Chapter Text
AUGUST 03, 2005
‘i’m bored.’
John leans against the frame of his bedroom window, one leg dangling out against the side of the house and the other pulled up to his chest, hot afternoon sun beating down on him. He’s not scheduled to work today, but Curt is, which means a long day of doing nothing but reading and gaming. It’s too hot to go hiking or exploring, which rules out a lot of entertainment options when he spends most of his time alone outdoors, so he’s decided to take Gale’s offer of being there if he needs anything seriously, because his boredom is prevalent enough to temporarily overpower his fear of inconveniencing him. Besides, it’s just an offhand text, not an actual request.
His phone buzzes ten excruciatingly long minutes later, and he sets his book down to reach for it.
‘Hi bored. I’m Gale.’
Alright.
‘ok i am *feeling* so bored, i may die.’
John finds himself smiling as soon as he’s texting Gale, even if it still fills his stomach with nerves.
‘No work today?’
As restless as John gets at work, sometimes he thinks it wouldn’t be that bad to be scheduled every day just for something to do; he’s getting increasingly impatient for the start of school as the summer drags on, despite it meaning the end of work for a bit, because at least he can bury himself in textbooks and assignments and be productively bored.
‘no, i’m off wed and sun this week and curt’s working 2day’
John waits for a response, feeling a little bad for bothering him while he’s at work, but less anxious than he had been before Gale’s reassurance on Saturday after their day at the beach.
‘We can do something when I’m off at 5.’
John almost knocks his head back against the window frame in his giddiness. He honestly hadn’t been expecting such a quick offer, just texting for something to do, and now his heart is banging up a racket for what feels like the hundredth time this week.
‘that’s like three whole hours away <\3‘
He doesn’t actually mean it, complaining for the sake of complaining, and for the sake of dragging out the conversation. Really, he could just crawl into bed and sleep until then; he likes to consider his ability to crank out a quick nap at a moment’s notice a life hack rather than a side effect of his overactive brain always goinggoinggoing.
‘Haha. I’m sure you’ll survive.’
‘breaking my heart :(((‘
He chews at his bottom lip after hitting send, scared to cross the line between bantering and being annoying, and also trying to balance his interest so he doesn’t sound overeager. Having a crush is decidedly exhausting, and he feels a bit relieved he’s been able to live out the first two decades of his life without suffering from a serious one like this, because he thinks teenage–John might’ve been driven clinically insane trying to deal with such strong feelings.
‘You can hang out at the shop until I’m done, if you’re really that bored. I just won’t be able to chat much, lots to do today.’
John sits up straight at that, most definitely not anticipating the invite, not anymore than he’d been expecting the offer to hangout.
‘is there a/c :3’
Gotta play it cool. Gale doesn’t need to know he’s already shut his window and started hunting for something to wear.
‘Yep. Nice couch in the office too.’
John’s brushing his teeth and pulling on shoes before Gale even sends him the address, and once he figures out what bus he needs to catch, he tells his mom he’s going to the mall before he heads off to the stop.
A ten minute drive from one end of town to the other becomes nearly an hour long bus ride with how few transit lines they have– it would almost take him the same amount of time to walk, but he’d rather not pass out from heat stroke on the way. The butterflies he’s become all too accustomed to lately return as soon as he’s over the river, counting the stops in his head until the bus pulls up alongside an industrial area, and then he steps off, looking at the address in his phone again.
It’s a few minutes walk along a wide street, dried–out open fields and farmland to his right, manufacturing plants and smaller factories and trainyards to his left, the sun painting the dusty street in an almost apocalyptic haze. He keeps his music low in his headphones, not wanting to miss the sound of the large tractors or semi–trucks that pass by too close for comfort and end up like spaghetti on some country road before he makes it to his destination.
Besides the big Rosenthal’s Auto Repair sign that greets him when he turns into the open lot, John knows he’s at the right place when his eyes lock onto a figure crouched next to a busted–up bike inside an open garage, recognizing the familiar tattoos before Gale even lifts his head at his approaching footsteps.
“Hey, you made it,” Gale greets him, standing and wincing a little as he stretches, and John tries not to stare. He looks ready to be photographed for one of those Working Men calendars that suburban moms go crazy over, with his white grease–stainted tanktop and baggy army–green cargo pants, a crammed toolbelt tight around his waist, and John’s horrified to find himself momentarily identifying with middle–aged women.
“Barely,” John says, eyes trailing after Gale’s movements as he wipes his hands on the towel he’s got slung over one shoulder. “Nearly got flattened by like, three tractors on the way.”
“Alright, city boy,” Gale snorts at his obvious exaggeration, beckoning for him to follow him through the shop. John does, taking everything in as they go. The garage is surprisingly full for such a quiet area, but he supposes there are only so many shops in town, and if this one’s been around long enough to have a family name slapped onto it, that reputation counts for a lot.
Gale leads him through the garage to a more customer–friendly reception area, and John recognizes Bubbles, hunched over a stack of papers at the front desk with a pen between his teeth. He lifts his head when they enter, dropping the pen and shooting John a smile.
“Both Buckies!” He exclaims, leaning back in his chair. “What’s the occasion?”
“A severe case of boredom,” Gale answers for him, and John smiles sheepishly.
“Severe enough to help me go through inventory?” Bubbles raises his eyebrows.
“You’re not roping him into unpaid labour, Joe,” Gale scoffs.
“I’d help,” John says, anything sounding more interesting than sitting at home, and Gale gives him a look.
“I know you would, that’s why I’m knocking that idea outta both of your heads,” he says, turning back to Bubbles. “Where’s Rosie?”
“Think he went out back to bring some pallets round to the lot.” Bubbles tilts his head towards a back door, and Gale nods.
