#dexwriting

Derek goes with Dex in the spring, after classes are done and Dibs are secured from Ransom and Holster, like everyone knew they would be. Only for a few days – it’s Sandy’s 50th birthday, and there’s a surprise party at the firehall – then he’ll go to New York for the summer and work for his mom. A receptionist at the accounting firm, like he did last summer.

But for now, he goes with Dex. He hasn’t actually been since Thanksgiving, and the difference is stark – the village is awake now, if a little muddy, seagulls circling overhead. There are more cars, more OPEN signs in shop windows. It smells like spring, but a cleaner and sharper spring than Derek’s ever experienced.

“You can tell which ones are the summer homes,” Dex says, still a little sleepy from the nap he took while Derek drove. He points to an enormous house up on a hill, facing the harbour. “The shutters are still closed.”

“And you know who everyone is anyway,” Derek says. He too feels alive with the town. He takes Dex’s hand and kisses his knuckles one by one as he drives through, then takes the street where the Poindexters live. It’s begun to feel familiar, and he has time now to memorize the details of the town. The red house on the end has a weather vane on its gable shaped like a cat, its tail pointing northward. Next door, there’s still a wreath hanging under a window, looking worse for wear but still somehow intact. The potholes have grown since the ice melted, and the white line is nearly invisible, rubbed away by the salt and the slush. “Who lives there,” he says, pointing to a beige duplex with an impressive tree in the front yard and a little garden bed with blooming crocuses.

Dex laughs. “On one side it’s Glen and Lisa Carter and their big-ass Bernese Toby, and I’m actually not sure who’s on the other side anymore. It used to be the McTavishes, but I don’t recognize the car.”

“Maybe they got a new car, William,” Derek says. “Or someone’s visiting.”

“Maybe,” Dex murmurs. He’s smiling, and smiling at Derek, which isn’t that new anymore but hasn’t gotten old yet. Right now, he doesn’t feel like it ever will.

“Do you think Ava will like the paints I got her?” Derek asks, because he wants Dex to keep looking like that.

“You don’t have to get her something every time you see her, you know,” Dex says. His face still unchanged, bright in its happiness. At Thanksgiving, Derek had gotten her a miniature hockey stick with a rubber ball as a puck. “You’re starting a potentially expensive tradition.”

That Dex thinks of it as a tradition is – well. The main reason Derek decided to set the precedent at all.

“I’m just trying to be the favourite uncle, here. And I missed her birthday, so let me live.”

“You’re not even her real uncle. And anyway, I built her an actual dollhouse for Christmas, so like, I’ll be super offended if you become the favourite.”

“We’ll see,” Derek says.

When they pull up to the soft yellow house, dilapidated swing set still out in front (having weathered another winter), Ava is already on the step waiting for them, hopping up and down impatiently with her grandmother smiling from behind her. Derek honks the horn when they park because he knows it makes Ava laugh and Sandy shake her head.

“Hello!” Dex calls as he steps out of the car and stretches his arms out, loosening his muscles after being cooped up all afternoon. Ava runs towards him, but makes a detour at the last second to go to Derek, who laughs and catches her as she trips on a crack in the pavement and falls into his waiting embrace.

“That was a close one,” he says. She shrugs and hugs him tighter. Over her hair, he sees Dex roll his eyes.

“She takes after you,” says Dex, and Derek says nothing -- probably wise, he thinks. He lifts Ava and drops her in her actual uncle’s arms instead.

--

“You boys have any plans for tonight?” Sandy asks while they’re tucking into supper -- spaghetti and meatballs, though Derek’s plate is meatless, and nearly spotless. It’s just Will, Sandy, Dex, Derek and Ava tonight, because Katie’s doing a welding apprenticeship in Bangor and will only make it down tomorrow for the party, and Jake and Mel have claimed that they’re needed in Boston at a pharmacy conference. In reality, they’re spending the night at a friend’s house in town. Jennifer will come up tomorrow too.

“I think --” Derek starts, but is cut off by Will’s gruff voice 

“Liam, we’re at the supper table. 

