All I Want

"SO," TAD said, hauling two giant plastic bags filled with yarn to his SUV, "you need all of this to make a baby blanket?"

"No," April said serenely. "There's the baby blanket, and then a blanket for the mom. Remember our mom? How tired she was? I just think it would be nice if this poor girl—"

"Jaya," Tad said, remembering the name.

"Yes," April continued, hopping in the car and letting Tad stow the yarn. "It would be nice if she had her own blanket. It's good Guthrie's neighbors are looking out for her. I like doing good things for strangers. There's none of that awkward emotional commitment, but you know you've put something good out in the world."

Tad blinked. "Isn't that… I dunno. Like teaching or volunteer work?"

"Did you hear me?" she asked. "I said there was no awkward emotional connections. My God, Tad, I'm a recovering junkie. How many spoons do you think I have?"

Tad shook his head. April had tried explaining "spoon theory" to him—the idea that she only had X amount of energy in her for making human connections, but he always got lost at the place where she got more spoons from being alone.

In the end, he sort of figured that if she said she didn't have the emotional reserves, he should respect that and not ask her what her fuel was. He had a suspicion it came in yardage of wool/acrylic worsted, and he'd never been good at math.

"Well, if you have enough spoons for Guthrie's neighbor, I think that would be nice," he said. "And I'm grateful."

"If you want to be grateful," April said, "tell me more about this Guthrie person that you're so excited to watch sing."

Tad tried to fight a blush. "No excitement," he lied. "We've known each other for five minutes, and there's been texting." And some really good kisses. And sort of a promise that there'd be more kisses that night. And maybe more than that.

"Does he seem like a solid guy?" she asked as he started the car up and headed for the beach. "Stop for some sodas and sandwiches, okay?"

He glanced at her happily. "I'll go to that deli you like."

"You're a good egg, big brother," she said with a quiet smile.

He slid a glance at her, saw her auburn hair pulled back in a ponytail, and her eyes—a sort of restless gray-green—were less troubled than he'd seen them in quite a while. Suddenly he wanted him and Guthrie to work out for April as much as he wanted it to work out for him . Then he thought of Guthrie, practically fainting to finish his gig, the commitment he'd made to his band, to the bar, all of it, driving him to play beyond pain.

Tad wanted him. So badly. He wanted them to work for Guthrie . He knew better than to try to judge a performer by their performance, but there was something so sublimely lonely about Guthrie, singing heartbreak songs for a rowdy crowd who, nevertheless, sank into his heartbreak and embraced it as their own.

"So," April said, breaking the silence, "we've established you're a good egg—now talk , egg, talk ."

"He's a musician," Tad said with a shrug. "And he's skittish. He… he says he was in love once, and the guy was in love with someone else but was still really kind. Guthrie's got nothing bad to say about the guy, but you can tell. He's terrified about caring for someone else who isn't going to love him back."

"Yikes," April said. "That sounds… dangerous. Like he could hurt you ."

Tad grunted. "The thought has occurred to me," he admitted.

"But you're going to see him anyway."

She couldn't help it. She didn't have the memory of Guthrie sprawled against his chest, so tired he could barely talk but still pouring out his heart. "I went to watch him perform three times before he even noticed me," he admitted. "I mean… three times ."

"Was the person as good as the performer?" she asked.

"Better," he admitted, remembering Guthrie's calm way of taking care of the mugger, his irritation and lack of self-pity when he'd failed to ward off a second attack. "He's got this strength in his heart. And, you know, good egg. Like, I think he really wants a cat, but he doesn't want the cat to be in an empty apartment, and he's got a day job and gigs and rehearsal and stuff, so he hasn't gotten one."

"That's a good guy," April said decisively. "He knows how many spoons he has, and he doesn't promise spoons when he can't deliver."

"So yeah," Tad said. "I'm going to go watch him play tonight."

"And when are you going home?" April asked, raising her eyebrows.

He shrugged. "Maybe tonight."

"And…?"

"Maybe tomorrow," he admitted, his cheeks heating.

"Take care of your heart, big brother," she murmured. Then, "Ooh—let's get some ice cream before we stop at the deli!"

So they did that too.

Doran Beach was one of their favorite places. They brought a kite and flew it for about an hour before, thighs and arms aching, feet cold from wading in the surf, they retreated to the car in time for Tad to take her home.

He helped her into her room with her giant bags of yarn, and she gave him a hug before he left.

"Thanks for the visit," she said, her voice going rough.

Some of her well-being slipped away, and he was aware, again, of how lonely she was here.

"I'll always visit you," he said. "Are you sure you don't want to move up to Sacramento with me?"

In the past, he'd never been able to finish the sentence without a violent brush-off, but now she chewed her lip.

"I… I saw an old friend of mine," she admitted, surprising him badly. "She… she looked awful. Was wandering the street, half-naked. She didn't recognize me. And… I wanted to go help her, but I was suddenly so afraid. If I helped her, I might become her again. Tad, I don't want to be that person anymore. But here…."

She had no choices.

