Upstairs, finally, alone. By the time
their door closes on the rest of the world, Ryan’s settled into a
deep funk, hands in his lap, gaze glued to some spot on the floor.
When Dante asks him something, anything, Ryan just grunts in
reply. “Do you want to lie down?” Eh. “Do you want to watch
tv maybe?” A barely perceptible shrug. “Baby, talk to me!”
Nothing.
Frustrated, Dante sits on the bed and stares
at Ryan, willing his boyfriend to look back. He doesn’t—the floor’s
so much more interesting right now, and Dante would give anything
to know what thoughts are whirling behind those stormy eyes.
Looking around the room, Dante tries to find something that will
get Ryan’s attention. He’s dwelling on Dietrich, has to be, it’s in
the angry clench of his jaw, the way his hands bunch i
