Where’s My Love

TAD FINALLY had to excuse himself to clean up… and to catch his breath. God. In a thousand years, he never thought Guthrie would say it. It figured that he'd say it in song, right?

And what a song.

Tad had loved music all his life, and he'd never heard something that called to him so plaintively, had evoked all the things Tad felt about the man he wanted to make a future with.

It was like those other attempts at love didn't exist. All other love had to take a back seat to this thing he had with Guthrie because it dominated his heart, and Tad was subservient in all things to what had overwhelmed him as he'd listened.

It was a good thing Guthrie seemed to want the same things he did. There was no objection to April living with them. Guthrie didn't just tolerate her—he embraced her, seemingly glad to have a built-in family when he chose to throw his lot in with Tad. Guthrie had hesitantly given the go-ahead for Tad to put his notice in with Chris; if Aaron George put an offer in writing, they were both leaving SAC PD at the end of August and moving to Colton in early September. He'd even—again, hesitantly—confided in Tad that he had a gig at the end of August, in the studio with Seth Arnold and his friends, and that he was hoping the result would be enough money for Guthrie to establish himself as a solo artist and to maybe not have to find another band that would simply leave him for bigger and better things.

He'd be happy, he said, to play small venues, to cut big albums, to wait tables and bartend in between paying gigs, as long as he could, please God, be allowed by fate to play.

He'd said it that way too, and Tad had seen the desperation in his eyes, the need to keep making his living doing this thing he loved more than all the gold, and maybe even all the love, in the world.

Tad had prayed for it to happen as well, to make Guthrie happy, but until this moment, that song lancing the swollen, painful places in his soul, he hadn't realized what he was praying for.

He was praying for Guthrie's sweet voice to move people like he'd just moved Tad and April. He was praying for the money and the time and the talent to make songs like that one, that had opened Tad up and let all his fears and worries out into the cleansing air.

Guthrie needed to make music.

Tad understood now.

And Guthrie loved him . Tad got that too.

Guthrie had been planning to go with Tad to ask Tad's friend for work in a couple of days, but Tad wanted to tell him not to. Wanted to tell him to stay home and keep writing. Wanted to tell him to cut his own disc and see if he could get it to sell.

A song like that didn't belong in a tiny apartment in Midtown where nobody could hear it but Tad and April. That song belonged to the world. Tad felt like it was his job to help Guthrie get it there.

When he came back from the bathroom, he'd wiped his face, and his eyes were no longer swollen, and he felt like he could talk without sobbing anymore. Guthrie was back on his stool, playing a different tune softly, and Tad's thighs were still a little unsteady, so he sat and asked, "If I'm super nice to you, will you play me your other songs?"

Guthrie gave him a shy smile. "'Course. Hope it's okay—I set my computer up to tape so I can send them to Seth. He, uh, told me to send him anything I composed myself, 'cause he wants us all in on the album. Thought maybe he could choose from the songs I've got done."

For once Tad wasn't irritated to hear Seth Arnold's name. Guthrie wasn't playing for an old lover—he was playing for a bandmate, someone with powerful contacts who could maybe help Guthrie get work. And, Tad had to admit, for a friend who knew this side of Guthrie, the side that made music and poured his heart onto the stage better than Tad did, because Seth Arnold had made the same sacrifices and had the same river carving its way through his heart.

"Yeah," he said. "Tell me how he likes them." He managed a lopsided smile. "It could be I'm a little, uhm, biased. You know. About your songs."

Guthrie bit his lip. "I'll play that other one last, okay? So if you gotta cry, I can turn the recording off."

Tad regarded him fondly. "I was crying because you love me, Guthrie. Although the song was absolutely lovely."

Guthrie shrugged. "Just in case," he said, nodding with sober intent. And then he launched into another song about punching the clock for The Man that made Tad laugh because it ended with the speaker walking out.

Have fun finding your life, Mr. Man. Have fun finding your money.

Have fun finding your business plan, or the phone number with your honey.

Good luck with those insurance forms, good luck with your contract history.

I know once you've seen the back of me, your whole office is a big fat mystery.

I've got bigger hopes than this shithole, and someday you'll know it's true

I've always had a bigger soul, with more to do than you.

Guthrie gave a cheeky grin at the end of that one, and then leaned forward to take a swig from the bottle of water on the table.

