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Raphael: Come by the salon tomorrow at four.
Dmitri: Why?
Raphael: Why are you up?
Dmitri: You texted me. Why are you bitching at me?
Raphael: Four. Now go to bed.
Dmitri: Rude. Good night.
Raphael held the phone close to him, closed his eyes, and tried not to dream of a world where things were different, and he wasn’t denied at every turn.
* * *
Raphael had stopped worryingabout Jayden’s opinion somewhere around the third month of his tentative friendship with Dmitri. Jayden seemed more thrilled about it than worried and had used the opportunity to engage in a more thrilling social life now that someone else was looking out for his nephew.
Raphael found the whole thing to be a little patronizing, but it meant that Dmitri felt a little bit of that freedom for himself, without abandonment, and it was hard for Raphael to judge too harshly. Dmitri was young and bright and beautiful. But he was also complicated and terrified of himself, and Raphael knew he deserved someone far better than an aging man who didn’t quite know how to love hard enough to make people stay.
Friendships were safer—and it didn’t mean they hurt less when they left or crumbled, but there were pieces of his heart protected from shattering that way, and he could stop his self-preservation. There were times, though, when Dmitri made him nervous. Like right then, as he prepared the massage table and hoped that his legs would cooperate long enough to make this good.
Dmitri balked at every suggestion of self-care or indulgence, but Raphael hoped that this one single day, he’d give in and not put up a fight. He tested out his oils before selecting a citrus blend because Dmitri loved the scent of fresh oranges, and he knew his skin was sensitive so he prepared a handful of creams that wouldn’t aggravate his skin.
The table warmer was on, and the sheets were fresh with hints of lavender, and he hoped it would be enough. It would take most of his energy to convince Dmitri to lay down and accept just a little bit of spoiling. He was more than happy to eat crappy take-out and let his back seize up on the hood of a car as they watched the turn of the earth, but he wanted this for him too.
Raphael pretended like he wasn’t watching the clock, and as it ticked over to five past, he started to feel irritated. Dmitri was chronically early, so he was either avoiding him or something was wrong, and Raphael tended to react to all emotional situations with something like anger. He was contemplating tea just to give himself something to do when the door opened, and Dmitri walked in a little flush in the cheeks and an apology in his eyes.
“I was on the phone with Roman,” he said, as though that explained anything. Dmitri dropped his bag and umbrella against the side of the desk like he had not a care in the world, and it warmed Raphael slightly to see him comfortable in a space where he’d only been hesitant before. “Is my uncle here?”
Raphael shook his head. “His last appointment is over, and he said you were refusing yet another birthday dinner with him, so he was going to go out.”
Dmitri’s mouth quirked up in a half grin. “I have a tradition to keep.”
“Can I hope it doesn’t involve judgmental pretty boy tourists hanging out by the lake trying to pick up on locals?”
At that, Dmitri actually laughed as he leaned against the desk. “I was hoping it would mean grumpy Germans who won’t eat the Chinese food I pick out for him.”
Raphael swore he would combust from the inside out, but he held it back and instead pushed himself to his feet. “Are you ready for your gift?”
“I was counting on a Twinkie,” Dmitri argued as he followed Raphael, measuring his pace as he’d naturally started to do over the last year. “Do I not get a Twinkie?”
Raphael snorted as he pulled back the sliding door and gestured for Dmitri to go in. As predicted, he didn’t move. “Are we going to have a fight about this?”
“We never fight,” Dmitri lied, and he still didn’t move. “What is this?”
“My gift to you. I told you how I learned from that masseur in Örebro, so for your birthday, I want you to reap the rewards of all my hard work. Otherwise, it’ll go wasted.”
“You play dirty,” Dmitri accused.
Raphael grinned. “I never claimed otherwise.”
Dmitri scoffed and pushed past him, standing at the foot of the massage table with his arms crossed. “I hate you.”
“You don’t,” Raphael countered cheerfully. He leaned against the door with one hand, and his crutch with the other. “I’ll give you a few moments to undress and climb under the sheets. It’s not full body, so no frisky ideas.” He stopped when he saw something flash in Dmitri’s eyes, but it was gone before he could examine it. After a breath, he took a step forward. “I’m not trying to break tradition. I just want to give you something with more thought than gas station sweets.”
Dmitri’s face softened, and there was a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips again. “Fine. But for the record, I like the gas station sweets when they come from you.”
Raphael’s heart thrashed against his ribs, and he took the gift of Dmitri’s concession for what it was, backing out of the room. His crutches sounded too loud as they clanked over the soft harp music, but that faded away as he slid the door shut, then pressed his forehead to the wood. This was torture in the kindest way. He wanted to allow himself to take what Dmitri would give—but no more than this.