“Alright,” he says, gesturing for John to follow him again. “John’s gonna hang out in the office for a bit.”
Bubbles sends them both a little salute before turning back to his paperwork, and John trails obediently after Gale, stepping through the door he pushes open for him and entering a cozy staff room. There’s a cushy couch along one wall as promised, a desk and a few lockers and filing cabinets across from it, and a small kitchenette–type area in the corner, but most importantly, the room is free of the stuffy heat from outside.
“There’s drinks in the fridge and some sorta snacks in the cabinets,” Gale tells him, leaning against the door frame and looking at his watch. “You can wander if you get restless, but I’ll be done in a little over an hour.”
“Okay, thanks,” John smiles, setting his bag down on the couch. He wants to wander now, if only to go sit in the garage and suffer through the heat to watch Gale work, but Gale’s already said it’s a busy day, so he doesn’t want to bother him. Instead he lets his eyes drag unabashedly over Gale’s form when he turns to leave, giving himself something nice to think about while he waits.
He ends up not having to wait at all though– some time between curling up on the couch with his book and five p.m., he falls asleep, lulled by the quiet whir of the air conditioner and the distant sounds of metal on metal. He wakes up to the sound of low voices, one arm hanging off the side of the couch and the other draped over a pillow, blinking bleary eyes open as Gale and Rosie enter the room and pause mid–conversation when they take in the state of him.
“Were you sleeping?” Gale asks, eyes dropping to where John’s book has evidently fallen to the floor.
“No,” John lies reflexively, feeling a little embarrassed. “Just… resting my eyes.”
“It’s alright,” Rosie says, amused smile tugging at his lips as he heads to the sink to wash his hands. “It’s Buck’s favourite napping spot on break, too.”
“Shouldn’t have put a couch in here, it’s a trap,” Gale complains as he walks over to the lockers.
John’s attempt to find coherent words in his groggy state becomes futile when Gale peels off his sweat–damp tanktop without so much as a warning for his sanity’s sake, locker creaking as he pulls it open. John stares through half–open eyes for a second before burying his face in the couch cushion to hide the heat he feels rising to his cheeks, disguising the action as residual tiredness with a well–timed stretch.
The glimpse he’d caught of rippling shoulder blades and dark ink–lines is burnt into the backs of his eyelids when he shoves his face further between the pillows, ears ringing a bit as he half–listens to Gale and Rosie’s conversation, starting to regret sending that stupid text earlier.
“Matt said his driver will be here before ten tomorrow with the delivery, so I might come in a little earlier to make sure we have space,” Gale’s saying when John’s breathing is regulated enough to tune back in.
“Let me know if you do,” Rosie says. “I’ll get an early start too.”
They bid each other goodnight, and John hears the door swing shut, and then heavy boots make their way over to the couch. There’s light pressure between his shoulder blades, and his mouth goes dry with the paralyzing craving to have Gale’s full body weight flatten him down on the couch, heat radiating out from his hand when he shakes him lightly.
“You fall back asleep?” Gale laughs quietly, and John groans for more reasons than one.
“No,” his voice is muffled against the pillow. Gale’s hand leaves his back, and he wants to chase after it, but he rolls over instead, rubbing his hands over his eyes. Gale’s in a plain tee now, cargo pants swapped out for jeans, and John’s infinitely grateful he’d looked away when he had, because he’s not sure he could’ve been held responsible for his actions if he’d witnessed Gale take his pants off within a ten mile radius of him.
“We can just go for a drive if you wanna sleep some more,” Gale offers, and John kinda wants to yell at him for the way the thoughtful suggestion fills his whole body with pop–rocks, a sharp juxtaposition to the way his heart softens.
“M’not tired,” he insists, sitting up, and Gale hands him his book from the floor with a humoured smile.
“You wanna get dinner then?” Gale asks, waiting patiently while John gets his things together, and John nods, following Gale out of the staff room.
“There’s a diner near here, if that sounds alright to you,” Gale says, flicking lights off as they make their way through the garage.
“I’m good with anything,” John agrees. He means it in every sense, but Gale doesn’t have to know that.
Gale leads him to his truck after locking the shop up, and John tries to pretend that he doesn’t remember the conversation they’d had– or rather, not had– the last time they’d driven together. The radio crackles to life just like before, and the windows are already rolled down when he settles, too humid to bother closing them in the heat of the day, he guesses.
“You been sleeping alright?” Gale asks once they’re on the road, and John fights back a smile at his poorly–concealed fretting.
“Yeah,” he assures him, leaning his arm against the door frame, head in his hand. “Just a devoted napper. And the couch was really soft.”
Gale laughs a little at that, nodding.
“Alright,” he relents.
“How was your day?” John flips the attention over to him, antsy with the feeling of being worried over.
“Same old,” Gale says, tapping his thumb against the steering wheel. “Always gets busier mid–week, but I don’t mind.”
“Something to do, right?” John commiserates, and Gale smiles.
“Yeah,” he agrees, then warily glances at him. “Jesus, you’re too young to say shit like that. You gotta get outta here.”
John snorts, ignoring the slight sting of too young that Gale probably doesn’t even register as a blow.
“I’m trying,” he says, and Gale nods, pulling into the parking lot of a small mom–and–pop–style diner.
“Yeah?” He encourages, cutting the engine. “You going back to school after summer ends, or are you gonna keep working?”
“I’m just starting uni,” John says, shutting the truck’s door behind him and following Gale into the diner. The waitress seats them at a small booth near the window, setting down their menus and taking their drink orders before heading to the kitchen.
