Not Afraid

TAD'S PARTNER was a nice man. He must have been since Guthrie actually felt a gush of relief when he saw Chris Castro's Hollywood-handsome face peering into his ER cubicle. He was holding Guthrie's trashed phone.

"Guthrie?" Castro said. "You remember me?"

"Yeah," Guthrie mumbled, and then to his chagrin, a beautiful woman with dark hair, dark eyes, and a heart-shaped Latina face peeked in under Castro's arm as he held open the curtain. "My band?" he asked, but then he was interrupted.

"You're Tad's young man," she said, like she knew for sure. "You must be. You're so handsome. No wonder he's smitten."

Guthrie stared at her in horror. "Oh God," he said.

"I'm Laura Castro," she told him, swooping right in toward his bed. "And you and me have to know each other better. LEO spouses need to stick together, you know?"

Guthrie blinked. Spouses? "Oh God," he said again.

"Laura," Castro murmured, his voice pained. "The boy's in shock. Maybe give him some breathing room."

"Tad was sorry he couldn't come," Laura said, ignoring him completely. "But he didn't want you to be alone. Chris got a friend to drive your truck over. Your equipment's all safe. I know musicians—my brother used to play in a band when he was in college. That equipment is your life , you know?"

Guthrie nodded, because he did know. "Thank you," he managed, which was a change from "Oh God."

"So Laura's going to take the SUV home, and I'll drive you back to Sacramento when they let you out," Castro said. "Any idea when that might be?"

Guthrie shook his head, suddenly tired to his bones. "No." He glanced at his shoulder, which was bandaged and aching under the haze of painkillers. "I had to give my statement," he said, feeling dumb. "I couldn't identify shit. Was just trying to make sure Roberta and Neal and Owen were safe. They're safe, right? How was I supposed to know what he looked like? Who checks for birthmarks when they've got a knife on you? Seriously. Another scumbag with a knife. Oh good!" Guthrie chuckled. "A scumbag with a concussion ," he said, satisfaction in his bones. "My guitar case is reinforced . They told me that asshole didn't know his own name."

Castro let out a chuff of air. "Well done. But what about you ?"

Guthrie tried to shrug, hurt his shoulder, and grimaced. "I'll figure it out," he declared, although he was staring dolefully at his phone in Chris's hand. "But I do have my tips, so maybe I could call a cab and go to my apartment in San Rafael. Wait. I could drive now. 'Cause you brought my truck ."

Castro gave him a level look. "And you are high as a kite , and you're driving nowhere tonight."

Guthrie sulked. "He's waiting for me," he told Castro plaintively. "Waiting. For me . I've got to get back to him. You know that, right? I'll figure out a way. You don't need to worry."

"Aw," Laura said, smoothing Guthrie's hair back from his forehead. "No wonder you were so overwhelmed. You're wasted . What did they give you?"

"A teeny tiny bit of fentanyl with a Vicodin chaser," said a voice over Chris's shoulder, and Guthrie looked up to see the seasoned ER veteran who'd treated him coming to check the chart on his bed. "He kept saying he couldn't afford a hospital stay, so we didn't want to knock him out completely."

"My department will pick it up," Castro said, pulling a card from his pocket. "Bill them."

"Thanks," she said. "Give it to the nurse when she comes to check you out in the morning." She gave Guthrie a frustrated glance. "He needs to take it easy. The knife wound is the big thing, but I guess there was quite a scuffle before the other guy broke out the knife."

"Had to make sure they got away," Guthrie said soberly to the pretty woman with her lovely heart in her lovely face.

"They did," the doctor confirmed. "They're the ones who called the cops, because you refused to go until they were safe." She turned to Chris. "Your boy paid the price. There's bruises and contusions. He's going to feel like he got hit by a truck when the pain meds wear off."

"Whee!" Guthrie sang, because he really was sailing.

