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Dylan watches Zach scrub the heel of his hand against his eye, haphazardly shoving “healthy” snacks into his grocery basket.
The yellow light of the store flickers overhead and he barely flinches.
“Do you even know what you’re buying?” Dylan asks. He reaches out and holds Zach still in the middle of the aisle, before he gets his hand on yet another box of Triscuits.
“Huh?” Zach looks at him like he’s snapping out of some sort of trance. He looks down at the basket. Back up at Dylan. “Of course I do, I did my research.”
Dylan reluctantly takes a step away, because Zach in the morning scowling at him is almost purely a death wish. “So you went for, what, tasteless food?”
“I wanna look hot for the Winter Ball,” Zach says, bringing a hand to his mouth and yawning. “Which you are going to, right?”
“I told you I have to think about it.”
“You just don’t want to because you know you can’t get a date.” Zach gracelessly drops a box of protein bars in his grocery basket. “You don’t even need a date, why bother when nobody expects you to bring one,” he adds.
Dylan jabs his elbow into Zach’s side just hard enough to get a squawk out of him, which quickly turns into a bag of beef jerky aimed directly at Dylan’s head.
...
“You said we’d skip today,” Zach mumbles, feet kicked up onto the dash. His AF1's are more dirt than they are shoes, and he's going to leave prints behind, but Dylan doesn't have it in him to swat his legs down.
Dylan slows when he pulls up to campus, careful not to scrape the curb trying to ease into a parking spot. He’s not the best, but his car’s in pretty good shape and that’s just about the extent of his driving abilities.
“I make the calls. When you get a car, you can skip everyday of the week,” Dylan says, looking over at him.
Zach’s eyes are closed against the dry heat coming from the vents in the dashboard. The very tops of his cheeks are a pale pink and Dylan wonders if the colour stretches underneath the beanie he’s got pulled low over his forehead.
“You know what’s not cool?” Zach opens his eyes to glance at him and Dylan instinctively flits his gaze away.
“What.”
“The fact that you think it’s okay to shame me because I can’t afford a big fancy truck,” Zach says, scrunching his nose at him. “Really shallow, Dyl. Totally uncalled for.”
Dylan rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t have the strength to chase the smile off his lips. “Get the hell outta here and go to class.”
“Fine,” Zach huffs. He goes to open the door, pausing with his fingers on the handle. “Are we still meeting for lunch?”
Dylan opens the door on his side. “How am I supposed to hang out with you and find a date? You’re expecting too much.”
“As if you’re trying to find a date,” Zach says. “I’ll meet you here.” And he hops out of the car.
...
Dylan can’t pinpoint exactly when it began, but he knows when it got out of hand.
He remembers last winter, when it snowed like the world was going to end.
He remembers Zach dragging him out to go skating late at night on the lake halfway between their houses. He remembers the roads around them speckled with city lights, remembers the way it made Zach’s skin glow, remembers the moonlight caught in his eyes.
They stayed out until purple light turned orange. Until the ice beneath their skates sparkled. Because, as much as they hope for it, I wanna stay here forever will never ring true.
Zach had said, “thanks,” from the passenger seat of his car when they left. It came out soft, tired, and he leaned over to put his head on Dylan’s shoulder. “Really, I needed this.”
“Yeah, of course,” Dylan said. His heart battered hard against his chest, the warmth from Zach leaking through layers of clothing and dripping onto his skin like molten gold.
That’s when it got bad, Dylan thinks. With Michigan buried underneath two feet of snow and Zach falling asleep on his shoulder.
...
This is Dylan’s second year at the Winter Ball. He went last year with a few of the guys, spending maybe twenty minutes taking stupid photos before ditching it for an arcade.
Zach hasn’t even been there once, but he’s probably just as prepared as the party planning committee.
“This is the tux I’m getting,” Zach says excitedly, a month too early. He sets his laptop down on Dylan’s bed and jabs his finger towards the screen.
It’s nothing Dylan hasn’t seen before, a simple black tux with satin lapels. The vest it comes with is navy blue, matching the tie and the pocket square. It’s nice, blue has always been Zach’s colour.
Dylan swallows and he actively fails at trying not to imagine Zach looking beautiful in whatever he wears to the ball.
“You got someone to match that blue with?” He asks instead, raising his eyebrows. “Or do you, like, not understand how this works?”