There’s a clatter as Dex drops his phone on the floor, which means he’s been looking at it under the table, and Ava flinches at the sound. 

“Sorry, I’m just -- just waiting for an email,” Dex says. Derek frowns. He hasn’t heard of any email.

A motherly click-click of a tongue from Sandy. “It’s past six on a friday. You’re not getting any emails now. Put it away.” She stares at Dex as he bends down to pick up the phone and makes a show of putting it on silent and in his pocket. “Great. Now what were you saying, Derek?” 

“Oh. Just that I think Liam said something about meeting up with his friends.” 

“Which ones?” Sandy asks. “Where are you going?”

“Mom,” Dex says. “Does it matter?”

“Liam,” Will says, a warning clear in his tone.

“Just some guys from my old team and their girlfriends. Like, whoever’s around. Going down near the gravel pit.”

Derek catches Ava’s eye from across the table and makes a funny grimace at her, and she giggles, sweet-sounding and soft.

“Are you going to be drinking? You better not be driving if you are. Neither of you are 21, anyway. You shouldn’t be drinking at all.”

“Mom,” Dex says, stops, then sighs. “We’ll be fine.”

Hot July noontime, his mommy still lying in bed, his baby sister on the floor of the kitchen re-reading her favourite (and only) book which was about two birds in love finding a home, and Billy, now a big boy at eight-years-old, hungry. He knocked on the bedroom door even if he knew that she would be asleep, and let himself in quietly like he always did. Mommy worked nights at a garage station and always slept during the day, waking herself up only for a cigarette on the balcony around Billy and Sarah’s suppertime. She looked pretty against her pillow, he thought, because she was still wearing her makeup from last night, even if it was smudged a bit around her eyes. She had red hair like him (Sarah’s was brown) and people always said they had the same little turned-up nose, which he liked. He liked his Mommy a lot, in fact, except he didn’t get to see her much. Even on her nights off she only slept slightly less during the day, preferring to keep to her sleeping schedule. He couldn’t blame her – once he couldn’t fall asleep until ten-thirty, and he was so tired at school the next he decided he didn’t want to stay up late ever again.

“Mommy,” he whispered, padding over to her bed and gently prodding her arm, “we’re hungry.” Usually she prepared the meals beforehand and stuck them in the fridge, or else Dex was in charge of boiling hotdogs or making tuna sandwiches, but the fact was that there was nothing left in the kitchen except for half a bottle of ketchup and the last of a box of cheerios.

“Hmm? What, Baby?” Mommy said, rousing from sleep. Billy wrinkled his nose – Mommy always called him Baby even though he was a big boy now – Mrs Crowdis at school said so.

“We’re hungry,” he repeated, and she frowned. Bit her lip – it turned even redder.

“Get me my purse, okay?” Her voice was rough from sleep and cigarettes and he loved it.

Billy did – it was under a big pile of mail on the kitchen counter. Sarah was lying on the ground babbling to herself about birds so he leaned down to kiss her on the forehead when he passed – he’d seen a Dad do that to his daughter about Sarah’s age at the park the other day so he thought maybe it was a good idea. Giggling, Sarah wiped her face and stuck her tongue out but said nothing, preferring to continue on talking into the air.

When he came back into the room Mommy was sitting up and talking on the phone in a voice so low he couldn’t hear even though he knew for a fact he had big ears and big ears probably meant he could hear better than most people.

“Thanks, Will. See you soon,” she was saying when Billy approached, then hung up.

“Was that Uncle Will?” he asked. Uncle Will was Mommy’s older brother, and who Billy had been named after. He had a son named Cody – Billy and Sarah’s cousin, who was a year younger than Billy – and a wife named Auntie Maggie, and a big black dog named Frankie.