“Why the long break?” Gale asks, leaning back. Normally John gets asked this question in a way that feels judgemental, used to adults scoffing at the concept of gap years, but he doesn’t get that sense at all from Gale; he just seems curious.
“Curt and I agreed to take a year off together to work full time and save up, ‘cause we wanna start school at the same time,” he says. “But at the end of last summer we decided to work a second year to save more, because he wants to go part time when we start school, and I wanna quit to focus fully on classes for my first year.”
“Are you moving out?” John almost feels like squirming under his undivided attention, not used to it when the few times they’ve talked one–on–one have either been brief or marred by the effects of alcohol.
“Next summer, I hope,” he says. “I really wanna, I just don’t want any distractions, I don’t do great when it comes to studying and all that.”
“That’s a smart decision,” Gale says, and John can’t help but smile shyly at the approval, playing with the plastic corner of his menu. “You’ve got a good head on your shoulders, you’ll be fine.”
“I hope so,” John nods, trying to focus on the words in front of him as he sits with the way Gale’s vote of confidence makes him feel more assured of his decision than he’s felt in a long time. It’s one thing for him and Curt to encourage each other, but it’s another thing for a proper adult to tell him he’s on the right path; he’s not sure he’s ever had that happen. He doesn’t know a whole lot about Gale yet, but he values his opinion nevertheless, so it’s comforting to hear those words.
After the waitress takes their orders, Gale asks what he’s going to be studying, and John bashfully tells him he’s going to be working towards a Bachelor of Science, majoring in Earth Science.
“I know it’s not as practical as other majors, but I’ve always been interested, and if I do well enough to get accepted to an internship or research program, it’ll hopefully get me a ticket to the city,” he quickly explains away his decision, because growing up with his heart set on science in a town with few opportunities for that path, he’s gotten more than enough ‘why don’t you just choose a business major?’–esque questions.
“Practical is boring anyway,” Gale smiles, easing his doubts. “If you’re paying the money to learn, and you like learning about it, that sounds like as good a plan as any.”
Over dinner, Gale shoots a whole lot of questions at him, and John answers shyly at first, trying to flip the subjects on him, attempting to deflect a little, but Gale seems genuinely interested in what he has to say, so does his best to be a bit more confident in his responses. He manages to glean some tidbits of information about Gale in the midst of it all– he’s been working full time since high school, and he’s never gone to university, but if he had gone, he probably would’ve been an English major, which is horrendously endearing to John.
He can’t tell if Gale is intentionally playing John–trivia because he’s reluctant to share things about himself, or because he’s for some reason intrigued by John’s life, or a mix of both, but either way, once he gets past his initial apprehension, John doesn’t mind fielding his questions. They stay mostly surface level anyway, so he’s not stuck nervously skirting around things, and Gale’s easy to talk to, save for how much it makes John trip over his own tongue to have his eyes on him for so long.
It’s nearly seven by the time Gale finally asks for the bill, and he lightly kicks John’s foot under the table when he reaches for his wallet.
“Hey–”
“Let me get this one,” Gale says, already pulling cash out.
“That’s not fair,” John insists. “I can get my own.”
“Or you can save your money and let someone who isn’t about to spend a year unemployed buy you dinner,” Gale says, tucking the bills into the check–book, and John’s heart flutters despite the way he glowers at the man, because buying someone dinner feels an awful lot like being on a date.
“Thank you,” he mumbles when he slides out of the booth, and Gale shakes his head at his stubbornness, guiding him out of the diner with a hand hovering at his lower back. It takes every bit of self–restraint for John to not lean into the light touch, glancing up at Gale with his cheeks aching from the effort to not break into a lovesick grin.
He smiles the whole drive back, even though the evening has come to an end and he has to go back home. Gale offers to take him elsewhere, but John remembers him telling Rosie he’ll be up early tomorrow, and he really shouldn’t push his luck with his dad anyway, much less on a weekday, so he tells Gale he’s tired, and it’s believable enough after his impromptu nap at the shop.
Gale parks a little bit down the street as seems to be routine now, and John opens his mouth to thank him before recalling what he’d said at the beach, clumsily correcting himself.
“It was– I had a good day,” he says timidly, nervous all over again. Gale’s smile creases the corners of his eyes, and John feels his heart beating a heavy, steady rhythm.
“I’m glad,” Gale says warmly. “I did too.”
He looks unfairly handsome in the soft golden light of the late evening, but even more unfair is the fact that John can’t just bridge the gap between them and kiss his feelings away. The more time he spends around Gale, the more it feels like he’s being consumed by his overwhelming infatuation, and there’s not a single thing he can do about it that doesn’t involve the risk of scaring the man out of his life.
So he shuts the truck door behind him after promising Gale he’ll text when he’s safe inside, and he tries not to stare too forlornly as the truck putters off down the street and rounds the corner, and he’s left to retreat back to the heaviness of his bedroom.
John’s getting ready to leave for work on Friday afternoon when he realizes history has been repeating itself right under his nose.
He’s about to leave the bathroom when he notices the small trashcan next to the sink is near–overflowing, the swing–top no longer shutting, and he knows no one else is going to deal with it, so he brings it with him to the kitchen on his way to grab his waterbottle. When he takes the lid off to dump the trash into the bigger bin under the kitchen sink, he sees a slim tube of transparent plastic poking out from beneath some paper towel, and it feels like his heart hits the tile floor beneath him.
John carefully sets the bin back down and pushes aside the garbage, and his fear is proven to be warranted when he finds an empty syringe, cheery mint–green cap dragging him right back to days he’d hoped were far in the past.
He straightens up, stomach turning as he leaves the bin and heads down the hall.