“If you’re asking me if I have a date,” Zach starts, pulling the laptop back onto his lap, “I do. Thank you very much.”
“Yeah?” Dylan asks. “Who is she? I don’t even get to talk to her? Warn her what she’s getting into?”
He wasn’t going to ask Zach out to the Winter Ball, he doesn’t think he’d ever scrape together the courage to actually do something like that, so he’s not disappointed. If anything, he’s happy for Zach. Or, like, he thinks he’s happy. He’s trying to be happy.
“Noelle,” Zach says, absentmindedly browsing through the tuxedo menu. “It’s weird, I had a crush on her in the 9th grade and now.” He shrugs. “As far as I know, we’re just going as, uh. Friends? I think friends.”
Dylan hums at him. “Look at you go,” he says.
He pulls out his phone because he’s got nothing better to do with his hands. When he scrolls through his Snapchat notifications and swipes over a couple names he could consider taking as dates, he figures he should bite the bullet and just get on it.
From the corner of his eye, he can feel Zach watching him, but Dylan never meets his gaze.
...
Dylan doesn’t have his sights set on anyone in a way that would warrant him asking them out. He doubts he’d ask someone out even if he did want to, Zach being the perfect example.
But he knows a girl, Olivia. Hasn’t known her as long as Zach’s known Noelle, sure, but they text every now and then. She’s also the one who helped Dylan realize he isn’t as good at iMessage games as he thinks he is.
Which is funny because, if i win this next game ur going to the winter ball with me , she texts him. and ur actually gonna STAY this time.
It pops up on Dylan’s phone in the middle of his physics class and he stares at the notification for a long moment, another one, and then he realizes what’s happening.
He immediately sends back 8Ball and as much as he tells himself he brings his ‘A’ game, he doesn’t believe it.
...
Zach slaps a poster to Dylan’s locker hard enough that Dylan has to jerk his hand back to keep it from getting caught in the door.
“Holy shit,” he sputters, holding his fingers close to his chest. “Are you trying to kill me?”
Zach rolls his eyes at him. “Quit being over dramatic. This is actually important.”
Dylan’s about to throw something equally bitchy back to him, but his eyes catch a glimpse of the poster. Suddenly, Zach’s urgency makes a lot more sense. It’s all the information for the Winter Ball, written out in some loopy font with a tacky looking snowman printed onto the paper.
“Bit of an eyesore,” Dylan says, looking to Zach for some sort of a laugh.
Zach just shakes his head at him. “No, no, you have barely two weeks to find a date and I swear if you even try to skip this thing I will hunt you down. I’m not kidding.”
Dylan says, “Good thing I found a date, then,” and the reaction he gets from Zach is this jumble of relief and excitement, and.
“You just decided not to tell me?” He asks, scandalized. “After everything I do for you.”
“I was going to,” Dylan insists. He rips the poster off his locker, handing it back to Zach. “Go bug someone else about coming, I have class.”
The edges of Zach’s eyes are full of something warm, pooling with gratitude. “You’re really coming,” he says, and Dylan groans.
“Ugh, yes, shoo.”
Zach backs off, but he doesn’t stop smiling.
...
Zach scribbles something down in his notebook and Dylan can hardly keep his eyes glued to his book. Especially when Zach’s mumbling something about the Pythagorean Theorem with his eyes crinkled in frustration. He’s gripping his pen hard, the tips of his fingers a soft pink, and Dylan keeps looking and looking.
“Hey,” Zach says, snapping him out of it.
Dylan smiles. “Hey.” He goes back to his book.
...
Dylan buys a red tie and boutonniere because it’s the closest he’s getting to matching Olivia’s bright red dress.
When he shows Zach, he holds the tie up to his neck and makes a considering noise. “You’d look better in black,” he says. “But a close second for sure.”
“You’re blind,” Dylan says. “Blind and stupid.” He swipes the tie back and carefully slips it into its box.
“Don’t be mad because you’re ugly.” Zach grins at him and just barely ducks out of the way when Dylan throws a pen at him.
...
“Pull over for coffee.”
Dylan glances over at Zach and he’s about to shoot him down, tell him maybe later, tell him that shit’s going to stunt his growth and leave him looking like an elf, but. He’s got his head in his hands and Dylan isn’t sure whether or not he’s even alive at this point.
“You good?” He asks, pulling into the next café they drive by. It’s not fancy, but they have caffeine. The bar is underground.
