Lenny grabbed his arm, his slender fingers wrapping around Nero’s wrist like molten silkworms. “I’m worried about me too. I’ve never felt like this . . . so out of control. I swear, you’re the only thing keeping me sane.”
Nero’s heart skipped a beat, though the irony of Lenny’s statement hit him like a truck. He might be good for Lenny’s sanity, but what about his own? What about the bolts of electricity shooting up his arm, charged by Lenny’s touch? Or the gut-wrenching desire to take Lenny in his arms and shelter him from every fear that stood between them? “I can’t fix what I don’t understand.”
“Nero—”
“Mate, I’m not asking you to tell me. I just— I want to help, okay? But you can’t kill yourself in here twenty-four-seven. It ain’t right.”
Lenny’s teeth dug harder into his bottom lip. “So what do I do? I can’t sit up in the flat by myself— I’ll go mad.”
“I know. I’ve got some ideas. I can tell you about them later, if you fancy helping me test the sourdoughs?”
Lenny’s expression brightened. Over the last few weeks, he’d appeared to become fascinated by the bubbly doughs Nero was brewing for the Vauxhall project, and had taken on the gluten-free starters as his own. “Is the spelt one ready for pizza yet?”
“Maybe. Get cleaned down and we’ll take a look.”
Midnight found them knocking the air out of huge bowls of spelt dough and rolling it into small, pizza-sized balls.
Lenny groaned as he covered the trays with damp tea towels. “You’re such a tease. Do we really have to leave them another twenty-four hours?”
“Yup. That tray over there is gonna go forty-eight. We’re fermenting it, remember?”
“Yeah, yeah, letting the natural yeast work and all that crap. It had better be fucking epic when it finally turns into a pizza.”
“First one was, wasn’t it?”
“Exactly. What makes you think leaving it out for two days is gonna make that heaven on a plate better?”
“You’ll see.”
Nero didn’t have the energy to explain the magic of sourdough to Lenny again. The dough would have to do the talking. He wiped up some stray flour, then pulled his damp bandana from his head. “Beer?”
Of course they had beer. It had become their nightly ritual to round off their workday with a few beers and a smoke. It meant neither one of them was sleeping more than a few hours a night, but Nero’s growing fatigue seemed a small price to pay for those quiet moments with Lenny.
They went to the fire escape. Nero rolled up while Lenny cracked open bottles of Estrella and a packet of Fruit Pastilles.
“Where do you get all that sugary shit?” Nero wondered aloud, because it wasn’t like Lenny was going out and buying it.
“Steph gets them for me.”
“Steph?”
“Yeah, it’s only you she hates. She’s quite nice really.”
“Steph doesn’t hate me.”
“No? Why are you so horrible to each other, then?”
“Why do you think?”
“Oh.” Lenny frowned. “She’s your ex?”
Nero snorted. “If shagging her once makes her that important.”
“Don’t be a cunt. It doesn’t suit you.”
“No?”
“No.” Lenny’s troubled frown deepened. “I’ve gotta say, though, I’m shocked. Steph’s pretty fit and all that, but I’d kind of assumed . . .”
