Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 82173 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 411(@200wpm)___ 329(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82173 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 411(@200wpm)___ 329(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
What Isaiah had for Ben was what Dylan had for Apollo eight years ago—a healthy dose of hero worship mingled with physical attraction and a lot of wishful thinking and idealization of what could be in some fantasy land. Back then, Dylan hadn’t really seen Apollo for who he really was—all he’d seen was the mythical perfect guy for his fantasies. He hadn’t known that Apollo struggled with imagination but could handle logistics and order like no one else, hadn’t known that he had a temper but also a gentle soul that belied his often-stony exterior, hadn’t known that Apollo preferred red meat to chicken or that he’d probably still be cutting up his girls’ food when they were fifteen. He hadn’t really seen Apollo the summer of his first crush.
But now he had, and all he wanted was for Apollo to see him with the same clarity. Apollo the man was infinitely more complex and interesting than Apollo the fantasy, and he wanted a chance to get to know even more, see beyond the concrete walls Apollo used to keep the world from getting too close. He’d had flashes of Apollo’s tender heart—the affection in his gaze after sex, the sparkle in his eyes when he let himself really laugh at one of Dylan’s stories about camp, his vulnerability when in pain and his gradual willingness to let Dylan help. And that was what Dylan wanted too—to help. To be a partner with Apollo, a real equal. To be there for the bad days as much as the good, to see Apollo at his worst so he could appreciate the best that much more. That wasn’t a crush.
It was something that could be more, could be love if Apollo would let it. And this waiting absolutely sucked, knowing that Apollo might never accept more than friendship from him, might never be willing to move beyond his grief. And sure, Dylan probably could have used the sex to keep Apollo going with a secret fling, but he wanted more. All summer he’d been okay with knowing that he’d always firmly be Apollo’s second choice, if that, but something had changed in him these past few weeks. It wasn’t fair to either of them to settle for secret liaisons and second-place ribbons.
No, Dylan wanted everything. He deserved that, but more importantly, so did Apollo. And now came the hard part: waiting to see if Apollo could see that too. And to try not to get too angry about how long it was taking Apollo. He’d promised Apollo that he’d give him time, but damn, it was harder and harder with each passing day to keep a level head, to not want to punch his new bed in this new room that wasn’t the room he really wanted. Why couldn’t Apollo see what Dylan knew all the way to his bones? Doubt, the kryptonite to Dylan’s usual optimism, made it hard to keep up the pretense of everything being okay.
* * *
“Baba? You awake?” Chloe climbed onto Apollo’s bed.
“I am now.” Apollo stretched. The sun was up at least, so he was thankful for small mercies on his first real day off in weeks. He’d dreamed about Dylan again. More of the weird dreams where he’d start out with Neal in some bizarre scenario, then Dylan would be there and he’d wake up, not sure he’d ever really slept. And no more sure what to do about the conundrum that was Dylan than he’d been the day before.
“You’re in this bed.” Chloe’s nose wrinkled. “I like you better in the other one.”
Apollo didn’t blush, even for over-observant children, but he still felt his skin heat. He had been sleeping in the guest bedroom a bit much, which was why he’d forced himself to sleep in the master bedroom last night. Besides, his mother had changed the bedding in the guest room the other day, one more step away from it being Dylan’s room, from him deluding himself that he could still smell Dylan on the blankets.
“This room is...” He trailed off as he looked around, really looked. Gray and somber, even in the early morning light, what had once seemed classy now felt like a tomb. A shrine. He remembered Dylan’s words from a few weeks ago, and they slapped against his skull now, reverberating like a grenade. “...it’s okay,” he finished weakly, trying to sort through the wreckage in his brain.
Now that he’d seen it, he couldn’t unsee it—the room had felt claustrophobic for months now, but now it seemed like a heavy coat in the middle of summer, a weight he simply couldn’t bear any longer.
“Sweetie, how would you feel about an outing?”
“Where are we going?”
Apollo got out of bed, testing his back. Yeah, he could do this. He was ready. “Paint. We’re going paint shopping.”