“I hate midterms,” Zach mumbles, voice muffled by his hands. “I haven’t actually slept in two weeks, I’ve just been jumping in and out of nightmares where I don’t graduate and, uh, die.”
“Mhm,” Dylan hums in agreement. “I know what you mean.”
When Zach’s calm with a cup of coffee with way too much sugar pressed to his lips, Dylan asks, “hey, weren’t you eating healthy for the ball?”
For a second, Zach just silently glares at him. Then, “I’m so sick of coffee that tastes like dirt so if you could, like, shut the fuck up, that would be fantastic.”
...
The sun in the winter is always shattered into fragments as it peeks through the clouds, but it’s never any less mesmerizing.
Dylan follows one of the lines of sunlight that leaks into the cafeteria until it hits a patch of skin on Zach’s cheek and he thinks he might go crazy. Everything is out to get him.
Zach’s grinning as he talks animatedly with Noah. Dylan’s supposed to be working on homework with Sonny, but he can’t help but watch. Watch the way his skin glows under the light, or how his fingers card through his hair, or.
“How the fuck do you do this,” Sonny says from next to him, staring pointedly at his textbook.
“Pay attention in class,” Dylan says, but he doesn’t look over. Not until Sonny shoves at his shoulder.
...
The night before the ball, Zach calls him.
His phone goes off in the pitch black darkness of his bedroom and Dylan’s pulled out of his sleep to pat the nightstand until his hand catches on his phone.
“Hello?” He says, his voice thick with sleep. He knows he sounds pretty much fucked, but Zach shouldn’t expect anything else. Not when it’s 3 AM.
“Hey, I’m freaking out,” Zach answers, sounding very much awake. “This is so embarrassing, fuck. I, uh. I don’t know how to slow dance. Like, I just. Don’t. And I didn’t think it was important, but what if I’m wrong?”
Dylan can’t see him, but he can picture him nearly perfectly. The freckle on his cheek, his brows drawn in close together, worry wrought all across his features.
He mumbles out, “Little late for that,” as he tries sitting up straighter.
“Huh?”
“I said, you have literally nothing to worry about,” he says, clearer this time. “Seriously, do you really think anyone there is actually going to know how to dance? You’re gonna be fine.”
There’s a pause. Dylan thinks he’s going to fall asleep trying to calm Zach down.
“Do you know how?” Zach asks, sounding awfully vulnerable.
That doesn’t catch Dylan off guard as much as it gets him to actually tune into the conversation. It’s Zach’s careful tone that really wakes him up.
“I mean. Yeah.”
Another beat. Zach’s breathing is quiet now, not as panicked. “Could you show me tomorrow? Come over before I gotta pick up Noelle?”
Dylan rests his face in one of his hands. He shouldn’t. He really, really shouldn’t. It would do nothing but thrust him deeper into this mess, whatever it is.
Still. He says, “of course, man, anything to get you to stop freaking out.”
...
Dylan shows up to Zach’s place already ready to head over to Olivia’s. Getting ready wasn’t the most gruelling experience for him, apart from it taking thirty minutes to do his hair, but those are little obstacles.
Zach, on the other hand, answers the door looking completely flustered. “Come in, come in, hurry,” he blurts out, and all but drags Dylan inside.
When they get to Zach’s room, Dylan gets a second to take him in. The headband pushing back his hair, the brush in his hand, the mess of products scattered across his bathroom counter.
He says, “What are you—“
“I hit snooze on my alarm, like, ten times,” Zach explains. He glides the brush over a pocket-sized square with some sort of product in it before swiping it over the tops of his cheeks, his chin, his forehead.
“It’s five, how did you even manage that?”
“Don’t ask,” Zach says, huffing. He brushes the same product over his cupid’s bow and underneath his brows, and Dylan has no idea how to actually keep up with this.
“And, uh,” he starts, leaning against the doorframe, “This is what?” He picks up the product, surrounded by a multitude of others.
Zach looks at him like he’s stupid, twisting his mouth to the side. He looks—really good.
“Highlight, Dylan. Don’t ask stupid questions.”
Dylan watches him pick up something else, something totally different. He can’t name it off the top of his head, but it’s a few shades darker. Zach uses an angled brush.
“Okay,” he says, slowly. “How long has this been a thing?”
