Softly You Whisper

"SO THIS is how we meet again," Tad said, his voice dry, although he was feeling pissed off and achy. He didn't want Guthrie to see that, though. The guy looked shitty enough as it was.

Guthrie, who was curled under a wool blanket on the metal cot that extended from the concrete wall, swung his legs over the edge, his movements jerky and uncoordinated with his recently vacated sleep.

"Kenny!" he hollered. "You promised!"

"Sorry, Guthrie," said the young deputy, hustling in from behind the greeting desk in the tiny department building. "I was filling out your paperwork, and your guy drove like the wind."

"My partner drove like the wind," Tad said grimly. "I think I left my eyebrows back in Sacramento."

Kenny chuckled. "Well, I'm sure Guthrie appreciates it."

Guthrie eyed the two of them from eyes obviously gritty with a night poorly spent. "Fuck me," he groaned, leaning his head back against the cinder block wall of the cell.

"Certainly," Tad said, "but not here."

That earned him a glare. "I am in jail . Do you really want to make that joke here?"

"No, Guthrie," Tad explained patiently. "That's why you need to not end up here again."

Guthrie gave him a beleaguered glance. "This was not my idea. Did Kenny explain that to you—that this was not my idea?"

"Yeah, yeah," Kenny murmured, handing Tad a large cup of coffee with a lid. "Hold that for a sec."

Following procedure—anybody could see it—Kenny unlocked the cell door and bustled in to help Guthrie to his feet. He did a quick physical checkup, including clucking over a bandage on Guthrie's bicep that was seeping blood, and shone a penlight in Guthrie's eyes, which made him scowl like his head hurt.

" Minor concussion," Kenny proclaimed. "No hard physical labor for the next few days. Lots of rest today. Have a doctor change the bandage sometime today or tomorrow." Kenny stood back and folded his arms over his chest. "Jock said he could hold down the fort with your dad for a couple of days, letting you rest before you drive up to your gig. Your guy going to help with that?"

"Yes," Tad said before Guthrie complained. "Yes, we've got a hotel in Monterey, and I can look up a doctor—"

"Got a number for a doc-in-the-box who can help you out," Kenny said, pulling a card from his pocket. "My wife's brother. He'll be good for a favor. He has to be. He still has my lawn mower, and he's an asshole."

Tad grinned. "You said you're a friend of Guthrie's from high school?" he asked, because he and the young deputy had time to chat while Kenny filled him in on the sitch. Tad had not liked hearing that Guthrie had been dogpiled by every known felon in the area, but he hadn't been surprised either. What really didn't surprise him was the affection in Kenny's voice as he'd talked about how Guthrie—a loner due to poor attendance and family situation and disposition, all rolled into one—had been kind to the other loners in school.

"Yeah, Guthrie helped me protect my little brother when I didn't think he was going to survive." Kenny assisted Guthrie into a tattered cotton hoodie with bleach stains, paint stains, and rips at the pockets and hood, and Guthrie shivered, like he hadn't gotten warm in forever. Well, the jail cell was drafty, and Tad got the feeling it got cold here at night. The Pacific Coast had a tendency toward dampness anyway.

"How's Gordie?" Guthrie asked, like he was finally focusing on things.

"Gayer than you and living in Seattle," Kenny said cheerfully. "Mom wants him to settle down and bring a nice boy home, but he keeps saying nobody'll live up to his first crush."

Guthrie's eyes bulged. "Please tell me he's talking about Mackey Sanders," he said, referring to the rock legend.

"Nope," Kenny said. "All the guys he dates have long hair and brown eyes, Guthrie. You'll have a lot to answer for when he finally finds his clone of Guthrie."

"Kenny," Guthrie said, "please stop talking."

Kenny cackled. "This way your fella'll know you're in demand." He got behind Guthrie and gave him a gentle shove toward the open door. "Now go. Your friend's got your coffee, your paperwork is done, and you've got someone willing to drive you—"

"I have to drive," Guthrie muttered, pausing suspiciously at the threshold. "He's still wounded."

"I can make it twenty miles to Monterey," Tad scoffed. "And I have to. Chris has already taken off to get us a hotel. He's looking forward to clam chowder on the beach, so we'd better not disappoint him."

Guthrie shook his head. "What is it with that man and food?"