"I've got a guest room," he said softly. "You can get a job in a… I don't know. Craft store. I can't promise you won't see temptation, but…."

"But it won't know me by name," she said with a short laugh. "Let me think about it. Talk to some people. Maybe there's a halfway house in Sacramento I can move into, okay? I-I do better when I see you, Taddy. I wish I could be less needy, but…." Her voice wobbled, and he hugged her again.

"Hey, hey," he soothed, his eyes burning. "Baby, you need me all you want. You ask me for help. I am made to help you, okay? Tell me what you need, when you want to move, I'll see what I can do from my end. Deal?"

She pulled back and smiled at him, her cheeks shiny with tears but her smile gentle. "Deal," she rasped. Then she sniffed. "If you got a cat, and I lived nearby, I could visit your cat. That would be fun, right?"

"I'd love that," he said, seeing it so clearly it was all he could do not to stop and pick up a kitten on his way to the Washoe bar and grill. "Just like I'd love it if we lived close. I mean, I'd still be late, and I'd still work some weekends, but—"

"But I could wander over to your apartment when I was alone and feeling sad," she said. "And play with your cat."

"And play with my cat." And raid his DVDs and use his streaming service and play games and cards and go with him to farmers markets and… and be his sister and know that someone was in her life to make life not so lonely.

"Good. We'll do our homework and see what we can manage," she said. "Now go. You don't want to be late!"

One more hug. So much hope. And then he left.

HE GOT to the Washoe as the band was setting up, Guthrie sitting on a bench by the bar, sulking.

"They won't let you set up?" Tad asked, sauntering in, hands in his pockets, and Guthrie glared at him.

"No. No they won't."

"Won't let him play guitar," Neal said, walking out of the little back room with a stand for his keyboard.

"He can play the drums," Roberta said, poking her head from behind the kit. "But I get to set them up. It's fun, by the way. It's like giant Tetris!"

"I'm just mad," Guthrie muttered. "I like playing. And we've only got three more weeks here before Sarah kicks us to the curb."

"They switch up bands in the summer, Guthrie," Roberta said with patience. "They did it last summer too. You like Tickety-Boo."

Guthrie blew out a breath. "It's true," he admitted to Tad. "I do like Tickety-Boo—they're a good summer band. And we've got another gig down closer to the city we play, but these guys all have a theater run from mid-June to September." He scowled. "It's not like I'm gonna miss them or anything!"

"Yeah, Guthrie, we're not gonna miss you at all ," Owen muttered, rolling his eyes as he stood up and set his cello by the stand. Then looking right and left, he said, "And I may be able to get us a one-night-a-week gig in July. Don't nobody count on it, but that way we can work up our winter season playlist."

"Cool," Neal said, and Roberta grinned.

Guthrie, on the other hand, lit up inside, and Tad suddenly realized what this band meant to him.

He'd said it, of course. The classical musicians all had paying jobs—they had plays, they had orchestras, they taught classes. Music was their livelihood.

Music was Guthrie's lifeblood, even Tad could figure that out. But it didn't pay his bills.

Abruptly Tad was hit by the sadness of that. Guthrie was good. Everything Tad knew about music told him Guthrie was an amazing performer. But paying your bills in the arts was never a sure thing. The kids with the education, with the contacts, they were going to make it. The honky-tonk bar guitarist, he was going to live for each performance and eat somewhere else.

As the band finished setting up and Guthrie swaggered up to the stage for sound checks before the crowd started, Tad thought achingly of how much of his heart Guthrie seemed to pour into each performance.

All of it.

And how much music seemed to be giving back.

The answer was "Not enough to live on."

Did Guthrie have enough room in his heart for Tad with all that music in there?

As Guthrie signaled for them to start keying up their first number, Tad heard the wild, plaintive tones of Guthrie's voice, the voice and the soul that had captivated him from the first, and brother, did he hope so.

Tad watched their first set thirstily, living for every note. When their penultimate tune came up, their torch song, Guthrie spoke into the mic.

"Now usually we do ‘Long Long Time' for you all, but I thought we'd change it up. Don't worry—if you hate this song, we'll go back."

There were some disappointed "Aww" noises, but then Owen started on the keyboard with a familiar riff, and Tad's heart stuttered in his chest.

As the beginning notes of the old Journey tune started, he had to fight not to close his eyes. The music was sweet—heart-wrenchingly sweet—but the look on Guthrie's face as he closed his eyes and sang of faithful love while living a musician's life? Tad could see everything written there: The struggle to balance music and love, the hardships of a certain kind of life, and finally, the promise. The promise to stand by a lover in spite of all the pain and all the obstacles that the world could put in the way. Faithfully.

The last notes of the song died away, and there was a moment of absolutely awed hush in the bar before the crowd erupted, the cheering so long, so hard, that "Devil Went Down to Georgia" didn't see the light of day until the second set.

"SHOWER…," GUTHRIE begged as Tad pulled up to his apartment complex around ten that night. "And then I'll make you dinner."