"Do we have some meds for that?" Chris asked, and Guthrie decided he liked Tad's work wife. He was a great guy.

She ripped off a prescription. "I thought you'd never ask. Will he have help for the next week?"

"Yeah. His boyfriend's healing from his own wound. They can lean on each other when they go to the head," Castro said dryly.

"Well, that's special." She gave Guthrie a stern glare. "I've treated you before," she said. "You've got a healed scar on your hand from two months ago. Is there any way you could avoid darkened parking lots when you're carrying loads of cash?"

"I'm not sure," Guthrie replied, feeling like this was an important question. "Is there any way to get the cash without carrying it to my car?"

She sighed. "Maybe have your boyfriend walk you out next time."

"Lives in Sacramento," Guthrie told her mournfully. "Because I don't get good things. You gonna let me out now, Doc?"

She gave him a level glance. "Mm… I'm going to wait to see how your wound is draining, and we're going to see where your pain level is after the good stuff wears off." She glanced apologetically at Chris and Laura. "I realize that's an inconvenience, but I like to keep an eye on this one."

"No, no, that's fine," Chris said sourly. "It's in the public good to keep kittens out of traffic."

"Right?" she said, and Guthrie scowled.

"You see that?" he confided to Laura. "They're conspiring against me. That's heinous ."

"It's a protector thing," she said, patting his good hand. "They like to make sure the rest of us are okay."

"You can go," he told her. "I'll find my way home." Which home was sort of muddy. All he could picture was Tad's broad face, freckling a little from the sun and the ginger complexion, lighting up when he walked through the door. It did that all the time , he marveled, comfortable in the drug haze. Tad's face. Lit up. When Guthrie said something funny. When he took April to the yarn store. When he came home. When he offered to go walking with Tad. When they were in the pool. Always that lighting up , like Guthrie was the sun when he smiled. Why did it do that? And why couldn't Guthrie clear that face from his vision, even when he was in pain and embarrassed and stoned?

"Oh honey," said the woman over his bed. "I got out of my bed in the middle of the night to bring Chris down here to take care of you. I'll drive back, but there's no way I'm leaving you alone."

He swallowed. "That's very mom of you," he told her soberly. "I got women who want to be my sister and my friend and my roommate and my mom—how does that happen ? Where were all you people when I was eight years old?"

Oh Jesus, had he actually said that?

"Honey," she murmured softly, her hand still stroking his hair back from his forehead. "We heard you crying, but we couldn't find you until now. Do you forgive us?"

His eyes grew hot because he was a whiny little piss-baby pussy, according to his father, but he nodded because he couldn't hurt this nice woman's feelings.

"Sure," he said, because it was easy with her offering comfort. "It's fine. But you don't have to get me home."

"We want to," she whispered. "I think the whole world should be offering to get you home."

He was falling asleep now, and he smiled a little, his eyes at half-mast. "That's a nice thought. I'm stupid, though. I hope I don't get lost."

Her breath caught, and he felt her kiss on the cheek as he dropped off. "Us too," she said. She smelled nice. Like women's things. That had been the only part of pretending to be straight that he'd enjoyed. Smells, like lavender and rosewater and vanilla. So pretty.

"Fresh linen," he murmured, the smell penetrating the hospital antiseptic and letting him relax. "With eucalyptus shampoo." Then he fell asleep.

TEN O'CLOCK the next day, he was in the passenger seat of his own truck while Tad's handsome partner drove him up I-80, looking both grim and bemused.

"Seriously," Guthrie said, head against the window. "If I said anything untoward to your missus, I'd like to apologize."

"No need," Chris said, humor in his voice. "Apparently, you're a complete gentleman even when you're stoned as fuck. She's going to file the papers for adoption any day now. It's fine."

Guthrie snorted and tried not to burst into tears. "I hate hospitals," he muttered. "Sleep like shit."

Chris must have heard something in his voice above the engine noise of the damned truck, though.

