Chapter 12

His left hand curls around the neck of the guitar – strings digging into the pads of his fingers. His right hand rests on the curve of the guitar's body, unwilling to move.

Dylan pokes around his brain to find the right melody, the right chords. But he finds nothing. He reaches deep into his heart and absentmindedly starts to strum until a steady tune floats from the six strings.

Broken memories start to come together like scattered pieces of a puzzle, forming one image in his head. 

Lance.

[Why him?] He shouldn't be the one visiting Dylan's thoughts.

His fingers strike hard across the strings creating a strident noise and Dylan can feel his fingertips tingle with the sharp pain. Then he slaps his hand against the strings.

"Please don’t stop." 

The voice causes Dylan to whip his head around. It feels like he's been doused with cold water. There, on the doorway, stands the man who has just wormed into his mind.

"I miss hearing you play," Lance says, shifting his weight from one leg to another. "May I come in?"

Without waiting for Dylan to respond, Lance saunters inside. He's dressed in jeans and a pale red sweater that brings out the rosy color of his cheeks. His straight dark hair is a bit longer than how Dylan remembers.

"Lance," slips past Dylan's lips. 

There's a brief glow that appears on Lance's eyes before a shadow clouds over the coal-colored irises "Hey."

Dylan tears his eyes off of Lance, his heart hammering against his chest. The room suddenly spins and spins and Dylan really needs to lie down. The white blanket of snow that covers the garden right outside his window steals his focus. Though it's not enough to distract him from the awkward tension humming in the air. He can feel it wrap around him, so fucking uncomfortable that he just wants to peel his skin off. 

"Oh, don't do that," Lance says in a gentle voice as if he's talking to a five-year-old and Dylan startles when he feels warm hands around his wrists. His gaze falls on the reddish scratch marks on his skin. Did he do this?

Silence thrums around them. 

The bed dips when Lance settles beside Dylan, one hand still holding onto Dylan's wrist. The warmth of Lance's palm is burning right through Dylan's flesh so Dylan yanks his arm away and doesn't dare look at Lance, afraid to see the expression on Lance's face.

"I'm glad I finally got to see you, Dylan." The lilt in Lance's voice sends a shiver coursing through Dylan's veins. "I've been trying to see you for the past four months but your doctors wouldn't let me." 

Dylan makes a mental note to thank Dr. Kern for that. He's pretty sure that it's Dr. Kern who authorizes visits. Or Dr. Brynich. He's actually starting to appreciate the doctors now. 

"Peggy says she and Tyler came to see you last week." Lance keeps talking despite Dylan's silence. "Your mom is the one who begged the doctors to let me see you."

[Why are you here?] Dylan wants to ask, but his lips refuse to move. 

"The rest of the team sends their love," Lance continues, but the rest of his words no longer register in Dylan's mind. 

Dylan lets his thoughts drift out of the window and past the damn grills, searching for an escape. He's not sure how much time has passed when he hears Lance say, "You should get some rest, Dylan. I'll um… I'll just come back some other day, okay?"

Lance reaches out tentatively then gives Dylan a quick hug and whispers, "I missed you."

The room suddenly feels small, closing in on him that Dylan finds it hard to breathe. He crawls onto his bed and lies on his side, willing the fucking room to stop moving already.

"I'll see you around, Dylan," Lance says and slowly makes his way to the door. 

Dylan doesn't watch him leave. He keeps his eyes on the bizarre patterns that appear on the creases of his sheets.

*

Dylan had just returned to his office when his phone rang. He barely had his phone against his ear when someone spoke. "Dylan?" 

"Phil?" It was one of Saxon's college friends, his voice thick with fear. 

There was a pregnant pause and Dylan could almost hear Phil's thoughts vibrating through the phone. "We've been trying to call you," Phil said, his anxiety now palpable.

"I was in a meeting, my phone was off. Is there something wrong?"

"I-it's Saxon. Listen, don't—"

"What happened?" Dylan's instincts kicked in and a wave of apprehension overwhelmed his senses.

"He's in the hospital. He's fine. The doctor said I could take him home now." Phil said all that in one breath. "I can only drop him off at your place though since I have to go to work right after."

"I'll pick him up at the hospital."

"No Dylan. He um… he asked me not to call you." Phil's voice lowered to a whisper. "He's going to kill me for this but I'm more afraid of what you'll do to me if I didn't. Call you, that is."

"You're right." Dylan started pacing around his work area. He could feel some of his workmates' eyes on him. "Thanks, Phil. If you can drive him home, I'll meet you there in half an hour."

The house appeared empty—and unusually dark— when Dylan arrived. Phil's car was still in the driveway so Dylan wasn't surprised to see him waiting by the foyer.

"He's in bed, resting," were the words that poured out of Phil's mouth before Dylan could say anything. 

"Stay here," Dylan demanded then he climbed the stairs and rushed to their bedroom. Saxon lay sound asleep. There were bruises on his right cheek, a cut on his upper lip, and his eye was swollen. The other side of his face was buried in the pillow.

Phil was in the living room when Dylan returned downstairs. "The doctor gave him something to help him sleep," he said. "But you have to wake him up every two hours to make sure he's alright."

"What the fuck happened?" Rage burned in the pit of Dylan's stomach. He felt his blood pressure rising.

"We’d just picked up some books we needed for our school paper when these tourist-looking guys – four of them – followed us out of the bookstore and started calling us fags." Phil's shoulders sagged and he shook his head as if he was trying to rid his mind of the images that had crept in. "You know Saxon. He wouldn't let it go. So he faced them head-on and asked the assholes if there was something wrong with him being gay. I'm not sure what happened next. It was all a blur. They were suddenly on him. Two of the men held me back so I couldn't stop the other two from beating Saxon up."

"Fuck." Dylan's hands balled into fists. He wanted to hit someone. Something. Anything. "Did you call the police?"

"Yeah. That's why I wasn't able to call you right away. They asked me a million questions at the hospital. I tried to get one of them to call you but they wouldn't fucking listen."

The whole room seemed to vibrate along with Dylan's anger.

"Are you alright?" Worry flickered in Phil's eyes. Dylan nodded, but Phil didn't look convinced. "I have to go to work," Phil said but he didn't move. "But I uh… I'll call to check on you guys, okay?"

"Thanks, Phil. Appreciate it."

Dylan rushed back to his bedroom as soon as Phil left. He toed his shoes off and climbed onto the bed, careful not to wake up Saxon.