Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

JULY 12, 2005

“What’re you doing on Friday?”

John breathes out a laugh at the insinuation of there being anything to do in their quiet suburb, bored enough that he’s resorted to laying on his back on the carpet of Curt’s room, counting the old and faded glow–in–the–dark stars on the ceiling. The effort it takes to roll his head over to look at his friend is almost too much in the muggy summer heat, the small fan on the floor where Curt lays on his stomach next to him doing little to push the air around. Curt doesn’t laugh though, only snapping his bubblegum between his teeth, propped up on his elbows over a magazine.

“Oh, y’know,” John plays along, gesturing vaguely. “Probably gonna hit up the mall, maybe go clubbing– heard about a wild party, too.”

“Alright, wise guy.” Curt rolls his eyes at his dry snarking, crossing his ankles in the air behind himself and then seemingly regretting the sweaty skin–on–skin contact, stretching his legs back out on the carpet instead.

“Well, d’you wanna go somewhere with me?” He pushes on, flipping the page of his magazine nonchalantly, but John is immediately suspicious.

“Feels like I’m walking into a trap here,” he squints, and the way the corner of Curt’s mouth twitches up paired with his refusal to meet his gaze is all John needs to know.

“Oh, what?” He groans, draping his wrist over his eyes, waiting for Curt to present him with another one of his grandiose ideas of summer entertainment, as if Curt isn’t already well aware of how easy John is to rope into anything that’ll help him escape from his boredom.

“Okay, so, I’ve been talking to a guy.”

John uncovers his eyes so fast he gets flashbanged by the bright sun streaming through the cracked–open window.

“What?” He gawks, and Curt looks quite smug at his successful subversion of expectations. “Like, talking, talking?”

“Yeah,” Curt nods, leaning his cheek in his palm to look at him.

John raises his eyebrows, equal parts surprised and impressed, though not because Curt isn’t pretty enough to steal hearts– quite the opposite. There was a reason John had been smitten with him when they met years back at the start of high school, and it hadn’t been the greasy swooped fringe or the messily smudged charcoal round his eyes that John still refuses to let him live down.

No; he’s thrown off because as far as he knows, Curt’s the only other queer he’s met on this side of the Manitowoc River. He knows logically there have gotta be others who are just closeted, but John sure hadn’t been made aware of any of them all through high school, or the two gap years both he and Curt have been spending working at the decently lively hotel downtown.

So naturally, his curiosity is piqued.

“Where’d you meet him?” He leans on his side, watching Curt close his magazine giddily.

“In Spencer’s,” Curt grins, and it seems like John’s going to have to pry every detail from him, but if there’s one thing John’s good at, it’s being nosy.

“At our mall?” John presses, already trying to picture the encounter.

“Uh–huh,” Curt nods, rolling onto his side as well. John narrows his eyes then.

“And what were you up to in Spencer’s, Curtis?” He puts emphasis on his name, tilting his head, and Curt’s grin turns cat–like.

“Oh, just having a casual browse of the back wall,” he hums, and John’s eyes go a bit wide again.

“He talked to you back there?” John gapes, picturing the rows of packaged adult toys with obscene imagery plastered over them that, even at twenty, he has trouble walking past without giggling at.

“Kinda,” Curt pushes his gum into the corner of his cheek, and John sighs, exasperated.

“C’mon, Curt, this is like pulling teeth.”

Curt laughs then, relenting.

“Okay, well, I was in the back,” Curt shoves his long hair out of his face, setting the stage for his captive audience. “You were at your grandma’s house, and I was bored, alright? So I was just killing time.”

“You waited three days to fill me in?” John does the math, putting on a show of being hurt with a hand placed dramatically over his chest.

“Well, I wanted to make sure, y’know? Didn’t wanna get my hopes up,” Curt says reasonably, and John nods, understanding.

“So I was perusing, and I kinda felt like there was someone watching me, and so I glanced to the side after a minute, and god, John,” Curt’s cheeks are a little pink now. “He was so pretty.”

“What’d he look like?” John urges, eating up every word, years of the two of them yearning to experience something like this making the story all the more thrilling. Curt smiles, flopping onto his back, draping his arms above his head.

“Like Jude Law,” Curt says dreamily, and John smacks his elbow.

“Shuddup.”

“I’m serious!” Curt insists, lolling his head to the side to look at him. “Blond curls, blue eyes, the works.”

“I hate you so much right now,” John groans, but he knows that Curt knows he doesn’t mean it. “So then?”

“Well, he glanced over at me too, and he smiled a little, and,” Curt lowers his voice, eyes flicking over to his bedroom door as if his mom might somehow hear him over the television noisily blasting MTV’s top music videos in the living room downstairs. “He gave me, like, a real once–over, like–”

Curt drags his eyes down the length of John’s body and then back up in demonstration, and as jealous as John is that Curt got to experience such a monumental encounter, he’s pretty certain he’d have been leaving the mall in the back of a hearse had it happened to him, so it’s probably best he’s only hearing about it secondhand through his evidently much–more–collected friend.

“Jesus,” he breathes out, fully invested.

“I must’a looked terrified at the attention, because he eased up real quick.” John snorts picturing Curt’s classic deer–in–the–headlights expression, one he’s been privy to far too many times to count with the amount of dumb shit the two of them have been caught doing over the years.

“I thought I might’ve accidentally made him think I wasn’t interested, but then he told me he liked my shirt– the Green Day one you got me for my birthday,” Curt cuts him off as soon as he opens his mouth to ask, and John smiles, satisfied his gift had played a small role in their meeting.

“We got to talking about music, and then he asked for my number so we could swap song recs, and we’ve been texting every day since,” Curt finishes, still smiling as he clearly fondly thinks over those text conversations.

“So how do you know he’s, y’know,” John looks at him pointedly, sure Curt wouldn’t leap to such a big conclusion after just an up–and–down, albeit a pretty deliberate one.

“I asked him,” Curt says matter–of–factly, and John looks at him like he’s crazy.

“How?”

“He was being real flirty over text, but, I dunno, some people are just like that, so I didn’t wanna assume and get my feelings hurt,” Curt picks at his nail, black polish so chipped it’s barely even there. “So I just asked if, like, he was flirting or just being friendly, told him it was fine either way.”

John stares, horrified at the thought of being so bold.

“I know,” Curt nods at his expression. “I was shitting bricks all evening; I had to stick my phone under my pillow.”

“But?”

“But he said he was flirting, ‘if that’s alright with me,’” Curt giggles a bit. “I told him that was more than alright, so, that’s sorted.”

“You lucky motherfucker,” John says, in awe as he processes it all.

“Only took twenty–one years,” Curt says dryly. “You still have time to beat me.”

“Wow,” John feigns sadness, looking down. “I don’t count as your first?”

Curt scoffs, knowing very well he’s only playing.

“That was called being horny teenagers and the only two queers in this shithole, John,” he chides, and John waves him off, laughing.

“Is he from here?” He pivots back to the mystery man, still not quite able to believe Curt’s luck at stumbling into someone at their dull shopping center.

“No, closer to Milwaukee,” Curt says regretfully, “but he’s gonna be starting college here in August, same as us, so he’s in town to check out some apartments with his friends.”

“Any of those friends swing the same way as him?” John pouts, half–joking, but Curt immediately perks up and reaches for his phone.

“I should ask!”

John’s eyes go wide, hissing out a “do not” as he bats the phone out of Curt’s hands, and Curt rolls his eyes, but he snaps the phone shut anyway.

“Fine, I’ll just ask another time,” Curt allows the threat to loom over him before smiling sweetly, setting his phone aside. “But I asked you something, if you haven’t forgotten.”

John has, indeed, forgotten, so wrapped up in Curt’s tale that the catalyst of it had slipped his mind.

“About Friday,” he remembers, even more intrigued now as to how this all ties together. Curt nods, then gets that look on his face again that spells trouble.

“So, he asked me if I wanted to meet up at a pub on Friday because he’s driving back home this weekend,” Curt says cautiously, as if already anticipating a certain reaction from John. “And listen, I trust him, but it’s in the north end of town, and I’ve never been, so I don’t really wanna go alone.”

“Curt, I am not going to third wheel you guys,” John immediately declares, rolling onto his back resolutely. “You’re a big boy, you’ll be fine.”

The statement is laughable when Curt looks like a strong gust of wind could pick him up and carry him away half the time, but John holds firm when Curt whines at him.

“I don’t wanna take the bus there alone!” He complains.

“Why don’t you ask him to pick you up?” John asks.

“That’s embarrassing,” Curt insists, nudging John’s shin with his foot.

“He’s gonna find out you don’t have a car when you show up anyway,” John reasons, running a hand down his face.

“Yeah, but I don’t wanna ask for a ride after I already agreed to meeting there,” Curt pushes at his leg. “C’mon, you know you wouldn’t either if you were in my shoes.”

And Curt’s right, John wouldn’t, but he’s more stuck on the fact that Curt’s so confident in his ability to drag John into anything and everything that he’s already said yes to the date.

“You already agreed t–”

“And,” Curt cuts him off, “I know I trust him and all, but I’d feel a lot better knowing I had someone there with me just in case shit goes downhill.”

John goes quiet then, hating how quickly he’s being roped into a night of misery, and Curt jumps on his silence, crawling over until his face pops into view and blocks out the stippled ceiling, long dark waves falling into his face as he hovers over John, already batting his lashes.

“Don’t you wanna make sure I don’t get murdered and thrown in the river?” He pouts, and John groans.

“That’s not fair,” he huffs, and he can tell Curt’s fighting back a victorious smile, knowing he’s already won John over.

“But you’re my best friend, so you won’t let me go alone?” Curt presses hopefully, shifting on his knees.

“What’d you say this guy’s name is?” John ignores him, as if he can find a reason to escape this situation based on a set of letters.

“I didn’t, but his name is Ken,” Curt says, and John makes a face reflexively, like it’s not a perfectly normal name.

“Oh, please,” Curt snorts at his reaction, leaning back on his heels so John has to turn his head to look at him. “He’s real nice, promise.”

“Then why d’you need me to come be your lookout?” John points out, triumphant to have caught Curt up with his own words.

“Well– safety first!” Curt fumbles, then sweetens, making his eyes all round and doe–like again. “John. Don’t you trust my judgement? Chose you, after all.”

“Yeah, for like, a summer,” John retorts. He’s just being purposefully obtuse now, knowing Curt’s referring to their friendship as a whole, not their short lived high school experimentation, but he’s running out of reasons to say no.

Curt retaliates by leaning over further and letting his gum slide to the front of his mouth, catching the very end of it with his teeth, the bright pink wad stretching out towards John’s face. John nearly gives himself rugburn on his bare shoulder with how fast he squirms away, shoving a giggling Curt back onto his ass.

“Does Ken know that you’re gross?” He asks, but there’s no real bite to it, and the mention of the man only draws out another lovesick smile from Curt. John doesn’t pay attention to his response though, because he’s struck with an unfortunate– for Curt, anyway– realization.

“Wait,” John says. “A pub?”

“Yes?”

“With alcohol.”

“God, I hope so,” Curt says. “I’m gonna need that liquid courage.”

“Alright, genius, sure,” John nods, realizing Curt’s not picking up what he’s putting down. “Let me just waltz into a pub with my under–twenty–one ID, I’m sure they’ll let me in.”

“Oh,” Curt says, slumping a bit. He’s quiet in thought for so long that John’s sure he’s actually managed to get out of this situation, until Curt opens his mouth again.

“I’ll get you a fake one,” he says decidedly, shrugging like it’s no big deal. “The summer’s young, I can’t spend it ditching you every time I go out to drink.”

“You don’t know how to get a fake ID,” John says, more as a plea than a statement.

“Yeah, I do,” Curt argues, and with the older employees Curt hangs out with when he’s working the bar at the hotel, John’s inclined to believe him.

“How?” He tries one last time to trip him up anyway, a weak appeal for mercy, but Curt only grins, reaching a hand out to squish John’s cheeks between his thumb and fingers.

“Don’t you know? A lady never tells her secrets, John.”

So that’s how John ends up tucked away in a small booth in the corner of some pub that looks lost to the sixties, old signage and other vintage memorabilia lining the wooden walls, cheery neon LED graphics adorning the kegs behind the diner–style bar.

He hates to admit it to himself after spending the majority of the bus ride there lamenting to Curt about his impending suffering, but it’s actually a pretty decent place, not too fancy or busy but full of character nonetheless.

Curt had made him go in before Ken arrived so he could hide himself away, and it had taken a good while for the nervous jitters to dissipate after ordering a drink and finding the quiet corner he now occupies, but the bartender had barely even glanced at his (admittedly flawless) fake ID before serving him, so he’d worked himself into a paranoia on the way there for nothing. Part of the lack of the woman’s concern probably had to do with the fact that he’d walked into a pub and asked for a ginger ale, but regardless, John’s thankful to be left to his own devices, hunched over a book with a clear view of the whole room.

He slumps in his seat a bit further when the door swings open a few minutes later, hiding behind his book, and then Curt walks in, his date holding the door for him. Alright, good start, John notes, as if he’s got a mental pros and cons list for this Ken guy, like he’s the final boss the unassuming man needs to defeat before winning Curt’s hand.

A couple tallies get added to the imaginary pros side when John gets a good look at Ken though, because Curt hadn’t been lying– he is pretty, with a warm smile and bright eyes, unruly blond curls loosely pushed back from his forehead. Well dressed, a little taller than Curt; definitely his friend’s type.