"You know where this one came from," he told Tad, and then launched into a song about hearing music through a cold black river of stars.

Tad shuddered, hearing the loneliness and isolation of that song, and then, in the guitar riff, he felt the hope.

"God," he whispered when Guthrie was done with it. "You… you captured that night so well."

Guthrie's next smile was a little self-deprecating, and then he hit a comic riff on the guitar, something plucky and country and western that reminded Tad of a song about squirrels, before he launched into the ballad of Lennon and McCartney.

Or Johnny Law and McMoron.

Or Imagine Using the Cat Box and Stop Climbing my Drapes Around.

Or Giving Cats up for Lent and Gonna Eat me Some Cat Stew.

The song went on, highlighting the joys of kitten ownership to date, and finally ended with a moment of contemplation.

But oh, look at them when they're sleeping,

Oh, look at their little beans.

Look at their claws creeping

As they hunt our toes in their dreams….

Lenny get the mouse and Mac get the knife

Everyone in the house is now afraid for his life

Baby you should run 'cause they're back on the prowl

Mac and Lenny, Johnny Law, McMoron Mc Mouser,

The two damned cats have got us on the run again.

Tad laughed long and hard when he was done with that one, and so did April, who had crept back in when Guthrie started to play again. The apartment had grown really warm by then, so Tad insisted they leave for a swim before ordering takeout, and Guthrie sent the songs.

Tad's heart was so full—of admiration, of delight, of simple love—that he couldn't imagine not touching Guthrie when the lights went down.

It felt like that's what he was born for.

GUTHRIE GOT a text while they were getting takeout. He checked his phone, probably hoping for notice from Berta or the band. He talked a good game about knowing the band was breaking up, but he'd been so protective over those music students—Tad knew he had to miss them.

But it wasn't Berta or Kelly or Kelly's sister. Tad didn't have to look at the phone to see that. All he had to see was the set to Guthrie's jaw, the way his back stiffened, or hear the sound of his breathing, like he was working very, very hard not to let it get too fast or too angry.

"Who was that?" Tad asked softly, and Guthrie shook his head.

"Not important," he murmured back, and then it was time to get their order.

Back at the apartment, they watched a movie—something with lots of explosions, because April liked that kind of thing. Tad would remember that night: April's complete happiness as she sat in the recliner and did her yarn thing, and Guthrie, his head on a pillow in Tad's lap, because Tad could not stop fingering the coarse strands of his hair. Guthrie took care of his ponytail, used conditioner and oil on it so it didn't get dry, kept it trimmed. He was even just a bit vain about it. Tad had heard him ask the haircutting place for a little bit of layering on the bottom so it would flip. "Otherwise," he'd say, "it looks like I don't give a shit, but if it's got a little bit of shape, that makes it a choice ."

Tad liked his choice. He'd never known he could be a sucker for a guy with longer hair until he'd spent hours just fondling it, while Guthrie trusted him to only use touch for good.

That's all Tad wanted to do, and apparently, that's all Lenny the cat wanted to do too, because the marmalade tom parked himself across Guthrie's hip and purred, while April sacrificed some yarn scraps to keep Mac the Knife from destroying everything she was doing.

It was such a good evening—such a perfect evening. Tad should have known.

But he was aware of nothing but Guthrie's body near his and how they were both nearly healed, nearly whole.

He was aware that Guthrie loved him, and that was a thing he knew in his bones now. Guthrie had written him a song, and said the words out loud in front of April, even, and then he'd said them intentionally without music, and held Tad as he'd fallen apart.

Every touch fired between them, and the ache in Tad's groin was delicious . He wanted to rush Guthrie to the bedroom, to take him right then , but instead he savored, enjoyed the rough satin of Guthrie's hair, April's grumbling at the kitten she adored, and Guthrie's hand on the inside of Tad's knee, burning against his bare skin since Tad was wearing sleep shorts, promising things Tad intended for him to keep.

The movie ended and everybody stood and stretched. Cats were given one last feeding, doors and windows were locked, lights were turned out, and they made their way to the bedroom, pausing for a moment to see where Lenny would sleep.

The cat hadn't moved from his droop on the couch, so Tad locked the door while Guthrie went to brush his teeth and relieve himself. When Tad got back from doing the same, Guthrie was texting furiously on his phone, his brows drawn together as he apparently told somebody to go to hell.

