Take a Chance on It

by K.A. Mitchell

  Gideon still hadn’t come home from work when Dane started to get hungry, but there was a huge folder of takeout menus next to the fridge. He settled on Vietnamese and ordered beef pho for Gideon, which he’d seen him eat a dozen times.

  By nine, what was left of Dane’s chicken pho was resting in the container next to the one of beef pho, and he was feeling like a cranky housewife. If he were home…. But no, there really wasn’t anything he wanted from there—except his car. Gideon was working on getting him a parking space, but Dane didn’t see himself tooling around Lower Manhattan for fun.

  He needed to adjust to a new routine. Except routine was a word he hated, almost as much as the taste of the tea he’d forced himself to drink. He didn’t know if it was helping with his immune system or his nausea, but he didn’t want to stop and find out.

  He was falling asleep in the recliner out of sheer boredom when Gideon came in, shot one look at Dane, and then grabbed a glass and a bottle of Crown Royal out of a cabinet and carried it all over to his desk.

  It was really comfortable in the recliner, but Dane was just bored and miserable enough to get up and chase Gideon to the other side of the loft.

  Gideon splashed some whiskey into his glass and stared down at his phone. As Dane came up behind him, he saw the phone was open to an image. Gideon’s sister Rebekah with a beer bottle held to her mouth as she flipped off the person taking the picture.

  “Is Bek okay?”

  Gideon picked up the glass and brought it to his lips, but didn’t drink before setting it down again. “As far as I know.”

  Rebekah still lived in the Bronx. The last Gideon had talked about her was two Januaries ago when she’d been arrested for DUI, her second. Gideon had paid her fines and kept her out of jail, but she’d lost her license for a year.

  Gideon turned the bottle around on his desk so the label faced away from him.

  Dane put his hands on either side of Gideon’s neck. It was like touching an iron bar. He tried to massage some of the tension out. “Do you work until ten every Friday?”

  Gideon drained half the glass and then leaned back in his chair to stare upside down at Dane. “Less than seventy-two hours to turn into a wife. Impressive.”

  “It’s just a question, Gideon. I don’t give a shit if you’re off fucking all of the Lower West Side.” Dane let go of Gideon’s shoulders.

  “Of course not.” Gideon finished his whiskey and poured himself another, this time filling the highball glass by half. “You told me you and Spencer didn’t check in unless there was a need to know.”

  “Then I guess I need to know.”

  “Bored already.”

  It wasn’t a question, but Dane answered it. “Yes.”

  “How tragic for you.”

  This. This was exactly why they did best with their friendship and their sex in small, controlled doses. Gideon fought dirty when he felt cornered, and Dane had never wanted to corner him at all.

  “This whole goddamned thing was your idea, Gideon. It’s not my fucking fault if you don’t like it. Screw it. I’m going up to Theo’s.” Dane stepped away.

  Gideon slammed his glass down with so much force Dane was surprised it didn’t crack.

  “And tonight was your goddamned idea. You want to know where I was? Keeping my fucking promise.”

  The picture of Bek, Crown Royal, disproportionate anger, Dane’s idea. The facts lined up: the ACOA meeting. “Oh. You went to a meeting. Fun time, was it?”

  “A blast.”

  Dane went over and scooped up the glass. Gideon eyed him with suspicion, but Dane only took a swallow and put the glass back down.

  He coughed. “Shit.”

  “Stick to rum.” Gideon picked up the glass. “Or your tea.”

  “I’ve got a better idea.”

  Gideon arched his brows.

  “Let’s fuck.”

  Chapter 12

  GIDEON HAD never understood the expression “be careful what you wish for.” So far, life hadn’t been handing him lollipops and rainbows. But he sure as hell got it now.

  Dane in Gideon’s bed every night. In his loft every day. In his life.

  Just one problem. It came with a use-by date, and what it took to get here might cost Dane his life.

  What a fucking dream come true.

  Gideon came home the night before Dane’s next chemo appointment to find him taking over Gideon’s desk. Dane’s laptop sat among printouts and a big graphing notebook with pencil sketches on it.

