“I absolutely would,” Rake lied. He wouldn’t. The risk of DJ’s parents overhearing them was far too horrifying.
DJ smiled softly. “I love you.”
“I love you, too.” Rake stroked his fingers along the sides of DJ’s head, where he’d recently had it shaved, enjoying the fresh, soft feel of it. DJ knew Rake like having enough hair todig his fingers into, so he’d left it longer on top, his natural curl growing out. DJ really was too good to Rake, sometimes.
They stayed like that until they heard Femi shouting up to them about dinner being served. Rake pressed his eyes shut. He didn’t want to have to socialise with anyone other than DJ.
“Stay up here,” DJ said.
Rake shook his head. “I’m hungry. I’ll come down.”
DJ sighed. “If you insist.”
They made their way downstairs together, Rake keeping a possessive hand at the small of DJ’s back as they entered the dining room. Whilst the younger kids in the family were dotted around the massive living room, the adults crowded around the dining table. There were around a dozen between all the aunts and the uncles and the cousins.
Tom—DJ’s dad—darted around, topping up everyone’s drinks. He wore a colourful floral apron that clashed with his pinked-up face. He’d likely fallen asleep whilst sunning himself out in the garden. Femi, in her matching apron, brought out the food, balancing an alarming number of plates in her hands.
A couple of empty seats had been left for Rake and DJ. Rake relaxed a little when he saw they were on the less crowded end of the table, closest to the kitchen. Femi would have organised it that way on purpose, knowing Rake’s preferences.
He half-heard one of DJ’s uncles remarking on the two of them being upstairs alone together for so long. It wasn’t quite disparaging, but Tom was quick to take a potshot at his brother’s recent divorce in retaliation, so Rake let it go.
Lunch was served buffet style, a mix of traditional Englishand Jamaican food to cater to all tastes. It was a veritable feast for both the eyes and stomach: bowls of golden roast potatoes with crisp brown edges; piles of smokey, charred chicken topped with lime wedges; trays of oven-baked veg in reds and yellows and purples and greens. Every inch of space on the table was filled.
Rake piled his plate high with pieces of jerk chicken and leafy veg, careful that nothing was too runny and at risk of touching the other food.
He glanced at DJ’s plate. Lots of veg, and only one measly piece of chicken.
Before he could comment, Femi passed them in a swish of bright fabric and deposited a meat pie onto DJ’s half-empty plate.
“Mum, I didn’t want any more.”
“You love this pie,” she said simply, then moved along to add another pie onto a side plate for Rake. He thanked her, but she shook her head, teeth gleaming as she smiled. “Thank me by enjoying the food.” She only had the barest hint of a Jamaican accent, having lived in England since she was a child.
DJ picked at his plate, eating a third of what he’d taken. DJ’s eating disorder never went away, but he’d been doing well lately. Rake wondered if they should stop going to the club until DJ had it back under control.
“Rake, stop it,” DJ hissed.
“I didn’t say anything,” Rake said under his breath.
“You werestaring.”
Rake tried to tamp down his anger. DJ knew that restricting his intake upset Rake, as much as Rake knew DJ couldn’tcontrol his disorder.
Rake focused back on his own food, keeping his head down and not engaging in any conversation. He didn’t have the mental energy to argue with DJ and make small talk, too.
“I’m sorry,” DJ said after a few long minutes.
Rake softened immediately, putting one hand on DJ’s knee and squeezing. “It’s fine.”
“I was being a brat.”
Rake dug his fingers into DJ’s leg. “You’re always a bit of a brat.”
“You like me like that.”
Rake considered this, then leaned closer to DJ’s ear. “I like that I get to take it out on your ass when you’re a brat.”
“I’m taking that as a promise for later.”