“Yes, Baby. How would you and Sarah like to go stay there for a little bit?” she asked softly, pulling out a few dollars from her wallet and handing it to him. “Mommy’s not feeling too well,” she said. Billy was surprised – she looked fine, just like always.

until it’s not. the bulb flickers off and bitty drops the socks from his arms, because the feeling is immediate. creeping in, squeezing his throat, taking his head and spinning it around. the fuck was he thinking? this closet is small. tiny, even, and he can’t breathe. he left his phone on the bed and his eyes haven’t adjusted to the darkness -- or maybe he shut them tight and hasn’t been able to open them yet. it’s so fucking dark in here, and he remembers, he remembers --

he turns, nudges a sock with his toe as he does, and. and there’s some light from the windows in the bedroom creeping in from the cracked door, so he runs, and makes it to the bed gasping for lungfuls of air. the first thing he sees is his phone lit up with a text from jack: radio said the power’s out. i’m on my way home. be there soon. and one from his mom, from earlier, asking about how his weekend went. he hesitates, and looks back at the door now thrown wide open, then picks up the phone.

“dicky! i was just going to call. i saw something on the news about a storm and was wondering if you were bundled up,” mama says before he can even greet her. he takes a breath as the last of the dizziness fades away.

“not dicky anymore, mama,” bitty says. 

“oh,” she says. she’s frowning, he can tell. “alright. everything okay, baby?”

“yeah, mama. everything is good. is daddy around? i’ve got,” he says, and in the kitchen the microwave beeps in time with the closet light stuttering back on, “i’ve got something to tell you.”

holster:

“tommy?” holster says before he can stop himself, and the man in front of him turns and stares. still, after all these years, unmistakeable. a slight twist to his lips from a cleft palate long since fixed by surgery, and a scar on his chin from -- “tommy bennett?”

“big adam,” tommy bennett says. no one’s called holster that in years. he’d almost forgotten.

almost.

the pepsi fridge he’s standing next to hums and the door to the bodega tinkles but they just stare at each other. 

“i haven’t seen you since, since -- well, how are you,” holster says. tommy is still half a foot shorter than holster is, but he’s standing straight and his shoulders are square.

“what do you want,” tommy says. which is, well, fair.

“nothing,” holster says. “nothing. or, well -- ”

“i just want some sprite, man,” tommy says. he gestures to the fridge holster is blocking with all his bulk. 

“oh. i’m sorry,” holster says. “like, not just about the sprite. about the, the, the, you know. the everything. i’m sorry.” his hands move to point to his own chin but he drops them halfway through the motion. “i’m sorry.”

tommy stares. “okay.”

“okay. really though, i’m --”

“sorry, i get it. can i...?”

“yeah. yeah,” holster says. he moves away from the glass, leaving a space in the condensation the shape of his hand. “i hope. i hope you’re doing well,” he says. 

he gets no answer.

when he opens the door to the car, stomach twisting in nausea, ransom just raises an eyebrow at his empty hands.

“the fuck took you so long? and you didn’t even get any snacks,” ransom says. 

holster turns on this car. “i’ll tell you later,” he says. “i think we’ve got chips at the haus, anyway.”

“alright, bro,” ransom says. “whatever you want.”

the neon lights of the store illuminate the rearview mirrors when holster looks back and the snow starts to fall.

shitty:

the envelope is addressed to mr. bishop knight in unfamiliar handwriting and the return address is one shitty’s had memorized since the month after he turned 12, though his mother hasn’t even looked at it once. he knows what it contains without even opening it: a birthday card and a signature. once there would have been thirty bucks too, but that stopped when he turned eighteen.

“hello-o-o,” lardo says from her bed. “coffee?”

“oh. right.” shitty’s still dressed from his solo trip to annie’s, so he sets the coffee tray down with the envelope on his desk and slowly unwinds his scarf, lovingly knitted by alicia zimmermann as a christmas gift. he unbuttons his jacket slowly, ignoring lardo’s impatient huffs.  

“you got snow in your hair,” lardo says, rolling her eyes. “it looks like dandruff.”

“hm?” shitty carefully strips himself of his shirt and pants and brings over the cups to the bed. it’s warmer in here, with lardo, than outside. “oh, yeah. it’s messy out there."

“what’s that,” lardo says, gesturing to the desk with the hand that’s holding her cappuccino. 

“christmas-slash-birthday card,” shitty says. “from my father.”

“oh. a little late for that.” then, slowly, “you gonna open it?”

shitty can’t help but lean into lardo’s side, and lardo lifts the arm not holding the coffee and wraps him up. takes him in. 