“Mom?” John calls through her closed bedroom door, knocking lightly. When he doesn’t get a response, he opens the door a crack, repeating his call and still hearing nothing back. He swears under his breath, pushing the door the rest of the way open and flicking on the light, and that gets a groan from the pile of blankets on the bed.
“Off,” he hears, and he exhales shakily, hand trembling as he obediently turns the light back off, too relieved to be mad.
“Momma.” He walks quietly over to her side of the bed, crouching on the floor next to the mattress to bring himself eye–level with her. “Found a needle in the trash.”
He can barely see her with the blackout curtains intercepting the sun, the light from the hallway illuminating her silhouette and not much else, but he can tell her eyes aren’t open, and her long dark hair blankets her face where she’s slumped over her pillow. She makes a noncommittal noise at his comment, limp hand attempting to wave him off, and he swallows hard.
“What’d you use?” He asks, glancing at the bedside table in case she’s left a vial or some sort of clue laying around. “Morphine?”
She doesn’t respond, so John reaches out to gently shake her arm, heart thumping uncomfortably, a pit in his stomach.
“Mom,” he repeats. “Was it morphine?”
“S’fine, Johnny,” she slurs out, and yeah, it probably is, if her tolerance is anything like it used to be, but John’s not willing to count on that.
“How much?” He asks, but he’s already pulling his phone out, knowing he’s not going to get a good answer. “I’m gonna call dad, okay?”
He hates to do it, both because he knows his dad is going to be pissed off, and because it’s certainly not gonna make this easier on his mom, but they can’t afford a hospital visit and he doesn’t want to risk getting his mom in any sort of trouble.
His hands shake as he dials his dad’s number, anxious he’s not even going to pick up, but–
“I’m at work, this better be important.”
“Mom took something,” John tries to steady his voice.
“And?”
“No, I mean– she injected,” John gets out, running a hand down his face. “I don’t know what, she won’t say, I think morphine, but–”
“Fuck’s sake,” his dad’s voice is gruff, strained. “Can’t you just watch her?”
“I guess, yeah,” John mumbles. “I just don’t know if it’s serious.”
There’s a heavy sigh, and then the sound of a chair being pushed back.
“Fine, I’ll waste my lunch break,” his dad says, and John can’t feel too bitter about his lack of care when he’s just grateful to not have to deal with this alone. “I’ll be home in ten.”
The line goes dead with a muffled click, and John sits down on the floor, leaning back against the wall in resignation with his knees folded up against his chest. He watches his mom’s chest rise and fall shallowly, afraid to blink, feeling like a helpless ten year old again, timing his own breaths with hers until he hears his dad’s truck pull into the driveway.
A slamming door follows his entrance, and he hardly glances at John when he walks into the bedroom, boots still on, rummaging through the drawers of their dresser and then pausing at the sound of glass clinking against wood. John watches him, chin tucked into the crook of his arm, trying to analyze his expression before he speaks.
“Fuckin’ morphine,” his dad mutters, taking a half–full vial from the drawer and angrily crossing the room. John scrambles along the wall to get out of his way as the man takes his place at the bedside, watching as he shoves the vial in front of his mom’s face, as if her eyes aren’t weighted shut.
“Really, Frances? We’re back here again?” He snaps, flicking the glass so she can hear it. “I called Ethel and she’s heading over, what d’you think she’s gonna say about this?”
John presses his spine into the doorframe, swallowing down bile.
“I’m sure she was just dreaming of spending her Friday babysitting her sister,” his dad continues. John’s not even sure his mom’s awake enough to hear any of this, but if she is, he doubts she’s keen on responding anyway.
“That’s not going to help–”
“You know how embarrassing this is, Frances?” His dad plows right on over John’s attempt to deescalate, though he’s not convinced the man even heard in his worked up state. John slowly stands, wiping damp palms on his shorts, pulling his phone out and cursing under his breath when he realizes he’s going to be at least thirty minutes late for his shift at this point, with the bus ride alone taking that long.
If his Aunt Ethel is coming over, John decides he doesn’t need to stick around; once his dad gets bored of shouting his frustrations out at his mom, it’ll be his turn next, and waiting around for that isn’t going to do anyone any good. His chest is tight when he slips unnoticed out of their bedroom, hurrying to his own for his bag and grabbing his waterbottle where he’d left it in the kitchen before leaving the house and the one–sided fighting behind.
John sucks in a deep breath as he walks down his driveway, but it feels like the humid air only coats his lungs, adding to the discomfort prickling along his whole body. He calls the hotel while he walks to the bus stop, and he has to leave a message when no one picks up, feeling his stress building because for someone to not be by the phones, that usually means it’s a crazy busy day.
Curt’s out of town visiting his grandparents for the weekend, so he’s not scheduled until Monday, but John sends a text to Helen for good measure, in case she’s at the hotel and able to check her phone.
‘are you at work? i’m gonna be half an hour late and i tried to call in but no one picked up :/’
He gets a ‘not till 3, sry! i’m sure it’ll be fine, you’ve always been reliable otherwise. everything okay?’ a few minutes later, and he spends half the bus ride deciding how to reply before settling on an ‘all good thx, missed my bus :|’
Curt’s the only person who knows about these things; it’s not that John doesn’t trust Helen, because he does, wholeheartedly. It just feels embarrassing, what goes on behind closed doors, and he doesn’t like to talk about it if he doesn’t have to. It makes people uncomfortable and they can’t do anything about it anyway, so he prefers to keep it between him and Curt, and he knows Curt understands that.
John rushes to get changed into his uniform once he makes it to the locker room, wishing he could have just a few minutes to decompress, because his head feels like it’s anywhere but at work. He’s still tucking in his shirt on his way out of the staff room when he nearly collides with his manager, and he gets out a quick apology, but the man calls his name and John skids to a stop.