"His wife's out of town," Tad told him. "I think he's lonely and wanted to do something exciting. We don't do poker night, so it's bail your ass out of the fire. Now get out of that cell," he added, trying not to let his voice warp. "Let's go do boy's night, and I'll try not to yell at you for looking like hell and not calling me."

"Cell service is ass here," Guthrie protested, but he was outside of the jail cell, finally, so Tad could breathe. "I texted you every night. Emails. Voice messages— oomf ."

Tad hugged him, minding his bandage and the coffee in one hand, but hard, body shaking. "Shut up," he whispered in Guthrie's ear. "We'll talk about it in the car, but right now let me hold you."

"Yeah," Guthrie whispered. "Yeah. Okay." For a moment—a sweet moment—he rested his cheek on Tad's shoulder. Tad kissed his temple and held him tighter and wondered how he'd gone the last few weeks without taking a single full breath.

GUTHRIE LOOKED his truck over anxiously when they got out to the parking lot, breathing an obvious sigh of relief when he found his guitar and his computer in their places. His phone had been crushed in the melee, but Tad had found a shop in downtown Monterey that would replace it, and Tad could put Guthrie on his plan that might render better cell service.

Which meant they had very little to talk about on the trip if they weren't going to say something real.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Tad said after Guthrie had directed him out of town.

"Tell you what?" Guthrie asked, sipping the coffee like it was the nectar of life.

"That it was this bad," Tad snapped, his hurt undeniable.

"Tad," Guthrie said, sounding like he was warming up for a fight, "I walked into the place for the first time in nearly ten years last night. I had no idea that this place was such a fucking time warp—"

"All of it," Tad retorted. "Not just the bar, but… but all of it. Look at you, man. Your clothes are a mess, your hair is too long—you look like you've been camping in the backyard for almost a month. What in the hell are you doing?"

Guthrie made an indeterminant sound in his throat. "It's not as bad as all that," he said, and then, when Tad would have protested, he held up a battered hand. "I swear. It's just, Jock and I are working on the house during the day, and I take nursing duty in the morning and afternoon. We've got Dad in the house with a baby monitor and all the doors and windows open so he can get fresh air. At around five o'clock, I go sit in the truck because it's got the best reception and practice and play and text you, and Jock takes care of Butch, and then we go have a beer on the porch at night. A couple of times a week, somebody comes to watch him so one of us can go shopping for supplies, usually Jock because he almost always needs something from the hardware store. This isn't… I don't know… homelessness you're seeing. It's like a really weird construction job is all. Same injuries, same clothes." He gave a humorless laugh. "Same need for a beer at the end of the day."

"Really?" Tad asked, not buying it. "Because Kenny had a different story."

Guthrie made that sound again. "Tad," he said after a moment, "I'm tired. My head hurts. And I am really fucking glad to see you. Can we… can we leave it at that for a bit? What I'm doing is hard, I ain't gonna lie. But it takes more energy to talk about why it's hard than I got right now. Can't we…. Just tell me about the cats. Stupid shit like we don't have time for in text. Tell me how April's doing. About the move. About the wedding. I-I been practicing some songs for Livvy's dads that'll hopefully make their day nice, but I want to hear details. Please? The absolute worst thing about the last few weeks is that I ain't got to see or hear from this whole new family I'm trying to be a part of. Could we just…." His voice cracked, and so did Tad's heart. "Can we do that?"

"Yeah," Tad said, his chest aching. "Yeah, sure. We can do that. Guthrie, you know I love you, right?"

"You came to my rescue, Galahad. I think that's safe to say."

"Good. Then you're going to have to deal with my worry. I'm sorry. You just are. But yeah. You kick back, and I'll talk while I drive this—oh my God, Guthrie, does the power steering work in this thing at all?"

"No," Guthrie said, seemingly forced to honesty. "And there's some other shit going out too. I… I got no time and no money to fix it. Not right now."

"Well, you close your eyes a minute," Tad muttered. "I gotta make a call to Chris. We've got a slight change of plans."

Guthrie fell asleep, like Tad knew he would, and he made plans to drop the truck off and have Chris pick them up. It felt like this would be Guthrie repair day—a chance to patch him up and get him all ready to go to the wedding so he'd have enough energy to come back here and beat himself to death against whatever was going on in his father's house that he didn't want to talk about.