  Deciding to tackle Dane’s creative explosion on a full stomach, Gideon opened the fridge. Greek tonight. He recognized the containers from Acropolis West.

  As he lifted a lid to discover moussaka and dolmati, he studied a foot-high container filled with a murky liquid. It could be soup, or some kind of water sample, if Dane had managed to get himself down to the riverbank. Maybe he was planning on turning the loft into a lab.

  “What’s this crap in the fridge?” He straightened and looked over the door at Dane.

  “Dinner.” From the amusement in Dane’s tone, he knew damned well what Gideon was asking about.

  “Besides the Greek food.”

  “Oh that. It’s the Jewish version of my herbal tea.”

  “Huh?” Gideon hauled his selection out and put it on the counter while he grabbed a fork.

  “Chicken soup. Kieran brought it.”

  “Kieran?” Gideon wouldn’t have guessed Kieran cooked, let alone would haul food down to Chelsea.

  “His mom made it for me. Came in a cooler.” Dane chuckled. “I think Kieran was just as surprised to find himself on delivery duty as I was to get it. Smells amazing.”

  Gideon stabbed a stuffed grape leaf. “And what’s all that?” He waved his laden fork in the direction of the desk.

  “An idea I had.”

  Lured by the excitement in Dane’s voice, the genuine happiness that had been too rare since his cancer diagnosis, Gideon carried his dinner over to the desk.

  After studying one of the sketches of lines and angles, he asked, “Are you taking up architecture?”

  “No, but I’m regretting I didn’t spend some time in engineering courses.” Dane held up a paper protractor he must have printed off the Internet.

  Gideon shrugged. “Well, why stop at two master’s degrees. I’m sure some university would be happy to add to your debt.”

  “Our debt?” Dane winked.

  Before Gideon could explain again how community property worked in New York, Dane launched a description of his idea for a wetlands observation walkway with cantilevered piers to reduce environmental impact caused by the erosion around supports. His hands gestured, his pencil stabbed at the paper, but it was his eyes Gideon couldn’t stop watching, the glitter in them, the pure joy radiating from Dane’s face.

  Dane stopped. “What’s that look for?”

  Gideon stuffed the whole dolmati in his mouth. If he’d succumbed to his feelings so much that dopey adoration was showing up on his face, he was beyond screwed.

  After buying time chewing and swallowing, Gideon said, “It sounds great.”

  “But?”

  “No buts.”

  Dane sagged a little. “I know every week isn’t going to be this good, but at least I’ll have something to keep me occupied besides watching the Game Show Network. And don’t you dare give me attitude when you’re the one who had it as a favorite channel.”

  “What can I say? I’m addicted to Family Feud.” Gideon realized he was smiling, completely without giving his face permission to do that.

  Oh shit. He’d been afraid he’d give himself away with an admission during sex. But that could be explained away in the heat of the moment. Getting lulled into this quiet, happy domesticity was definitely not part of the plan.

  DANE HUDDLED against the heated seat in Gideon’s BMW. Despite the vents blasting and Gideon’s leather jacket thrown on top, Dane was shivering. Poison pulsed through his bloodstream, cold and metallic. He pictured
it like sluggish mercury, shining and deadly. He couldn’t smell the leather of Gideon’s jacket, though it was right under his nose, but Dane could taste the drugs in the back of his throat, a sickening combination of rust, bile, and hand sanitizer.

  Dane was willing to accept responsibility for the bile part of the taste. Despite Gideon making every effort to accelerate and decelerate slowly, despite the superior shock absorbers in the luxury car, Dane was battling the need to throw up every bit of food he’d eaten in his life.

  He was both pathetically grateful and irritated at the same time at the relief that he only had to suffer through the twenty-five-minute drive down to Gideon’s loft instead of the two-hour ride back out to Queens.

  “Need me to stop?” Gideon glanced over.

  Dane unclenched his teeth long enough to snap, “Your upholstery is safe if you don’t make me talk.”