“We’re slammed, and you’re almost an hour late,” he says, irritation clear.
“I know, I’m so sorry,” John says sincerely, shoulders tense. “I tried to call, but no one picked up.”
“You should’ve tried again,” he says sternly, already turning to continue onwards to wherever he’d been heading. “I don’t want to see you start slacking just because you’ve put in your notice, Egan.”
“Yes sir, I’m sorry.” John’s stomach turns as he heads down the hall in the opposite direction, ears hot with shame, feeling sick at the notion of disappointing him. His manager is a serious man, but he’s always been fair, and John understands that he’s probably just frazzled from whatever shit–show is awaiting him downstairs, but it’s hard for him not to take negative interactions to heart, especially when it’s someone whose opinion he respects and values.
John’s thrust into the fray of lunch service as soon as the elevator doors open, and he immediately discovers the cause for everything being so hectic– a big wedding reception is taking place. There’s barely time to breathe before he’s running food to tables, plastering on a friendly smile and trying to shove down all his anxieties about how his mom is doing, and about whether he’s going to get a written warning for showing up late, and about whether his dad’s going to yell at him later for leaving without saying anything.
He keeps it together fine enough for the first few hours, even if he feels like he’s on the verge of hurling for the majority of it, but right before he escapes for his first break, he has a run–in with an asshole of a patron. The man snaps at him for accidentally bringing the wrong dish to his table, and personally John thinks it’s an overreaction, nothing to raise his voice about. He still placates and apologizes sincerely, because it’s his job to, but the man looks over John’s shoulder and says, “we’d like a different server, please.”
John’s never been so relieved to see Helen and her bright little supervisor badge as he is when he turns then, and doubly relieved that she’d witnessed the interaction and appears to be as put off by the man’s attitude as John is, even as she assures him that she’ll get on that.
The moment they’re out of view of the surly man, she places a comforting hand on John’s back and the look she gives him is so sympathetic that he comes very close to bursting into tears in the middle of the busy kitchen.
“One of those days?” She asks understandingly, and John nods, not trusting himself to speak. “I was just hunting you down to let you know it’s time for your break. Take an extra few minutes if you need to, okay?”
John gets out a ragged “thanks” before she whisks herself away, and the walk back up to the staff room feels like it takes an eternity, forgoing the lunch room in favour of slumping down in a corner by the lockers and resting his head between his knees. He spends most of his break trying to get some deep breaths in, trying to shut off his emotions so he can just power through the next six–odd hours.
The rest of the day passes in an awful, tense, stress–induced blur, his shoulders aching from being held so stiffly, head pounding from the constant cacophony of his thoughts and diners’ questions and co–worker’s instructions. He gets a ‘Happy Friday’ text from Gale during his second break, but he doesn’t even have the mental stamina to process it, let alone reply, brain in full on shutdown mode while he eats his dinner in blissful silence.
By the time John clocks out, he doesn’t have the energy to keep his mask up any longer, quietly slipping away from everyone without saying goodnight. He allows himself a small stress–cry on the walk to the bus stop, shielded by the dark of night, and he sits at the back corner of the bus so no one will bother him, spending the ride leaning over with his head in his hands.
All he can think about as he walks up his street is popping his window open to air out his boiling room before crawling into bed and sleeping until tomorrow’s shift, but when he rounds the corner to his driveway, he sees not only his dad’s truck, but his aunt’s car as well. He’d half–expected to come home to red and blue flashing lights, so it’s a bit of a step up, but he still feels like crying again as he drags his feet up to his front door.
He turns the handle, opens the door a crack, and is immediately met with the sound of voices yelling over each other, and that’s John’s last straw for the day.
He quietly shuts the door and turns on his heel, making his way back up his driveway and continuing along the sidewalk without a direction in mind, backpack weighing heavy on his tired shoulders, legs aching from a full day of running around. His phone is in his hand and he’s opening Gale’s contact as if on autopilot, hitting the call button before he can talk himself out of it by convincing himself ten p.m. is too late to bother the man.
It only rings a few times before Gale picks up, and John can hear what sounds like a television in the background before he speaks.
“Hey, I was just gonna text and see how you were doing, you were real quiet today,” Gale’s voice is warm even through his brick of a phone, and John has to bite down on his tongue to combat the way his eyes sting. Just hearing him is enough to tug at the end of the tightly–wound cord that’s been holding everything in place all day, and he kind of wishes he could stay quiet and listen to Gale talk while he walks aimlessly through the suburbs until he’s tired enough to lay down and sleep on concrete.
“John?” Right.
“Yeah, sorry,” John says, and he suddenly feels foolish, not knowing why he’s putting this on Gale, but he’s clinging to his phone like a lifeline now that he’s gotten this far.
“Is everything okay?” John can hear the sounds of the TV mute, and he really doesn’t feel like filling the silence.
“I just– I wanted to talk to someone,” he manages to get out, but the way his voice cracks halfway through gives him away. He hears rustling, then what sounds like keys jingling.
“I’m gonna come get you, alright?” Gale says gently, like he’s talking to a startled animal, and John shakes his head despite there being no one to see.
“No, it’s okay,” he croaks out, on the verge of hanging up or attempting some disastrous backpedaling, pressing the heel of his palm into one eye until little stars dot his vision.
“Let me pick you up, Johnny,” Gale insists, sounding more concerned now, and John inhales shakily. “Yeah?”
“Okay,” he whispers, listening to the movement on the other end.
“Okay,” Gale repeats, clearly relieved, and John feels awful for worrying him. He should’ve just snuck around to the back of the house and climbed in through his bedroom window; he could’ve put on headphones and tried to sleep through everything.