"What's up?" Tad asked, concerned.

Guthrie swallowed and shook his head, hitting Send on what seemed to be a blistering message. "Nothing for you to worry about," he said, and his smile, which started out a little forced, melted as he took in Tad, very deliberately taking his sleep shorts and briefs off and leaving them on his dresser for later use. "I am apparently overdressed."

Tad had to laugh as Guthrie, staying under the covers, started doing the undressing shimmy as he took off his own shorts and briefs on the bottom.

"The T-shirt too," Tad murmured, sliding into bed and turning off the light.

"You know, most guys don't care about the—"

Tad shut that up with a kiss. He didn't care about "most guys" or other men. All he cared about was touching his man. Guthrie must have wanted it too, because he didn't argue or push back.

Instead, he lifted himself up and pulled Tad down after him, losing them both fully in the kiss until Tad was gasping for air.

"Aren't you bossy," he gasped, aroused already while Guthrie wrapped his legs around Tad's hips.

"I'm hungry ," Guthrie complained, and Tad knew he couldn't be talking about food because the man hardly ate.

Tad kissed his neck, his shoulder, then nibbled on his ear. "I'm hungry too," he purred. "When are you going to top?"

He actually heard Guthrie swallow, and he knew he felt Guthrie's erection soften.

"Never mind," he breathed, taking Guthrie's mouth again. "Not tonight. Tonight it's just us, and none of our demons, okay?"

"Yeah," Guthrie murmured, and allowed himself to be taken again, led away into the sexual haze that Tad had been creating for them both.

A part of Tad was fine with this—he'd always loved to top—but part of him was sorrowful. You can trust me to guide you, Guthrie. You can trust yourself. Later. They'd deal with it later. Right now, Tad felt a freedom in Guthrie's arms, a blessing, a knowledge that all their touches tonight would be the good kind; all of it would be right.

His two-finger breach into Guthrie's body elicited a groan that raised the hairs on the back of Tad's neck. Something huge and needy had opened up in his boy, something painful. It was Tad's job to fill those empty spaces. How could he forget?

He stretched Guthrie's entrance, aware of Guthrie's finely muscled trembling, and then slid inside him, unable to draw this out because Guthrie needed him so bad.

Guthrie gave a sigh of completion when they were merged, and his caresses on Tad's biceps, his flanks, his neck, never stopped. Tad felt worshipped and treasured.

And loved.

When Guthrie was writhing with the need to come, Tad rocked back on his thighs and stroked him, thrusting slowly in time to his strokes, just to watch Guthrie fall apart, arms flinging out, head tilted back, eyes squeezed shut, his orgasm rocking him into the stratosphere while it triggered Tad's like a rocket.

As Tad's vision went white and his breaths screamed in his ears, he recorded the tears steadily dripping from Guthrie's eyes, squeezed so tight there was no room for anything but the tears.

"Shh…," Tad whispered as his own climax rushed him. "Shh… baby… I gotcha. I love you. I gotcha."

"Love you too," Guthrie whispered, fingers digging into Tad's arms. "So much. You gotta know how much."

That frisson of fear that had brushed up against Tad's senses when he'd seen Guthrie texting so violently returned, and he took Guthrie's mouth with all the possessiveness in his soul. Guthrie returned the kiss, drinking him in like water, and as their bodies stilled in the apartment hush, Tad tried to tell his fears to quiet. These weren't the kisses of a man who didn't want to stay. This wasn't the body of a man who was halfway out the door.

They fell asleep, limbs tangled, Guthrie's head on Tad's shoulder, eyes still leaking the tears he knew Guthrie hated.

A man who hated his life, or was afraid of his lover, didn't sleep naked in his arms like this was the only home he'd ever know.

Which was why Tad was poleaxed, gobsmacked, destroyed, when he woke up and saw Guthrie, fully dressed in his jeans, hair ruthlessly pulled back from his face, tying his boots with white fingers as he sat on the edge of the bed.

His knapsack, the one Tad had grown to hate when Guthrie had been playing at Scorpio in those last weeks, was fully packed and sitting next to the bed.

And Tad knew the other shoe, the one he hadn't realized had been hovering over their heads, had finally dropped.