"Your pain meds wearing off?"

"No worries," Guthrie told him. If he was going to take a pain pill, he'd need to eat. If he was going to eat, they'd have to pull off the road. If they pulled off the road, that would add fifteen minutes to their time, and right now that time was what was separating him from Tad.

He did not want to stop to take a pain med.

But apparently dads didn't give a fuck what you wanted because Chris gave a grunt and crossed two lanes of traffic to take the next exit.

"Sweet or savory?" he asked as they headed for the outlet malls near Vacaville.

"What?"

"Never mind," Chris decided. "There's an IHOP. We'll get you chicken and waffles and you can have both."

"We can do drive-thru," Guthrie told him.

"No, we can't," Chris said. "I need at least two gallons of black coffee, and you need a meal. Don't argue. My kids all learned how not to argue from the very beginning, but I bet I can train you up."

"You telling me Tad doesn't argue with you?" Guthrie asked peevishly. "Because I've met the man, and he's bossy as fuck."

"Yeah, well, he's a grown-up. When you're grown you can argue." Chris pulled into the parking lot and surveyed the foyer. Apparently satisfied, he parked and chivvied Guthrie into the restaurant.

"Am too a grown-up," Guthrie muttered as Chris took a booth for the two of them. "And I want steak and eggs."

"That's fine," Chris conceded, pulling Guthrie's prescription bottles out of his pocket. "I'm just having coffee because Tad's sister is getting me my favorite burrito for when we arrive. Plus you seem like the type of man who will eat about half your steak and eggs, and I can finish that off to hold me over."

Guthrie gave him an unfriendly look. "Never underestimate how much a musician can eat," he said direly. "Restaurants go broke doing that."

"Fair," Chris told him. "I'll get biscuits and gravy. And then you can tell me why Tad's afraid to ask you to move to Colton."

Guthrie stared at him, so shocked that Chris had to order for the both of them, including coffee and a chocolate milkshake for Guthrie.

The server left, and Guthrie blinked, his brains still scrambled. "Why'd you order me a milkshake?" he asked.

"Because you looked like you needed one. Your brains back in your ears yet?"

"Yeah. I just… did that nice family really ask you both up there to work? Who does that?"

"Nice families, I guess," Chris said, a small smile playing on his lips. "You got to know them when you were up there?"

Guthrie nodded. "Olivia Larkin-McDaniels and I text," he admitted. "She's funny," he added with a small smile. She also read his song lyrics, which, somehow, he hadn't been able to bring himself to show to anybody else in his life—not Seth, not Kelly, not even Tad. The girl didn't just say, "Oh, that's great!" she said, "Maybe a different word here," or, "Are you trying to convey despair or yearning, 'cause they're very different, and I'm getting one instead of the other."

"So you can see the appeal of moving to Colton," Chris asked gently.

Guthrie nodded. "Yeah. I mean, of course. Same job, less stress, and it's gotta feel good, Aaron George wanting you both as a team. I'm… I'm surprised he hasn't told me."

"I don't think he expected a formal offer," Chris said with a shrug. "But Aaron came by the day before yesterday, and I went to Tad's yesterday morning." He stared directly at Guthrie. "Tad and April only had one reservation."

Guthrie swallowed. "We're new," he said defensively. He felt like he'd been saying it a lot since he'd met Tad, but the last three weeks hadn't felt new , they'd felt good , and he was still working that out in his brain. "My life is in flux. I'm losing my band. I lost my job—"

Chris frowned. "Lost your job?"

Guthrie swallowed. "That whole Colton thing," he muttered. "I walked out to take April up there. It's no big deal. I need to do the resume thing and—"

"Well, why not hitch your star to Tad?" Chris asked kindly. "There's worse things than ending up in a new town because of a love affair."

"Because I don't want to ‘hitch my star' to him," Guthrie snapped defensively. "I want him to love me ." He stopped then, so shocked he clapped his hand over his mouth. "I didn't say that," he mumbled from behind his own palm. "You didn't hear that. Can we go now?"