“Where are you?” Gale asks, punctuated by the door of his truck slamming shut.
“Home,” John says, turning and heading back in that direction.
“I’ll be there soon, bud,” Gale assures him. “You want me to stay on the phone?”
John is going to cry if Gale keeps being so sweet, and it’s going to be humiliating and terrible and he wants to go back in time to a minute ago when he was dealing with this just fine on his own.
“That’s okay,” he says, walking past his house towards the spot Gale usually drops him off at.
“Okay, I’ll see you in a little bit. Hang tight.”
John sits himself down on the curb and hugs his backpack against his chest and stares at the weeds that have pushed through the cracked sidewalk across the street until headlights illuminate the desaturated green of their stems. He squints into the approaching light and stands once he confirms it’s Gale’s truck, walking around to the passenger side, stomach churning with unease as he opens the door and tries to steel himself for whatever uncomfortable conversation is about to be had.
“Hey,” Gale murmurs. The radio is playing quietly, and John can feel Gale’s eyes on him as he climbs into the truck, but he can’t bring himself to properly look at him.
“Hi,” he mumbles, setting his bag down between his shoes and shutting the door, buckling up his seatbelt with unsteady hands. Gale’s quiet for a moment, seemingly giving him space before he speaks.
“I’m gonna drive around for a bit,” he says gently. “We don’t have to talk if you don’t wanna, we can just drive. How’s that sound?”
John nods, blinking rapidly and staring out the open passenger window. He wants to apologize, and to thank Gale, and to get out of the truck and walk back home, and to crawl across the bench and ask for a hug, but he does none of that. Talking feels like too much, and he’s tired and putting all his energy towards not crying, so driving sounds as good as anything to him.
John doesn’t know how long they end up driving for. He leans his head on his arm against the open window and closes his eyes, warm breeze in his hair, the fluctuating hum of the radio easing into the pitchy click of the turn signal and the low growl of the truck. He can tell when they leave downtown and cross over the bridge, the night feeling quieter as they near the countryside where John had walked to Gale’s shop a few days earlier, and he opens his eyes to watch the dark fields and towering silos crawl by, tractors abandoned in the middle of pastures until dawn pulls the farmers from their beds once again.
Sometimes he thinks he could settle for a life like that– silencing his heart’s call to explore in exchange for peace, for stability. There’s something soothing about the thought of rising with the sun every day, putting one foot in front of the other, knowing about tomorrow’s certainties before falling back into bed each night. He could cope with the monotony for the tranquility it would bring, at least for a while.
John lives in a little farmhouse in his mind for a bit, until the truck slows to a stop on a fence–lined dirt road, acres of empty farmland stretching out in front of them. He straightens, reluctantly turning to look at Gale. He almost can’t handle the compassion he finds in his eyes; he wants to hide away from it, to shove any ounce of vulnerability he’s shown tonight neatly back inside its box.
“I don’t know what happened, John,” Gale says softly, draping an arm across the back of the bench–seat. “But I’m here to listen, always. I just– do you need to go back tonight?”
John shakes his head, though he doesn’t actually know. He’s pretty certain his parents won’t even notice he’s gone, with everything else going on, but he’s not sure he’d go back home tonight even if they had asked him to, at least not until long after he’s positive everyone’s asleep.
“Okay, well, my door’s open,” Gale says. “I’d like it if you stayed so I can make sure you’re okay, but I can drive you somewhere else if you want. It’s up to you, bud.”
John wants to say yes more than anything, but guilt is settling hot in his stomach. He doesn’t know what to do with the patience Gale’s showing him; it’s so unfamiliar that it feels more uncomfortable than a raised voice or a heavy hand.
“I’m really sorry,” John says quietly, fidgeting with the strap of his bag between his knees. It’s like he physically can’t accept the help, his brain telling him it’ll be easier to decline and sort things out on his own, but it feels like Gale can see right through him.
“You don’t gotta apologize for anything,” Gale shakes his head, leaning closer to squeeze his shoulder. “Let me help, okay?”
John presses his knuckles against his brow bone, trying to collect his thoughts.
“I feel so bad,” he whispers, eyes feeling worryingly wet, and Gale’s own soften further.
“I know,” Gale says. “You can sit with whatever you need to feel. Just let someone sit with you, yeah?”
John hesitates, but then he nods. He trusts Gale, and deep down something in him craves to be able to let his guard down, to let himself be helped. And frankly, he’s just too exhausted from the day he’s had to turn down the offer, nerves too shot to make anymore decisions.
“Alright,” Gale gives him a kind smile, patting his shoulder reassuringly before pulling away and starting the truck up again. Once he’s navigated back to the main road, his arm returns to the back of the bench, and even if he’s not sitting close enough for his arm to be behind his back, the closeness still feels somehow grounding to John.
The knot in his stomach feels a little bit smaller with some sort of plan in place for the night now, though the anxiety about burdening Gale is still eating at him. The festering crush in him wants the butterflies to start back up with the knowledge that he’s going to stay the night at Gale’s, and sober this time, but everything else is weighing too heavy on John to be able to compartmentalize like that right now.
He quietly follows Gale inside when they get to his house, trailing after him to the bedroom like a lost puppy, unsure of himself and antsy with the thought of being left alone.
“Do you wanna sleep?” Gale asks as he pulls open a dresser drawer. “We can watch TV for a bit, if you wanna just chill.”
John does want to sleep, but he’s scared he’s going to spiral as soon as he’s left alone with his thoughts in the dark, so he’s thankful for the alternative choice.
“I’m not really tired yet,” he says, swallowing down a yawn in the same beat. If Gale notices, he doesn’t say anything; he just nods and shuts the drawer, holding out some clothes.
