Page 127 of Under Construction

"You and Chris." Jason shifts his weight. "Have you heard from him today?"

Dennis’s fingers tighten on his tablet. "He had an early inspection."

"Right." Jason studies his shoes. "Well, he's not answering his phone, and your dad doesn't like to be kept waiting..."

Dennis tries Chris's number three times before calling his father. "We'll come tomorrow."

"Of course you will," his father's voice drips acid. "When your site manager decides to grace us with his presence. This is exactly the kind of unprofessionalism I've come to expect from your... staffing choices."

The words hit like slaps but Dennis swallows his response. Where the fuck is Chris?

Near closing, Chris appears in Dennis’s doorway. Dark circles shadow his eyes, his face drawn—like someone who hasn’t seen a bed in days, despite leaving the apartment before dawn.

"Where the hell were you?" Dennis barely contains his anxiety about tomorrow's meeting, knowing how his father gets.

"Phone's fucked up."

Right on cue, Chris's phone rings. He jumps.

"Seems to be working just fine," Dennis says dryly.

"It's these fucking telemarketers calling at all hours." Chris's voice rises. "Short of changing my number again—" He cuts off, jaw tight.

Dennis isn’t sure if he's angry at the supposed telemarketers or at being caught in the lie.

"We have a meeting tomorrow with my father."

Chris goes still. "I'm not going."

"We have to."

"Pulling rank?"

"My dad is."

"Fine. But I'm not wearing a tie."

"Wouldn't expect you to." The words come out harder than Dennis intends, less fond exasperation at Chris's rebellious streak and more like bitter resignation at his perpetual difficulty.

That night, they barely speak. No kisses, no touches. Chris stares at nothing while Dennis watches his back.

Finally, Dennis curls himself over Chris, arm sliding around his waist.

Like always, Chris's fingers find his, intertwining them. A deep sigh escapes him as his muscles unwind against Dennis’s chest.

Dennis presses his lips to Chris's shoulder. Chris squeezes his hand.

What's Chris dealing with that he can't share? More importantly, why won't he?

Morning brings familiar emptiness when Dennis wakes alone, now mixed with dread. He paces his office, waiting for Chris to show for their meeting.

When Chris arrives, his usual tank top has been swapped for a proper button-down shirt, though true to his word, no tie.

"Ready?" Chris's voice sounds hollow, though he manages a small smile despite the dark circles deepening under his eyes.

The drive downtown is silent. Chris's fingers drum the steering wheel, his expression stormy as he stares ahead.Dennis’s hands rest alone on his own thighs where Chris's palm usually warms them.

The elevator climbs endlessly. Chris's shoulders stay rigid, hands buried in his pockets. When Dennis’s hand brushes his, he shifts away. Something in Dennis’s chest cracks at the deliberate distance.

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