"No," Chris said, definitely bemused. "We can't go now because you still have to eat."

"I… I need to go," Guthrie said. He started to stand up and bumped his arm against the table, which blew a whole shot of pain up to his shoulder, sending him back to his seat. " Dammit !"

"Sit down," Chris said in that stern dad voice that made Guthrie wish for things that were obviously long past having. "Sit down, eat the food when it comes out, and stop panicking. Guthrie, there's no sin in hoping for love. You know that, right?"

"Can I just die?" he asked, covering his whole face with his good hand.

"No. I won't allow it, and Tad would never forgive me. Now see, I started this conversation thinking you weren't as serious about Tad as he was about you, and a little worried about that, but that's not my worry anymore."

"I'm so glad," Guthrie said, not moving his hand.

"My worry is now you. Why would you think Tad wouldn't love you?"

"I do not want to talk about this," Guthrie said plaintively.

"Tough. Take your hand off your face and look at me like a man, son. Talk to me."

Guthrie dropped his hand because it was childish, and he sighed. "Listen, you seem like a really nice guy, but I'm not great at baring my soul—"

"I'll say it again." Chris crossed his arms over his chest. "Tough."

Guthrie scowled at him. "There are things that Tad doesn't know about me because I haven't told him. I have been not a nice person in my past. Not a criminal, but an asshole."

"You mean because you were raised in a small town by rednecks and you were doing shit to survive?" Chris asked, and Guthrie stared at him in horror.

"Get out of my head!" he sputtered, and Chris rolled his eyes.

"Puh-leeze. I know you may not have heard this, but Tad and I are detectives. Which means we're pretty good at sussing out human behavior. Do you think you were the only teenager on the planet to scream out slurs because you were afraid your daddy would figure out you were exactly what he despised?"

"It's like I'm naked," Guthrie muttered, more to himself as he realized the horror would continue.

"Yeah, well, you know what you look like naked?"

"Aren't you straight?" Guthrie asked, but it was a weak attempt at evasion, and they both knew it.

"From a clinical point of view," Chris said, one corner of his mouth turning up. "You look no better or worse than a thousand other guys I've seen who are trying to live a good life with a shitty rule book. Give it up. Give up the guilt. Give up the fear that you'll suddenly be that guy again. You know why you and Tad don't feel new? You gave up the right to be new when you walked out on your job to take care of his sister after a month of knowing each other. You took that relationship through the fire, and it's still strong. Don't be afraid to ask him to love you. He's already there. Be afraid of passing up this opportunity, because from what I can see, son, you haven't had a lot of those in your life, and maybe that's why you don't see this one for what it is."

The server arrived then and deposited a magical meal of carbs, cholesterol, and red meat in front of Guthrie that made him suddenly faint with hunger, and an order of biscuits and gravy that made Chris sigh appreciatively.

"It's like vacation," he said softly, pulling his phone out to do something. "Yup. April's leaving in an hour to get my burrito, and my wife will never know."

"You are lying to that nice woman who drove you down to San Rafael last night?" he asked suspiciously. "Why should I believe you now?"

He scowled at Guthrie. "Because a good marriage is compromise. I've been living on quinoa and pomegranate juice for the last two months. I've earned this. Now shut up and eat your own delicious poison while I enjoy mine."

Guthrie was halfway through his steak and eggs—and starting to see that maybe Chris was right; he wouldn't be able to finish—when something occurred to him.

"Why two months? What happened two months ago?"

Chris stopped in mid chew and washed his bite of biscuits and gravy down with a sip of orange juice. "My wife woke up and said, ‘Wait a minute. Our youngest child is graduating from high school, and you still have ten years to retirement. You had damned well better work at staying alive so we can go to Europe or I will never forgive you.' So we made a pact to take care of ourselves. Yeah, bullets, car wrecks, falling down canyons, yada yada yada, but dammit, cholesterol is not gonna get me."