When Curt does a quick discreet sweep of the room while Ken’s getting their drinks, John catches his eye and makes a face of approval, and Curt immediately turns to look away, the twist of his mouth clear even from where John sits as he fights to hold back a laugh. John looks back down at his book, grinning into it, relieved that Curt seems decently at ease with Ken, and that Ken doesn’t look like some scary axe–murderer.

It doesn’t take long for the two of them to be happily chatting away, looking more relaxed in each other’s company every time John peeks over the top of his book, and he lets himself actually pay attention to the words on the page, surrendering himself to a long evening of waiting, already fantasizing about all of the favours he’s going to be able to guilt out of Curt for the foreseeable future.

As the bright sunlight turns to golden beams through the hazy windows near the entrance, warm toned lamps and rustic ceiling bulbs flick on, painting the pub in a dim orange glow. The evening turns to night, and the neon sign outside that spells out The Stoplight in sprawling script casts an artificial red tint on the glass below it. It seems to be doing its job of luring patrons out of the muggy summer air with the promise of cold drinks, duos trickling in here and there, groups beginning to take over the tables, and an hour passes quick enough with how drawn into his reading he is, almost forgetting the reason he’s there.

The next time John glances up, Curt has migrated over to Ken’s side of the booth, a dopey smile stretched across his face, so John’s not concerned at all anymore, and really he thinks he’d be fine to leave, if it weren’t for the fact that he doesn’t want tiny, unassuming Curt taking transit home alone later. He debates texting him, casually asking how much longer he’s planning on hanging around here for, but he doesn’t want to interrupt their conversation, and he’s distracted from that train of thought anyway by the loud rumbling of engines drowning out the oldies music as the pub’s door swings open.

A few men enter the building with all the confidence and relaxation of someone walking into their own home, suited up in jeans and matching leather jackets with an array of patches, hair wind–tousled and wild, the sound of the motors dulling when the door shuts behind them.

They greet the pretty blonde bartender with a round of “evenin’, Paulina” and “how’s business, Paulie?”, and she smiles in turn, pausing her work.

“Boys,” she dips her head in laid–back acknowledgement, thick accent standing out amidst the men’s midwest inflections. She leans her elbows on the bartop, rag thrown over her shoulder. “The usual?”

“Yes ma’am,” one of them nods. “Got more heading in, too.”

Their boots thud heavy on the wood floor as they walk towards John’s end of the room, and he lowers his eyes back to his book as they head for the big curved booth a few feet to his right, settling around the table in easy conversation. The door opens again, no loud engines accompanying what John assumes must then be the last half of the group, eyes flicking up in time to see more leather jacket–clad men greet the woman like old friends before joining the others around the booth as well.

John’s not the judgemental type by any stretch, but he can’t help the way he cautiously looks over at Curt and Ken’s not–quite–platonic sitting arrangement, and then discreetly back at the group, not sure what type of crowd these guys are. None of them seem to be paying anything else any mind though, so he tries to relax, tucking his face back close to his book, but it’s hard to focus now with all the racket, the pub finally fitting the stereotype of one.

John sees the bartender– Paulina– out of the corner of his eye as she makes her way over to the large table with two trays full of drinks, the men thanking her graciously, rowdy with their loud, gruff voices, but as she moves to return to the bar, she pauses next to John’s booth, and he looks up from the page he’s reread three times now.

“You don’t want anything else to drink?” She smiles warmly at him, adjusting the empty trays in her hand, and John shakes his head, smiling back.

“I’m alright, thank you,” he says, and she nods easily, heading back to the kegs. He makes a note to tip well when he leaves, since he’s taking up a table and not spending much, but with how rarely John drinks alcohol, he doesn’t feel like getting tipsy in an environment he’s a little on edge in, especially when he’s meant to be there as a fallback for Curt.

When he curls back into his book, the busy table suddenly seems quieter, and it feels like he’s being watched. He doesn’t risk confirming that feeling, ears a bit hot at the perceived attention Paulina has drawn to him; he lets his eyes drag over lines of text without really reading them, waiting for conversation to start back up again.

And it does, voices raising and glasses clinking against wood, joining the growing bustle of the pub and allowing John to sink back into his corner, all the noise blending together after a few minutes as he pulls himself back into his reading. Until–

“What’re you doin’ over there, baby–face?”

John doesn’t fully register that he’s being addressed, caught back up in the words of Damon Runyon, but another voice says, “must be a real interesting book, huh?”

Then his head snaps up, and he turns to find the whole table looking at him, mild amusement on their faces.

John blinks at them owlishly. This is going to be Curt’s last day on this earth, he decides.

“Had your nose so deep in there, s’like you’re trying to climb in the book, kid,” the owner of the original voice says, lips curling into a half–smile, revealing a glimpse of gold as he chuckles at his own observation.

John can only stare, dry mouthed, not sure what the guy’s angle is, trying to figure out whether he’s being jeered at or if they’re just shooting the shit.

“Go on then,” a man with raven hair gestures. “It’s not polite to keep secrets, aren’t you gonna tell us what book it is?”

Cautiously, as if he’s stepping into the lion’s den, John turns his book around to show the cover, still entirely confused.

“Guys and Dolls,” he says, hesitant, as if there’s a wrong answer he can give.

The guys seem equal parts intrigued and humoured, good natured smiles gracing each of their faces– save for one of them.

The man sitting at the far end of the table has stayed quiet through the whole exchange, regarding John with a slight tilt of his head, blue eyes not betraying anything he might be thinking. He’s the only one not nursing some sort of beer or hard liquor, hand wrapped around what looks to be a bottle of ginger beer instead, blond hair curling at the base of his neck in a near–mullet, rings catching the warm artificial lights.

Most of the men have shed their jackets to deal with the heat that’s building up in the crowded pub, exposing a few tattoos here and there, but the blond’s arms are littered with them, all tanned skin and scattered ink as far as John can see before a loose muscle tank obscures his shoulders from view.

John squirms under his watchful gaze, averting his own, returning his attention to the dark haired man who had questioned him.

“Why?” A man with a thick mustache asks, and John’s eyes jump over to him, becoming increasingly confused.

“What?”

“Well, s’not school reading, is it?” The man inquires, shrugging. “It’s July.”

John feels like he has been drinking, not grasping where all of this curiosity has come from on what was meant to be a quiet evening spent diligently performing his best friend duties and keeping to himself.

“Uh– for fun?” He answers weakly, more of a question than a statement. Either this satisfies the man, or it bores him– either way, he seems to ease off, so John is grateful.

“Well, don’t let us keep you from it,” the man with the gold grill says. “God knows it’s better than how we’re spending our evening.”

He raises a half full glass in John’s direction before turning back to the others, and John’s left staring for a second longer as the group begins chatting away normal as ever, feeling hopelessly lost as to what’s just occurred. Before he returns to his book, he can’t help but chance one more look at the man who hadn’t spoken a word, but the moment he does and sees those blue eyes still on him, almost analytical in their nature, heat creeps up his neck and he abruptly looks away.

John’s hands feel a bit sweaty, thrown off by the unexpected turn of events, and he wipes his palms on his jeans and then pulls out his phone, flipping it open.

‘i’m going 2 kill u.’

John’s fingers fly over the keys aggressively as he texts Curt. He hits send, and watches Curt glance at where his phone has likely buzzed on the table– and then narrows his eyes when Curt proceeds to ignore said buzz. He returns to his phone, tapping away with renewed vigour.

‘curtis ihy’

Curt doesn’t even look at the phone this time, far too busy cozying up against Ken’s side, straw between his lips as he innocently bats his lashes at the blond. John scoffs, snapping his phone shut and resigning himself to having to pretend like he’s processing a single word in his book, rather than fighting the urge to flee the pub and escape the feeling of eyes on him. John’s not going to be taking a single dishwashing shift at the hotel for at least three weeks, he’s decided that much already, because he’s got all the ammunition needed to guilt Curt into swapping shifts with him for a good long while after tonight.

Despite his discomfort, he reopens his book, leaning his temple against the wall and relishing the coolness of the accent–bricks against his skin. John knows he’s not going to remember anything he’s reading, prepared to go back over half the damn book the next time he picks it up, but he’s still against the thought of leaving Curt alone in an unfamiliar area of town with a man he’s just met, so that leaves him with no choice but to tough the boredom and restlessness out.

As much as John’s going to bitch at Curt about it later, he knows Curt would put himself in this exact position for him any day, so he can’t actually bring himself to feel irritated, least of all when his friend seems to be genuinely enjoying himself. He doesn’t want to taint this experience for him, and he definitely doesn’t want to make Curt explain on a first date that he’s had his friend partaking in surveillance without Ken’s knowledge.

So he finds it in himself to have a little bit more patience, and the night crawls on.

There are a lot of comings and goings before the crowd eventually begins to thin out a little, patrons likely either making their way home or to a nearby club to end their Friday night with a bang. A couple of the men from the group next to John leave, but the majority stay, drinking jovially and blissfully letting John pretend he’s invisible.

At some point though, the rest of them stand as well, needing a smoke break by the sounds of things, and John hunches over his book and leans his cheek in his hand, waiting keenly for them to leave so he can let his guard down for a bit. He hasn’t wanted to risk looking up from his book more than necessary as if the aversion of attention might seem like an invite to the chatty bunch, but the small text in the low light is starting to strain his eyes, so he listens carefully as the clunk of heavy boots retreats towards the door, posture relaxing.

Then the glow that’s cast over his book suddenly dims, a shadow blanketing the pages, and two hands come into view, bracing on the edge of the table, rings clicking against the wood.

“You lost?”

John looks up and meets the steely blue eyes from earlier with his own wide ones, tensing right back up. Broad arms flex where the man leans against the table, and John feels boxed in, like he’s in trouble for something he’s unaware of, or like he’s being tested.

“Sorry?” He plays it safe, unable to mask his confusion. Tobacco and sweet–cedar cologne fill his nose and lungs when he inhales, hitting him like a fist to the face, making his head spin. The stranger seems to consider him for a moment, and John’s cheeks grow warm.

“You’re in a pub, sober and reading a book,” he says, still revealing nothing with his enduring stare, and John feels heat crawl up past the collar of his shirt again, torn between letting his intimidation win and withdrawing his gaze, and letting his eyes drag up those inked arms in appreciation.

John must blink up at him for a second too long as he fights with his warring urges, because the man shifts, taking a step away to give him space, and John wants so pathetically to ask him to come back. But those ring–adorned hands raise in a placating gesture on either side of the man’s head, his features softening almost imperceptibly.

“Relax, kid,” the blond says, and John decides immediately he doesn’t like him calling him that, nearly wrinkling his nose at the implication of immaturity. “Just curious what brings you someplace like this.”

John feels the tension leave his spine just a bit, and he glances over at Curt’s booth, finding his friend is still glued to Ken’s side, locked in conversation and wholly unaware of his predicament.

“I’m uh,” he looks back up at the man, sheepish. “I was playing the lookout for my friend. He’s on a first date.”

John realizes the position he’s put Curt in just a moment too late, watching the stranger’s gaze turn to where his had been a second ago. His pulse quickens as he waits for a look of discomfort, or worse, anger at the sight of the two very brazen boys in the corner booth, but neither comes, only a look of recognition as the man turns back to face John.

“Need me to save him?” He asks, but the corner of his mouth twitches, clearly aware that there are very few people who need less saving than Curt currently does, with the giddy lovestruck expression he wears as he hangs off of Ken’s every word. John relaxes then, shoulders slumping.

“I’m the one who needs saving,” he grumbles, glancing over in time to watch Curt situate himself so close to Ken that he might as well just be in his lap.

The blond nods, stretching idly and looking around the pub, and John doesn’t give his eyes permission to roam over his biceps but that doesn’t stop them, at least not until he’s granted with his attention again.

“Come sit,” the man suggests casually, then pauses. “I mean, unless your book is really that thrilling– then by all means, don’t let me bother you.”

John feels his brain slowly giving up on figuring out what the hell his night has devolved into, but he realizes it’s clearly calling it quits on self preservation as well when he finds himself considering the offer. He looks back at Curt, and then at the man, and decides that he’s bored enough that he doesn’t even care anymore about what had caused the group’s interest in him in the first place.

“Alright,” he says hesitantly, shutting his book, and it pulls the smallest smile out of the stoic man as he stands.

“Alright,” the man echoes. He gestures to the still empty booth, letting John slide in first before he follows.

“The view okay, watchdog?” The man asks as he settles, tilting his head in Curt’s direction, and John huffs out a surprised laugh, not expecting the jest. It throws him off, the lighthearted way he talks despite how serious his demeanour comes off.

“Just fine,” John confirms, and the man nods.

“What’s your name, kid?” He asks as he drapes his arm over the back of the booth behind John, lounging comfortably, and John hopes the warm night is enough to excuse the heat that settles back over his cheeks.

“John Egan,” he says, resisting the urge to follow it up with a ‘or whatever you want it to be,’ because he feels like walking out of this pub without being hatecrimed. “You?”

“John Egan,” the man repeats, like he’s playing around with the sound of it, or maybe he’s amused by John’s formality; he feels a little bit embarrassed at the thought.

“My name’s Gale Cleven.”