Guthrie had begged off dinner, saying his hand ached and he was still a little tired from the day before. Roberta and the others had nodded and expressed their sympathy, but Tad had seen the young violinist catch Guthrie's eyes as they were leaving and mouth, "Sure!" with a roll of the eyes.

Yeah, Guthrie may have been able to pull off the "still tired" thing, but Tad was fooling nobody .

He'd had a simmering ache in his nether parts from the first moment Guthrie had stepped onto the stage.

He was so beautiful. Not when detailed like a laundry list; his nose was a bit Roman, his jaw a bit angular. Tad suspected those things helped his voice resonate. But as a whole, when he was pouring his heart into a song—or sitting at the table with his friends, listening to their banter—his face was so appealing. So… beautiful. It was Tad's only word. He wasn't a poet. He just knew something about Guthrie Woodson yanked so hard at his heart, he'd be stupid to resist it. If he were being pulled off a cliff, it was better to fall and land hard than to teeter on the edge, afraid of pain.

"I'll fix dinner," Tad told him. "What'd you have in mind?"

Guthrie gave him a grateful smile. "Burger bar. Uhm, the patties are already cooked. Heat them on the skillet, add cheese if you want some, heat the tater tots in the oven, and nuke the grilled onions and mushrooms. Set out the fixins and, you know." He gave a proud smile. "Burger bar!"

Tad gaped at him, delighted, and Guthrie disappeared, probably to take the gauze bandage off his hand and wash up.

Sure enough, when Tad checked the fridge, he saw all the ingredients, and as he began to assemble and heat everything, it occurred to him how much work Guthrie had done for this. He… he'd prepared for this. He'd hoped.

Tad reached to the top of the fridge and found fresh buns, the artisan kind, and his heart gave a little ping. He'd ordered groceries for this.

This wasn't a one-night-stand kind of thing. This was a beginning. And quite a nice one, he concluded as he warmed the mushrooms and onions.

He threw the cheese slices on the burgers after he flipped them, and Guthrie emerged from the shower right as he pulled them off and put them on their own plate.

"This is clever," Tad said, smiling at him. Guthrie's wet hair had been combed back from his face, and he looked young and vulnerable. Also his ears stuck out, ever so slightly, which Tad found sort of endearing.

Guthrie gave him a shining smile. "I… see, when I was a kid, Uncle Jock used to nuke potatoes and then go through the fridge. Everything was fair game—leftovers, lunchmeat. We'd put anything on that potato, and as long as there was cheese to go on top, it was a good thing. I… I mean, I'm a grown-up now, but I do like a refrigerator puzzle, like Uncle Jock used to call it. Tonight's burger toppings can be tomorrow's salad, right?"

"Right," Tad said happily, and then he sighed. "Although I need to be gone by nine. I report to work after lunch."

"I'm out of here at eight," Guthrie said regretfully. "You don't have to leave when I do—maybe we can wake up and have coffee together." Then as Tad pulled the tater tots out of the oven, he began to assemble two burgers, each one on a plate. "Ketchup? Mustard?"

"Yes to both," Tad said. "And all the veggies. And dill pickles."

"That's my boy," Guthrie approved. "Onions and mushrooms?"

"Totally. Those are genius, by the way. I may never eat a plain burger again."

Watching Guthrie preen was alone worth the drive down from Sacramento. "See? Not a complete disaster. Just…." He sighed.

"A guy without a lot of time," Tad said, understanding it. "It's okay. You're worth the trip, Guthrie. Do you have hot sauce?"

"For the tots?"

"You read my mind."

They ate dinner on the couch, talking desultorily about their days. Guthrie had a whole stack of stories—odd, everyday things—that he seemed to have been collecting during the past week.

"Okay," he said, setting his plate down with the burger mostly eaten and about half the tots left. "So I'm driving to work Friday morning, and there's this guy on a bicycle—a bicycle , mind you—coming from the direction of the hardware store. He was steering with one hand on a very busy road, and balanced on the nut-crusher bar by the seat, partly between his thighs as he pedaled and partly with his hand, was a—I shit you not— six-foot topiary . You know, one of those carved tree things? Like, it was obscene! Like a giant peen with a corkscrew base! And the bike was sort of wobbly, but he just kept plugging away, and the nearest cross street was a mile away. I think he made it. I mean, I didn't see any police lights or read about any accidents, but can you imagine? I mean… why?"

Tad was full-out belly laughing by now. "I've got nothing," he said. "But I wish you'd gotten a picture."

"I was gonna," Guthrie told him, completely sincere. "But about the time I had my phone out, the light changed to green, and, you know. You're in a car, you're behind the wheel, you sort of need to drive."

Tad chuckled some more and set his own plate down before sinking into the couch sideways, the better to peek at Guthrie.

Guthrie turned toward him and smiled self-consciously. "This is nice," he murmured.

"The eating? The talking? The fact that this is a real date?"

Tad watched as a faint blotchy pink marked Guthrie's neck. He'd shaved—no stubble tonight—and Tad wanted to capture that lush mouth with his own. But they were still a little full, and the conversation was nice, so he didn't mind stretching the moment out.