  Gideon was silent for a moment, then tapped the screen in the dash. The sound of waves crashing against the shore filled the car, filtering out most of the city noise. Gideon’s usual choice of music ran to hard rock, so this quiet consideration was strangely comforting and left Dane blinking hard.

  He had cancer. He was allowed to accept help and have people do shit for him like play his favorite sound in the car to make him feel better even if he hadn’t asked for it. The problem was Dane wasn’t used to it coming from Gideon, who Dane swore despised weakness in anyone. But Gideon’s matter-of-fact care was the only kind that didn’t make Dane feel shittier for accepting it.

  The ride in the elevator finished him off.

  Dane sprinted for the bathroom, but made it barely halfway in. The remnants of his tea and toast splattered between the tile and hardwood floors. He clapped a hand over his mouth, and at the next convulsion from his muscles, he aimed for and got it in the toilet bowl.

  His sense of smell was fucked, yeah, but not taste. Even that disgusting tea tasted better. This wasn’t just sick on his tongue, it was sick with that rusty hand sanitizer aftertaste, something bitter like soap on top of the sour. That first round, in late summer, he’d only thrown up once. Now—his stomach clenched again—he didn’t think he’d ever stop.

  Puke. Taste. Repeat.

  “Dane?” Gideon must have sprinted back from leaving his car in the garage because it couldn’t have been more than five minutes since he’d left Dane in the elevator to go park.

  Dane tried to tear his hands off their death grip on the gray porcelain rim. But he couldn’t, any more than he could stop the sweat from his pores, the shudder of his muscles, or the snot from his nose.

  When Gideon rested a hand on his back, Dane realized his shirt was soaked. The footsteps retreated, and after the next spasm passed and his choking eased, he heard Gideon’s voice on the phone, the conversation indistinct.

  Dane was able to manage about ten breaths in between a bout of dry heaves now. He still couldn’t hear exactly what Gideon was saying, but his tone changed and became less business like, more personable, at least for Gideon.

  At last his steps moved him back toward the bathroom, but he didn’t speak. Dane cautiously turned his head. Gideon was kneeling, mopping up the vomit with a kitchen towel, following that up with some disinfectant wipes. For the first time, Dane was glad he couldn’t smell properly. He had a feeling the hospital-style scent would set him off for more puking. After Gideon had finished on the floor, Dane sank down, still gripping the bowl.

  It wouldn’t be the first time he’d slept on a bathroom floor, but this would be the first time he hadn’t had one hell of a good time leading up to it.

  Gideon sat next to him.

  Dane figured at least five minutes had gone by since his last round of dry heaves. He risked talking. “So much for that antinausea pill this time.”

  “I called. They’ll give you an injection next time if you want it. Or they can try a stronger pill.”

  Gideon stood and ran the water for a minute. When he sat back down, he offered Dane his toothbrush.

  “Trying to say something, DeLuca?”

  “Archer,” Gideon corrected. “And no. But according to Mama J, sucking on a damp washcloth or toothbrush seemed to help you as a kid.”

  Dane had to swallow, and it wasn’t only bile in his throat. Even he wouldn’t have thought of that. Maybe Gideon wasn’t all focus and practicality.

  Dane wiped his snotty face on his sleeve. “Yeah, my oral fixation started young.”

  “What about anal?”

  “Maybe later if you’re lucky.” Dane scraped some of the acidic film off his tongue and teeth, but when he started to stand in order to rinse the brush off, Gideon put a hand on his shoulder.

  “I’ve got it.”

  A couple rounds of scrubs and rinses and then Dane simply held the toothbrush in his mouth. After a moment, he sucked the traces of water from it, into his burning throat. It did feel better. He remembered it, remembered the comfort of it, getting back control over his body.

  “I look totally hot sucking on this, don’t I?” A little self-mockery was always in order when things were stressful.

  “You always do.” Gideon didn’t sound like he was kidding, though his eyes weren’t on Dane’s lips. “Okay. I think it’s time for you to go to bed. I’ve got a bowl out for you if you need it.”

  “No.”

  Gideon’s brows arched. “Would you care to elaborate?”

  Dane laughed and then cut it off, in fear that it would start him on a fresh bout of dry heaves.