Gale. John likes it. There’s something fitting about it– the juxtaposition of a gentler sounding name given to someone so visibly rugged and hardened by the years. Exactly how many years though, John isn’t sure. He’s guessing the man’s at least a decade older than himself, but he also doesn’t really care, not when the warmth that seems to have taken up permanent residence on his cheeks is settling in over the rest of his body in a way that makes his heart flutter.

“Thirsty?” Gale nudges the large pitcher of beer towards him in offering.

“I’m good, thanks,” John answers with what he hopes comes off as nonchalance rather than him trying to evade drinking. Getting drunk– because he inevitably would, the lightweight he is– when he’s already feeling so nervous around this borderline stranger is very low on his list of things he’d like to experience tonight. And oh, how quickly that list has formed in the back of his mind.

Gale accepts his reply with an unbothered nod, and they both lapse into silence. He seems content to people watch as he sips on his ginger beer, and John tries really hard not to stare at the sharp angles of his jaw and throat as Gale tips his head back.

John fights his leg’s urge to bounce restlessly, desperately looking for something to talk about, never a person who’s understood how a silence can be comfortable. In his scramble for conversation topics, John hones in on Gale’s drink, and he realizes how hypocritical the man’s earlier comment on his own drinking habits– or lack thereof– had been.

“You’re not drinking?” John inquires. Gale studies him for a moment before replying.

“Pretty certain there’s liquid in this bottle,” he says evenly, and John scoffs at the non–answer.

“So pedantic. You’re not drinking alcohol,” he amends, letting the slightest bit of attitude slip, and he swears Gale nearly laughs.

“Neither are you,” Gale shoots back, casual, like he has all night to argue semantics. And maybe he does, with how late it’s getting– John has half the mind to wonder how late transit runs from this side of town to his own, but he doesn’t feel like stepping across the street to read the schedule on the sign, and it doesn’t feel like it matters all that much right now.

John doesn’t have time to give Gale anymore lip, because the pub door swings open and the others begin heading back in. He can’t control the way he stiffens; it’s one thing shooting the breeze with Gale alone, but a whole other thing trying to keep his head above water amidst the unpredictable group.

Gale must pick up on his nerves, because he brings his arm down from the back of the booth and drapes it over his shoulders instead, leaning in close.

“They don’t bite, I promise. They were just playin’ around earlier,” Gale murmurs, and John sure isn’t focussing on any feelings of apprehension anymore with the shiver that runs down his spine from the ghost of warm breath against his ear. He nods, keeping his eyes on the napkin he’s toying with until there’s a loud exclamation.

“Well, look who it is,” the man with the gold mouthpiece drops down onto the seat of the booth with a grin. “Buck got the bookworm outta his trance? Scooch over.”

John immediately moves to do so, but Gale slides his arm lower to wrap it around his middle before he can, easily dragging him along with him as he shimmies down the bench until there’s enough space for all the men to cram back in. His heart patters aggressively behind his ribcage at the close proximity, his thigh pressed against Gale’s, his warm arm coming back up to rest over his shoulders again, keeping him in place against his side.

“Our friend, John, here’s gonna kill time with us for a bit.” John nearly jumps out of his skin when Gale’s voice rumbles low through his bones, feeling flushed from the body heat on either side of him.

“You sure ‘our friend John’ is old enough to be in a pub, Buck?” One of the men asks, aviator sunglasses folded over the collar of his shirt, weighing the material down a bit. John would get more curious about this Buck thing, but he’s too busy bristling involuntarily at the insinuation.

“He’s in here, ain’t he?” Gale drawls, dragging his thumb through the condensation on his glass bottle.

“You need to see my ID, bouncer?” John surprises himself when he spouts out the too–defensive question, and he feels rather than hears Gale breathe out a laugh.

Aviator Glasses seems equally entertained, leaning back in the booth with a snicker.

“Easy, baby–face, only joking,” he relents, still grinning. “Feisty.”

“See, John?” The one with the mustache gets his attention, blue eyes creasing at the corners in amusement. “Buck’s a bad influence. Got you acting tough already.”

“Alright, Rosie,” Gale says, unimpressed. Rosie has kind eyes, so John catches his breath and finds his footing, eyeing the brunet and then tilting his head to look at Gale.

“Why ‘Buck’?” John asks, then feels the familiar horror of his mouth moving faster than his brain can tell it to stop. “You trash at bull riding or something?”

He sees Gale’s eyebrows raise microscopically at the same moment that a loud guffaw sounds from his other side, and a hand claps against his back, John turning as the others laugh along raucously.

“I like this one,” Gold Teeth announces, thrilled.

“Lucky you got too pretty’a face to get socked,” the black haired one chuckles out, dark eyes filled with mirth.

John tries to ease back into Gale’s side, realizing how tense he still is, letting himself be calmed by the fact that he’s still unscathed despite his traitorous loud mouth. His face burns from the attention, and it’s not helping that he can feel Gale toying with the hem of his t–shirt sleeve where his hand hangs over his shoulder, an idle motion that shouldn’t be messing with John’s head as much as it is.

“Alright, John. Buck used to be real fond of two things back in the day,” Rosie hooks him in, a smile younger than his years pulling at the corners of his mouth. “He was known for joyriding a little too enthusiastically, and for being a betting man– he’d take on any challenge for a buck. Darts, races, brawls; you tell him ‘I bet a buck you can’t win’ and he’d be leaping into action.”

“What happened?” Raven Hair sighs wistfully in faux–disappointment, and Gold Teeth scoffs.

“He realized it was a shit nickname Cros, that’s what,” he ribs, and John feels Gale shift against him to look over at the man, leaning an elbow on the table.

“You sure you wanna play the nickname origin game, Hambone?”

John can’t help but laugh, but as the man launches into a hurried defense, he feels his phone buzz in his pocket. He discreetly pulls it out, flipping it open in his lap beneath the table and seeing a text from Curt.

‘lol wtf r u doing?’

John looks up, catching the back of Ken as he retreats down the hall to the pub’s bathroom, then spotting Curt, who’s twisted around in his seat to look at him. He meets Curt’s questioning expression with a glare, dropping his eyes back down to his phone and channeling his nervous energy into the vigorous clicking of buttons. He can distantly feel Gale’s eyes on him as he types, the group busy arguing over who has the short end of the stick when it comes to monikers.

‘ur gonna wish ken had thrown u in the river biddick.’

Gale snorts under his breath, and John’s head snaps up, finding the man shamelessly reading his screen.

“Sorry,” John mumbles, not wanting to seem rude for texting, but Gale just shakes his head, gesturing for him to continue. His phone buzzes again.

‘do u need me to come save u?’

Gale looks away then, and John knows the bar is in hell, but his chest goes a little fuzzy at the courtesy, feeling safe just with the way Gale gives him space to answer honestly.

‘not anymore :|’

John looks up expectantly, watching as Curt starts to type out a response, but then Ken returns and slides back into the booth, and Curt’s phone is temporarily forgotten, much to John’s dismay. He turns his attention back to the conversation happening around the table, the guys kindly granting him the leisure of spectating after the stress of being an active participant, though John is pretty sure the grace is only due to the ongoing heated debate.

“Okay, Crosby,” Hambone is retorting. “You’re lucky we didn’t start calling you Bing. ‘Oh, there goes Biker Bing!’”

“That’s not even half bad,” Crosby objects.

“Yeah? You want us to roll with Bing now?” Sunglasses teases.

“Yeah, actually, I’d love that, DeMarco,” Crosby says exaggeratedly.

Buzz.

John looks back down at his phone, frowning at the ominous message awaiting him.

‘john. i love u so u can’t be mad at me pls’

He glances up and waits impatiently as he watches Curt continue to type.

‘he wants to drive me home :D’

Absolutely not.

‘curtis.’

‘if you love me too you will not steal this car makeout from me :)’

John glares at the back of Curt’s head before sending him an ‘i hate you so much.’

‘ask one of your new friends to drive you home? <3’

John huffs quietly, shaking his head to himself, but he can’t bring himself to rob Curt of such a formative experience.

‘i hope u guys get t–boned otw back i’m so srs’

He sees Curt lean over and say something to Ken before turning back to his phone, and John wonders if Ken’s aware of Curt’s personal spy yet, or if Curt’s made up some excuse to be texting.

‘THX JOHN ilu text me as soon as ur home pls <333’

‘die.’

Curt pouts when he looks at the text as he slides out of the booth, and John rolls his eyes.

‘fine. u better text me too’

As an afterthought–

‘if u get murdered can i at least have ur cd collection tho’

“Everything alright?” Gale murmurs, and John almost jumps again at the husky voice so close to his ear.

“Yeah,” he nods, making a face at Curt when he smiles shy as he and Ken pass their table, heading for the door. Gale watches them go as well, and John pockets his phone after checking the time, shifting nervously.

“I gotta get going soon,” he turns to Gale, and for all his eagerness the whole night to get out of here, he feels a little reluctant now. It’s probably wishful thinking on his end, but he thinks he maybe sees a flicker of disappointment on Gale’s face too.

“You got a ride?” Gale asks, and John shrugs.

“I was gonna just go check the bus schedule,” he says, though truthfully he doesn’t have much confidence in any of the lines running to his neighbourhood near midnight.

“You know this area of town well?” Gale seems hesitant, and John shakes his head.

“It’s not a great place to be hanging around bus stops late at night,” Gale says carefully, pausing. John feels like his eyes are searching for something as he looks at him, but he doesn’t know what, and it makes him restless.

“Let me give you a ride.”

And really, John should’ve foreseen his night ending in some entirely unpredictable fashion like this, but retrospection has always been a much bigger strength than his foresight.

“Are you sure?” He feels shy again, playing with the frayed string of his bracelet. “I’m all the way on the south end.”

Gale nods, removing his arm from his shoulders, and John misses the weight as soon as it’s gone.

“Fine with me,” Gale assures him, reaching into his pocket for his wallet, pulling out a twenty and tucking it under a coaster on the table.

“Gonna head out, boys,” Gale addresses the group as he slides out of the booth, John following close behind.

“So soon?” Crosby asks, the others joining in on his protests, and Gale waves them off.

“It’s late. I’ll see you Monday, Rosie,” Gale gives a lazy salute.

“Come back sometime, John,” DeMarco insists, smiling playfully. “Beers on me.”

“Maybe,” John says with a smile, but something tells him he’ll end up back in the pub sooner than he expects.

Gale bids Paulina a good evening as they pass by the bar, and John follows him out into the night after dropping some cash into her tip jar. The concrete lot’s illuminated by a few light posts and the flickering neon sign above, and the parking spaces are mostly empty, save for a couple cars and a row of motorbikes. John’s not surprised in the slightest when that’s where Gale leads him, a little thrill running through him at the thought of getting to ride one for the first time.

As they’re crossing the lot, Gale turns to look at him up and down, and John looks back, suddenly self conscious under his quiet gaze. But then Gale grabs his leather jacket where it’s slung over his shoulder, holding it out expectantly. John blinks at him and takes it slowly, confused.

“Might not feel cold right now, but the wind’ll hit you when we get going,” Gale says, pulling out his keys.

Oh.

John thanks him meekly, pulling on the jacket while Gale starts his bike up, warmth rising to his cheeks as he’s drowned in the overwhelming smell of cigarettes and gasoline and cologne and man. He relays his address when Gale asks, then he watches him settle himself on the bike, staring for a second, contemplating whether he’s really about to trust this near–stranger.

Gale glances over his shoulder, waiting, and John’s body moves of its own accord. He nervously throws a leg over the seat and straddles the bike, stabilizing himself, holding his breath and resting his hands on his thighs, feeling in over his head.

Gale shifts, then nudges him.

“You tryin’a make it home in one piece?” Gale asks over the sound of the engine.

“...yeah?” John responds, lost. Gale reaches back and feels around, grabbing his hands, pulling him forward and against his back, situating his arms around his middle. John’s face flares up hot, heart thumping so hard he’s scared Gale’s gonna feel it through his shirt, mouth dry at the feeling of the man’s body heat seeping through his own clothes.

“Gonna have to hold on a little better, then,” Gale teases, patting his hand, and John’s glad he reverses the bike when he does, because he comes embarrassingly close to giggling.

Gale drives slow out of the lot, cautious as he turns onto the intersection, looking over his shoulder at John and mouthing ‘okay?’

John beams at him, nodding, and Gale smiles before he turns back around, and John’s stomach flips from that as much as it does from the way the bike suddenly accelerates. He lets out a noise of surprise and reflexively grabs onto the front of Gale’s shirt, squeezing his arms tighter around his middle, pressing the side of his face to Gale’s shoulder to hide away from the wind that whips around them.

The streets are dead at the late hour, no other vehicles around to interrupt their speed as they coast along. John watches the street lamps blur until his eyes hurt from the force of the dry air, and then he feels the lights of them strobe against his closed eyelids, grateful for Gale’s jacket as the breeze tugs at his hair.

He feels like he’s going to buzz out of his skin, the rumble of the motor beneath him only spurring the electric sensation on with the shaking of his bones. He imagines it’s the closest thing to flying; he’s never given much thought to motorbikes, but he thinks he gets the appeal now, unable to wipe the smile off his face.

It’s like being in a wind tunnel, everything else blocked out by their velocity, John’s head going quiet until all he can hear is the motor and his own heartbeat, but it feels far too soon that they’re slowing down as Gale pulls onto his street. He opens his eyes blearily, letting his cheek rest on Gale’s shoulder for a few moments longer before regretfully lifting his head as his house comes into view, and Gale brings them to a stop at the sidewalk when John relinquishes the grip on his shirt.