“no,” shitty says, and closes his eyes, smiling, “not this year.”

jack:

la route de la patinoire jusqu’à la maison n’est pas longue, mais avec la neige devenant de plus en plus épaisse, et bittle seul chez lui dans la noirceur, elle semble interminable. les tempêtes lui ont toujours fait sentir impuissant, mais – bref, ils ne sont pas uniques dans la catégorie.

son père lui a souvent dit qu’ils ont tous deux un « esprit cartésien », et c’est peut-être vrai, mais ce n’est que dernièrement qu’il le prend vraiment à cœur. étape par étape, sa thérapeute et ses parents lui répètent. donc, voilà : prends une droite après le stationnement ; continue lentement pour trois kilomètres ; attention à la glace ; maintenant, arrête à l’intersection ; compte un, deux, trois ; avance ; une gauche, et ensuite une droite ; un autre arrêt pour la vieille qui veut traverser le chemin ; quatre kilomètres, puis l’immeuble droit devant.

rends-toi au stationnement souterrain et trouve l’espace qui vous a été désigné. éteint le moteur. prends ton sac du siège à côté et va à l’ascenseur. fais-le vite, quand même – il ne faut surtout pas oublier qui t’attends. et puis cinquième étage, deuxième porte à la droite. ouvre-là.

– jack ? bittle dit. oh, i’m glad you’re home.

sa voix, douce et familière, provient du salon. le salon qui a de la lumière, donc la coupure n’aurait pas duré longtemps, jack suppose.

– me too, jack répond. roads are getting pretty bad.

bittle apparait dans sa vision, avec sa couverture la plus chaude autour de ses épaules et un grand sourire peinturé sur son beau visage. il tend une main vers jack, qui la prend fermement. voilà une chose qui ne lui a jamais fait sentir comme s’il ne pouvait rien faire.

un nouveau plan, alors. étape un : prend la main de celui que tu aimes. étape deux : respire, respire, respire…

dex:

nursey stops him at the door, which is just as well, probably, because he's been staring at it for five minutes, trying to decide if he’s going to go this week. like he does every week.

“where the fuck are you going like that?” nursey asks. he crosses his arms and dex can’t even meet his eyes. he’s been having trouble meeting them for a while, now. “it’s a storm out there. you don’t even -- fuck, dex, you don’t even have gloves on.”

“i’m fine, nurse,” dex says down at his shoes. 

nursey exhales, then shakes his head. “it’s not like i haven’t noticed you go out this time every sunday, you know.”

“i -- oh. um. i didn’t think you would.” dex bites his lip hard, then looks at the door. he hasn’t told nursey where he goes. or anyone at all. 

“fine. if you’re not going to take care of yourself...”

when dex looks up, nursey is pulling his jacket off a hook on the wall and stuffing his arms into it, then pulls out a pair of gloves from the pockets. 

“what are you doing?” dex asks. he feels panicked, suddenly, and reaches out to stop nursey’s hands. nursey just catches his and holds them tight.

“it’s non-denominational, isn’t it?” nursey asks. he brings dex’s knuckles to his lips and kisses them with a gentleness dex will never possess. 

fuck. 

“um.”

“i was waiting for you to tell me,” nursey says. “i figured you’d do it on your own time, or whatever.”

“oh.” 

he’s never really been one for words, anyway.

“dex,” nursey says. “can i come with you?”

dex looks back at the door, then at nursey, with a smile tentative and soft against dex’s hand.

Dex is overdressed in a suit that probably costs more than anything he would ever have allowed himself to even consider back at Samwell, and he looks uncomfortable and awkward when Derek sits across from him.

“Shit. I wasn’t actually expecting you to come,” Dex says. His eyes are wide.

“Fucking hello to you too,” Derek says. The two shots of tequila he took before coming warm his cheeks and loosen his limbs and he’s tap-tap-tapping on the table just for something to occupy himself.

“Sorry. Uh, hi. It’s nice to see you again,” Dex says. He looks down then up again, straight into Derek’s eyes. “You don’t know how nice.”

