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1
ALEK
Musical notes fluttered like fireflies in the dark parlor room. Alek sat at the piano, all ten fingers gliding over the keys, his gaze fixed on the window. Sound tangled with color and emotion. Fear was the color ochre, viridian love, chartreuse shame.
The sun disappeared behind the tree line and shadows clawed at the Gothic Victorian mansion. Ian would be home soon. Ian’s favorite meal—eggplant parmesan—was in the oven. The casserole dish just fit on the rack beside the strawberry galette. The table was set, the wine poured.
Ordinarily, Alek would be waiting by the door. Ian joked that coming home to Alek was like being greeted by a 1950s housewife. Alek disagreed. He didn’t need a medicine cabinet full of barbiturates and methamphetamines to marshal the courage to suck Ian’s dick after handing him an aperitif. He was more than willing.
Besides, they weren’t even married yet, though Alek had plans to remedy that. Tonight. Alek was going to propose, and when Ian said yes, Alek would feed him, and fuck him, all in time for the galette to come out of the oven.
Until then, he would play the piano, because if he was left alone with his thoughts—the thoughts that saidNo one will ever love youandIan will leave, like everyone elseandYou don’t deserve him—he’d never have the courage to ask.
He pushed the thoughts away, sending them through his fingers as he hammered the keys in a violent staccato, transforming his fear and doubt into music, like alchemy, until he felt nothing.
“Is that a new song?” Ian asked.
Alek’s pulse stuttered, but his fingers didn’t stumble as he finished the last few notes that remained. The scent of cedar and salt—Ian’s signature scent—wrapped around Alek like a security blanket and behind closed eyes, his synesthesia built the image of a forest in summer when sunlight baked the trees and turned shadows sepia. It had been that way since the night they first met.
“It’s beautiful,” Ian murmured against Alek’s neck, his dark stubble scratching Alek’s skin like a match.
Alek turned and met Ian’s lips, tangling their tongues, tasting the moments they’d been parted. The piano strings were still, not a single note reverberated, but Alek’s music carried on seamlessly inside his head, playing an underscore to their kiss. Alek straddled the bench and pulled Ian down by the collar of his tee until he was on his knees.
“I missed you.” Alek brushed the sawdust from Ian’s umber hair.
“Likewise, love.”
“How was your day?”
“The Queen Anne’s almost finished. The Craftsman is down to the studs.”
He and Ian restored historic homes. Alek oversaw interior design and sourced antique materials, while Ian threwsledgehammers against brick walls, carried loads of lumber over his shoulder, and did other hot construction things.
Ian’s dark eyes narrowed. “You hate small talk. What are you plotting?”
Alek splayed his hand against his chest. “Me? Plotting? I have no idea what you mean.”
He should ask Ian now. The more time that passed without music, the more his doubts crowded. He reached into his pocket, his fingertips grazing the soft velvet box… No. Not yet.
“Come on.” Alek pulled Ian to his feet. “I’m sure you’re hungry.”
The kitchen was a 1970s nightmare with cheap cantaloupe-colored cabinets and laminate counters that peeled at the corners. They were renovating the Victorian one room at a time, and the kitchen would likely be last, given the expense and the fact that while ugly, it was functional.
Alek sat across from Ian at a narrow drop-leaf Georgian table. The tabletop was made of solid mahogany scuffed with the patina of two hundred years worth of history. Alek had told Ian he’d found it at a garage sale.
Ian’s fork scraped against his plate. He took a swig of wine and twisted the bottle to read the label. “Single Berry Select?” His brows raised. “Sounds expensive. Are we celebrating something?”
“Celebrating? No. I just thought it would pair well with the red sauce.”
“Hm,” Ian grunted and nudged the bottle back to the center of the table.
An entire sentence of disapproval was wedged inside Ian’s one-word response. They couldn’t afford an expensive bottle of wine. They couldn’t, but Alek could.
Their relationship was a house of cards built on lies. Reveal one truth and the whole thing would collapse.
“You’re not eating,” Ian said.
“I’m not hungry.”