Well, fine.

If they only had a little time to do it, Tad would make the most of it.

AFTER DROPPING the truck off—and taking Guthrie to get his arm looked at by a doctor and not a part-time EMT—they checked into a nice hotel by the beach, and Tad gave Guthrie some time to clean up while he and Chris searched for places for lunch.

"How's he doing?" Chris asked as they scrolled their phones.

"He's exhausted," Tad said honestly. "And other than that, I don't know. He says it's hard, but I haven't heard him talk about his father once."

Chris grimaced. "You… uhm… you might not. When my dad passed…." He shuddered. "I don't talk about that. And you don't talk about getting your sister into rehab."

Tad shuffled his feet, embarrassed, and Chris rolled his eyes.

"Gay men are supposed to be more evolved," Tad told him defensively.

"I'll leave you to it," Chris muttered with deep disgust. "Straight male repression is my jam."

Tad snorted. "Tell that to your much adored autonomous wife," he said. "I'm just saying—he's not okay."

"Mm…." Chris murmured. "Was he ever? I mean… musicians, buddy. It's not always sweet dreams and butterflies in their engine, you know what I mean?"

Tad scowled at him. "Can we pick lunch?"

"Yup. See? Repression—it has its uses."

"I want steak," Tad said sourly.

"Heart disease is something you and your guy can share in the future. On it."

GUTHRIE CAME out dressed in clean jeans and Tad's plaid hooded sweatshirt, which had been worn to death. His hair was clean and combed and pulled back from his face, and the shadows in his eyes had faded somewhat. Tired, yes—but worn, fatigued , not so much.

"What're we eating?" he asked.

"Clam chowder," Chris said promptly.

"Steak," Tad muttered.

"Clam chowder," Guthrie said. "Trust me. Nobody comes to Monterey to eat steak. How long until my truck's done, and what do I owe―" He stopped when Tad growled. "Tad—"

Tad growled again.

"We'll talk about the truck later," Guthrie conceded. "I can see it's a sore point. Anyways, I really could use the sustenance. Let's go."

And that was that. For the day, at least, Chris's plan of repression and Guthrie's skill at avoidance made for a pleasant time.

THEY ATE clam chowder bread bowls on Cannery Row and then—Chris's insistence—went into Ghirardelli for ice cream, which they ate on the patio overlooking the ocean.

"It's a good thing this is a weekday," Guthrie said, taking a spoonful of their shared sundae. "Otherwise the line for this place wraps around the block."

Tad glanced around, taking in the busy tourist spot and then, over his shoulder, a stunning view of a crystal blue ocean, the rocks and surf below them.

"I can see why," he said softly. "You come out here often as a kid?"

Guthrie shook his head. "Not here. This was for rich folk. But when we were short, Dad would give me the guitar and tell me to play in front of the plaza." He nodded to where a middle-aged woman with a portable electric keyboard was doing a passable Carly Simon impression. "I looked young—pocketed a lot of pity cash."

"Did it get you home?"

Guthrie snorted. "More than likely it got us to the next gig. That was like the ATM stop before the trip."

Tad sighed. "Why didn't your dad play?"

"'Cause he was an asshole and usually got kicked off. The cops only let you go for a set at a time. Jock wasn't good enough." He shrugged. "What can I say. I was their best bet."

"How old were you?" Chris asked casually, but Tad knew that voice—that was his "kid interrogation" voice.

"Well, I took up drums at fourteen," Guthrie said, pondering, "and I knew my first three garage band chords a little after that."

Tad remembered Guthrie telling him that he hadn't been allowed to play the guitar onstage, but apparently here, where he was basically panhandling, it had been okay.

Tad took a giant bite of chocolate and ice cream, suddenly needing it. "No wonder you're so good," he said, trying to keep it light. "I'd be good too if I had to play for food."

Guthrie chuckled. "Yeah, but remember, you're only a real musician if you starve voluntarily. There's a little bit of crazy in there—it's a fact."

"I'll remember that," Tad said, and next to him, Chris murmured, "We're not likely to forget."

Tad knew what he was thinking. Another puzzle piece into what made up Guthrie Woodson. Another note in a plaintive, lonely song.

