Not Afraid

"YOU LEFT her at my place?" Tad asked, his eyes wide, and Guthrie's determined swallow was his answer.

"Man, they kicked her out," Guthrie said defensively. "They kicked her out, and you know what? Just the fact that she ain't—hasn't used while she lived there is probably a testament to how strong your sister really is. Tad, that place was awful. I mean… it was awful . I hated it—that woman was pure meanness. April…. God, you should have seen her. By the time I dropped Chris off at home after he brought the SUV over, she'd redone the bed and put up curtains and found boxes for her craft stuff. She's… she's happy there. And I promised I'd come up and get you, right?"

In the end, Tad stayed in the hospital for four days, which was some sort of record, even with a shot in the ass. When Guthrie returned, the caveat was that if he could stay fever free overnight, they would load him up on painkillers and he'd be free to return home and resume care with his regular physician. Tad would miss the people in Colton. Aaron had visited every day, and while Larx was still in a darkened, quiet room, Tad had been given ten minutes to visit to at least thank the guy for everything he and his kids had done.

And the kids had visited too. Maureen, Aaron's middle child, had gone back to her home in Southern California, but the entire "passel of teenagers" Guthrie had told him about had come to visit in various configurations, often with food not spawned in a hospital. Tad hadn't been allowed to be lonely, and he hadn't been allowed to fret over his sister or his gun-shy boyfriend (Were they there yet?) or any of the other things that would have ridden him.

Which was why on the afternoon Guthrie returned, the news that April had been kicked out of her halfway house because she'd come to make sure Tad was okay was something of a shock.

But freaking out was hard to do with Guthrie sitting right next to his bed, looking tired and worried and so, so good.

"Yeah," Tad said, taking a breath. "I shouldn't lose it. I'm sorry. She's just… I've been worrying over her for so long, I don't know if I'll ever stop."

Guthrie reached out nervously and took his hand, patted his knuckles with little strokes. "She's fragile," he said after a minute. "I can see that. But she thinks the world of you. You've got to know that. I… I just couldn't beg for her place back, T. I couldn't. It's… the girl deserves some pride, and that woman, that place—they'd suck all the pride out of a person." He gave a quick little smile. "I hooked her up to your Wi-Fi and told her to search for animal shelters, maybe find herself a cat or something. It… it made her light up. I hope that's okay."

Tad nodded and turned his palm over, seizing Guthrie's hand firmly and trying to ease his anxiousness. "That's real good," he said and then frowned. Something had hit him while Guthrie had been gone, something Guthrie hadn't mentioned once. "Hey, how's work dealing with your absence? Are you on leave or vacation or something?"

Guthrie glanced away, and Tad saw his Adam's apple work silently. "Something like that," he muttered, and Tad's dawning horror couldn't be contained.

"They fired you?" he asked, wishing he could sit up. But he still had stitches in his backside.

Guthrie shrugged, and his gaze met Tad's briefly before it flickered away. "Boss was an asshole. Who knew, right?"

"Oh, Guthrie," Tad said, absolutely distraught. "You… you lost your job for me?"

Another shrug, and this time his gaze lingered. "It was a shitty job," he said bluntly. "That asshole was mean about your sister, mean about music—how can anybody be mean about music? I swear to God he almost ripped out the sound system when he recognized a Seth Arnold number, because how dare they play gay shit over his stereo?" Guthrie shook his head. "Nope. I got my bennies for six months, and I can find something else. Something that doesn't feel like selling my soul to work. It'll be fine."

"But what about your rent?" Tad asked.

"That's no worries—at least not for a couple of months," Guthrie said confidently. "Kelly's little sisters are living there until the end of August. I mean, I get the couch if I need it—they know I'll be in and out. But I'll be doing the little gigs at Scorpio and going to Sac to check on you—"

"Stay with me," Tad blurted. "At least until… until you get your shit sorted. But… but we haven't had any time. Maybe this will give us some time. To, you know, be together together. I…. Guthrie, you've done all this for me. Can you stay with me a little and give me a chance?"

Oh God. Oh God, he'd said it. The thought had been bubbling over in the back of his brain that this man needed him as much as he needed Guthrie—it had been a ledge, a cliff that he'd been afraid to jump off, but he'd said it. He'd said, "Stay with me," and he'd meant it.

Guthrie gave him an almost embarrassed smile. "I could help for a while," he acknowledged, and for a moment Tad was hurt. He wanted to scream I don't need your help , I need you. And then it hit him— really hit him—who the man he'd fallen so hard, so fast for, truly was.

Proud.

Guthrie had a streak of pride in him. It had let him see what Tad had not: that April's halfway house had stripped her of her pride. But it also meant Guthrie—who was between jobs and used to going hungry to drive to gigs and ready to drop his life on a dime to help out a friend or an obviously distraught woman or complete strangers who seemed to be doing good works— that Guthrie needed to feel like he brought something to the table.

