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“What did you do to him?” Victor demanded.
Emil flinched, hating that Victor needed to ask that question. And more hating that it was a fair one. “I don’t think I did anything,” he answered. His voice was barely a whisper. “I really, really liked him.”
When he was brave enough to look again, he saw Victor’s face full of pity. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have assumed.”
Emil quickly waved him off. “Trust me, I deserve it. But no. I, uh…I realized he was Oliver’s coworker, and he realized who I was.”
“Oh. Emil,” Victor said very quietly.
Emil shrugged. “It’s fine. I assume he knows about me. The way he looked at me…” His voice cracked, and he cleared his throat. “Oliver’s probably told him what a piece of shit I am.”
Victor glanced to his right, and it was no surprise a second later when Oliver’s face appeared. “I have never in my life called you a piece of shit, honey,” Oliver said. “And if we’re being honest, I don’t remember if I ever talked to Renzo about you specifically. I’ve told him a little bit about Victor’s past and mine. He knows how we met and what I used to do. But I wouldn’t do that to you.”
Emil’s chest ached. He wasn’t sure how he came close to deserving that from Oliver. From either of them. “Just…the look on his face…”
“Are you sure you didn’t imagine it?” Oliver pressed.
Emil frowned. “Yeah. I’m not delusional.”
“I’m not saying you are. But you’re talking to someone who knows exactly what the mind can do when it’s convinced that things are going to go badly.” Oliver smiled, and Emil knew that somewhere off the camera view, Victor was touching him sweetly, intimately—in ways that Emil wished someone would touch him.
“He just looked so…disappointed,” Emil said.
But even as he spoke the words, he wondered if maybe that wasn’t true at all. Maybe Oliver was right. The moment he connected the dots, he’d panicked because anyone who knew about the person he’d been before he torched his life couldn’t possibly think he was worthy of a chance to be a better man.
“Okay, so I’m going to guess that instead of talking this out, you just left,” Victor said, a tiny smile playing at his lips.
Emil gave him a flat look. “I must be so transparent.”
“Only because I’ve known you since we were young,” Victor told him with soft eyes. “I know what scares you, Emil. And I know what happens when you get like that.”
Emil rubbed at his face again. “So what? I just call him and say, ‘Sorry for being a delusional moron, but I assumed you hated me because I was a garbage friend to someone you care about’?”
Oliver let out a coughing laugh. “Or, you could call him and say that you panicked because the situation is complicated but that you’d like to talk about it.”
“That sounds way too rational,” Emil said, waving his hand.
Oliver gave him his most impatient look. “I know, honey. But you’re clearly torn up, and Renzo is one of the nicest people I’ve ever met. And he’s so hot…”
“Right?” Emil said, leaning forward. “He chops wood with his shirt off. In the snow.”
Oliver made a choking noise, then yelped and jumped. “Oh my God, baby. I don’t think he’s hotter than you. Get a grip.”
“You two are fucking ridiculous,” Emil muttered as he heard Victor whisper something savage and probably a little needy. “Just get married already?”
Oliver beamed at him. “Yep. And you’ll be up there in a gorgeous tux right next to Victor. Renzo won’t be able to control himself.”
“Yeah. Maybe he’ll take his shirt off and chop some wood to impress him,” Victor muttered.
Oliver shoved his hand over Victor’s face and pushed him back. “Anyway, ignore him. I should go get him out of his mood, but please just talk to him. Renzo is a really good guy, and you deserve to be with a really good guy. Okay?”
“Okay,” Emil said, but he wasn’t being honest. He wasn’t ready to believe that just yet.
The screen went dead a second later, and Emil dropped his phone to his lap, putting both hands over his face to cover his trembling breath. He felt foolish, and his insides ached. He wallowed in the ghost of Renzo’s touch that lingered on his skin and the smell of him because he still hadn’t been able to bring himself to shower it off.
He wanted to believe that Oliver was right—that it was just his brain being cruel—but he wasn’t sure if he was strong enough to take the risk. Was it better to love and lose? Or was it better to steal away in the night before he knew and hoard away the bits of Renzo he would be allowed to keep?
* * *