Zach hands him another look. The same judgemental eyes, the same pursed lips. “Did you honestly think I was born with perfect, flawless skin,” Zach says flatly, and the corners of his lips tip up slightly. “Stop, I’m gonna laugh and I haven’t set anything yet, it’ll crease.”
Dylan watches him for another moment, watches how careful he is. And he listens to him talk about how excited he is for the ball, how thankful he is that Dylan’s here, and.
Dylan can’t stop looking at him.
...
Zach’s pretty.
Like, objectively, he was already hot. But done up like this, the makeup isn't super obvious, but Dylan knows. He wants to feather a finger against his cheekbones. He wants to press his lips to his jaw and admire him. He wants. He wants a lot.
But it’s like yearning to touch a precious piece of art. He just doesn’t.
Zach plays some music on his phone. It’s slow, romantic, definitely something that’ll play tonight. He looks at Dylan and smiles. His tux is neat, his hair gelled, and everything about him is gorgeous.
He steps into Dylan’s space and settles two hands on his waist. His skin buzzes underneath the weight of them.
“Okay, now what?”
Dylan swallows, slow. His pulse is beating hard in his throat and he can barely string together the words to speak. “Alright,” he says, and puts his hands on Zach’s shoulders. “Just. Just follow what I do, and then you can try leading.”
For the most part, it doesn’t go well.
There’s an ad halfway through the first song and Zach steps on Dylan’s foot, but he apologizes frantically and keeps trudging forward. Just to step on his foot again, or nearly lose his balance, or mess up his steps.
But then the next song comes on, and after three minutes of fumbling, Zach falls into step with him without having to constantly look down. He cracks a little smile at Dylan and opens his mouth to say something, but Dylan blurts, “I’ll follow you now, yeah? This’ll be a little easier for you.”
“Oh, right. Yeah.” He glances down at their feet. “Um.”
“Don’t overthink it,” Dylan tells him. “Really, you were doing good.”
Zach nods and meets his eyes. “Okay,” he says. The next song plays. “Okay.”
...
Dylan’s still on edge when he picks up Olivia. When she says, “Wow, you actually look presentable,” and he responds, “You’re not too bad yourself,” all on auto-pilot. She’s beautiful and happy and he wishes he could set everything else aside to lead with that.
She jokes around with him all the way to the ball, but Dylan can still feel Zach’s hands on his waist. He can still hear the music. He’s still stuck in that one moment and he doesn’t know how exactly he’s supposed to pull himself out.
“Pretty sure there’s a rumour going around that Alex is going to spike the punch bowl,” Olivia says, as they walk into the banquet hall. “I doubt he’ll actually do it, but that’s something to look forward to.”
Dylan laughs, hoping it doesn’t come out too grating. “I thought Tuch was suspended.”
“Right? No clue.”
He doesn’t see Zach once they get inside. Not that he’s looking. Not that it should even matter.
...
He spends most of the night around Olivia’s group of friends and their dates. They take up one of the larger tables and shoot the shit, everything else far behind them.
Someone’s complaining about the shitty music choice when Dylan excuses himself to go to the bathroom, slipping away mostly unnoticed. He tells himself it’s to make sure his hair is holding up, but he knows it’s because he’s getting antsy sitting around doing nothing.
He hasn’t drank any alcohol, as if the administration would allow it, but the room sways just a little underneath him as he walks. It’s a lot harder to find his way out without bumping into someone because of it. He makes a mental note to kick Alex’s ass.
Dylan’s still living in the quiet buzz when he gets into the bathroom, but it’s almost completely knocked out of him once he sees Zach.
Zach, up on the counter with a paper towel pressed to his thigh and his phone in his hand.
“Hey,” Dylan says, trying not to look relieved at finally finding him.
Zach looks up, blinking at him. “Oh, hey.”
“What’s with—“ Dylan gestures to the paper towel.
“Noah knocked my punch over because he’s an asshole.”
Dylan sits up on the counter next to him. “Don’t drink the punch,” he says. “But I guess it doesn’t look too bad. You’re lucky you’re not wearing white.”
Zach lifts the paper towel off and tosses it towards the trash can. It doesn’t miss because of course it doesn’t.
“Plus,” Dylan adds, “shouldn’t you be out dancing with Noelle? That practice couldn’t have been for nothing.”
“Right.” Zach stares straight ahead, watching one of the bathroom stalls. “I haven’t seen her too much, she’s mostly just been with her friends. I don’t think she likes the guys.”
