Page 61 of Keep

“Whatever.”

Hank chuckled—a startled sound, the kind that escaped before he could catch it. He was, he realized, happy. Not the careful, qualified version he’d been practicing for weeks. The real thing. Unguarded.

Rain against the windows. Chad reading. The painting on the wall.

“Thank you,” he said.

Chad looked at him over the book. “For what?”

Hank didn’t have an answer that wouldn’t sound like a speech. So he just shook his head and went back to his briefing materials, and they sat there in the gray afternoon light, not talking—not needing to.

Outside, the rain fell. October was settling in. Three days until the concert. Thirty days until the election.

Hank turned a page he hadn’t read and let himself, for once, not count.

CHAPTER 10

The Pad Thai was getting cold, and Chad didn’t care.

They were on Hank’s couch—takeout containers on the coffee table, Hank working his chopsticks with the concentration of a man who hadn’t grown up using them. Some Debussy thing drifting from the Google Home in the kitchen. Thursday night. Three weeks of this, and Chad still hadn’t figured out how Hank’s apartment didn’t acknowledge any music composed after 1920.

He let his eyes drift while Hank ate. The apartment was the same as always—tidy, quiet, sparse. Except for First Kiss on the wall across from the couch. Still the only piece of art in the place, surrounded by all that empty space. The blues and greens looked good there. Better than good. Like the room had been waiting for it.

“You’re staring at me,” Hank said, not looking up from his noodles.

“Admiring. Different thing.”

“Is it?”

“Staring implies a lack of intent. Admiring implies artistic appreciation.” Chad gestured with a chopstick. “You have good bone structure. Not my fault.”

“I’m eating noodles out of a cardboard box.”

“Beautifully, though.”

Hank gave him a look and went back to his Pad Thai.

Chad set his container aside and shifted closer. Three weeks. The Botanic Garden, a handful of dinners, the studio once. And tomorrow—the Kennedy Center. Tchaikovsky. A private balcony. The closest thing to a real date they’d managed since the rules went into effect, which, twenty days in, were becoming more of a suggestion than a policy.

“I’ve been thinking about tomorrow night,” Chad said.

“The concert.”

“The concert.” He found Hank’s free hand and laced their fingers together. Hank set his chopsticks down.

“I’ve been thinking about it too.” Hank turned toward him. “I’ve been to dozens of concerts there. Always by myself. I used to sit in those seats and wonder what it would be like to—” He stopped. “Well. Tomorrow I won’t be by myself.”

“No.”

Hank squeezed his hand. Then looked at their joined fingers like they were something he was still getting used to seeing.

Chad kissed him. Soft, then less soft. Peanut sauce and Hank. The scratch of his beard. The small sound Hank made when Chad shifted closer, pressing him back into the cushions.

“Food’s going to get cold,” Hank said against his mouth.

“Already cold.”

“Fair.”