They stare at each other until the waitress comes by to take their drink orders -- water for Dex who’s in the middle of his season and a double rum and coke for Derek, because like hell Derek is paying for this drink and this meal.

He’s aware of Dex’s eyes on him, lingering on the floral sleeve peeking out from under his shirt, taking stock of all the ways he’s changed in the same way Derek had done last week. Derek feels distinctly self-conscious before he can tell himself not to care -- his hair is shaved short now because in the grand Nurse tradition his hairline began receding three years ago, and he wears his beard full these days, maybe to make up for the lack of hair on his head. He still looks good, he knows, not quite as muscular as he used to be, but Dex looks -- even the scar doesn’t detract from how he looks. Fuck. Derek is fucked.

When he gets his drink he does his best not to finish it in one shot, and instead sips gingerly, unsure how to break the silence. He orders the risotto like Kelsey said to and Dex gets a steak. Medium-well. Things haven’t changed that much.

“How have you been,” Dex says so Derek doesn’t have to. He hasn’t stopped looking yet.

Derek fights the urge to snap back something nasty and takes a deep breath. “Fine,” he says. “I teach English as a second language at a community college not far from here.”

“And the coffee shop?”

“Yeah, well. Rent is expensive.”

Dex frowns. “I thought -- huh.”

So Dex hasn’t been following news about the Nurses either. Fair enough.

“You talk to C?” he asks instead of offering details. The story’s all over the internet, anyway, if he really wants to know.

Dex finally looks down. “Yeah. He invited me up to Winnipeg this summer.”

“Told you.”

“Yeah.”

They fall into silence again and it’s heavy, and hard-edged and sharp, like any wrong word could cut and bruise them some more. Derek is so tired.

“What about you,” Derek says.

Dex speaks at the same time. “You deserve an explanation.”

The clink-clink of cutlery and the voices of the other diners roar in Derek’s ears when he sits back and crosses his arms. “Yes,” he says. Because he does.

Dex bites his lip and looks down at his hands, big and square and calloused as they were before. “You’d think I’d have had this figured out. Like, what to say.”

The waitress comes and brings their food before he can go on, and Derek thinks it’s something of a relief, because he too needs to take it slow. Breathe. Gather his energy.

The rice is good, anyway.

“You, um, still a vegetarian?” Dex asks, gesturing to Derek’s plate. Derek just raises an eyebrow. “Right. Fuck. Sorry. Um. Okay. This isn’t like, an excuse or anything, it’s just an explanation, and I don’t expect you to forgive me for it but--”

“William.”

“Right. I guess I was just scared.”

Derek swallows his food loudly. “Scared,” he says. It comes out softer than he’d wanted.

“Yeah. Like, I was this twenty-year-old kid, moving to the other side of the country. I didn’t know anyone. And I got there and, I don’t know, most of the guys were nice but some said some shit, and…” Here Dex lowers his voice and looks around. “Fuck. You know I’m not a first-liner or anything, I benched more than not my first year -- first three years -- and like, it’s not that they didn’t respect me, but. I couldn’t just, like, ask them not to say homophobic crap. It’s the NHL, you know? I got scared that they’d find out. About us. Me. I don’t know.”

“So you thought, what, out of sight, out of mind?” Derek focusses on his food, trying to taste it, trying to quell the nausea bubbling in his stomach every time he looks at Dex’s face. He blames it on the scar and the booze.

Dex closes his eyes. “I didn’t say it was a good decision. And it never -- you didn’t stay out of my mind.”

“No. Just your life.”

“I’m sorry. I’ve regretted it every day since, I fucking swear.”

Derek signals to the waitress for another drink, even though his hands are starting to feel weird and tingly like they always do when he’s drunk. “Parse came out, like, four years ago,” he says once she’s delivered it and they’ve sat in silence for a few minutes. “And then Jack, and then that guy from the Aeros, what’s his name?”

Dex clenches his jaw and looks down. Opens his mouth for a second before speaking. “Samson.” His voice is quiet, barely audible over the hum of the restaurant.