“That’s because everyone you hang out with is literally unbearable.”
“Including you,” Zach says. When he looks over, there’s a hint of a smile on his lips.
Dylan lets his eyes linger on the line of his mouth. Maybe for a moment too long because Zach asks, “how come you’re here?”
“Needed a break,” Dylan admits. “Being out there for longer than thirty minutes is. A lot.”
“Yeah, yeah, I get it. You hate people.”
“Not as much as I hate you.”
Zach hops off the counter. “Sure,” he says, and his eyes bunch at the corners when he smiles big at him. “Come drop by our table, I’m gonna blow up your phone until you do.”
Dylan watches him leave and suddenly feels exhausted.
...
He doesn’t drink anymore punch for the rest of the night, because he’s pretty sure he’s a designated driver. Still, he sees Zach clinking glasses with Jack from across the room and inwardly groans.
“Want me to grab you some?” Olivia asks from next to him.
“Oh, um, no thanks.” He tries offering her a kind smile. It feels out of place and practiced. “Actually, would it be cool if I went over there for a minute?“
Olivia says, “Yeah, yeah, go, it’s a party.” And Dylan starts walking off just in time for one of her friends to grab her hand and shriek something about taking photos.
Dylan feels guilt sitting heavy in his stomach, but it smooths out when he catches Zach’s eye.
He waves him over and drops his hand to pat the chair next to himself. “I knew you’d come,” Zach says, nudging his arm playfully. He’s a little too loud, even over the music, but it‘s sweet.
There’s already a conversation flowing that Dylan just has to sink into. Something about video games that he doesn’t play, but probably has some sort of an opinion about.
Occasionally, Zach throws in a comment, but it’s mainly an argument between Jack and Noah.
It’s nothing new. It’s nothing new. And then it’s suddenly Zach’s hand on his thigh, under the table, safely out of sight. He says something to Noah, but it comes out sounding like white noise.
Dylan doesn’t shift. Maybe that’s what sets this apart from some sort of miscommunication. He doesn’t even turn his head to look at Zach, maybe throw him some sort of inquiry. But he’s thinking about it the entire time. It’s just his hand, but it’s heavy like an anvil. Or like the brand of his fingers against his waist. Always, always something little.
It doesn’t take long for Zach to glance at him and Dylan just barely catches his gaze before it dips. Then, he pulls back. The loss of warmth is painfully noticeable.
“I gotta make a phone call,” Zach announces, and gets up immediately. He’s not looking at Dylan. “Give me a second.”
He hurries off, as normal. Finds his way out. Doesn’t bump into a thing.
Noah says, “Larks, who you got for the playoffs this year? Not still a Wings fan, are you?”
Dylan sees Zach’s phone still sitting on his chair and slips it into his pocket before any sort of second thought. “Sorry, I gotta go to the bathroom, hold on,” he stutters out.
Noah blinks at him and Dylan just barely makes it out quickly enough to avoid questioning.
...
“What the fuck,” he demands, the second he sees Zach waiting in the hallway. He holds out his phone for him and Zach reaches for it nearly shamefully.
“What?”
“You know what,” he says.
Zach’s eyes rake over him and then the room, as if to make sure nobody else is anywhere near them. “Are you mad?”
Dylan can feel his mouth go dry. “You can’t just do that,” he says uselessly, for lack of anything better to say
Zach edges closer to him. He’s standing straighter and Dylan can‘t find it in himself to keep breathing, let alone move.
Zach tips his head to the side. It’s almost frustrating how beautiful he looks, even under the hallway’s poor lighting. “You gonna punch me?”
“No.”
“So, I wasn’t wrong.”
Dylan feels the muscles in his face tighten. “Zach, look.” He doesn’t know what else to add to that, how to make the bleeding stop, so he freezes up embarrassingly quickly.
Zach‘s silent, like he’s gauging every emotion in his face. Every twitch of his brows, every little tell. He keeps watching.
Then, he asks, “Can I kiss you?” Which. Is much different than anything Dylan was planning on offering.
“Shut up, man. Fuck off.”
Zach doesn’t laugh, doesn’t smile, doesn’t do anything that would make this out to be some kind of joke.
Instead, he sets a hand on Dylan’s shoulder and like that, the tiny height difference between them feels stupidly obvious. “You’re telling me no?”