"All of it," Guthrie acknowledged. "So, uhm, my last ‘real date' was about a year ago. I've uhm, tested since. How about you?"

"Same," Tad told him, then grimaced.

"What's up?" Guthrie was good at that, picking up on expression, nuance, mood. Maybe it was being a musician—or maybe it was being lonely—but he was highly attuned to his fellow humans.

"So I told you about Sam," he said grimly.

"Douchebag," Guthrie said.

"No, just, you know. Not… not solid. But anyway, Sam left, and I was vulnerable, and I got hit on by Jesse. Who was a real douchebag."

Guthrie reached to the table and grabbed his glass of ice water to take a sip. "You will explain?"

Tad nodded and hoped he could make Guthrie laugh about this story, because he didn't want to sound self-pitying. "Okay, so Jesse is a firefighter, and he's in the closet. Now I get it. I don't advertise. My partner, Chris, just came out as really liberal, so I came out as gay, and his wife doctored my boo-boos on Saturday, and it's official: I'm family."

Guthrie gave an appreciative smile. "My boss got mad because I admitted to playing with Seth Arnold, who married his husband. I mean, forget me being gay—knowing a gay musician , of all things, marked me for death, so your guy at work has gotta be a good thing, right?"

Tad nodded again. "Yeah. It is. And Chris is the best. But you know—you know —you don't always have that option, and I didn't know what Jesse's department was like, so if he's in the closet, that's his business. I want someone to watch movies with, so that's it. And we flirt a little and exchange numbers, and then last summer one of the detectives in homicide gets knifed going to his friend's business office after lunch. It was kind of a wrong place/wrong time and kind of wrong friends—or at least friends who were trouble-magnets, but it wasn't their fault. So we're all standing up for the guy on our off-shifts, right? That's our job —to show our brothers and sisters we've got their backs. And on, like, the day after he gets stabbed, I see Jesse come in, and I think he's going to come sit with those of us waiting to make sure the cop's okay, but he looks furtive . Like he doesn't want to be recognized. A few minutes later, the hurt cop's friends come in, go right back to the hospital room to visit Sean—they know the doctors—and Jesse goes hauling ass down the corridor, running away like he stole something. Ten minutes later, Sean's friends are on the way back, and I hear one of them say, ‘Broke up with him in the hospital ?' and holy shit. I mean… holy shit ."

"What an asshole!" Guthrie muttered, appalled.

"Yeah, but it gets better. See, the guy in the hospital—he's very out. His whole crew is out. It's our own rainbow corner of Sac Law and Order, and yeah, I'm a little jealous. But that night Jesse shows up at my place with a fifth of Jack and a bag of DVDs that I later find out were Sean's , the guy he broke up with. And Jesse's like, ‘C'mon, Tad—just a night. Doesn't have to mean anything!' and I realize that I have been saved from a fate worse than bad sex."

"Wow," Guthrie said, laughing like he was supposed to.

"It was amazing what a douche this guy was."

Guthrie took another sip of water and licked his lips, which wasn't supposed to be inviting, but suddenly it was. "Did he… I dunno. Get his… you know. Comeuppance?"

Tad grinned. "Like in The Mummy ?"

Guthrie nodded and quoted, "Nasty little fellows such as yourself always get their comeuppance."

"Always?" Tad teased.

"Always," Guthrie confirmed, and they shared a chuckle. Guthrie rested his cheek on his bandaged hand, and Tad wanted to touch his face… and his chest… and run his hands over Guthrie's biceps and….

"Well, finish the story!" Guthrie said. "Did he get his comeuppance?"

Tad chuckled. "Yeah, actually! So fast forward six weeks later. Our injured guy has been nursed back to health by a porn model , of all things, and it's apparently true love."

Guthrie blinked. "Seriously? Like… like porn ?"

"So hot," Tad confirmed. He'd been at the scene for this and had seen the kid in person—muscle, swagger, attitude, and a face that would melt the staunchest knees. "Anyway, Sean shows up at a crime scene with his porn kid because his friends are involved with stopping the crime, and Jesse shows up and starts hitting on Sean. And suddenly, the porn kid, Sean's partner, and one of the trouble-magnet friends are all standing in front of Sean, yelling at Jesse about showing up at Sean's house with… guess."

Without missing a beat, Guthrie said, "A fifth of jack and DVDs?"

" Yes !" Tad burst out. "And the porn kid has got nothing to lose. Sean's out and proud, the porn kid gives zero fucks, and he's pissed , and suddenly Jesse is outed in front of his entire department—not just as gay, which I gather they wouldn't have cared about, but as, you know, a douchebag , which apparently made him very unpopular. It was beautiful . I mean, it was only luck I got called into that scene with Chris, but it was so worth it . I would have worked the scene for free."

Guthrie chuckled some more, and then, to Tad's joy, reached out and ran the fingers of his good hand down the outside of his arm. Tad shivered and gazed into Guthrie's eyes.

"So," Guthrie murmured. "No damage to the heart?"