Something more than a guy who would do all that and was worth so much more than a rent check or a truck that may or may not continue to run.

"I could definitely use the help," Tad told him seriously. Help getting you to fall in love with me enough to forsake your damned pride.

Guthrie nodded, pleased with the idea. "I could do that," he said. "I could…."

Tad brought Guthrie's knuckles to his lips and kissed them gently. "Good," he murmured. "Because I want to see what it's like to have you in town." In my house. In my bed. In my life.

Guthrie rolled his eyes, but that didn't disguise the flush that blotched his neck. "There's a thousand other guys in the same town," he muttered.

"Maybe," Tad conceded. "But how many of them can make me cry with one damned song?"

The flush intensified, and Tad saw a smile start at the corner of his mouth. "I thought I wasn't playing that song anymore."

"Any song," Tad murmured. "Any song can make me cry."

"Stop," Guthrie mumbled. "You know my button, and you keep pushing."

"That's the idea," Tad told him. "But I'll leave you alone for now on one condition."

"Sure," Guthrie said, giving a sigh of obvious relief. "What do you want?"

"One thing. Anything. Tell me something personal about you. The name of the first boy you kissed. Where you grew up. Family pets. How you knew you liked music. Parents' names. Anything."

Guthrie shifted uncomfortably, and Tad knew without pushing even a little bit that he was regretting the bargain. Guthrie's eyes moved to the right as he probably sifted through facts, looking for the smallest, most innocuous thing he could say that would reveal as little as possible.

Tad decided to cut that off at the pass.

"My mother's name was Lucy Hawkins, and my father, Charlie, died when April was a baby. I don't remember him at all. She was a dental hygienist and raised us with a lot of laughter and a lot of vinyl albums. I was probably the only kid in my class who could sing Judy Collins, and believe me, that didn't make me a tiny bit less gay. Your turn."

Guthrie scowled. "God. Fine. I grew up in a tiny town by Monterey. My mom took off when I was three, and my dad and Uncle Jock did most of my raising. They were honky-tonk musicians, and they made me pick up a tambourine when I was seven, the drums a few years later. I picked up the guitar on my own, but they didn't let me play 'cause that was their jobs in the band. All the guitar work you see me do is my own practice. It's mine. I got ownership of that, so there you go."

Tad sucked in a breath at the almost angry recital, and suddenly so much about Guthrie became clear—including his pride. Forced to pick up an instrument when he was a little kid? Well, he would earn his own damned way forever after, wouldn't he? Wouldn't let him play the guitar because that was a man's job? Well Tad's boy was going to prove he was a man, dammit. He was .

Tad nodded, smoothed the back of Guthrie's knuckles again, and decided that was a start. He smiled slightly. "Know any Judy Collins?" he asked, feeling sleep creeping up on him.

Guthrie leaned forward and smoothed Tad's hair from his forehead. "Yeah," he said, voice gentler. Then he opened his mouth and sang "Both Sides Now," and the song—written by Joni Mitchell—was almost as heartbreaking as "Long, Long Time," but that was okay. Tad's eyes may have burned and his throat gone a little achy, but he fell asleep clutching Guthrie's hand and smiling, ever so slightly, to himself.

THE NEXT day, Aaron and Larx saw him off after he'd been released from the hospital. Larx's daughter, Olivia, begged them to stay another night, and Guthrie put her off with a wink and a smile, saying they had to go check on April, which was nothing but the truth. But when Guthrie fled the room to go pick up Tad's prescriptions, Tad called her over.

"You look worried," he said.

She shook her head, smiling at her father, who was still pale and pained, having just been released that morning himself. "Just… careful," she said softly. "You know Guthrie lost his job, right?"

"For what?" Larx asked, surprised.

"For leaving work to come check on Tad," Aaron filled him in.

Tad nodded. "He just told me," he said and then grimaced at Olivia. "I can't believe he told you."

"I kept wandering in on him when he was having uncomfortable conversations," she said dryly. "By the way, you should have heard your boy defend your sister to the awful woman who runs her halfway house."

"Ran," Tad said dryly. "That's why we have to go check on her. April's living with me now, because Guthrie didn't have the heart to send her back there." He smiled fondly. "April is probably much better off for it, so it's not a bad thing."

"I'm just saying," Aaron told him. "If you want to come work for me, we've got a couple of good venues up in Truckee where he could play. There's cafes and roadhouses, and it's all very artsy, and if he's looking for something bigger, there's always Tahoe."

"I'd go listen to him," Larx said wistfully. "After that serenade the night we were in the canyon, I could listen to him play for a week."

Tad grinned at him. Apparently, praising Guthrie's playing was a way into Tad's list of friends, which had grown considerably since he and Aaron had fallen into a canyon together.