After chocolate, they kicked around town for a bit, although they didn't really have time for the aquarium. They wandered down to the beach and walked along the surf, or Tad and Guthrie did. Chris made himself scarce, saying there was a store with turkish delight, and he was going to get some for his wife so she'd forgive him for taking the trip without her. It was an obvious ruse to give them some alone time, but Tad didn't mind. There weren't many people on the beach, so Tad reached for Guthrie's hand, relieved when Guthrie threaded their fingers together like he hadn't forgotten they knew how to do that.

"Stop worrying," Guthrie said softly, under the wind. "C'mon, it's not a bad day. Your worry is killing me."

"There's so much you aren't telling me," Tad said, trying to keep recrimination out of his voice. "And everything I guess is just… awful."

Guthrie shrugged. "Listen, when you're changing a dying man's diaper while he's calling you shitty names, your day isn't gonna be great. But me and Jock give each other breaks, and…." He sighed. "Getting to know Jock again without either one of us worrying about Butch—that's been nice. He's… well, he's not bright, but he's got a good heart. Not his fault he was left in Butch's care when he was as young as I was. I could have been Jock real easy if my mama drank like I think Jock's did. And if I didn't have Jock around to make things better, I wouldn't have been me, I guess. So it's good I'm here for him as Butch dies. Butch is a sonuvabitch, and the world won't be worse when he's gone, but he's been the driving force in Jock's life, you know? Jock needs to know he's got someone. And like I said, good heart. I didn't see it so much after Butch turned his back, but it's been there."

Tad peered at Guthrie curiously. "Where did your mother go?" he asked.

Guthrie shrugged, seemingly not curious at all. "Probably anywhere," he said frankly. "I mean, maybe she loved me, maybe she didn't. But if she spent five years with Butch, they must have been years in hell. She ran away to save her own life, and I can't be mad."

"Oh I can," Tad said darkly.

"I asked Jock about her," Guthrie said, surprising him.

"What'd he say?"

Guthrie paused and stared far out to sea, like his mother might be there, over the horizon, calling to him. "That she was real sad after I was born. That Butch couldn't get her to stop crying, so he'd try to beat her until she did. Sounds like postpartum to me, and she had to deal with Butch and me and no help but Jock, and Jock is, like I said…."

"Not that bright," Tad filled in, getting a picture.

"Nope." Guthrie sighed and turned back to their path. "Maybe someday I'll look. But maybe not. I'm not one of those people who think the past has to be resolved. The story for me is always now, you know? And right now, my story is getting this done, seeing Butch to his grave, making sure Jock's okay, and getting to that recording session at the end of August."

Tad blinked. He'd almost forgotten about that. "That's your vision?" he asked, hurt so bad he couldn't feel it yet.

Guthrie turned to him, seemingly oblivious. "That money's gonna be my stake in our future," he said matter-of-factly. "That's gonna be my contribution to the family until I can pick up gigs. I can pay rent so you can get you and April a house. I can help with groceries—all those living things, right? Family's gotta eat, Tad. I love you too, but my weight's gonna get heavy if you've got to carry it all on your back."

Tad struggled with that for a minute, remembering his ex's practicality and how much it galled him and how much Guthrie seemed to live whichever way the wind blew.

He didn't, Tad realized. He'd always had plans. He'd always understood that life was complicated and he had to make his own luck. And Tad thought of April, who was so excited about this move—and about having a job—but still, a dreadful responsibility.

Guthrie doesn't want to be a responsibility.

And Tad wanted to cry, because that had never been the case, but to a kid who'd been busking at fifteen so the family could get to its real job, that would be a consideration, wouldn't it?

Tad suddenly captured Guthrie's mouth, hard and greedy, and Guthrie responded.

I need you so much more than you need me , he thought. He remembered Guthrie's song, those lyrics truer than any rational thought Tad had borne about this relationship, and there they were in words and music, for the world to see.

Please love me like I love you.

This was Guthrie proving that he did, and suddenly Tad would have done anything for him, anything , if Guthrie had just grabbed his hand and walked into the future without making a plan, needing a cushion, trying so damned hard to carry his own weight.

You're not heavy—you're my wings.

But he didn't have those words, not to say out loud.

So he kissed Guthrie and kissed him until Guthrie groaned and ripped himself away.

"There's kids out here," he panted, glancing around.