Guthrie smiled a little. "She's a good woman. You're a smart man."

Chris nodded sagely. "I like to think so. And you and Tad could be just as good for each other. Give it some thought. Now give the rest of that steak and eggs to me and I can tuck April's burrito away for lunch later. Tomorrow I'll be right back on the wagon, and Laura will never know."

THE PAIN pill kicked in almost as soon as they left Vacaville, and Guthrie slept until Chris was pulling up in front of Tad's apartment. Tad and April spilled outside the door and to the sidewalk almost before the truck's engine stopped turning over, which was a good ten seconds after the key was removed.

April caught him in a hug first, gentle and careful of his injury, and then she gave him a peck on the cheek and went to help Chris with the gear in the back. That left him face-to-face with Tad, and he wasn't sure what he would have done, but Tad reached out a shaking hand and pulled the long strands of hair from his eyes.

"You always look so… so lost when you get here," Tad whispered. "Like you're afraid we won't want you."

Guthrie gave a nervous smile. "I'm always glad you do."

Tad nodded and leaned forward, pressing their foreheads together. "Baby, I wish you'd stop scaring me like this. The first time sucked, but this was worse."

Guthrie nodded. "Sorry," he rasped. "I'm—"

"No sorry," Tad said softly. "Just… can we move the rest of your stuff from San Rafael to here? Can you… can you call this home?"

Guthrie closed his eyes and remembered all the things Tad's partner had been trying to tell him. "But you might be moving soon," he said hesitantly.

Tad scowled at Chris, who was striding by cheerfully with Guthrie's drum-set cases in hand. Guthrie saw him smirk and got it. Tad couldn't be mad at the guy who'd brought Guthrie home.

"Then us—consider me and April home," Tad begged. "Can you do that? Even if it's only for a little while, okay?"

Guthrie nodded. "I'd rather it be for a bit," he said dolefully. "Until a wedding in Colton and a studio gig in late August, I'm sort of out of a job."

Tad brushed the bandages on his shoulder. "Good. Stay here. Heal with me. Let's make plans for something bigger. Okay?"

Guthrie nodded. "Okay. Sorry to worry you," he said, and this time Tad let it slide.

"I'm just so glad you're home."

THAT DAY and night he slept like the doctor had ordered him, exhausted and stoned, and the next morning he showered. Tad was down to one bandage on the back of his thigh—he could shower and swim at will. But Guthrie had a long, deep slice in the meat of his shoulder and down his collarbone. He needed a plastic bag to shower and then an hour of napping to recover. And the doctor hadn't been exaggerating about the bruises and contusions.

Guthrie woke up from his after-shower nap to find Tad sitting on the bed next to him, trailing shaking fingers along his bruised ribs, down the swelling of his hip joint, and over more bruises on his thighs. Guthrie reached for the blanket to cover up, but Tad stayed him.

"This was really brutal," he said, voice shaking. "I didn't look this bad after falling off a cliff and into a canyon. Why is this so bad?"

It was on the tip of Guthrie's tongue to say, "To make up for not being shot," but he managed to temper himself.

"I fought back," he confessed. "I… it was our last gig, Tad. That's the last money I'm going to see until the studio thing in August, unless I get a gig bussing tables up here. I just… I needed that money." There was more to it. The money from the first CD was running out, and the lease on the apartment in San Rafael was expiring at the end of August too. Lulu was hoping to keep the apartment—even after Agnes came back to Sacramento for her senior year in high school, Lulu wanted to finish out the program she'd started in the Bay Area, and her sister, Lily, wanted to move down there with her, because the two of them had never liked being separated for long. Guthrie's name needed to be on the lease, otherwise the landlord would hike the rent and the sisters wouldn't be able to afford it. That needed another deposit, and as it was, he didn't have it. The money he'd saved by taking a beating would pay for repairs to his truck and gas for the next month. His savings might take care of food.