John’s legs feel a little wobbly as he climbs off the bike, having to steady himself with a hand on Gale’s shoulder for a moment, but Gale waits patiently, expression soft.

“All good?” Gale asks, running a hand through hair made wild by the wind. John nods, trying not to think about how crazy his curls must look, cheeks still hurting from smiling.

“Yeah,” he assures him. “Thank you for the ride, and for saving me from dying of boredom tonight.”

Gale smiles, eyes warm.

“John Egan lives to see another day.”

“He does,” John agrees, then straightens with a quiet “oh.”

He bashfully shrugs Gale’s jacket off, reluctantly handing it over to him, and Gale’s slow to take it, but he does, pulling it on himself.

It feels like neither of them really knows what to say in parting, everything about their meeting so unconventional and unexpected. Gale adjusts his hand on the bike, giving him a small nod.

“I’ll wait till you get inside,” he tells him, and warmth blooms in John’s chest regardless of his efforts to stamp it out.

“Thanks,” John says timidly, stepping onto the sidewalk. “Have a good night.”

“You too. See you ‘round, kid.”

John is hyperaware of every movement as he walks up his driveway, the engine purring low behind him. He pulls out his keys and quietly unlocks the front door, and mercifully, he doesn’t hear the bike rumble off until the door is shut behind him, and he carefully slips his sneakers off before tiptoeing down the hall.

He heads for the kitchen for some water, but as he passes by the living room he hears the clink of a bottle, and he holds his breath, reaching for the fridge.

“John.” A low voice calls from the couch. John swears under his breath and walks over, suddenly very aware of the way the residual smell of smoke and cologne clings to his shirt where it had been covered by Gale’s jacket.

“Where were you?” His dad asks when John stops next to the couch.

“Out with Curt,” John says, voice steady only because it’s mostly the truth. His dad tilts his beer bottle back, not looking at him as he drinks, and John shifts his weight nervously, not sure whether he’s been dismissed.

“Curt get a bike?” His dad turns then, watching him in the dim lamplight, eyes analyzing.

“No sir,” John tries to keep his tone light, neutral, not sure yet what kind of mood the man’s in. “He left before me, so a friend we were with offered me a ride home.”

His dad watches him for a moment longer, and John barely moves, feeling like he’s being picked apart, but then he turns away, lifting his drink.

“I don’t want you bein’ out this late,” his dad says, almost as an afterthought before taking another swig of his beer. John nearly opens his mouth to ask why, to argue that he’s an adult, but the years have taught him to hold his tongue, nothing good ever coming from drawing more attention to himself than necessary. It’s not like staying out this late is a common occurrence for him anyway, so it’s not worth getting into it.

“Yes sir,” he says instead, and when he doesn’t get a response, John deems it safe to creep back to his room, deciding not to risk making any noise in the kitchen. He pokes his head into the cracked–open door of his parents’ room on the way to check on his mom, finding her already slumped on her side asleep with the light still on. He reaches around the door frame and carefully finds the switch, plunging the room into darkness, and then he continues on down the hall to his own room.

He takes his phone out once his bedroom door is closed behind him, typing out a quick text to let Curt know he’s made it home, and then he gets undressed for bed. Despite the way it makes him flush with embarrassment, he lets himself press his shirt to his face for a minute after he pulls it over his head, breathing in the newly familiar smell until his head spins, unprepared for how strong just the smell of someone can affect him. It takes genuine restraint to not bring the shirt into bed with him, because that would mean having to think about what all of these feelings imply, so he drapes it over the back of his chair and looks at it longingly as he finishes getting ready to sleep.

It’s only when John finally collapses into bed that he realizes his book is still at the pub.

Chapter Text

JULY 16, 2005

John likes to think that he’s a good friend. If he’d been doubting it in the first place, a quick trip down memory lane to the previous night of playing undercover bodyguard would assuage any concerns in a heartbeat.

Right now however, periodically scooting a few inches left in his folding chair to follow the shade that the looming structure of Curt’s childhood treehouse provides, listening to Curt relay every detail of his evening with Ken down to the flavour of gum the man had kept in his mouth while they made out, John wonders how rude it would be to dial up the volume on his music player and lie face down in the grass.

It’s not that he’s not happy for Curt– of course he is, he’s over the moon for him. This feels like the culmination of so many late-night talks in high school, always the same topics they’d circle back to when John would crash at Curt’s house: Boys. Dating. Kissing. Sex. Curt’s finally getting a taste of the things they’d giggled over in the dark, the things they’d tried to replicate with each other, with girls, the things they’d only caught glimpses of on television.

John loves to see Curt so excited and bubbly, he really does, but it’s hard not to feel like even more of an outsider than he’d already grown up feeling. It was one thing when it was him and Curt in it together, both waiting for that pivotal time of their lives, but now it’s just him.

And John knows it’s juvenile to think that way– one of them was of course going to have to be the first to experience these things at some point– which makes it all the more frustrating, and he’s really working to keep these emotions under wraps so he doesn’t bum Curt out. He tries to focus on what his friend’s saying, but he can’t keep his head present today, and it doesn’t help that while Curt’s describing his and Ken’s car frenching, John’s mind has been conjuring up images of a ring–adorned hand resting on his own thigh as he leans over the center console and feels stubble against his face and soft lips meeting his own.

The fantasy makes John’s head go fuzzy enough that he strays from his strict sun–avoidance agenda, only noticing the shade has migrated away from him when his shoulders start to sting, imagining the sound of his skin sizzling as sweat trickles down his back. He lazily drags his chair to the left again, limbs feeling leaden, curls damp at his temples from sweat. For how much he looks forward to the summer every year, days like this make him contemplate escaping north, someplace where he can take more than a few steps without feeling like calling it a day and collapsing in bed in the darkness of his room.

“John.”

“Huh?” John peels his eyes open, immediately squinting in the bright sun, raising a hand over his eyes in protest.

“Do you think I should’ve?” Curt asks from where he’s laying on his back in the grass next to the sprinkler. Every time the slowly moving spray of water passes by him, he has to snap his mouth shut to avoid waterboarding himself, but he apparently deems it a worthy sacrifice for the bit of relief even lukewarm hose water brings.

“Should’ve what?” John blinks away the brain fog, watching Curt collect water in his mouth this time as the droplets fall over him before letting it dribble out.

“Copped a feel,” Curt says, affectionately exasperated but accustomed to John’s scatterbrain all the same. “I’m tryin’a talk about getting stroked, and you’re giving yourself heat stroke.”

John’s surprised he has the energy to laugh at the joke, every movement feeling costly in the muggy air. They should probably both just go be miserable inside at this point, but Curt’s sister Eliza has a bunch of her friends over and it’s bad enough being ogled by them from her bedroom window where it overlooks the backyard, let alone trying to relax by the TV with their painfully conspicuous whispering and giggling floating down the hall. As reassuring as it is to know he doesn’t have a giant rainbow arrow on a sign above his head pointing at himself, and as flattering as the attention is, what little interest he does have in women certainly doesn’t apply to a gaggle of tenth-grade girls.

“Sorry,” John says sincerely, feeling guilty. “I think the sun’s frying my brain.”

Curt waves his apology off, easygoing as ever.

“S’alright.” Curt rolls himself out of reach of the sprinkler before sitting up, wiping his drenched hair out of his face. “You wanna bike to the lake?”

Fully submerging himself in Lake Michigan’s cool waters sounds a lot more preferable to attempting to find reprieve from the sun in the heat of the house, impending sunburn be damned, so John nods, pushing himself reluctantly to his feet.

It’s a short ride from Curt’s side of the suburb to the water, the breeze created by the speed of their bicycles feeling at least a little bit refreshing, but when Curt starts telling him about a lake Ken wants to take him to near Milwaukee for a date, John lets himself imagine swerving in front of a car for just one sweet second. As a treat.

Monday seems like as good a day as any to go collect his book from the pub, and it’s absolutely not because John recalls hearing Gale tell Rosie that he’d see him then. Realistically, he knows that could mean anything, but a tiny part of him feels a little less intimidated at the thought of going back into the pub all by himself if he pretends there’s a chance he’ll see a familiar face.

John debates asking Curt to come along since he still very much owes him many favours, but ultimately decides that on the off chance he does run into Gale again, Curt would see right through him and never let him live down whatever stupid crush he has going on, so he resigns himself to making the journey alone.

It’s strange, really. John and Curt have always told each other everything, attached at the hip from the first week of friendship, and talking about boys– once they’d both established that was a thing– hasn’t ever been an exception. Yet for some reason, John’s hesitant to talk to Curt about this. He thinks it’s mostly because he’s making it into a bigger thing in his head than it actually is, and if he talks about it out loud, it’s going to make it too real, which is the exact opposite of what he needs with the way he knows he fixates on things.

As he’s mulling this over on the bus ride to the pub that evening, he realizes he understands why Curt had waited a few days before telling him about Ken. It’s almost like there’s this fear of jinxing things by bringing them up, wanting to make sure there’s substance to his feelings so he doesn’t embarrass himself– as if there’s anything to be ashamed about with having a silly infatuation. God knows he and Curt have had their share of giggling over crushes on straight guys in school or at work, pining from afar, so really this shouldn’t be any different, but John still hadn’t been able to bring himself to do much more than plainly (with adequate displeasure) recount the events that had led up to him being sat at a table with a bunch of bikers when Curt had pressed him for details.

His introspection gets shoved to the side when the bus pulls up to the sidewalk opposite the pub, and John immediately spots a lone motorcycle outside. He hadn’t gotten a good enough look at Gale’s in the dark to know whether it’s his or not, but it gets his heart pattering away all the same as he crosses the street, nervously walking through the mostly empty parking lot and stepping inside the pub.

It’s much quieter on a Monday, and so soon after dinner, only two lone drinkers sat at small tables by the windows. The music is low, and the door to what, judging by the ‘staff only’ sign, appears to be some sort of back office is ajar, quiet laughter coming from inside.

John recognizes Paulina behind the bar, seemingly with some sort of checklist in hand as she scans the contents of a shelf, but she glances over when he approaches, expression of concentration morphing to something friendlier.

“Welcome back,” she says, setting down her notepad and making her way over, smiling playfully. “You know you can get ginger ale anywhere, yes? Or did you miss this place that much?”

John smiles sheepishly, shoving his hands in his pockets.

“I’m not here for a drink, actually,” he says apologetically, but before he can elaborate, Paulina nods.

“I know, sweet boy, I’m only joking,” she says warmly, and John’s chest feels tight at the motherly tone. “You’re here for your book?”

John nods slowly, confused as to how she knows. She starts to walk to the other end of the long bar, beckoning him along, so he follows.

“Buck– Gale? You remember him?” John nods again, the understatement almost laughable. “He said you’d be back for it when I told him I put it in the lost and found, so I kept it up front, it should be somewhere in here…”

She crouches down, rummaging through a drawer beneath the register. John feels a little warm hearing about the confidence Gale had that he’d be back, knowing he’d thought about him at least enough to remember the book was his.

There’s another bout of laughter from the back room, and John looks over while he waits for Paulina. He’s able to see in through the window now from this side of the bar, and when he recognizes the back of Gale’s head where he’s sitting in a chair opposite a desk, his heart leaps into his throat.

It falls right back down though when a woman steps into view, a bright smile gracing her soft features as she leans against the desk next to Gale. Her blonde hair is swept half–up into a bun, the rest of it framing her face in golden curls, and her expression is unbearably fond when she reaches out and briefly cups Gale’s face in her hand, lips forming words John can’t quite make out.

“Here!” Paulina announces victoriously, popping back up with his book in hand, then following his gaze before he has time to drag his eyes away.

“Oh, do you want me to let him know you’re in?” She asks. “I’m sure he’s almost done distracting Marge.”

Marge.

“No,” John says quickly, casual as he can muster. “That’s alright, I gotta get going anyway.”

“I’ll tell him you popped by,” Paulina says as she passes him his book, and John can’t think of a sensible reason to ask her not to, so he smiles and thanks her and focuses on walking out at a normal pace, ignoring his brain’s urge to bolt.

John’s moping is so all-encompassing on the bus ride back that he only realizes he’s getting off at Curt’s stop rather than his own as he’s stepping onto the sidewalk, muscle memory at this point to go to his friend when something gets him down.

The thought of Gale ever reciprocating his now even–more–embarrassing crush feels like a pipe dream, something so unattainable, unrealistic when he shoves the touchiness on Friday night out of his mind. He feels stupid for spending the weekend getting his hopes up, cooking up all these little fantasies in his head when he should’ve recognized that’s all they were– fantasies. Hell, the years between them should’ve been enough of a reality check, let alone the fact that Gale is a man and John is not a woman.

Coming to the realization of how irrational he’s been makes it even more humiliating when Curt eventually pries the cause for his bad mood out of him as they’re sitting on the back porch, popsicles in hand, warding off mosquitos as the sun sinks low behind the wood fence of the backyard.

“The guy from the pub?” Curt’s ice–and–cherry–reddened lips pop open in shock at John’s admission, and John nods miserably. “I knew it!”

John snorts at that, leveling Curt with an incredulous stare.

“No you didn’t.”

“Well, I knew something was up, with the way he was hanging all over you,” Curt amends, and John slumps against the railing of the porch dejectedly, wishing so badly that were true.