Tad knew there weren't, but he also knew Guthrie was trying to be the sensible one.

They'd be alone in the hotel room soon enough, Tad vowed, and there wouldn't be a damned sensible thing about them.

A NICE lunch, but Guthrie'd had a rough night and, Tad suspected, not a lot of good sleep since he'd left Sacramento. Tad and Chris dropped him off at the hotel while they ran to replace his phone and check on the truck. They returned with a grocery-store dinner and some cookies for dessert around eight in the evening, and Chris bid Tad good night with a yawn.

"This boy's had a big exciting day," he said. "What's our plan for tomorrow?"

Tad blinked hard, remembering what the mechanic had said about the Chevy, which had mostly been along the lines of April's "shoot it."

"I'm thinking we pick up the truck, drive back to Sac, and you and I pretend to work since we're driving up to Colton tomorrow night."

Chris groaned. "Killjoy. But yeah, that sounds about right. Up early for coffee and something sweet and not good for us at all."

"Speak for yourself," Tad chided. "My guy needs his vegetables."

Chris nodded. "And a keeper," he said, patting Tad's cheek. He sobered. "Listen, I know it's hard, but you gotta let him do his thing, okay? He's trying to pay his way. You gotta admit, you're both good at taking on responsibility for more than just yourself. I've got the same concerns you do, but he seems to be better at it than he first looks, you know?"

Tad scowled at him, and Chris rolled his eyes.

"Yes, you got called this morning to bail him out of jail. But you got called by a kid he used to protect in high school who took him into custody to keep him safe. Guthrie's got… I don't know. Good karma power. Yeah, he puts himself on the edge a lot, but people are loyal to him. His band, his uncle, that deputy—hell, April and Olivia Larkin-McDaniels."

Sarah the bartender, Tad thought. The kid from his old job that Guthrie texted about music. Seth Arnold, who was going out of his way to offer Guthrie a leg up. It hadn't occurred to him until now, as Chris made the list, that Guthrie didn't need to try to be like Tad to be a hero. Guthrie was a hero. He'd done it all on his own. He may have thought of himself as alone, but he'd never really been all by himself. His own good will had given him people he could turn to, whether he expected them to be there or not.

He sighed, letting go of his worry a little. "He… he just looks so thin," he said, feeling weak and stupid.

Chris shrugged. "Well, our future boss keeps promising us casseroles. We'll have to hold him to it."

Tad laughed and grabbed the takeout for the hotel room, shaking his head.

It was hope.

HOPE HE sorely needed when he got to the room. Guthrie was asleep, his hair falling from its ponytail to cover his face. Tad paused for a moment after he set the takeout on the table and shut the door. In sleep, there was a curious untouched quality to Guthrie Arlo Woodson—as though all the shitty luck and barfights in the world couldn't dent his indomitable heart. Good karma power, Chris had called it, and Tad could see it now, shining out from the edges, making him bigger than life.

Tad realized that if Guthrie went AWOL for years , not telling where he was going, simply promising to return, Tad would still take him in; grayer, sadder, but trusting, always trusting, that one day, Guthrie would wander in, clothes ragged, bruises fading, that Guthrie shrug telling him that whatever it was that kept him away for the longest time, it wasn't enough to keep him away forever .

"Whatcha looking at, chief?" Guthrie asked, his eyes still closed.

"All of you," Tad murmured gruffly.

"When you get tired of looking," Guthrie said, "could you maybe crawl into bed and do that spooning thing you do when you think I'm too banged up for sex?"

"Are you?" Tad asked, smiling, but he was already shucking his sweatshirt and toeing off his boots.

"God, I hope not," Guthrie said, and Tad chuckled softly. He shoved his jeans down, rested them on the same chair that held his hoodie, and then did as Guthrie asked and climbed in behind him, spanning his hand on Guthrie's taut stomach under his T-shirt and pressing his own brief-covered groin against Guthrie's cotton-covered backside.

Guthrie gave a shudder like he was finally getting warm after being cold for a month, and Tad breathed him in.

"Yeah," Guthrie mumbled. "That's the stuff."

Tad could actually feel him drop off to sleep, but he didn't feel the need to go eat the takeout on the table. Not yet. Not yet. Not yet.

He didn't even know he was falling asleep until he woke up two hours later, needing to pee.