"Nope," Tad said. "And only a little to the pride."

"And we're both negative?"

Tad felt a smile come on that was not entirely sweet. "Yup."

"You, uh, want to—"

Tad leaned across the couch and took Guthrie's mouth, hard, yearning, showing with lips and teeth and tongue the end to all the self-restraint Tad had been using during the entire meal to not ravish Guthrie the minute he'd come out of the shower.

Guthrie moaned and allowed himself to be borne back against the couch, cupping Tad's face and kissing him back. "Do you," he panted between kisses, "have any idea—ah!" Tad found the hem of his T-shirt and shoved his hands under. "How close I came to begging?"

Tad ran his lips across Guthrie's neck, along his jaw, nipped his ear. "You went to so much trouble," he breathed. "I wanted you to feel appreciated."

"I'm really damned ready for you to appreciate me. Oh damn!"

Tad got tired of playing with Guthrie's chest under the T-shirt and tugged it up, while Guthrie raised his torso off the couch so Tad could drag it over his head.

"Your wish, my command," Tad told him, and then… oh wow. Tiny sand-colored nipples with really pointy peaks. Tad pulled one into his mouth and was rewarded with Guthrie's greedy little cries and his fingers threading through Tad's hair. Tad moved to the other nipple and suckled some more, and this time Guthrie groaned unabashedly and bucked his hips off the couch in blatant invitation.

"My bed," Guthrie muttered. "Please?"

Tad groaned but conceded, rolling off the couch and offering a hand to help Guthrie up.

"I'll get the dishes tomorrow," Guthrie mumbled as Tad paused to turn off the lights and lock the door.

Tad had no problem with that, but he did have a problem with Guthrie's bare chest, his bare skin , glinting in the moonlight shooting through the blinds.

He couldn't stop touching it.

He herded Guthrie down the hall with mini-touches—a stroke down his back, a cup of his neck and gentle kiss on his shoulder, and Guthrie had to put his hand out to steady himself on the wall by the bathroom.

"We are not having sex on the floor," he muttered, and Tad backed him up against the wall and kissed him shamelessly until Guthrie ground his groin—covered in soft flannel and knit briefs—up against the placket of Tad's jeans.

Tad's hands went to his fly, and Guthrie slipped away from him into the bedroom. By the time Tad got there and yanked off his jeans and T-shirt, Guthrie was already naked. He'd stripped the covers down and was leaning against the sheets in the dark, his face buried in a pillow, the line of his body vulnerable and supplicating as he offered himself up to Tad's possession.

Tad drew near and kissed his shoulder, pressing his lips against the tenderness of Guthrie's throat.

"Not face-to-face?" he murmured, a little disappointed.

"I might embarrass myself," Guthrie said, and while Tad could tell he was trying to be light, he could also sense a thread of discomfort, of true embarrassment, in his words, and he kissed down Guthrie's spine, pausing to lave the beginning cleft that led to the canyon.

"Not possible," Tad murmured, placing a precise bite on Guthrie's pale backside.

Guthrie moaned and bucked up against the mattress, and then thrust a hand behind him with a small bottle of lube.

"You are in a damned hurry," Tad told him, pushing gently on his hip and setting the lube down. "Turn around so I can kiss you some more."

Guthrie complied reluctantly, but Tad stood and took his mouth, maneuvering them both so Guthrie was on his back on the sheets and Tad's body covered his. Guthrie's arms twined around his neck, and Tad kept kissing him, stroking his hand down Guthrie's chest, his hips, his thighs. Guthrie sensed the teasing and spread his legs, thrusting his groin up rhythmically as Tad moved his head down that long, stringy stomach to ground zero.

"I want to play!" Tad protested, and he rose up and began kissing his way down again. Guthrie's hands kneaded at his shoulders, at his biceps, threaded his hair. Tad stopped at his nipples again, this time suckling until Guthrie let out a strangled little sob.

"I will come ," he threatened.

"Go ahead," Tad taunted, moving down his stomach, licking a line along his ribs. He made the touch hard enough not to tickle, and Guthrie's whine of arousal was enough to turn Tad's key. "Come. And I'll taste it and lick you and play with you some more."

"Sadist," Guthrie grunted. He spread his legs then, so obviously needy Tad couldn't deny him. He went directly for Guthrie's engorged cock, tasting it first, running his tongue around the head, teasing the slit and shuddering.

Sweet. He didn't know why this surprised him. It was the thing inside Guthrie that went straight to the core.

Tad needed more of it. Tad needed it all .

He lowered his head, took Guthrie's cock to the back of his throat, and swallowed. Guthrie gasped, his torso coming off the bed for a moment, stomach muscles straining, before he fell back against the sheets, fingers tangling in Tad's hair.

"Aw, please," he begged, but Tad wasn't having any of it. He slurped back along Guthrie's length and released him regretfully.

"All of it," he rasped. "God, Guthrie, you taste so good."

He went down again, using his fist to pump while he worked the head with his mouth, needing Guthrie's cock in the back of his throat so badly he would have sobbed for it.