  “Share with the class, please,” Gideon said.

  “Next time you call Mama J, ask her about me saying no. Mama T would always say, ‘Reconsider and rephrase that, sweetheart.’”

  “And?”

  “I don’t care to go to bed now, thank you.” Another burst of comforting familiarity. Well, Gideon—and Theo and Jax—they were family. Closer.

  When Dane was reasonably sure he wouldn’t ruin the recliner with another eruption, he tottered to it and let Gideon put a deliciously soft, cream-colored throw over him and settle a large metal bowl on his lap. Just in case.

  Dane drifted off. He came out of his doze to hear Theo, a mild—for Theo—complaint in his tone as he said, “It would be much better for my blood pressure if you could get him a prescription.”

  “I’ll work on it,” Gideon said. “You’re the one with the adolescent husband.”

  “Fuck you.” Then Theo added with amusement, “He’s far too nerdy to be any use with this.”

  Dane kept his eyes closed. He wasn’t faking, exactly. He really did feel as if he was a breath away from sleep. And Theo took a lot of energy.

  Steps vibrated closer.

  “Gamoto.” Theo sucked in a breath after his Greek curse. “He looks like death.”

  “Thank you.” Gideon’s voice was hard. “A little louder. Maybe he didn’t hear you.”

  “Sorry.” Theo walked away. “Damn. All right. If you need more, I’ll get it.”

  “Thanks.”

  “When he wakes up, tell him we love him.”

  The loft door closed.

  Gideon came back in and sat on the couch.

  Dane cracked an eyelid. “Don’t you have to go back to work or do work or something?”

  “I have Thursdays and Fridays off for the foreseeable future. I’ll work remotely if anything urgent comes up. And I knew you were awake.”

  “I’m sure he’s right.” Dane didn’t want to go near any kind of reflective surface. “I feel like death.”

  “Minus the hood and scythe? Black isn’t really your color.”

  “You don’t have to….” Dane dug around for the words. Gideon was taking care of Dane’s body. As for Dane’s mental health—well, that was his problem. “Playing court jester doesn’t suit you,” he finished. Any more than sentimentality and softness.

  “You want me to call Jax instead?”

  “No. I think… I think I’ll just go to bed.” He knew what else he wanted, but asking wasn’t easy. The basics o
f life—sex, shelter, food—and chemo, that Gideon was providing. Dane might be pushing it to ask for more. He struggled out from under the blanket. “If you’re not working, would you—I know I must reek—but….”

  Gideon held out a hand. “Such a smooth talker. C’mon.”

  Chapter 13

  HOLDING DANE while he fell asleep was one thing, but lying there watching him breathe was a bit over the top. Gideon eased away from Dane’s back, putting a pillow in as a replacement and tucking the blanket down to keep him warm.

  After an exorbitantly expensive grocery delivery, he started making the rice pudding—no raisins, extra cinnamon—recipe Mama J had e-mailed him with the subject line: Dane’s favorite food in the world.

  It was baked, not made on the stovetop, so it took almost two hours to set. In the meantime, he strained some of the broth from the soup Kieran’s mom had made and had that ready to microwave when Dane woke up.

  He hadn’t eaten much the night before and was coming up on a twenty-four-hour fast.

  Dane staggered around the bedroom partition just as Gideon put the baking dish on the counter. Maybe the smell was making him hungry.

  “What’s that?”

  “Rice pudding.”

  Dane stared at the dish, throat working, and then wheeled sharply toward the bathroom.

  The door shut, and Gideon waited for the retching sounds. Nothing. Then the shower started. He stood outside the door, discarding a question about Dane’s ability to stand on his own through a shower.

  Opening the door, he adopted a leer. “If you need anything special washed—”

  “No thanks right now.” Dane’s voice was hoarse.

  There was nothing he could do but stand outside the door and hope Dane didn’t pass out.

  Gideon retreated to the kitchen after he heard the water cut off.

  Dane found the sweats Gideon had left on the recliner and put them on without comment. He approached the counter again and took a deep breath.