“Apparently nothing was up, because I just found out he’s got a girl,” John mumbles, and Curt’s confusion prompts him into filling him in on the events of his evening and where his mind’s been over the weekend, and as dumb as he feels saying it all out loud, he doesn’t feel judged for even a second. Curt listens attentively, face twisting with sympathy when he gets to the bit about his unfortunate discovery at the pub, knocking his knee against John’s in commiseration.

“Well,” Curt thinks for a moment once John finishes catching him up. “I know it sucks right now, but maybe it’s for the best, y’know? Like, he’s older than you, and he’s clearly part of some sorta questionable group.”

“They were all so nice though, Curt,” John pouts, deciding to forgo acknowledging Curt’s voice of reason. “And he felt so– I don’t know, like, safe?”

He’s aware how absurd that sounds and how little sense it makes, and Curt evidently echoes the sentiment, giving John some serious side eye.

“Alright, daddy issues,” he says under his breath, and John nearly sends him down the porch steps with the shove he gives him, glowering and shoving his popsicle back in his mouth.

When John shows up for his evening shift at the hotel the next day, Curt ambushes him in the staff room as he’s putting his bag in his locker, a telltale look on his face that John’s long since learned to take as a warning.

“You can say no,” Curt starts in lieu of a proper greeting, and John looks at him vacantly, pulling his dress shoes on.

“I was texting with Ken this morning and I mentioned your current love life struggles– I didn’t tell him specifics!” Curt interjects before he can tell him off, and John relaxes, though he still eyes him warily.

“I told him we’d been joking about him setting you up with someone–”

“–joking,” John emphasizes, and Curt ignores him.

“Ken said he actually might know a guy, and he ended up asking them after I left for work,” Curt continues, and John’s not sure whether to feel terrified or curious at the prospect.

“And?” He asks cautiously.

“If you want– don’t freak out, nothing’s confirmed– there is a man your age,” Curt looks at him pointedly, “who is interested in a blind date of sorts this Friday.”

John feels a little bit deflated because only a week ago, he would’ve jumped at the chance to go on a real date with a guy, but now all he can think about is how they’re not going to be the guy he’s stuck pining over.

“I don’t know, Curt,” he says, uncertain. The thought of going on a date with a stranger is as exciting as it is nervewracking, and he’s not sure he has the stomach for doing something so bold. He can daydream wistfully about being in a relationship as much as he wants, but now that it’s coming down to actually being presented with an opportunity to feel something out with someone, he’s suddenly not sure he feels ready.

“I think you should give it a shot,” Curt encourages. “Even if you don’t end up liking him in that way, it might help take your mind off of Mr. Biker Man. Maybe he’ll even work a miracle and get you to stop looking like a kicked puppy for a bit.”

John rolls his eyes, but he feels himself being swayed as always.

Because Curt’s right: even if the guy isn’t his type, he might still have fun, or at least be able to use it as practice for future first dates. And it would be nice to get out of his head about Gale for an evening, a healthy distraction, and who knows– maybe he’ll end up hitting it off with the guy.

So he agrees, deciding that surely it can’t be that bad.

It can, in fact, be that bad, John quickly finds out.

The date had begun normal enough. John had met the guy– Michael– at a quiet diner outside of the bustle of downtown, and he’d seemed nice enough, good-looking too. Things had become awkward quite fast when it became evident they had very little in common, John even feeling a little bit judged when some of his answers to questions seemed unsatisfactory to the other man, but he’d done his best to keep conversation flowing, already writing off any attraction that might’ve been present at first glance because his idea of fun was not spending a whole evening trying to prove himself interesting enough to someone who had been a stranger less than an hour prior.

To Michael’s credit, he pays for both their meals before John even has a chance to pull his wallet out, and he feels a little bit guilty knowing he’s just been counting down the minutes until he can get out of there, but that guilt evaporates when Michael opens his mouth again.

“So, actually, I’m not like, really looking for anything right now,” he says after a moment’s contemplation. “I’m kinda on and off with someone else.”

John’s not sure whether to cry over the uncomfortable evening he’s just suffered through for nothing, or to be relieved that he’s not going to have to reject a second date because Michael’s about to do it for him.

“But, y’know, we can go have a little fun, if you want.”

John blinks at the man, trying to process the verbal whiplash he’s just experienced.

For how many late nights he’s spent fantasizing in the dark of his room about secret rendezvous and car quickies with hot men, he expects his heart to stir at the suggestion, but instead he just feels gross. On top of it catching him completely off guard, the implication that Michael might be actively seeing someone and wanting to go behind their back with John is unbelievably offputting, and the cocksure smile he wears as if expecting John to fall over himself in his excitement to say yes is the final nail in the coffin.

John realizes his face must be showing more than he intends as usual, because Michael’s demeanour shifts, a frown pulling at the corners of his mouth.

“C’mon, pretty boy, I’ll show you a good time, promise.” The pleading puts John off further, not even feeling desired like he’d at least expect to, being the target of such a proposition. He’s really beginning to wish he’d taken Curt up on his offer to return the favour and be John’s lookout this time rather than blindly trusting a stranger based on a loose association with someone John vaguely knows.

He shakes his head, slowly beginning to move to the outside of his side of their booth.

“That’s not really my thing,” John says apologetically, keeping his voice kind.

“Seriously man?” John freezes mid–scoot, not expecting the switch up. “I paid for your dinner, it’s the least you can do.”

John stares, face hot, skin starting to prickle with discomfort. Defuse, his brain supplies.

He reaches for his wallet, fumbling with the zipper until he gets a crumbled ten dollar bill out to cover his half of the food, sliding it across the table towards the man. This has the opposite of the desired affect, Michael scoffing at him, any friendly mask that’s left sliding from his face.

“You’re fucking kidding.”

John doesn’t hear anything else over the sound of his own heartbeat, apologizing as he slides the rest of the way out of the booth, and he doesn’t know why, because he doesn’t think he’s done anything wrong, but the way the man’s talking to him makes him feel like he has. When Michael figures out that he’s actually leaving and that his swinging pendulum of anger and begging isn’t appealing in the slightest, he starts to gather his things up, and that’s enough to light a fire under John’s ass.

He’s bolting out of the diner into the dark night before Michael’s even fully standing, grateful for once for his flighty tendencies, but once he’s outside, he abruptly becomes aware of how stuck he is. The bus runs every fifteen minutes, but he gives himself less than fifteen seconds before Michael comes storming out too, so he realizes his only option really is to start walking, because he’s not going to wait around at the bus stop like a sitting duck.

A little too late he wonders if maybe he should’ve just sucked it up and taken the public humiliation of being yelled at inside the diner, because he hears a shout of his name as he reaches the sidewalk and begins speedwalking in the general direction of downtown, and he quickly becomes alarmed at how quiet the street is, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end.

The shouts suddenly fall silent, and John dares a glance back in time to see Michael’s car peeling out of the lot, turning onto the street he’s walking next to, and he swears under his breath.

“John, c’mon,” he hears, and he picks up his pace, keeping his eyes firmly ahead as the red Honda pulls up next to him, driving slow to match his speed.

“I was only playing around, man,” Michael calls, arm hanging out the window. “Let me drive you home.”

“Thanks, but I’m gonna walk,” John tries to keep his voice even, still not looking over at the man.

He’s trying to figure out what his odds are if this turns into an actual altercation, because while he’s not particularly strong, he’s got a good amount of height on his side, but so does Michael. Play–wrestling with Curt has never been anything near a fair fight with their differences in stature and yet there have been a few rare times that Curt’s managed to take him down in his determination, so John doesn’t have a whole lot of faith in himself now with someone of equal form, certain deescalation is his only hope.

“Nah, just get in,” Michael presses.

“Really, I’m fine,” John says firmly, mustering up a strained smile when he finally glances at the man. “I’ll text you when I’m home, okay?”

Not okay, apparently, because the equally forced smile on Michael’s face drops. Lying has never been John’s strong suit, but it would be really nice if just once he’d done it passably.

“Stop being a fuckin’ prude,” Michael spits out, and John once again returns his attention to the sidewalk ahead of him, reasoning that if he just keeps walking, Michael surely won’t have any choice but to keep driving, because he’s not gonna stop and ditch his car.

“I can do this all night, baby,” Michael continues running his mouth. “You think I’m gonna get bored?”

If only. Maybe he’ll run out of gas.

“How far do you live, huh? You think I won’t follow you home?”

John idly wonders how close Ken is to this man, hoping this is a friend of a friend scenario, or that somehow Michael’s just never shown his true colours around him, because if not, John’s a little bit worried about what this implies about that friend group. He can’t imagine Ken and Michael ever getting along, just from what Curt’s told him about Ken, but maybe they’ve both been blindsided.

The bouncing between threats and pleas and promises continues, Michael getting more irate the longer John goes without responding. He’s debating whether his current situation warrants calling 911 when he hears the distant sound of a low engine, and then multiple, and he would laugh if he weren’t so shaken up, very aware of the irony with a certain motorcyclist being the catalyst for this whole night in the first place.

Headlights appear in the opposite direction, heading towards John and the car that’s shadowing him, and he wonders what the best way to flag them down is, or if they’ll even stop. He doesn’t have to wait long to find out though, because with no other options, he raises his hand in the air and waves frantically at the nearest rider, and instantly they slow, making some sort of hand signal at the others as they continue on past him.

The biker turns around as they pass Michael’s car, pulling up next to John on the sidewalk, and the darkness really isn’t aiding his shit vision but–

“John?”

And oh, the way John feels about five seconds away from crying. He can’t even be mad at the universe for the fuckery brought down upon him tonight because he’s never felt such relief in his life, slowing his pace to stare at Gale.

John half expects Michael to speed off, because that’s sure as hell what he’d be doing if someone like Gale pulled up behind his car, but instead he slams on the breaks, forcing the bike to come to a stop as well. Gale turns his attention away from him to watch the car, but Michael makes no move to get out, seemingly waiting for the other to approach him.

Gale sighs heavily and cuts his engine, easing off his bike, and John gravitates towards him, wanting as much space between him and Michael as possible.

“He botherin’ you?” Gale asks, giving him a searching look. John nods, immediately feeling safe, pulling in a shaky breath.

“Alright,” Gale says, easy as ever save for the way the angry fix of his jaw betrays him. He turns and strolls over to Michael’s open window like he’s approaching an old friend, hands in his jacket pockets, expression neutral.

“You need something?” Gale asks, feigning ignorance.

“Stay out of it, man,” Michael shoots back, but he sounds a lot less brave now with Gale standing there.

“Can’t help being nosy. Looked like one hell of a conversation.” John bites the inside of his cheek, knowing this is absolutely not an appropriate time to laugh and still feeling far too tense to do so, but it’s almost comical how calm Gale is in comparison to the state Michael’s worked himself into.

“We were just talking.”

Gale tilts his head to the side like he’s considering him.

“One of you was certainly talkin’.” The air shifts, a fight starting to seem imminent, and John wonders how mad Gale would be if he were to impulsively sit himself down on his bike and flee the scene so he doesn’t have to witness Michael getting flattened into the pavement. He’s pretty sure he wouldn’t even be able to figure out how to start the bike though, which is probably for the best.

“Fuck off, dude. It’s got nothing to do with you,” Michael snaps, and Gale’s smile is a veiled threat, and John thinks maybe he’s gonna picture it with his hand down his pants later tonight, if he makes it home in one piece.

“Brave words for someone who won’t step outta their car,” Gale comments.

There’s quiet for a moment, and Gale steps back, gesturing with his hand as if to say ‘go right ahead,’ waiting expectantly.

Then he hears a bitter “I don’t fucking need this tonight,” and Michael’s car is screeching away, and John nearly sits his ass down on the sidewalk in his relief. Gale watches until the car rounds the corner before he turns to face him, and the intimidating set of his shoulders relaxes, concern painting his features as his eyes dart from John’s face, down his body and back up again, clearly checking for any signs of harm.

“You okay?” Gale asks, walking back over. John nods, feeling a bit nauseous as all the fear seeps out of him, and Gale places a hand on his shoulder. If he wasn’t so keyed up from everything, John’s convinced his knees would give out at the firm touch, but instead it settles warmth behind his sternum, steadying him.

“Thanks,” he gets out, mouth dry, voice coming out smaller than he intends. Gale seems to soften further, giving his shoulder a comforting squeeze before dropping his hand.

“Christ, John, the hell happened?” Gale breathes out a humourless laugh. “He looked like he was gonna come unglued.”

John looks away for a second, fidgeting with the hem of his shirt, trying to decide whether he should be honest and say it was a date, or stay vague. He’s aware of how hit or miss it can be to disclose that to someone in an old–fashioned town like his, let alone when it’s just him and a much more physically imposing man and only empty rural road as his witness, but he also saw how unbothered Gale had appeared with Curt, and something in John’s gut tells him he can trust the man.

Granted, this is the same gut that had decided going on a date with a complete stranger would be fun, but he’s banking on the universe giving him a break for the rest of the night.

“Blind date,” he turns back to Gale sheepishly, pushing curls out of his face. “We had, uh, differing expectations of how the night would end.”

Gale studies him briefly, but there’s no discomfort on his face, nor surprise– maybe something closer to intrigue, but John feels like he can never quite get a good enough reading on the man to figure out what he’s thinking. Instead of speaking, Gale reaches into his pocket and pulls his phone out, flipping it open.