Guthrie reacted like an open nerve. He clutched at Tad's shoulders, gave a soft cry, vulnerable and raw, and came.

Tad swallowed it, shuddering when a second spurt hit the back of his tongue, his lips a little raw from sheltering the shaft from his teeth. He felt his own climax trying to sneak through but pulled back, gasping, shaking from the effort of holding back, and pushed up along the bed, surprised when Guthrie tried to roll over underneath him.

"What the—"

"Please?" Guthrie begged, and Tad frowned, wanting to know why it was so important they did this act—this incredibly intimate thing—without being face-to-face.

But also not wanting to scare Guthrie away by being a controlling bastard. When two people were naked and alone, trust was a precious commodity, and Guthrie couldn't trust Tad if he didn't know Tad would do what Guthrie asked.

"Okay," Tad whispered, pushing back to allow Guthrie room to pull his knees up to his chest, presenting his backside for use. Is this the only way you think you can have sex? He carefully, gently kissed the back of Guthrie's neck, down his spine, and to his cleft again, glad he remembered where he'd set the lube.

Tad wanted more time , dammit, but he was starting to shake even more, his body primed and wanting. He squirted a dollop of lube onto his fingers and delicately rubbed at Guthrie's rim. Guthrie shuddered, and buried his face in the pillow to moan.

Was that it? Did he not want Tad to hear his noises?

Tad penetrated him slowly, measuring Guthrie's every breath as he shuddered again and thrust back against Tad's fingers until they disappeared inside Guthrie's body.

Two fingers now, scissored outward to stretch, and Guthrie turned his head to the side and whispered, "Please? Now?"

His voice was choked, warbly, but he was begging, and Tad needed to keep the promises their bodies had made to each other. He slicked himself up and positioned himself at Guthrie's entrance, taking in the sight of him, clenched and quaking, facedown against the clean china-blue sheets. He was beautiful, but so self-protective. When Tad took a breath and slowly thrust into him, Guthrie's gasp, the hopeful way he thrust back, the rhythmic feel to his shudders all triggered something in Tad, something prehistoric and caveman.

It was Tad's job to take care of this man. Tad's job to gentle him, to care for him.

Tad's job to drive him wild.

Tad gave his own wordless cry and fell into the rhythm sex demanded, thrusting into Guthrie's body and retreating, his cock gripped by Guthrie's hot chamber, his need so acute he wasn't sure he could stop.

"Yes?" he whispered. He couldn't see Guthrie's face— needed to hear the word before he unleashed the want driving him forward.

" Please! "

That's all he needed. He thrust again, again, again, hard, pulling back by a hair to keep from hurting, until Guthrie gave a guttural moan Tad felt in his cock , where they were joined, and begged, "Harder."

Tad couldn't hold on anymore. The want, the need, the yearning he'd felt for Guthrie, for his body, for his soul—all of it unleashed, and Tad fucked him hard and fucked him raw and drove himself into Guthrie's body with all his strength.

"More," Guthrie gasped, his voice still wobbly, still broken, but Tad listened to his word and kept going, kept fucking, until Guthrie's little gasps, his fractured moans, could barely be heard above the slap of his thighs against Guthrie's ass.

Suddenly Guthrie stiffened, head thrown back, body frozen, his asshole locked so tightly around Tad's cock that it felt like an angry fist.

The mewl that bullied its way through Guthrie's throat almost broke Tad then, but the shudders that rocked Guthrie's body as he came destroyed him entirely. He gave his own cry and poured himself into this new lover, his sweat stinging his eyes as it spattered onto Guthrie's backside, his hands shaking and cold as he tried to soften the heat of their bodies smacking together.

He tried to pull back his breathing, tried to talk, to say the usual things, when he realized Guthrie's breaths were sobbing—but it was more than just his breath.

It was him.

Guthrie was sobbing into the pillow, and Tad was confused. And horrified.

Guthrie fell forward, taking Tad with him, and Tad leaned over his shoulder, the two of them still joined. "Are you okay?" he asked. Oh God, had he hurt this man? In sex? The thought made him ill.

"Fine," Guthrie said, wiping his face on the pillow. Tears leaked steadily from the corner of his eye and down his nose on the side Tad could see. "I'm… don't mind me. I-I do this. When it's good. It was so good. So good."

He took another breath, and it came out shakily, and Tad slid to the side, reaching down to pull the comforter over their bodies.

"Do what?" he asked, invading Guthrie's space. "What—you're crying ! Oh my God, Guthrie, what did I do?"

Guthrie shook his head and tried to turn his head to the other side, but Tad stopped him with a short, briny kiss of comfort.

"Don't turn away!" he begged. "Wha-what's the matter?"

Guthrie let out one of those laughing sobs people gave when they were overwhelmed with emotion and gasped, trying to pull it back enough to talk.

"I…. God, this is so embarrassing," Guthrie said, taking a deep breath. "I uhm… when sex is good, when I've really connected with someone… this happens. I just… I thought it would be a few tears is all. I-I've never just…." He shuddered again and worked hard to breathe through whatever was wracking his body, and Tad stopped trying to make him talk.