HE GOT up and came back, and then Guthrie did the same with a grunt, and when he was done, he rolled so they were face-to-face. There was something odd about his expression, something intense and glittering that spoke of a hardness, a shell, and Tad was suddenly aware that those things he'd been worried about were real.

Their kiss started out searing, frantic, starving, almost violent in its need, and their clothes didn't so much melt away as launch themselves across the room.

Tad was hungry for the taste of him, angry at the separation, and worried—so worried—it gave a tenseness, a jerkiness to his movements that almost scared him. Guthrie had only ever known him as a gentle lover, which was the only kind of lover he'd ever wanted to be. But Guthrie's need and his own ferocious desire worked like emotional napalm, and suddenly they were both on fire.

Guthrie rolled away from him, and Tad was ready to wrestle him to the ground until he saw that lean, battered body bent over the bed while Guthrie dared him with those glittering eyes.

For the first time, Tad faltered.

"Guthrie?"

"Now," he growled. "And don't stop."

Tad had left his shaving kit on the hotel sink, and he was back with lubricant before the coolness of the oceanside night made itself felt on his skin. It wasn't until he was sliding slick fingers into Guthrie and soothing his trembling flanks and backside with his free hand that he realized how wrong this was, how terrified and angry his lover was, how this need went beyond sex and into fury.

"Guthrie?" he asked.

" Fuck me !" Guthrie cried, and so help him, Tad's arousal was amped higher by the demand.

As he placed himself behind Guthrie, smoothing with his hands once again, noting how Guthrie's ribs were more prominent, his hipbones sharper, Guthrie grabbed a pillow from the bed and shoved it in front of him. Tad shuddered and thrust into him, his entire body shaking as Guthrie screamed, "Yes!" into the pillow.

He started to rock back and forth, and then to lunge as Guthrie's muffled, guttural sounds vibrated the bed. Faster and faster and harder and harder until Guthrie grabbed another pillow and covered his head with it and howled with arousal and rage.

Tad's body loved it, primal and angry and claiming—this was his lover, and he'd missed him, and somebody had hurt him, and only Tad's touch was allowed!

Sweat stung his eyes and his nearly healed wound ached fiercely, and still he poured his strength, his frustration, his anger into Guthrie, and Guthrie—Guthrie took it, thrusting back and muffling his cries of rage in those damned pillows.

Climax rushed him, ungentle and unwelcome, but it wasn't a call he could refuse.

He cried out and came, hips stuttering in surprise, his fingers digging into Guthrie's hips as the convulsions took him, and Guthrie let out a groan so low in his body that Tad felt it in his spasming cock.

Guthrie's orgasm almost ripped his dick off, and still Tad kept pumping, his body racked with completion when his emotions weren't ready to quit. It wasn't until Guthrie gave a soft whimper and melted into the bed, sliding to his knees, that Tad's final thrusts stilled and he fell heavily over Guthrie's back, landing on his own knees on the hard hotel tile.

His body was clammy with sweat, and so was Guthrie's, but Guthrie was shuddering so much Tad was afraid to let go. He wrapped his arms around Guthrie's shoulders and held on, not sure if he was shaking from sobs of rage or joy or grief or a combination of the three, but absolutely refusing to leave him alone, not now, not when he was naked and hurting and raw.

It took an eternity for the aftermath to ease from their skin, and in the end, the only thing that made Tad move was Guthrie's small voice saying, "I'm freezing."

"Me too," Tad grunted and got awkwardly to his feet. He stood and offered Guthrie a hand up, which he took, leaving them bare and close and face-to-face in the ambient light from the street lamp outside.

Guthrie wouldn't meet his eyes.

Tad hadn't expected him to.

Instead, he feathered a shaky kiss along Guthrie's jaw and murmured, "Now? Now can we talk?"

Guthrie still looked away, over his shoulder, into some forbidden part of the room Tad couldn't see.

But he nodded and said, "Did you bring food? I could eat."

Tad chuckled weakly and wrapped his arms around Guthrie's shoulders. "Let's get dressed, okay? I'm so cold my balls are shrinking."

Guthrie moved away to put on the sweats and T-shirt and hoodie Tad had provided for him. "The hell they are," he grumbled to himself, and Tad chuckled as he found his own clothes.