“Probably shouldn’t bother tryin’a talk you out of doing shit like this,” he says as he types something out. “God knows I got myself into plenty of dicey situations when I was younger.”

“No need to worry about me trying anything like this again, I can tell you that much,” John grumbles, mourning the quiet evening he could’ve spent reading at the lake instead of wasting a day off work in a diner with a damn nutjob. Gale looks mildly amused at his forlorn resoluteness as he holds his phone out towards him, and John looks at it blankly.

“Put your number in,” Gale says, and John’s heart promptly smashes into the bars of his ribcage like an internal car crash. “Text yourself so you can have mine, and you can call me anytime, in case anything like this ever happens again.”

John’s pretty sure he can feel his wreck of heart growing hands now, grabbing onto his ribs, shaking the bones violently in an attempt to leap out of his chest.

“Are you sure?” He asks as he timidly takes Gale’s phone, the new contact screen already open.

“I’m sure,” Gale promises, and John decides to believe him because he wants to, carefully typing out his number, sending a quick ‘hi’ to himself.

“Thank you,” he says quietly as he passes the phone back.

“I mean it. I’d never be bothered, okay?” Gale looks at him as he pockets his phone again, and John nods.

“Okay,” he agrees, giving Gale a shy smile, receiving a reassuring one in return.

“Can I give you a ride home?” Gale asks, though it sounds less like a suggestion and more of an insistence, and John can’t find a reason to say no because he definitely doesn’t want to walk back to the bus stop and hang around there on the off chance Michael decides to circle back around.

“You don’t have to,” he tries to sound reluctant, but the memories of how it had felt last time already have his stomach flipping with anticipation, and Gale only partially manages to conceal a laugh at his badly hidden eagerness.

“I know, kid,” Gale says, shrugging off his jacket and handing it over like it’s routine before he steps over to his bike. “C’mon.”

“Thanks,” John accepts it a lot more casually than he feels at the gesture, wondering what he’d have to do at this point to steal it and make it a permanent fixture of his room, hidden away from his parents’ prying eyes. Which reminds him–

“Can you,” he pauses, feeling bad asking for something when Gale’s already going out of his way to help him, but he doesn’t want to push his luck with his dad either. He pulls the jacket on, stalling, trying not to breathe through his nose so he doesn’t stumble over his words when the smell inevitably knocks any working parts out of his brain.

“Is it okay if you drop me off down the street?” He asks apprehensively. “Don’t think my dad liked the idea of me being on a bike all that much last time.”

“Course,” Gale says gently, poising himself to mount the bike, but then he straightens to look at John again, seeming to contemplate something for a moment. “Y’know, the guys and I were headed to the pub for some drinks when we passed by, if you’ve got any energy left in you.”

John blinks at him, the unexpected invite throwing him off. He gets that fuzzy–chested feeling again at the thought of Gale wanting him around, even if the offer is partially out of pity after his stressful evening, and he knows he should decline and save himself from unnecessary pining, but making bad decisions feels like the theme of the day.

“For a little bit,” he caves, and Gale swings a leg over the bike, sitting himself down and moving forward to make space.

“For a little bit,” Gale agrees with a knowing smile, starting the bike while John situates himself behind him, steeling his nerves and wrapping his arms around Gale’s middle before he has to be reminded this time. The rev of the engine sparks electricity from his fingertips to his spine, the deep rumble echoing down the quiet street as they set off, and John hates the way the jacket wrapped around him and the side of his face against Gale’s shoulder already feels the way he thinks home should.

Gale makes no move to take the jacket back from John when they get to the pub, and John’s in no rush to return it, so he doesn’t mention it either. It’s too warm to be wearing it when it’s not being used as a wind–buffer on the bike, but he’s going to cling to it until he’s overheated in the pub if no one mentions it.

Unfortunately, that’s the first thing that happens when they step inside, John trailing after Gale to the same booth as last week and finding most of the same men sitting around the table. Hambone makes a noise of surprise when he turns his gaze to the two of them, eyebrows shooting up into his hairline.

“Well shit, we miss an initation?” He asks, looking John up and down. “Got a jacket and everything already.”

John’s face warms at the way it makes everyone else’s attention snap over to him, schooling his own expression into one of surprise as well, quickly moving to take the jacket off.

“Forgot about it, sorry,” he says, passing it to Gale apologetically.

“S’alright,” Gale assures him easily, gesturing for John to slide into the booth first, leaning against the table while he does. “You want anything to drink?”

“Whatever you’re having is fine,” he says, not about to ask for a soda in front of all the guys. Gale nods, retreating to the bar where Paulina’s chatting with another patron, and John turns when DeMarco nudges him from his right.

“What’d that guy in the car want?” He asks curiously, tipping his beer back.

“Um,” John immediately feels stupid for not thinking up a story on the ride there, forgetting that the others had been riding with Gale when he stopped.

“We’ve been theorizing about what you mighta done to piss someone off,” Hambone jumps in, grinning, and John laughs nervously, trying to think fast so they can drop the topic.

“The guy was drunk and thought I was someone else he had issues with, I think,” he lies, steadying his hands under the table. “Wouldn’t believe me when I said he had the wrong guy.”

“Called it,” Crosby blurts out triumphantly, patting the table next to him. “Pay up, boys.”

John stares as the others begrudgingly rummage for their wallets, and Crosby looks at him while he waits, cracking a smile at his confusion.

“Sorry, John,” he says, sliding the crumpled bills the guys hand over off the table, shoving them into his own wallet. “Just didn’t think you were the type to stir things up– I was right, wasn’t I?”

Glass clinks lightly on the table to his left before he can answer, and he turns to see Gale slip into the booth next to him, passing a ginger beer over. Gale’s arm fits into place over his shoulders like routine as John thanks him, and he takes a sip of the cold drink he’s given in an effort to keep the pink of his cheeks at bay.

“They bothering you?” Gale asks lightheartedly, and John smiles around the rim of the bottle.

“Only a healthy amount,” he says impishly.

“Attaboy,” Gale hums, bringing his own bottle to his lips as his eyes crease with a smile, and John feels like he goes starry–eyed watching him, heart in a puddle. The craving to earn more approval from him simmers low in his stomach, an itch that’s never been scratched, one he’s not even aware of until then.

The door of the pub swings open, and John looks over to see Rosie heading over with two men he hasn’t seen before in tow.

“Hey, booky’s back!” Rosie exclaims when he picks John out from the group, he and one of the new guys dragging chairs over to the crowded table while the other heads for the bar.

“Booky?” John tilts his head.

“Booky, bookworm,” Rosie shrugs, waving himself off as if belatedly deciding the moniker is lacking, but then he laughs. “Actually, Bucky ain’t half bad.”

“Rosie–” Gale starts, disapproving, but the newcomer cuts him off.

“Buck and Bucky?” He asks, clearly puzzled by John’s presence and by the others’ familiarity with him.

“Look at ‘em Crank, two peas in a pod,” Hambone nods at them, and John feels Gale shift at his side, though he makes no move to retract the arm from behind him.

“You gonna be hanging out ‘round here often, kid?” Rosie asks, leaning his elbows on the table.

“Uh–”

“He came in with a club jacket on, Rosie!” DeMarco says, as if that settles it, and Rosie seems to agree, sitting back in his chair with a grin. John feels like he’s trying to watch a game of ping–pong, eyes jumping from one man to the next.

“Well, you’re gonna need a proper nickname then,” Rosie says matter–of–factly, then gestures over his shoulder to the third guy by the bar. “Already got a John Brady anyway, so it’s only reasonable. What d’you think, Buck?”

Gale scoffs when Rosie turns to him, but he looks entertained by his antics.

“I’m not his keeper,” he taps a ring against the glass of his bottle, and John tries not to stare. “Go right ahead.”

“Evenin’ boys,” the other newcomer approaches the table, a tray full of a ridiculous amount of shot glasses in hand, and the guys let out greetings and cheers of appreciation.

“Brady,” Hambone says, hand over his chest. “You’re too good to us.”

“I know,” Brady sighs heavily, sliding the tray to the center of the table. He pulls up a seat next to Crank, and his gaze falls on John as he scans the table, grabbing a glass and eyeing him suspiciously.

“Who’s on babysitting duty?” He asks before downing the shot. John scowls at him reflexively, having just been thinking that this guy looks to be at most five years older than himself, so who is he to talk when all the others are well in their thirties? He hears Gale stifle a laugh, so he turns to glower at him too.

“This is our new friend John,” DeMarco claps him on the shoulder, making him flinch a little.

“Bucky,” Crosby interjects, and Brady pulls a face, the reply obviously bringing up more questions than answers.

“You ride?” He asks, and John shakes his head, not having the heart to expose himself by informing the man that he doesn’t even have his regular license. Brady turns to Gale.

“We just letting anyone join now, then?”

Gale rolls his eyes a bit, though he doesn’t seem like he’s actually irritated, so John assumes this is par for the course with Brady, but he still feels defensive.

“John’s not joining nothin’, relax,” Gale pacifies the man, squeezing John’s shoulder to placate him as well. “He’s had a hell of a day, so we’re gonna show him a good time, alright?”

Brady appears to ease up a little at that, and he grabs another glass from the tray, but this time he slides it over to John.

“Better get started then,” Brady nods at him, and John hesitates.

“He doesn’t drink, Brady,” Gale says before he has to embarrass himself further. It feels like he’s got a personal guard dog next to him, and he nearly laughs at the imagery, but he reins himself in when Brady raises his eyebrows.

“You sure you’re old enough to be in here?” He presses.

“I am,” John glares, and Brady puts his hands up, relenting.

“Just funny, is all,” he muses, leaning back in his chair. “You don’t ride, you don’t drink, so why hang around a place like this?”

If John didn’t know better from observing the way these guys joke around, he’d think he’s almost being hostile, or challenging. But he knows it’s all in jest, that they seem to like when someone earns their keep, so to speak. However–

John feels Gale’s eyes on him, letting him reply on his own, and he feels like he’s tripping over himself as he fumbles for a good response, something to both impress the guys and get them off his back.

And then he finds himself impulsively reaching for the shot glass Brady had put in front of him, picking it up and swallowing down what he thinks is whiskey before he has a chance to chicken out. It burns, going down sharp, stronger than anything he and Curt have ever managed to get their hands on. His eyes immediately water as he fights down a cough so that he can return Brady’s even stare, and then the man’s face breaks into a smile, letting out a laugh. The others join in, crowing at him approvingly as they throw back their own shots, and all John can think is that he has no idea why anyone would drink something like that for fun, but the move seems to have had the intended affect on the men, so he’s satisfied.

“Alright, kid, alright,” Brady says, impressed enough, and John feels a swell of pride at successfully acclimating to the group in the men’s eyes.

“You want another?” Hambone grins as he goes in for a second, and Rosie clicks his tongue at him scoldingly.

“Now you guys are just peer pressuring him,” he jokes, and Gale taps his fingers against John’s shoulder.

“You don’t have to,” he murmurs quietly, and even though it’s probably the opposite of Gale’s intention, the reassurance has him reaching for a second shot, feeling like he’s in capable enough hands to allow himself the luxury of making further bad decisions. He’ll drink tonight, appease his pack–animal mentality by proving himself to the group, and then he’ll never touch another shot of god–awful hard liquor in his life, because he’s already shuddering at the memory of the first shot as he raises the glass to his lips again.

The whiskey is a lot more stubborn going down this time, and he has to clench his fist in his lap for a second when it threatens to come back up, but he sets the shot glass down triumphantly when he’s certain it’s going to stay down, throat burning in protest.

He hears Gale mutter a “Jesus Christ” under his breath as he takes a sip of his ginger beer, and John hiccups around a laugh, admittedly enjoying getting a little reaction out of the always–collected man. The attention at long last is diverted as everyone gets to catching up, the alcohol making smiles and laughter come easier, and John is more than content to sit next to Gale and observe.

The food from the diner probably spares him at least a little suffering, but it still doesn’t take long for John’s head to start getting a little fuzzy around the edges as he works his way through a beer he’s handed when Crank gets up to brink more drinks to the table. His cheeks feel flushed, eyelids a bit droopy, but he’s also so relaxed, comfortable despite being entirely out of his element.

The weight of Gale’s arm around his shoulders is a nice distraction from the brewing nausea, a grounding sensation, and it’s easy to lean heavier against his side with intoxication as an excuse. Gale seems to almost invite him in when he moves closer, tilting himself so John fits nicely into the corner that his body and the back of the booth creates, head leaning against Gale’s shoulder rather than the wall. His pulse wants to race at the close proximity, feeling the rise and fall of Gale’s chest, the low rumble of his voice when he speaks, but his body feels too relaxed, limbs heavy.

Marge or not, John thinks that maybe he can keep his heart (among other things) at bay and learn to take this, if this is what Gale will let him have, because the group is starting to grow on him. They don’t seem to mind having him around– if anything, they seem happy about it, and it makes John’s chest get all warm.

He knows it’s not the same thing because he’s really just a guest, but with the small taste of community he’s getting to experience, albeit a community he certainly doesn’t fit into, he wonders if this is kind of how people in the big cities feel at queer clubs. There’s a sense of comradery and comfort around the table, and it might just be the alcohol warping his emotions, but regardless, John’s never felt so at ease in a group of people before, shyness and general nerves aside.