"I could listen to him play for ever ," he said pointedly, and then he lost some of his bravado. "I just need to get him to take the gig."

Olivia nodded. "Be… patient," she said after a moment. "Just…." And like April had, she made that indeterminate gesture around her chest.

Tad wasn't stupid; he knew they were trying to warn him without warning him.

"Too late to be careful," he said softly. "I'll have to be patient instead."

The others nodded, and Guthrie walked in, small brown bag of antibiotics and painkillers borne proudly aloft. "And with this, my lady and gentlemen, Detective Hawkins and I can be on our way."

THE FIRST week back was uncomfortable and woozy and exhausting, and Tad didn't remember much of it besides Guthrie or April bringing him his medication and changing his bandages, a thing that he hated having them do but that they didn't seem to mind much, either of them. There was a lot of falling asleep in front of the television while sitting on a donut pillow specially placed so he didn't put pressure on his wound, coupled with playing with his tablet while he lay on his side in his own bed. Everything hurt, he could barely go to the bathroom by himself, and it felt like all of his energy went into not ripping the faces off the two people who were running around taking care of his apartment and taking him to the doctor visits and generally babysitting his stupid wounded ass without whining about it, so he tried not to whine either.

Tad freely admitted he would have had a hell of a time without April and Guthrie, a thing made very apparent when Guthrie left to play his two-day gig with his band.

It wasn't until he left that Tad realized that a) Guthrie had been sleeping on the couch since he'd gotten back, and b) he didn't know whose couch Guthrie was sleeping on now .

Suddenly he wasn't toodling around on his tablet anymore; he was talking to the guy who'd been pretty much unpaid labor in his home with absolutely zero emotional returns.

I'm sorry—you left while I was napping. I forgot to ask who you're staying with.

My old apartment—I get the couch, the girls get the room. They're fun roommates. Apparently, their brother taught them how to cook, because I'd get fat here if I lived here all week.

Tad smiled faintly, knowing it wasn't true. Not much could make Guthrie fat. Too much restless energy in his body—even when he wasn't taking care of Tad, he was always flicking his wrists, like he was drumming a set or fingering imaginary fretwork or frowning over lyrics only in his head. Tad had never realized how consuming music could be for a musician until he'd zoned off into space for an hour next to Guthrie and realized the man had spent the hour drumming his favorite Led Zeppelin songs while mouthing the lyrics, and doing it with so much passion, his hair was drenched in sweat.

Why are there girls in your apartment again?

Because Seth and Kelly are buying their parents a house on the West Coast while also buying one for themselves and the kids on the east coast, and Seth's stretched a little thin. He's world-class, but that doesn't mean made of money.

Tad had heard a lot about Seth and Kelly since he and Guthrie had started dating. He knew Seth had played with Guthrie's band with his father and knew he was famous as a pop-culture violinist, but for the first time Tad got a pang of jealousy when he saw the name in print.

Yes, but why you?

Because we got each other's backs , Guthrie replied, and Tad could hear him saying it. Such a simple thing, but knowing there was more behind it.

Explain that , he insisted.

Well, like we've gotten mugged together often enough to know how to fight back-to-back.

Tad saw that and actually shuddered, remembering the last time Guthrie had gotten mugged. Oh God. It had sucked badly enough then , but now Tad was having a retroactive panic attack.

Is he a good fighter?

He fights with his legs to protect his hands. I once watched him dislocate three knees in one fight. It was pretty impressive.

Tad found he was grinding his teeth. Bully for him , he typed and then regretted sending it. He was being an ass.

Go ahead , Guthrie replied. Ask me.

Tad caught his breath, and suddenly he couldn't do this in text anymore, and he hated that he didn't think to have this conversation until Guthrie was down in San Rafael.

He hit call without a second thought.

Guthrie's face appeared, and he seemed to be sitting on his couch, his phone resting on his bent knees. As the image came into focus, he was covering his mouth as he let out a giant yawn, and Tad recalled his day and the fact that he'd just driven three hours to get his equipment, then another hour to get to the venue. Then he'd performed two sets, eaten with his band, and gotten his equipment back to the apartment.

Tired. Tad was having this stupid shitty conversation with him, and Guthrie was weary to the bone.

"I'm sorry," Tad said. "You look like it was a rough night. We can have this conversation another day."

Guthrie blinked hard, like he was trying to wake up, and shook his head. "No worries," he said through another yawn. "It wasn't supposed to be a secret. Yeah, Seth was the one."

"The world-class violinist," Tad said bitterly. He'd actually heard Seth Arnold's music. It was really good, and Tad hated that he liked it so much.

"That's the guy. Went to his wedding in January. You don't got anything to worry about, Tad."

"You were in love with him," Tad said softly. "And you're apparently still a part of his life."