“That’s fine,” he smiles. “You wanna put on something a little comfier, and I’ll get you some water?”
John nods again and thanks him, taking the clothes with him to the bathroom while Gale presumably heads to the kitchen. He pointedly avoids the mirror as he changes, not needing visual confirmation of the mess he already feels like, but looking down and seeing Gale’s clothes on himself has his heart doing loops in his chest. He’s scrawnier than Gale, so the sweatpants he’s given him are a little bit loose despite them being pretty similar in height, and the light hoodie he pulls over his head smells like the fabric softener he’s come to associate with the man; it’s just missing the lingering woodsy–smoky smell that always accompanies him, but it feels like a warm hug nevertheless.
John checks his phone before leaving the bathroom and finds nothing from his dad. As much as he’s trying to assume that no news is good news, it doesn’t do anything to settle his anxiety, but he doesn’t want to call and get chewed out because he really doesn’t think he can handle that tonight, so he leaves his phone on the bedroom dresser next to his clothes on his way to where he can hear late night adult cartoons playing quietly.
The living room is a lot more personable than Gale’s neat and plain bedroom, blankets draped over either end of the sofa and plush pillows scattered around, coasters and books on a coffee table that sits on a soft carpet between the couch and TV.
A cluttered bookshelf stands to the right of a sliding door that John presumes leads out to the backyard, and a desk and computer are positioned in front of a large window to the left. The kitchen is fully visible from the couch, only a half–wall dividing the two spaces. Lively houseplants are scattered around, both in floor vases and hanging pots, and John wonders if Gale has a love for the outdoors the same as he does.
Gale emerges from the bedroom then, his own clothes swapped out for sweatpants and a tee, and he pauses to look at John where he’s settled down on the couch, legs curled half–beneath himself, hood pulled up.
“You hungry?” Gale asks after a moment, continuing over to the kitchen and opening a cupboard.
“I’m okay, thanks,” John says, feeling too tense to eat still. Gale returns with two glasses of cold water and sets them down on the coffee table before he sits next to John, laying an arm over the back of the couch.
It feels so casual, so nonchalant in contrast to the way John’s heart stutters, even though Gale’s not sitting close enough for them to be touching. Under normal circumstances he’d be about ready to jump out of his skin anyway, alone with Gale on his couch late at night with the only light coming from the TV and the lamp that’s on in the bedroom, but tonight his heart and mind are weary and he just wants to stop thinking.
John leans back and tries to get comfortable, spinning his bracelets absentmindedly around his wrist, playing with the frayed strings as he stares at the saturated cartoons on the screen. He can’t pay attention to what’s happening, and he slowly feels himself zoning out, the show acting as a backing track to his scattered thoughts after a few minutes.
He can sense Gale periodically shooting him careful glances out of the corner of his eye, his concern so palpable that John can almost taste it, and he feels like it’s only fair to give him something after everything he’s done for him today. He chews the inside of his cheek near–raw as he tries to work up the courage to speak, let alone figure out what to say, and then–
“My mom overdosed today,” John blurts out. He can see Gale’s head snap over to him in his periphery, but John keeps his eyes firmly glued to the television, because saying that out loud felt way too real, and if he looks at Gale now, he’s going to cry.
“Well, I don’t think she actually overdosed,” he amends, as if that makes it any better. “It seemed like she injected a lot, but I had to go to work, and my dad hasn’t said anything, so.”
John despises the way his voice wavers; he doesn’t know why he feels the need to appear unaffected, why crying in front of Gale feels so horrifying, why letting himself lean on him feels like the worst thing in the world.
“Fuckin’ Christ, Johnny,” Gale breathes out. It’s quiet for a moment, and it’s obvious Gale’s going through a dozen questions in his mind, and John’s foot is bouncing so rapidly where his ankle dangles off the cushion that he’s sure he must be jostling the whole couch.
“I’m so sorry,” Gale murmurs, shifting. “Are you okay?”
The dreaded three–word–question. John goes still, the bright colours on the screen blurring together as he nods doggedly, eyes stinging. The couch dips when Gale moves closer, tentatively lowering his arm to wrap it around John’s shoulders instead, and the dam breaks.
Hot tears slide down John’s cheeks as he drops his face into his hands, throat tight and skin prickling with embarrassment. Without missing a beat, Gale closes the rest of the gap between them and pulls John against him, squeezing him tightly.
“Oh, honey,” Gale says so softly, voice gravelly, and John at once feels so indescribably safe that the remainder of his inhibitions fly out the window, hiccuping out a choked–up cry as he leans into Gale’s arms.
Once John starts, he can’t stop, everything that he’s been holding in all day– and then some– pouring out. Gale only makes his hold more secure, wrapping both arms around him and cupping the back of John’s hood–covered head with one hand, coaxing him against his chest with a sympathetic hum.
John clings to him, face pressed to Gale’s now damp shirt, arms thrown around his warm torso, and Gale patiently stays put, rubbing his back and whispering gentle words of consolation while he cries it out.
John lets himself be held for the first time in his life, and the comfort and understanding he’s shown by Gale in that moment feels like it’s piecing together something he hadn’t even known was fractured, his chest warm and fuzzy even as it burns from his shallow breaths. He cries until his eyes hurt, head aching from the exhaustion of it all, dry sobs quieting to shaky inhales and sniffles.
He’s so drained that he doesn’t fight it (nor succumb to a heart attack) when Gale carefully eases him down, resting his head in his lap, John’s cheek pressed to his hip and his arms still loosely draped around Gale’s waist. He feels Gale’s hand slip beneath his hood, fingers pushing through his curls, the gentle petting motions making John’s eyelids feel leaden.