As the night crawls on, he’s talked into a shot of vodka, which is a different kind of gross than the whiskey but burns just as bad, and a rum and coke ends up in front of him too, a lot more forgiving than the harsher undiluted shots. DeMarco brings over another round, but Gale reaches forward to bat John’s hand away when he reflexively reaches for one.

“I’m cutting you off, kid,” he says gently, and John knows he should be grateful despite the way he frowns at being held back; he’s more focused on his growing distaste for the term of endearment.

“Stop calling me that,” he grumbles, but he obediently retracts his hand anyway, not actually wanting another shot. He’s jostled when Gale laughs in surprise at his unexpected complaint, and he’d turn his head to glare if every movement wasn’t beginning to make him dizzy.

“Alright,” Gale says easily. He shifts then, lifting his arm from around John, and John’s chest tightens, a quiet noise of protest slipping out, drawing another breath of laughter from Gale.

“I’m getting you a water,” he says. “Relax. You gonna keep yourself from tipping over?”

John sulks, nodding, but Gale keeps a hand on his shoulder as he slips out of the booth like he doesn’t quite believe him. He leans an elbow on the table and props his cheek in his hand, watching Gale walk over to the bar, shamelessly staring at the way his lips curl around a toothpick while he waits for Paulina to retrieve a water.

Gale gestures to him and says something when she passes him a glass, and John doesn’t have the wherewithal to look away when she glances at him, the room tilting every time he blinks. He can’t tell if the look Paulina shoots him is one of pity or amusement or both, but she says something to Gale and he takes the water and walks back over to the table, passing the glass to John.

“She said she’s gonna find something for you to eat to help sober you up,” Gale tells him, and it’s such a kind gesture that John feels a little bit like crying.

“That’s so nice,” he pouts, slumping forward until his cheek is resting on the table, and Gale laughs quietly, bringing a hand up and running his fingers through his hair to push it out of his face. John thinks if he were just the slightest bit more drunk, he might’ve impulsively moaned, which is a horrifying thought and he’s even more thankful Gale cut him off when he did.

Gale slides back into the booth next to him, but he doesn’t make him lift his head back up, probably aware of how much the room’s already spinning.

“You doing okay?” He asks, and John’s cheek squishes against the table when he nods. “You tell me when you wanna get going, then.”

John makes a vague noise to indicate he’s heard him. The thought of standing feels like far too much work right now, let alone staying upright on a bike, and he doesn’t want to cut Gale’s evening short just because he can’t handle his alcohol, so he’s more than okay to stick it out for a bit longer.

When Paulina stops at their table, she sets something down, and John forces himself to sit up, mouth dropping open at the sight of a heaping glass of maraschino cherries.

“Oh my god,” he mumbles, looking up at Paulina with reverence.

“We don’t have much food around here this late,” she says apologetically, and he shakes his head.

“I love you,” he blurts out, and Gale snorts, but Paulina manages to mostly hold back her laugh, smiling down at him.

“We’ve got olives too,” she offers. “But I don’t know many people who would like to eat a bowl of them.”

“No thanks,” he politely declines, unable to hide a grimace at the thought, and Paulina does laugh then.

“Let me know if you need anything else,” she tells him, and he thanks her before she heads back to the bar.

John takes the glass of cherries and holds it close to his chest as he lets himself slide low in the booth until the top of his head rests lower than Gale’s shoulder, just barely able to see the others above the table.

“You’re babying him, Buck,” DeMarco scoffs as he looks down at him from his right, and John glowers up at the man, bringing a cherry to his lips and pulling it into his mouth with a suctioned pop, dropping the stem onto his napkin on the table.

“It’s our fault he drank in the first place,” Gale says. John tilts his head to peer up at him instead, and his stomach flips so aggressively at the sight of him looking back down at him that he fears the cherry isn’t gonna stay put. He wishes he could write off the way he salivates as a reaction to the sugary–sweet burst of flavour in his mouth, but he can feel his face heating up as less than appropriate visions inspired by the angle flood his inebriated brain.

He wants nothing more than to slip to his knees beneath the table and numb the headache that’s starting to set in by putting his mouth to use, wrapping his lips around something more satisfying than the second candy–red cherry he’s currently pushing between them as he blinks up at Gale, eyes glazing over a little before he lets them slide closed, not trusting himself to keep it together.

John’s been drunk before of course; he doesn’t know many teenagers who haven’t snuck alcohol at sleepovers, and he and Curt have done so more than once. But that’s been with beer or wine, and while it still does the trick, it’s nothing compared to being this type of drunk. He has to work hard– harder than usual– at keeping his thoughts inside his head rather than letting them spill out of his mouth, and the way everything seems inconsequential makes him want to act on impulses he’d never indulge sober.

He oscillates between feeling giddy and light and floaty, then nauseous and dizzy and heavy, but every time he leans harder towards the latter for too long, he thinks he likes being drunk less and less. Keeping his eyes closed against the warm lights helps, as do the cherries and the water Gale keeps forcing him to drink, but the booming of his heartbeat in his head is really starting to make his stomach turn, and by the time the conversation starts to die down he’s barely sitting up anymore, slumped against Gale’s side.

“Gale,” he finally says under his breath, and he feels Gale move, making a questioning noise.

“I don’t feel good,” he mumbles, cracking his eyes open just enough to see Gale looking down at him.

“You wanna get going?” He asks gently, and John hums affirmatively. “Alright, up you get.”

John makes the decision then and there as Gale helps him to his feet that he’s not touching anything that comes out of a shot glass ever again; no amount of liquid courage is ever worth the way the room is currently tilting like a funhouse mirror, stomach lurching in response. He gives a weak goodnight to the guys and tries not to think about how he’s gonna have to face a whole lot of ribbing the next time he sees them, preparing for all the lightweight and white–girl–wasted jokes, accepting his fate.

Gale wraps an arm around his waist as he guides him out of the pub, and John makes it to the bikes in the parking lot before he has to pull away and sit down, and Gale patiently helps him down onto the curb.

“Fuck,” John groans and squeezes his eyes shut, distantly aware of how mortified he’s going to be about all of this tomorrow, already planning out a lengthy apology text, but much more occupied with trying to alleviate his discomfort right now. Gravel crunches beneath heavy boots as Gale crouches in front of him, and a hand pushes at the back of his head.

“Put your head between your knees, bud,” Gale says in response to the noise of confusion he makes, and John jumps from yearning to have his hand pushing on his head in very different circumstances, to bitterly thinking about how he bets Gale doesn’t call Marge bud, or kid, moping as he tucks his head down like he’s told.

“Should’ve cut you off after that first shot,” Gale comments quietly, moving his hand from John’s head to cup the back of his neck, the warmth of his palm and the cool press of his rings distracting him from the pounding of his head.

“M’sorry,” John mumbles.

“Don’t gotta apologize, John,” Gale says, gently running his thumb along the base of his neck. “I know you wouldn’t’ve drank if the boys didn’t goad you into it.”

John doesn’t say anything, focusing on taking in deep breaths, Gale’s touch as good as a branding iron and enough to steal any coherent thought from him. The queasiness eases after a few minutes of quiet, and when he finally lifts his head, Gale drops his hand to his side, pushing himself to his feet and looking down at him.

“Let’s get you home, hm?” Gale says. “You’ll feel a lot better once you’re laying down.”

And that just opens a whole new can of worms.

“Can’t go home,” John realizes, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. “M’dad’s gonna lose it on me if he sees me like this.”

He hears Gale shift his weight from one boot to the other, clearly uncertain.

“You’re a grown man, John,” he says. “He can’t get upset with you for that.”

Upset is certainly one way of phrasing it. John sucks in a deep breath, his mouth making the decision to bite the bullet before his brain has a chance to decide whether this is a smart idea or not, honestly slipping out as easy as exhaling.

“Yeah, well, he can, ‘cause I’m not legal,” he mumbles. He neglects to mention that his dad would blow a gasket either way, regardless of how hypocritical it would be with how much time the man spends getting wasted under the same roof.

“You’re n– John.”

John drops his head into his hands, simultaneously feeling a weight lift off his shoulders while also visualizing any appeal he might have held to Gale trickle away down the gutter to his left.

“John,” Gale says again, and he lifts his head, blinking miserably up at the man, who appears to be cycling through the five stages of grief, and John wants to insist that it’s not that serious, but somehow he thinks that wouldn’t go over all that well.

“I will be, in two months,” he says instead, and Gale looks like he’s about to keel over, eyes wide as he runs a hand through his hair.

“Are you a teenager?” Gale hisses out, and John’s eyes go wide too, his own turn to panic now.

“No, oh my god,” he rushes to fix the misunderstanding, mildly offended at the accusation. “I’m twenty, asshole.”

He’s not sure he’s ever seen someone so relieved to be cussed at, but it only lasts for a second before Gale’s tilting his head back to look at the street lamp, crossing his arms over his chest. John knows this isn’t the time to stare, and yet here he is.

“Marge is gonna kill me,” he says, seemingly to himself, and John scowls, really not needing the added insult to injury.

“I’m sure your girl’s gonna be jus’ fine,” he mumbles petulantly, not caring anymore about how transparent he’s being, too caught up in wallowing in self pity because he’s the one feeling sick and drunk on the side of a curb but Gale’s busy worrying about Marge.

Gale turns then, looking down at him in disbelief, letting his hands fall to his sides.

“She’s not my girl, John, y’know how much trouble this could’ve got her in?” He asks, exasperated. “She’s the manager of this place; doesn’t matter who let you in, responsibility would fall on her.”

All John hears is ‘she’s not my girl,’ and everything else that follows might as well mean nothing.

“I’m sorry,” he says, because he thinks that’s what he should say right now, and he throws in a pout for good measure when Gale’s expression stays unchanged as he stares down at him. It’s a little bit funny at first, watching him wrestle with his irritation while he tries to decide what to do, but it becomes less funny when he realizes Gale really can just bring him home and leave him to deal with the consequences of his own actions, and then what if he never speaks to him again? John’s chest clenches, face falling.

“Are you really gonna bring me home?” He asks, picking nervously at a scab on his knee, a relic of his and Curt’s afternoon at the lake. “I can call my friend instead.”

Gale looks at him for a second longer, shoulders tense as he worries his bottom lip between his teeth, and then he relaxes, shaking his head.

“No,” he sighs, reaching into his pocket for his keys. “You can crash at mine.”

He says it like it causes him a great deal of pain to make that decision, but John feels quite the opposite, heart jumpstarting in his chest at the thought of being alone in Gale’s house with him. That hadn’t been his aim– really he hadn’t been sure what Gale would suggest, much more concerned with the thought of making sure he wouldn’t be dropped off at home either way. He feels a bit guilty, knowing Gale hasn’t signed up for this responsibility, but John also hadn’t even intended to go to the pub today in the first place, so he thinks it’s alright to let himself be taken care of for one night.

John pushes himself to his feet and then promptly tips back over as the parking lot tilts, fall softened only by the hand that grabs his arm at the last second, boots scuffing on concrete.

“Christ’s sake,” Gale murmurs, squatting down to get an arm around him properly, hoisting him back up and helping him over to his bike, not bothering to pass his jacket over this time with the state he’s in. A hand stays firmly on John’s lower back as he clambers onto the bike, and Gale waits for him to balance himself before he settles down in front, putting the keys in the ignition. John slumps forward against his back as the bike rumbles to life, just grateful to be leaning on something again, but then he remembers to wrap his arms around, locking a hand onto his own wrist because he doesn’t have a whole lot of faith in himself right now.

“You gonna hold on tight, or am I gonna have to tie you to me?” Gale evidently doesn’t have much faith either, but John can’t be offended because he’s too distracted thinking about things he shouldn’t be.

“You can tie me, if y’want,” John slurs out, giggling at the strained “John” he gets in return, about two drinks past caring by now.

“I’ll hold on,” he promises when Gale makes no move to get going, pressing closer to prove his point, and with a shake of his head, Gale reverses out of the lot.

John doesn’t bother keeping his eyes open this time, not needing to get motion–sick on top of everything else, trying to focus on the wind in his hair and the gentle sway of the bike when they round corners. He wonders if Gale’s purposefully driving slower this time, because he doesn’t feel the motion of bumps or stuttering stop–and–starts as much as he did earlier; the ride is smooth enough that he almost thinks he might doze off, cheek pillowed comfortably against Gale’s shoulder.

And he nearly does, but the feeling of a hand suddenly grabbing his jolts him back to full consciousness as his head starts to slip to the side.

“Do not,” Gale calls back over the noise, squeezing his hand to get his attention. “We’re two minutes away, keep yourself awake.”

John grumbles out an “okay” and Gale moves his hand back to the bike, picking up speed again. He forces himself to keep his eyes open, trying to count the street signs as they pass them like he’s counting sheep, ignoring the way it makes his stomach turn.

Finally they begin to slow down, pulling into a quiet neighbourhood, cozy old ranch–style homes lining either side of the street. John doesn’t know what he’d expected– hasn’t thought about it at all, really. It didn’t occur to him that the rowdy men in the pub probably live completely normal lives outside of their biking, in suburbs not unlike his own, although he doesn’t recognize the one they’re in now.

Gale brings them up the last driveway on the street at a slow crawl, coming to a stop next to a sun–faded blue truck.

“Stay put,” Gale instructs him, and John slumps back as he climbs off the bike, waiting obediently for him to get his house keys out, staring unabashedly where a single loose blond curl falls over his forehead. Gale looks back up and holds out a hand, but John decides right then that he’s gonna milk this for all it’s worth because half of him can’t see a universe where Gale even looks in his direction after the mess he’s made tonight; he’s gonna take what he can get and worry about that tomorrow.

