The dandelions had taken over the backyard again, soft bursts of yellow scattering across uncut grass.
Dewey liked to think of them not as weeds but as messengers - symbols of things both fleeting and resilient. He sat among them that morning, fingers stained with charcoal dust, sketching Eliot's profile from a recent memory: eyes tilted toward sky, brow slightly furrowed in thought.
Luca hadn't texted. It had been weeks. Dewey replayed their kiss sometimes - at night, when everything slowed down - wondering if it was an accident wrapped in courage, or something meaningful briefly lit by rain. He missed the maybes of it. But his thoughts kept curving back toward Eliot, steady and grown and warm.
It was Eliot who found him in the garden that afternoon, sprawled beside a half-crushed bloom.
"You always this poetic, or is it just dandelion season?" he teased.
Dewey laughed, heart kicking. "I think it's contagious."
Eliot crouched beside him, legs folding with ease, and reached for the sketchbook. He turned its pages slowly, lingering on unfinished shapes, Luca's outline, the soft sketch of Dewey's own hands.
"You draw yourself," Eliot murmured. "That's brave."
Dewey shrugged. "Sometimes I forget who I am unless I see it on paper."
They sat in silence, cicadas rising around them like distant applause.
Then Dewey did something surprising - even to himself.
"I think I've wanted to kiss you," he said, voice low, trembling at its own audacity.
Eliot looked at him for a long moment. His expression wasn't startled or unsure. Just deeply, quietly present. "Is that a want or a maybe?"
"A maybe I keep drawing over," Dewey whispered.
Eliot didn't move immediately. He set the sketchbook down gently on his lap. Then, with the slowness of someone cupping light between their hands, he leaned in.
The kiss was barely a kiss - more an exhale shared, a brush of lips soft as dandelion fluff. It didn't rush or burn. It settled. It filled a corner of Dewey's chest he hadn't known was waiting.
When they pulled back, Eliot smiled, still close. "That was very you."
Dewey blushed. "You mean messy?"
"I mean honest," Eliot said.