The quiet garble of cartoon characters paired with the repetitive movements of Gale’s hand work against John’s racing heart, lulling him into some sort of floaty sleep, lashes fluttering as he slips between states of unconsciousness. The warmth of Gale’s thigh seeps through the cotton of his sweatpants, a heated pillow against John’s tear–streaked face, dragging him further under until Gale shifts beneath him what could be minutes later, or hours.
John makes a quiet noise of complaint, and he hears Gale mumble something, but his ears feel like they’re full of cotton, brain clouded over with sleep. The hand in his hair retreats, and that gets John to move a little, but the sound of Gale hushing him permeates the fog before he feels Gale’s arms slide beneath him, adjusting him before he’s carefully pulled close and lifted up.
John’s heart thumps low and steady as he feels the room sway, soft footsteps padding over the carpeted floor, the noise of the TV dulling as Gale carries him to his room. He peels an eye open just enough to look up at Gale as he balances his weight with one arm to pull the blanket back on the bed, but he shuts it again when Gale gently lowers him onto the mattress, not ready to face him yet, or acknowledge the way he’s just spent god knows how long crying on his couch.
Gale pulls the blanket back over him, pushing his curls out of his face once more before the warm light against John’s eyelids disappears with the click of the lamp. As soon as John feels Gale step away, his chest constricts, and he swallows hard, reluctantly cracking his eyes open. He’s already passed the point of no return tonight in terms of opening up, so he decides that allowing himself to ask for a little bit more can’t be that much worse. If Gale says no, he says no.
It turns out John doesn’t even have to ask though, because the moment he murmurs Gale’s name, he sees his silhouette nod in the dark.
“I’m coming back,” he answers John’s unspoken question, and John feels the last bit of tension seep out of his body. “Just locking up.”
“Okay,” John whispers, watching Gale slip out of the doorway, heart pitter–pattering as he’s left alone to sit with the silent request he’s just made. The hum of the air conditioner quiets a bit when Gale presumably lowers it for the night, and the sound of the television cuts out, and then Gale thankfully returns before John can start freaking himself out too much.
He rounds the bed, and John flushes when the mattress dips behind him, blankets rustling as Gale shifts around to get comfortable. At first John thinks he’s going to stay on his side of the bed, and that’s fine– he doesn’t expect more than that, not with how Gale had (rightfully, albeit disappointingly) set a healthy boundary between them the last time John had been in an emotionally vulnerable state.
But he hears Gale breathe in, and then heat draws nearer as John feels him rolls onto his side, and he thinks he can sense his hesitance as he grows still again. John closes his eyes and takes in a breath of his own, and he forces himself to be brave for what feels like the hundredth time that day, shuffling towards Gale until his back brushes against a wall of warmth, and it’s his turn to go still. It feels like a silent game of push–and–pull, give–and–take, I’ll–go–if–you–go, and it has John’s heart lodged firmly in his throat as his hand tightens around a fistful of blanket.
It’s enough. He feels Gale move, and then his arm cautiously comes up to rest on his waist, and John feels a little bit like he might die, but what a way to go. He tries to keep his breathing steady, to relax his shoulders, to fight the way the corners of his lips want to curl up into a shy smile.
“This okay?” Gale murmurs, and John almost has to turn his face into the pillow for the way his voice rumbles right through him, dragging more heat to his cheeks.
“Mhm,” he hums quietly, moving back just the tiniest bit further to prove that he means it, and Gale properly wraps his arm around him in response, hand slipping beneath John’s arm to rest on the mattress next to his chest. John’s a little bit worried Gale will feel the erratic pulse there if he shifts closer, but he has zero hope of controlling that when the length of Gale’s body is pressed up against his, and his arm is strong and secure around his middle, and he can feel the rise and fall of his chest against his back.
It’s quiet after that, aside from Gale’s steady breaths and the consistent draft of the A/C. John feels like he’s sinking through the mattress, his insides liquid like slow–moving honey, all coherent thought slowing to a crawl as he melts into Gale’s embrace. It feels like some sort of fever dream, the furthest thing from how John had expected his night to end during all the commotion of the day.
And while he might be able to write off everything else as Gale just being here for him, as an acquaintance, or a friend, or whatever they are, this feels different. John knows it’s different, and Gale has to know it too, and he’s pretty sure Gale wouldn’t be leaning into this if he’s not intending for it to be.
He wonders if Gale’s lying there thinking about this half as much as he is, or if he’s already fallen asleep. John lies unmoving for a bit, focusing on the feeling of the gentle puffs of breath against the back of his neck, the butterflies in his stomach stretching their wings in anticipation as he makes the half–conscious decision to reach for just a little more.
John slides the hand he’s got partially tucked beneath the pillow down the mattress, arm brushing against Gale’s, feeling around until he finds Gale’s hand. He can hear his own heartbeat again as he pauses, the tip of his pointer finger resting on the edge of Gale’s palm, feeling like his heart is resting there too as he waits. And then Gale’s hand slowly turns, palm up, a wordless invitation, and John bites his lip to smother his smile as he places his hand over his, featherlight as if he’ll scare both of them off otherwise.
Gale’s fingers curl up, slotting between John’s, and John presses his cheek harder against the pillow, overwhelmed and so very thankful for the way the dark of the room saves him from having to struggle to hide the colour on his cheeks. He exhales heavily, feeling the stress of the day drain out of him, and he feels Gale breathe out too before he squeezes John’s hand.
The quiet reassurance is enough to dull the last of John’s anxious thoughts, his exhaustion winning out, and when he finally gives himself up to sleep’s call once again, he does it with a smile and a heart that knows it’s safe and sound.