“Right, okay. Cool. That’s -- every day, huh? Good to fucking know.” Shaking his head, Derek takes a too-big gulp of his drink, feels it burn on the way down. He kind of feels like laughing at this whole damn situation. Remembers that time he and Dex took Dex’s piece-of-shit pick-up truck out to the woods on the outskirts of town with the plan to get high and camp out in the box all-night, until it started hailing and they had to grab everything and get back in the truck and leave. They lost a pillow to the storm, then went to get greasy pizza at a crappy 24-hour hole because they forgot to get munchies, and were still laughing so hard when they got back to the Haus it took them 15 minutes just to get undressed. Derek blew raspberries against Dex’s thighs before sucking him down and they fell asleep the wrong way up on the bed. Woke up early to pancakes Chowder and Farmer made, then went to practice. Fucking happy.

“I’m sorry.”

“You said.”

“I got help,” Dex says.

Derek’s head jerks up. “What?”

“Last year, after, um, Samson did his press conference -- I started seeing someone. Like, a psychologist. ‘Cause I was angry a lot, you know?”

Derek snorts. “Yeah, I fucking know.”

“Yeah. Right, sorry. I wasn’t doing well, anyway. And Jack gave this interview around that time, about how he sees a therapist and takes medication and how all this internalized homophobia and the media and shit contributed to his anxiety for a long time, so I thought what the hell, right? I’ve got nothing to lose. I was so unhappy.”

“Why are you telling me all this,” Derek says, once Dex has taken a breath. “We don’t know each other anymore.”

Which is like -- fucking harsh, he knows. But it’s easier like this, probably. Maybe. It goddamn hurts to say -- but.

“Yeah, I know,” Dex says, fanning out his hands. His eyes are wide and earnest. “I know. I just -- I’m trying to be honest. Okay? I wasn’t well for a long time, since even before Samwell, and before the Avs, and I’m still not 100%, but I’m getting there. I had an appointment with a new therapist today. So, like, cards on the table, I know you probably don’t want anything to do with me after this, which is fine, but if you do, then know that I’m trying to be better.”

Derek finally gives up on his plate of half-eaten food and just settles with finishing his drink. “You’re different now.”

Dex huffs. “Well, aren’t you? It’s been a while.”

Suddenly Derek can’t be here anymore. It has been a while. What the fuck is he doing? He told himself he wasn’t even going to come, that he was going to throw out the post-it note with Dex’s number on it, that he wasn’t going to watch the highlights from his first game. He told himself he was done years ago. He pushes away from the table with a clatter.

“Bathroom,” he bites out, then practically runs to it, desperate for some fucking space. It’s empty, thank God, so he slams into a stall and sinks down on top of the toilet seat, head in shaking hands, breathing deep.

God. Why did he think he could handle this? It’s like he’s nineteen years old and pining again, wanting to touch Dex but not yet understanding why his hands stretch out when he’s near him. Waiting for a sign, anything that says you’re doing alright, Derek, keep going. Except Dex is older and bigger and more mature and softer-spoken and just fucking gorgeous and this time the puck’s on Derek’s side, possibly, if he’s understood correctly. For an English teacher, he does that a lot, misreading situations.

He doesn’t realize how long he’s been sitting there, trying to calm his heart, when he hears the door swing opened followed by “Nursey?” so maybe Dex hasn’t changed that much after all, and knows just how to push Derek until he snaps.

“You alright?” Dex asks. His feet appear below Derek’s stall door. “Nursey. If you want me to go pay and leave you alone, you just gotta let me know.”

Derek decides to shoot on net.

In an instant he’s got the stall door open and he pulls Dex in by his lapel, and Dex’s reflexes must have gotten better because he doesn’t hesitate a second before crashing in Derek with his mouth, hot and wet and so fucking good Derek thinks he might be dreaming.

Actually, he has dreamed about this, and it’s better in real life. Better than he remembered, even. He was afraid before that he’d been building it all up in his head for six years but -- Dex’s weight is heavy against him and mouth finds the exact spot under Derek’s ear that no one’s been able to find since the last time. They’re panting, hands everywhere, and this is everything, everything Derek’s ever wanted but tried so hard to forget. His heart feels like it’s going to jump out of his chest onto the bathroom tiles.