He pulled Guthrie close, his face into Tad's neck, and whispered into the now-dry strands of coarse satin hair that covered his face. "It's okay," he said, hoping he got it. "You don't have to hide this from me. It's all right. You can… you can cry. It's not a sin."

Guthrie gave a suspicious-sounding snort, and his heaving shoulders relaxed some as he began to calm down. "Sure it's not," he muttered, sounding irritated.

"Shh…." Tad held him tight, quietly, peppering his face and hair with tiny kisses. "You're safe here with me. It's safe. You can cry. Make fuckfaces. Monkey sounds—it's all good." He smiled, hoping the humor would make the moment not quite so big, not quite so overwhelming for the man in his arms.

"Fuckfaces?" Guthrie asked, his voice a little more level, his body relaxing in Tad's arms.

"You know," Tad told him, peeking through Guthrie's fall of hair and making sure he could see him cross his eyes and thrust his jaw out while he moaned in simulated ecstasy. "Fuckfaces."

Guthrie's broken giggles warmed him, and he let some of the tension, some of the fear of doing anything wrong bleed out. "You do not look like that," Guthrie told him tartly.

"How would you know?" Tad made another face, this one with fish lips and squinty eyes. "For all you know, this is what I do when I come."

"Ha, ha."

"No, seriously. I was holding back. I also trumpet like an elephant out my dick. It's mortifying."

Guthrie buried his face against Tad's neck and laughed harder. "You're such an asshole!" he complained good-naturedly.

"Yes, I have one," Tad told him. "And if you let me see your fuckfaces, you might get to see it someday."

Guthrie sighed, some of the giggles ebbing away. With a wiggle he slid far enough back to look Tad in the eye. "I've never… I mean, for obvious reasons, I don't top."

"Is there an extra penis I didn't see that would make that uncomfortable?" Tad asked suspiciously.

Guthrie was enough himself now to roll his eyes. "No, idiot. Just… what kind of top would I be if I'm sobbing through sex. That'll be fun for you." He thrust his hips. "Come for me," he mimicked, making his voice warble with pretend sobs. "Please… wah, wah, wah… please, baby… waaaahhh." He rolled his eyes again and snapped out of it. "That's attractive."

Tad sobered too. "Except it wouldn't be like that, would it?" he asked softly, rubbing his thumb across Guthrie's cheekbone. "Because you'd trust me. And if you let tears fall, and they didn't have to force their way out, you'd simply cry and keep making love. And I'd be happy, because… because that thing you said? About them happening when you were feeling a connection?" He bit his lip. "That's… that's about the best thing I've ever heard. That means you care about me when we're doing this. Guthrie, that's hope!"

"Oh my God," Guthrie complained, palming his eyes to wipe away the last of the tears. "Could you be any more of a Dudley Do-Right?"

"I don't know," Tad said, working on the "making Guthrie laugh" angle. "Does the guy in the white hat ever get laid? Because I'm feeling pretty good right now. Pretty satisfied. Does Dudley Do-Right get himself a prime piece of musician ass? Because, uhm, you know…." He pointed to himself and nodded. "Lookit me. I'm a stud. Don't know if you can be Dudley Do-Right and a stud. Don't think it's a thing."

Guthrie did laugh, and Tad felt like he'd won the lottery. "You are being a goofy asshole on purpose," he said, "but"—his voice fell—"you talked me off my ledge. I was seriously thinking about hiding in the bathtub all night, and that wouldn't be comfortable."

Tad smiled at him tenderly and moved in to kiss him with gentleness and warmth, like grown-ups. Carefully, he wiped the leftover tears from under Guthrie's eyes, the ones caught in the long blond lashes, and kissed him again, pulling back when Guthrie went boneless in his arms.

"I'm serious," he said. "You don't ever have to hide this part of you from me. I-I mean, I knew what we were doing was special. Was important . But this—this means you felt it too. I don't mind if you cry in bed, Guthrie, unless I'm hurting you , and you don't tell me because you think I'll stop."

Guthrie sighed and nodded. "I… it's going to take me a little, I think," he said, obviously choosing his words. "I ain't never trusted anyone to see that."

Tad nodded. "Well, I'll be honored if you do," he murmured.

"Mm…." Like an exhausted child, Guthrie yawned; his day had obviously caught up with him. "As long as I don't feel obligated to sleep in the bathroom, it's fine. Do you want a washcloth?"

Tad stopped him with a hand on his chest. "I'll get it," he murmured, kissing Guthrie on the cheek. "Stay here."

He understood the need to take a breath, to get some space. He'd bottomed before, knew the shakiness of the thighs, that need for safety, the need to hide for a moment, to master the vulnerability that came from opening your body for someone like that.

And he knew he needed a moment to recover himself . Because Guthrie's tears, his embarrassment, the depth of his trust —that Tad wouldn't mock those things, hold them against him…. Tad was suddenly reminded, in a real, painful way, that sex could be so important. Sometimes it was easy, fun, a naked handshake that needed cleanup afterward.

