eyes to where Dane sat, staring sightlessly at the television.
“You’ll stay with him tonight?” Mason asked. “I mean, you don’t have to, but he’s got a king-sized, and you guys don’t seem to worry about boundaries and—”
Carpenter held up a hand before Mason’s awkward mouth could get him in any deeper. “Yeah. That’s fine. I told Dane I’d take him to his shrink appointment tomorrow. I meant it.”
Mason closed his eyes. “It’s going to get bad,” he said frankly. “I counted his pill calendar. He’s missing about six days. He’s going to say all sorts of super-ugly shit he doesn’t mean, and then he’s going to hate himself for it later. I just… don’t want you to hate him for what’s going to happen over the next two weeks, okay?”
It was a classic bipolar spiral—the pills didn’t feel like they were working, the patient resented taking them, so the patient didn’t take them. So they didn’t work. This was going to take all of them to fix.
Carpenter swallowed. It was Dane. Seriously. How bad could it get?
Lost Spring
“SO HELP me, Clay, I will beat the shit out of you if you don’t get your sorry whiny ass out of my room!” Dane snarled. He heard the words from far away, like an animal screaming in pain. In his heart, he was sobbing, “Why won’t you love me!” but his mouth? It was a rabid shrew trying to draw blood.
“Please do,” Carpenter said shortly. “Please do beat the shit out of me. Take a swing. I’m looking forward to it. We can both swing away, and then I’ll sit on you, tie your wrists, and make you bathe. It’ll be exercise. I mean, I’ve been making it to the games and practices and shit, but you haven’t left your room in a week. Cardio, man, it’ll be great! That’ll burn the fat off!”
“You’re not fat!” Dane sobbed. Oh, he wasn’t. He wasn’t. He was magnificent. He was massive and
furry and warm. He’d slept in Dane’s bed for the past couple of… days? Was it a week? Was it two? Just so he’d have someone. Someone to help Mason get him up in the morning. Someone to wheedle him into taking his pills. Someone to get him to do his homework, or to talk to his professors about why he wasn’t going in. He should have been flunking out—he knew it. But Mason had gotten on the phone and woven Mason magic about mental illness. Thanks to Dane’s big brother, that illusive hobgoblin—hope—was still being used as a flog to get Dane the fuck out of bed and to his shrink’s appointment and to the occasional class.
And Carpenter, who was his… companion? Was that what they were? The guy he’d known barely six months was now lodged solidly in Dane’s life, taking no shit and giving no quarter and generally not giving up on Dane when Dane would have crawled into a corner long ago and willed himself to die.
“I’m not fat?” Clay was saying now, the bitterness like a slap to the face. “Oh, you think I’m not fat? That’s fucking rich. Someone finally finds me attractive and he’s actively working to be crazy. Thanks a fucking lot for that compliment, Dane Hayes. You want to convince me that I’m not fat, work for me, you fucking asshole! Get out of fucking bed, shower, get dressed, and let’s go see your shrink so he knows for real that your meds aren’t working!”
“How’s he supposed to know that?” Dane practically wept. “What are we supposed to do to convince him?”
“Take them!” Clay practically laughed. “Man, this is the seventh day in a row, and look at you. If you’re this bad after taking your meds for a week, something is wrong!”
Dane sucked in a breath. “I’ve taken them for a week?” he said, feeling wobbly with hope. “Really?”
“Yes,” Clay said, his voice suspiciously rough. “Yes, Dane. We’ve been doing this for a week. And it hasn’t been a picnic, but today’s our payoff day. Today’s the day you, me, and Mason go in and show them all our paperwork and how the meds aren’t fucking working and see if they can get you something else.”