“Remember that time -- mm -- we went to that volleyball party --” he pants into Dex’s ear, grabbing his ass and pulling him close.

“Couldn’t keep our hands off each other,” Dex whispers. “Got you off in that pantry.”

“Hit into that shelf --”

“-- April walked in on us -- “

“-- got flour everywhere -- “

“-- made us clean it -- oh!”

Derek’s has gotten his hand in Dex’s pants, going straight for his dick, hard and weighty and hot in his hand and good despite the angle, like he’s in a trance. Unaware of anything but this. This smell -- different, but he could get used to it -- this taste -- the same, he had almost forgotten it -- this feeling -- half-new half-familiar, he could live in it.

Until the bathroom door opens again and a deep voice swears before the door sounds again, steps retreating, and it pulls Derek out of his twilight so fast he stumbles against the toilet and falls onto it. Dex braces himself against the wall, his dick fucking sticking out, breathing hard and staring down at Derek, who’s shaking again.

“Shit,” Dex says. “Shit.” He rubs a hand over his face before tucking himself back in and zipping up, readjusting so it’s not as uncomfortable. “I can’t -- fuck. That could have been anyone. Can we --”

“You’re still scared,” Derek says. His voice is rough and raw because he’s got a lump in his throat the size of Dex’s fist and he’s still fucking turned on, because Dex is so close, his suit rumpled and his hair wild and his cheeks red red red.

Dex closes his eyes. “Not of this. Not of you. But I just -- it’s a new team. I can’t, not yet.”

“Yeah,” Derek breathes. “Yeah. I get it.” Wills himself to think of gross things -- the subway, the Haus’ green couch, a thousand roaches, that thing his roommate left in a tupperware in the back of the fridge neither of them have had the balls to clean out yet.

“We should --”

“Yeah.”

Derek goes first, sits at the table alone and catches his breath, tells the waitress everything is fine and could they have the check, thank you. Dex comes back while she’s bringing it and hands her his credit card, his hair wet around the edges like he splashed water on his face.

“I don’t really get recognized a lot,” he says quietly to Derek, carefully. “Especially not here.”

“Andrée loved your autograph. She brought it to school for show and tell.”

“Really? I’m glad.”

The waitress brings their receipt and Dex’s credit card and he scribbles in the amount for a tip on the slip, which Derek knows is higher than necessary because Dex has always tipped well.

“Do you want to come back to my apartment,” Dex says. Careful.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Oh. Uh, why not?”

Derek shakes his head. “I need -- time. Fuck, man, you just barge into my life like you never left and you disrupt it like this, expect me to fall right back in love. It’s not fucking fair, Dex. It’s not.”

“You were in love with me?” Dex asks.

“That’s not the point! I’ve got a life. What if I had someone already?”

“Shit. Do you?”

“No, but --”

Dex grips the table cloth. “I never asked you to fall in love with me again. I just want -- I just want a chance.”

“In secret.”

Their eyes meet and Dex’s hold a fire Derek hadn’t known was missing. It’s thrilling. “You can’t ask me to come out before I’m ready, because I won’t. This isn’t like coming out to the Samwell team, this is -- Sonny sometimes needs a security detail in Houston now, you know. Besides, Bitty and Jack hid it for like, five years. It’s not impossible.”

“Well, you can’t compare us to Bitty and Jack.” Derek sighs. “Shit. Okay.”

“What? Okay?”

“Yeah. I’ll -- give you a chance, or whatever.”

“You sound like you’re going to say that it’s chill.”

Derek almost laughs -- instead he lets the corners of his mouth lift up indulgently. Dex’s answering smile is goddamn radiant. “Let’s just, like, get to know each other again.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Derek, I’ll be ready eventually. I think.”

Derek nods. “I know. I won’t rush you, I won’t.”

Dex stands, because they’ve been sitting at the table for longer than they should have been since paying, and grins widely.

“Alright,” Dex says, holding out his hand for Derek to clasp. “Hi, I’m William. Can I walk you to your door?”

Derek takes Dex’s hand.