"Then get a gig bussing tables!" Tad told him. "Or, you know, let me pay for groceries. April tells me you try to pay for it yourself when you guys go shopping. She's got my card. Let her go. Don't worry about rent here. C'mon, Guthrie, you could have died . I know my knife wounds—this is a lucky shot."

"Like that bullet in your ass?" Guthrie scowled, and Tad let loose a sigh.

"Fair. Just… look. Chris and I helped a guy who owns a restaurant about two blocks from here. Can I, maybe, get you a summer job waiting tables or tending bar, and you can do that for cash while we figure out what we're doing?"

"While you get ready to move?" Guthrie clarified, feeling the hurt.

" We , Guthrie. If it was only me and April, I'd tell you to fire off resumes. I'd let you move back to San Rafael to sleep on your own damned couch. I'm not stupid. You've got marketable skills, man. You can get a better job than that, I know it. But… but if we are going to move, this might be a better option. What do you say?"

"We?" Guthrie asked. His head was still swimmy from pain pills, and damn if he might not have to fall asleep after having this conversation while lying on his back, but even he knew that word was important.

Tad leaned forward and cupped his cheek. "How many times have we made love now?" he asked. "Have you counted?"

Guthrie closed his eyes and tried. The first time, he remembered. The first time after Tad got back—that one was clear too. But there'd been so much in the past three weeks. Honeymooning, in a way, and he knew Tad was celebrating his own healing body. But it was more than that. It was that sometimes "making love" was a quick one-off in each other's fists. Sometimes… sometimes it was what they'd done four nights ago, before he'd gone down to San Rafael, when Guthrie had showered that night after spending the day in the pool and Tad had come into the bathroom when he'd been toweling off. Guthrie had found himself bent over the sink, looking into his own eyes in the mirror, as Tad had settled onto the closed seat of the commode and parted his cheeks and… oh God. He was in pain and embarrassed and tired, but the thought of what Tad had been doing to him that night still made his cock try to swell in anticipation.

Did that count as once? Did what they'd done afterward, Guthrie bent over the bed like he'd been bent over the sink, Tad thrusting inside him with undisguised delight. Did that count as a separate time? The same time? What about when they'd been done and Tad had rinsed off and come to bed, and suddenly Guthrie had needed to taste him, had pulled his cock into the back of his mouth and stroked him to completion, swallowing every bit of come Tad had left?

Did that count as a third time or the same time because it was the same night?

There was no counting.

There was no adding up the times they'd orgasmed versus the times they'd touched versus the times they'd simply kissed in passing as they were walking across the apartment.

"No counting," Guthrie murmured, cheeks heating. "Just touching you counts."

Tad leaned forward and feathered his cheek with gentle lips. "Then it doesn't matter if it's been a long time or a short time," he said. "Sam and I had sex exactly twelve times before we moved in together. He kept a diary so he'd know when it was time to ask."

Guthrie stared at him in horror, and Tad laughed.

"Yeah. I know. It's awful. I can't believe I dated that guy. But it sounded so sensible. Common sense never let me down, right? But that guy wouldn't have walked out of a job to help my sister. That guy wouldn't have literally taken the shirt off his back to let me know I wasn't alone. That guy wouldn't have sung love songs into the starry night sky to give me hope. So maybe that guy isn't the guy I needed. Maybe you're the guy I need. Think about that. Maybe two months with you means a whole lot more than two years with anyone else. Let's find out."

Guthrie felt his mouth twitch even as his eyes drifted shut. "Okay," he mumbled, sleep overtaking him. "Okay."

He felt the bed shift as Tad stood up, and then to his surprise, felt the bed shift behind him. Tad had crawled back in, because on that side of the bed he could lie down facing Guthrie, one hand gingerly spanning his tender midriff.