Guthrie blew out a breath. "Yeah, and he's planning a recording session that can keep me in the black for another couple of years while I find a job I don't hate, maybe near you, and put together a band now that this one's going away. And he's a friend. His husband's a friend. We used to all gather together in his tiny little dorm room and watch movies on his laptop, him and Kelly, his friend Amara, her husband Vince. It was, you know, like you probably did in college. Taught me lots, I guess, about having friends that I didn't get in high school."

"Why not?" Tad asked. "Why no friends in high school?"

Guthrie grunted. "'Cause my daddy and Uncle Jock had me on the road most weekends and lot of weeknights to boot," he said. "I barely fuckin' graduated that place, but boy, I knew the name of every bartender between Monterey and San Francisco."

Tad frowned, not sure what to say to that. "Sounds lonely," he said.

And there it was—that Guthrie shrug. The one that said Why are we worried about this when I've got other things to fuss over?

"I didn't think of it like that then," he said. "I was making music. I liked that. Felt grown-up. Important. And Daddy and Jock got drunk most nights. Didn't care who I spent my time with."

"Ah," Tad said. "Lots of boys?"

Guthrie shook his head. "Not at first," he murmured. "Little of both. Then a few more boys. Then the girls started to feel like a lie. Then we hired Seth and…." He sighed. "He's different. His head's up in the clouds most days. But he… he played Christmas music one night. We didn't have a Christmas set worked up, but the crowd was feeling sentimental, and he stepped up and just… played old hymns, and every note was so pure. It made me feel like I had to be a better musician to be on the stage with that much talent, so I got better." That shrug again. "Look, man. We've all got a past, right? You got a guy you lived with that you realized you didn't really love. I got a guy I loved that I kissed once so I'd know what it would feel like when I found that again. I know we haven't kissed a lot , Tad, but I'll tell you something. That one kiss with Seth was worth all your fretting, because I know what a real kiss is. I know that's the sort of kisses I have with you. Is that what you wanted to know?"

"Yeah," Tad said, ashamed and moved and sleepy all at the same time. "That and why we can't have these conversations when we're in the same room."

Guthrie's expression went soft. "Baby, you are still healing. You're falling asleep over your tablet as it is. Put the tablet down, get some sleep, and I'll be at your place the day after tomorrow."

It felt like forever. "April needs to go yarn shopping," Tad mumbled. "She wants you to take her. Is that okay?" He'd been so involved in his own pain he hadn't even seen how Guthrie and April had been getting along.

"'Course it is," Guthrie said, smiling a little. "She sure is a wonder with that, right?"

"I love how you value her," Tad said, not even sure if he was saying it right. "My sister. I… you make her feel important."

"She is," Guthrie said and then yawned, then grimaced. "Baby, can we start this conversation tomorrow night? I love that you were thinking about me, but I'm beat."

"Why don't you sleep in bed with me?" Tad asked baldly, and Guthrie's eyes shot open.

"Because you're hurt and you don't need me thrashing around in there now," he said, but it sounded like he was floundering, and he must have looked left six times since he'd started speaking.

"That's a lie," Tad said on his own yawn. "You want to make sure I'm of sound mind and body before I pull you back into my bed."

"Oh God. Tomorrow night. We'll have this conversation tomorrow night."

"No," Tad said, scowling. "We don't need to have this conversation again because when you come back, you're sleeping in my bed. With me. It's where you belong."

"When you're not wounded," Guthrie said stubbornly.

"No, no, that's not how the rule goes."

"Oh God. It is so past your bedtime."

"I'm not screwing around, Guthrie. I get I've been out of it, and I've been tired and grumpy and drugged, but I finally remembered what I really wanted you here for, and changing the bandages on my ass is not it . Promise me."

"I promise nothing," Guthrie said with dignity. "It's not a carte blanche thing—it's an individual invitation thing. You've got to invite me, every time."

"That's bullshit," Tad said, meaning it.

"Well you don't get to make all the rules," Guthrie replied, looking mulish. "You may have had long-term relationships, but I've had relationships that have to be negotiated by the hour. I don't take an invitation to someone's bed as a lifetime achievement without a ring on it, and even then I think you should have re-ups on that sort of agreement. Like boosters for the flu. A renegotiation to fight off bitterness and self-sabotage. So no. You are going to have to invite me on a case-by-case basis, and that's how things'll stand. Now go to bed."

"We're not done here."

"Tad, you're beat—even I can see your eyeballs swimming."

"I'm not calling this the end."

"Well, can you just call it good night?" he begged in exasperation.

"Fine. Good night, Guthrie. I miss you. See you tomorrow. Have a good set."

"Night, Tad. I miss you too. Get some sleep, baby. You need to heal so you're not so bossy."

Tad snorted, and Guthrie ended the call, and Tad wondered if there was a nice way to assure Guthrie that it wasn't the tiredness that made him bossy, it was the being right and knowing Guthrie was wrong.