“I,” Dylan starts. Stops. He doesn’t know what he’s telling him.
“Yeah?”
Dylan swallows anything he could possibly say, anything he could use to fuck this entire situation. And he takes a hand and fists it in Zach’s jacket.
Maybe it’s the liquid courage boiling hot in his veins that gets him to lean forward to kiss him. It could be the very same thing that gets Zach to wrap a hand around the back of his neck, holding Dylan in place.
Dylan presses into him and he wants to get closer, closer, closer. He wants the taste of Zach’s cherry chapstick embedded on his tongue.
He doesn’t know whether they’d be able to pull away in time if someone opened the door to the hallway. Or whether or not they’d even hear it, but Dylan doesn’t care. Not right now. Not when his entire world is Zach and his pretty mouth and the way his hand on the back of his neck is so, so warm.
It takes a while to start thinking straight. He’s not sure how long exactly, but when Dylan’s common sense comes drifting back to him, he tilts his head away.
“We should go back inside,” he says reluctantly.
Zach rests his forehead against Dylan’s temple. He can feel his breath against his jaw in shallow puffs.
“Shit.” Zach drops his hand and moves back. He’s smiling. “I totally forgot.”
“You don’t sound so apologetic.”
“Maybe I’m not.”
If you hadn’t seen them, you’d never be able to tell what Zach had just been doing. He still looks perfectly put together, still gorgeous, still Zach. Dylan doubts he can say the same for himself.
“Inside,” Dylan says. “You first, so no one’s suspicious.”
“Ugh,” Zach groans, but he starts walking. Because he’s sweet like that. “I’ll see you.”
“I know you will.”
...
Dylan doesn’t end up slow dancing with Olivia, but he does end up fucking around on the dance floor with a couple of his friends before the night is over. And Olivia laughs, big and bright, when Dylan offers to give Noah a lap dance, who agrees almost immediately.
Her hair’s thrown up into a bun when they end up back in his car. They drive back in relative silence, with the music on the radio playing softly.
Dylan’s phone goes off a couple times, but he waits to check it. He knows who it is.
...
“Better than last year, right?” She asks, when they pull up to her house.
“Yeah,” Dylan agrees. “Better.”
...
Dylan waits outside Zach’s house with his phone out and he keeps staring at the text he’d opened. come by my place, it says. Nothing more. Nothing less. He hadn’t known what Zach wanted when he opened it and he still doesn’t.
Dylan’s flicking through Instagram stories when he hears the patter of knocking against his window. Zach waves at him from outside.
“You wanted to see me?” Dylan asks, stepping out of his car.
“Well.” Zach pulls his phone out and hands it to Dylan. “I never actually got to slow dance tonight, and. If you could choose a song, we could do that.”
”Really?”
Even under the dull glow from the street lamp, Dylan can see Zach’s face bloom spots of pink. The light shimmers against his skin. “Yeah. And I promise I won’t step on your toes.”
“That’s pretty huge coming from you.”
“You suck. You actually suck.”
“But that’s why you like me.” Dylan presses play on a song and sets it on top of his car. He doesn’t know how to take this seriously. “Ready?”
Zach’s hands almost immediately go to his waist and Dylan can feel flowers sprouting in his chest. He smiles and plants his hands on Zach’s shoulders. They’re closer this time. Dylan can fit his face along the crook of Zach’s neck and steal the heat peeling off of him.
They fall together easily, moving with the grainy music from Zach’s phone. It’s cold out, Dylan can see his own breath, but he feels good. He’s happy. He kisses the skin on Zach’s neck, and his jaw, and when Zach catches his lips he can barely keep down the smile that tugs at his mouth.
“You’re cold,” Zach says, voice laced with concern.
“It’s worth it,” Dylan says, and even the quiet whisper between the two of them sounds too loud. “I wanna stay right here. Just like this.”
They’re on a residential street dotted with Christmas lights and family owned homes, but somehow this feels like their own moment. Just for them.
Zach’s eyes are soft and Dylan wishes he could take a picture of him, of how the moonlight seems to grow brighter on his face.
He says, “Then we’ll stay right here.” And the way it makes Dylan feel could never make it onto a camera.
The piano playing from his phone sounds far enough away that it feels like they’re the only two people on the planet. It’s silly, maybe, but when Dylan looks at Zach and he knows he has this, he feels like he’s on top of the world.