Guthrie fell asleep feeling safe, and that had to count for something.

TWO MORE weeks. Two mellow, healing, sweet weeks during which taking walks with Tad or trips to the craft store with April, or getting a bonded pair of kittens from the SPCA were the highlights of his day.

He got to name one of the kittens—Lennon, because John Lennon, natch—and April called the other one McCartney, or Mac, or Arty, or Scooter-Pie, or Jesus-You-Fucking-Asshole, because McCartney had never met a drape or a blanket or a couch or a pair of jeans he didn't want to climb. After the end of the first week, they were Mac the Knife and Lenny Bruce, and somehow nobody in the apartment noticed the transition.

And in between those things, when Tad was on his computer trying to catch up with paperwork from home and April was deep in her audiobooks or music while she was crocheting, Guthrie would practice on his drum pads or soundlessly on his guitar, and more and more as he practiced, he found himself "twiddling." He'd completely orchestrated three whole songs, saving them on his computer, and he had lyrics written for four more. He'd learned music notation from Seth at first, and then had gone to school for music theory classes, and now he wrote the songs down and practiced the guitar and the percussion and even the instrumental parts on a keyboard, like Seth would. Like a professional. Like somebody who knew what the fuck they were doing.

After two weeks of healing, he was sitting on a dinette stool in the living room, guitar in his arms, pretending to strum and staring thoughtfully into thin air when Tad glanced up from his computer and took off his noise-dampening headphones.

"What?" he asked.

Guthrie gave him a quick grin, almost a death rictus he was so nervous. "It's noth—"

"Guthrie, you've been sitting there looking constipated for fifteen minutes. Just, you know, play it. It's fine. I'm listening."

Guthrie scowled at him, and without knowing he was going to do it, his fingers started working, and the guitar was in tune, and it played so sweetly Guthrie wanted to bless it with holy water for following him through the wars.

Then he started singing.

Driving through midnight

Black ribbon of road

Stretching before me, a future not told

And all I have in me is an old love song

I sang under stars so bright

That song hurts me tonight.

My heart's like thunder 'cause

What if you don't

Want to see me like I want you

But two hundred miles sit between us

And there's nothing for me to do

But drive through midnight

Black ribbon of road

Singing before my eyes

Driving through midnight

I pray to those bright stars

Nothing you said was lies

Please want me like I want you

Love me like I love you.

He played the final notes of the song, lost in the music until the very end, and when he looked up, April had taken her earbuds out and both of them were staring at him.

"What?" he croaked, suddenly terrified.

"That was…," April started, wiping her eyes with her palms.

Then they heard it. A hiccup. A strangled breath. A sob.

Guthrie and April both stared at Tad as he tried to breathe through his tears, and April said, "Tad?"

"He said it," Tad gasped. "He said he loved me. I never thought he'd say it."

April stared at him and said, "April, peaceing out," as she grabbed her stuff and scrambled for her room. Guthrie set his guitar down in the case and came to crouch in front of Tad, taking his hands.

"What?" he asked, trying to understand.

Tad wiped his face on his shoulder and then did it again. "God, Guthrie—I've loved you since you fixed my damned flat tire. I never thought you'd love me back."

Guthrie kissed Tad's knuckles, saw brine on them, realized they were both crying. "Of course I love you," he said, partly in wonder because he'd said it, and partly in surprise because how did Tad not know? "Do you think I… I… all the things I've done for you—do you think I do them for anybody? Nobody's had the parts of me that you do. Not a single soul. You've got to know that , right?"

"No, you asshole," Tad hiccupped. "Because you don't tell me ."

"Oh." Guthrie stood so he could pull Tad's face against his stomach. "Well, I love you. Now you know."

And Tad laughed and cried against him for way longer than Guthrie expected. When he'd finally calmed down, Guthrie heard the waiting silence and thought it would be a good time to ask.

"So you like the song, right?"

And that started Tad off again.