But with Guthrie, it had probably only been like that with women, because Guthrie needed that connection to make it good.

He'd said it that first night. He knew what love was now. He wouldn't settle for anything not worthwhile.

Tad had better make this worthwhile.

With a shaky breath, he ran some warm water on a washcloth, wrung it out, and grabbed a hand towel for drying before going back into the bedroom, shivering a little and scrambling under the covers. Guthrie went to take the washcloth from him, but Tad shook his head and wordlessly peeled the covers back and went about washing him off, then drying him, giving a little kiss on his bottom before sitting up and taking care of himself. He folded the towels neatly and set them on the end table before pulling the covers up over their shoulders and turning to face Guthrie in the darkness.

"You want dessert?" Guthrie asked suddenly, just as they were settled. "I got ice cream."

Tad chuckled and shook his head, snuggling closer. "Keep it for next time I'm here," he said softly. "Not next weekend—Chris and I are on the roster. But the weekend after that we should be off." Chris's daughter graduated on Tuesday of that week and left for a senior trip two days later. Chris had been excited about a weekend trip for himself and Laura to sort of celebrate Robin's successful launching for the last month.

"That brings us to early June," Guthrie murmured. "My weekends free up a little over the summer." He gave a tentative smile. "I could, uhm, visit you."

"I'd love that," Tad said. "I want any time I can get with you."

Guthrie gave a shy smile. "Wouldn't mind," he said.

Tad traced a finger over the shell of his ear, enjoying the quiet, the sound of his breathing, the warmth of their bodies under the covers. "We'll find a way," he promised. "I… sometimes my weekends get overrun. My hours aren't always regular. But I'll always be trying, okay? Don't ever think I won't be trying to get back to you."

SLEEP TOOK them over soon after that, and Guthrie's alarm rang at seven, which felt obscene. Guthrie showered first and Tad took second, making coffee and starting eggs while he waited.

When Tad got out of the shower and dressed in jeans with a sport coat, he shivered.

"You forget how cold it gets," he said, taking the cup of coffee from Guthrie gratefully. "I mean, compared to Sacramento. Once you pass Vallejo and those hills…." He shuddered.

"I don't mind the cold," Guthrie said. "The damp gets into the instruments, though." He paused with his own coffee, apparently waiting for the toast to pop.

Tad had noticed a small dehumidifier in the corner of the room with the drum set and the two guitars, so he guessed Guthrie felt that keenly. Then he noticed Guthrie standing in his chilly kitchen in his clean blue polyester shirt with the logo of the Gene Calhoun Auto Dealership on the pocket. He was shivering too, and Tad had a sudden moment of absolutely not wanting to leave.

With a grunt of frustration, he set his coffee down and went to his backpack, where he'd stowed everything he'd been wearing the night before. He came back with his red plaid flannel shirt jacket. It had knit sleeves and a knit hood, and it was the perfect amount of warmth for summer west of Vallejo.

"Here," he said, shaking it open. "Put your coffee down and put this on."

"I've got my own jackets," Guthrie grumbled, but he did what Tad said. Tad's chest was broader—he did like to work out—and the lightweight jacket was an XL, while Guthrie, under his shirt, was probably an L, but a slender one.

"Here," Tad said, doing a couple of buttons. He paused, their proximity achingly close when he was planning to leave for two weeks. "Just… you know. Think of me. Like this." Then he kissed him, the taste of coffee mingling, the taste of Guthrie lingering. Gah! He didn't want to go.

"So, if I keep this, you promise to come back for it?" Guthrie asked, when they came up for air.

"I really love this… shirt," Tad murmured.

"So that's a yes," Guthrie said. "I like that. I'll keep it safe for you."

Tad closed his eyes and pulled up Guthrie's hand, which sported a new, clean bandage. He kept his nails scrupulously trimmed, Tad noticed, which made his calluses even more apparent. These hands knew hard living.

He kissed Guthrie's knuckles and then gazed into Guthrie's eyes again. "You keep you safe for me. The jacket needs someone to keep warm, okay?"

Guthrie's "snakebit" smile appeared, the one that said he really liked what Tad was saying but wasn't used to thinking of promises and hope like they were a thing.

"I'll do my best," he said.

Tad kissed him again, and this time it was Guthrie's watch, beeping an alarm, that split them apart.

"Shit!" Guthrie cried, breaking away to grab a small lunch cooler sitting on the counter and his keys, which were in a bowl near the same place. "You got me all kiss-stupid! I gotta go!"

"One more!" Tad demanded, and Guthrie ran up to him and kissed him, hard and fast and dirty, before turning to launch himself out the door.

"Lock up and turn out the lights!" he begged as he cleared the threshold. "And text me!"

"I'll text you!" Tad cried, and then the door thunked shut, leaving Tad alone in Guthrie's pleasant little apartment.

Tad looked around, liking everything about the place except the fact that Guthrie was no longer in it.

Mournfully, he reflected that he would do anything— anything —to find a way for them to do this more often.

All the time.

Every goddamned day.