So instead of taking the offered hand, he lets himself slide halfway off the bike and throws an arm around Gale’s shoulders on the way down, laughing when Gale catches him before he can crumple to the driveway.

“My hero,” John sighs out. He can almost hear the eyeroll he gets as Gale pulls him the rest of the way off the bike, hooking one arm under his back and scooping his legs up in the other, carrying him the short way to the front door.

John helps hold his weight up, wrapping his arms around Gale’s neck so he can unlock the door with one hand, and he feels a proper blush add to the heat of his intoxication–flush as he’s carried through the front door, his brain registering how intimate all of this would be under different circumstances.

He’s in Gale’s house.

John from a week ago wouldn’t have believed it for even a second, and yet he’s looking at Gale’s mostly–bare beige walls and neatly organized shoes on the mat, and he’s watching him hang up his keys before carrying him down the hall like this is just a regular day in his life, part of his routine.

“Did you fall asleep?” Gale mumbles as he nudges a door open with his hip, picking up on John’s silence.

“Just observing,” John says honestly, no energy left to filter himself.

“Observing, huh?” Gale repeats, amusement in his voice as he sets him down on the edge of a bed, and John nods, looking around the room. It’s the opposite of his own, with the dresser clear of clutter and scattered clothes absent from the floor, the queen–sized bed’s pale green duvet neatly in place and venetian blinds drawn together at the top of a big window.

Again, John isn’t sure what he’d have guessed Gale’s house would look like if he’d given thought to it, but he doesn’t think he’d have pictured it to be so neat and impersonal. If someone were to bring him here and tell him that it’s a display house, he might honestly believe it, save for the sparsely placed decorations and the few things he’d seen pinned to the fridge when he was carried past the kitchen.

“I’ll turn on the AC, but the panel is just outside the room if you need to adjust it,” Gale says as he moves over to the window, pulling on the cord to let the blinds unfold themselves.

“You have air con?” John thinks Gale’s going to have to drag him out of his house kicking and screaming tomorrow.

“Crank it up if you need to,” Gale smiles, walking back over to stand in front of him. “I’m gonna take the couch, but you can wake me up if you need anything.”

John’s dizzy as is, but the confirmation that there’s no guest room, that he’s in Gale’s room on Gale’s bed isn’t helping matters, heart fluttering wildly against his sternum. He falls backwards on the mattress, throwing an arm over his eyes to block out the ceiling light and cover his flush, nodding.

“Okay,” he says quietly. “Thank you for letting me stay.”

“No problem,” Gale says, rummaging around inside a drawer, and John’s pretty sure it sorta is a problem, but–

“Wait,” he pulls his hand away from his face when Gale flicks the light off, eyes going wide as he pats himself down, searching for his phone. “Needa text Curt that I’m alive.”

He flips his phone open and brings it close to his face, squinting as he navigates to Curt’s contact, then stares blankly as the keypad’s symbols morph into one another, the light an attack on his senses in the now–dark room.

“Fuck,” he says plainly, and he hears Gale laugh under his breath, and then his phone is lifted from his hands.

“What do you wanna say?” Gale asks, the screen illuminating his face, and John tries to focus rather than taking advantage of the darkness to stare.

“Tell him, um. ‘Date was shit and I’m staying at Gale’s house,’” John keeps it simple, feeling a little bit bad for how insane Curt’s going to go waiting for more details. The buttons click loud in the silent house as Gale types out the message before handing his phone back, and John thanks him again.

“Get some sleep, John,” Gale tells him, and then he heads off to do whatever he does before bed, leaving the door ajar in case he needs anything.

John takes a deep breath, laying still in the dark for a minute, listening to the quiet hum of the air conditioning being turned on, trying to decompress and come to terms with the night’s events. He nearly falls asleep like that, legs halfway off the bed and sneakers still on, but he feels like that’s rude to do in someone else’s house, so he pushes himself back up, wincing as all the blood rushes from his head.

The task of removing his shoes proves a lot more difficult than anticipated, because every time he leans forward the contents of his stomach threaten to come back up, and even when he pulls a foot up onto the edge of the mattress he’s still far too plastered to have the coordination to untie his laces. He groans in frustration, letting his foot drop back down in defeat, hoping that the humiliation he’s suffered through today is the worst it’ll ever get for him. Maybe in its perceived cruelty, the universe is actually being kind to him, cramming all the embarrassment he can stand into one day to spare him from experiencing more in the future.

“Gale,” he calls out dispairingly, the volume of his own voice hurting his head, propping his elbows on his knees and leaning his forehead in his hands. It takes a few seconds, but he hears soft footsteps padding back down the hall.

“You okay?” Gale asks as he pushes the door open, and John almost laughs, lifting his head from his hands. Almost, because any noise he might’ve had the capability of making dies in his throat when the sight of Gale’s barely visible but very shirtless silhouette makes it evident he’d interrupted him in the process of getting ready for bed, and John thinks if someone shot him through the window right now he wouldn’t even be that upset.

“Can’t get my shoes off,” John says, and it takes herculean strength to not lie and tell him he needs help getting the rest of his clothes off too. He can’t see Gale’s face well when he moves closer, but he knows he’s trying not to laugh because he can hear the smile in his voice when he speaks.

“No more alcohol from now on, yeah?” Gale says kindly as he takes a knee on the floor in front of him, and John’s mouth goes uncomfortably dry with the implications of their positions, but he nods, humming in agreement.

“Next time you have a bad date you can hit up an icecream parlour instead of a pub,” he teases warmly, getting to work untying his shoes. John resents this suggestion, but not as much as his brain resents the concept of letting him end this night with any semblance of dignity left.

“Y’know it’s your fault I was even on that stupid date,” he grumbles before he weighs the consequences, and then his heart is off, jackrabbitting in his temples as he shuts his mouth two seconds too late.

“How do you figure?” Gale questions casually as if he’s just entertaining John’s wandering thoughts, pulling one shoe off, so unaffected by all of this that it makes John want a reaction from him. He makes himself think it over for approximately ten seconds before he opens his mouth again.

“Only went on it ‘cause I was tryin’a get you outta my head,” he says, too–honest and too–sincere, closing his eyes because he can’t see and listen and talk at the same time with the way his head is pounding. Gale stays quiet, pulling his other shoe off, and then John hears him stand, and he blinks his eyes back open.

“Is that so?” Gale sounds carefully disinterested as he sets his shoes down by the dresser, and John huffs, the dismissal stinging sharp and hot in the base of his stomach, queasiness rearing its head again in response.

There’s a tiny shred of sober–John still in the back of his head screaming at him to shut his mouth, but the whiskey is talking a whole lot stronger, every shot he’s taken forcing the embarrassment and hurt back up his throat with vitriol. Don’t throw up, don’t throw up.

“Fuck you,” he finally mumbles, staring down at his mismatched socks, figuring if he’s gonna mess up a good thing, he might as well send it up in flames.

Only Gale doesn’t lash out the way he expects him to, just makes a soft noise of surprise, and John can see him lean against the doorframe in his periphery, arms folded over his chest.

“Don’t gotta be like that,” he says quietly, but he doesn’t sound mad, and it throws John off even further. He frowns at the floor.

“Yeah, well, you messed me up bein’ all nice to me, ‘nd now you’re rejecting me, so, I’m not in the best mood.” He knows he’s being stupid, that Gale hasn’t actually done anything to encourage his feelings, regardless of how touchy he’s been. For all he knows, Gale’s like that with everyone, and he’s just immature and reading into it too much.

Gale doesn’t respond. John kicks his heel into the bed frame, the silence making him squirm, forcing him to sit with his own words.

“And I have a headache and I still feel sick,” he complains for the sake of complaining, as if that’s going to be enough to distract from the other things that have slipped from his mouth.

Gale unfolds his arms, slipping out of the doorway, and that gets John to looks up, exhaling shakily, convinced he’s scared him off and not sure what to do with that knowledge, since he’s currently sat on his bed and all. But Gale quickly returns with a glass of water and a pill in hand, and John feels even worse for his little outburst. He wishes Gale would just yell at him and give him an excuse to be mad; that he at least knows how to deal with, plenty of experience in that area.

Instead he’s patiently passing John the ibuprofen and waiting as he washes it down with the water, and then he takes the glass from him and sets it on the nightstand, clearing his throat quietly.

“I’m not rejecting you, John,” Gale says gently, ruffling John’s hair as he passes by him on his way back to the door. “I’m stopping you from making stupid decisions while you’re drunk.”

John stares, trying and failing to figure out what he means by that. It sounds like an insult as much as it sounds like putting a pin in the topic, and it makes his head hurt worse trying to decipher which it is. His mouth suddenly fills with saliva in a way that feels like a warning, throat tightening, and he clenches a fist in the blanket, swallowing hard.

“We can talk more tomorrow, when you’re feeling better,” Gale promises, hand on the doorframe.

“Gale.” John bites the inside of his cheek, closing his eyes.

“Hm?”

“I think I’m gonna throw up.”

John is deposited on the cold tiles of a bathroom floor before he even registers being lifted, and he leans over the toilet and proceeds to throw up the pain medication he’s just taken, as well as what he futiley hopes is a good amount of the alcohol that’s been wreaking havoc on him. The retching sharpens the pain in his head tenfold, and he squeezes his eyes shut as he grips his knees bruisingly hard, cold–sweating and gritting his teeth as he tries in vain to swallow down whatever still wants to come up before admitting defeat and lurching over the toilet bowl a second time.

He hates this, hates it so much, and he only realizes he’s whispering that out loud like a mantra as he waits for another wave of nausea when he hears a hushed “I know, I know.” A hand finds his hair, fingers running through it soothingly, pushing sweat–damp curls away from his forehead. John focuses on the gentle motions, breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth, ears ringing as the immediate threat of throwing up subsides.

Gale’s hand keeps petting at his hair, and John feels like crying, overwhelmed at how kind he’s being when he has every right to be irritated with him for everything that’s happened tonight.

“I’m sorry,” he sniffles, leaning into the comforting touch, stomach twisting with guilt now rather than nausea.

“It’s okay, Johnny, it happens,” Gale says softly, and John wishes he could flush himself down the toilet so he doesn’t have to deal with all the emotions he’s feeling.

“Didn’t mean to ruin your night,” he mumbles, pushing away from the toilet and leaning against the wall, and Gale steps away to open the cupboard above the sink.

“You did no such thing,” Gale reassures him, wetting a cloth. He crouches down in front of John, pushing his hair out of the way again, bringing the cool damp material to his face and carefully wiping the sheen of sweat away. If John doesn’t die in his sleep, he’s not sure how he’s going to live this down.

“Most exciting night I’ve had in weeks, actually,” Gale muses, the corner of his mouth twitching, and a weak laugh bubbles out of John, caught entirely off guard. Gale smiles then too, dropping the cloth in the corner of the room to deal with later, standing and helping John to his feet. He gives him some mouthwash in a cup, disappearing for a minute and making some noise in the kitchen, and John returns to the bedroom while he waits for him to come back, feeling uncomfortably vulnerable in the bit of sobriety he’s regained as he lowers himself to the mattress.

Gale returns with another ibuprofen and a small bin, passing him the pill and setting the bin down on the floor next to the bed.

“Just in case,” he says. He hovers while John follows the pill with the water from the nightstand, watching him as if he thinks it’s going to trigger another bathroom floor session.

“Alright?”

John nods, eyelids drooping as the tiredness he’d felt earlier creeps back in from all the exertion. Gale pulls back the blanket for him, and John’s much too exhausted to bother with undressing, immediately flopping onto his stomach in the space created for him. Gale huffs out a laugh.

“Get some good sleep so you don’t feel like shit tomorrow,” he murmurs. John’s half certain it is tomorrow, but he slurs out an incoherent agreement and lets his eyes slide closed.

Gale pulls the sheet over him, running his fingers through his hair once more, and John’s left with an achingly full heart when sleep finally drags him under.

Chapter Text

JULY 23, 2005

John’s experienced being hungover before, but the moment he wakes up on Saturday morning, he realizes he’s severely underestimated how hard it can hit.

What hits even harder is the familiar smell when he inhales, face shoved into a pillow to shield his eyes from the bright sunlight slipping through the cracks of the blinds. Everything is warm and cozy and fine until he registers where he is, and remembers why he is where he is, and then he wants to be anywhere else.

He tries to go back to sleep so he can stay in his blissful bubble for a little while longer, an attempt to put off dealing with the consequences of drunk–John’s actions, but now that he’s conscious of where he is, he can’t relax, butterflies aggressively rioting in his stomach. He rolls onto his side, blankets rustling quietly, and he flushes at the thought of lying in the same place Gale had laid just a night prior.

When John cracks his eyes open, his head immediately protests, temples aching sharply, and he groans quietly, squinting and feeling around for his phone on the bedside table. It’s just after ten a.m., not as early as he expects, but his stomach drops at the amount of missed messages, and he holds his breath when he opens the messenger app.

He sees they’re all from Curt, and for a horrifying moment he thinks he’d forgotten to text him before he crashed, until he sees a neatly typed message above all the unread ones.

‘Date was shit and I’m staying at Gale’s house.’

John exhales a laugh through his nose, the message reading so serious despite Gale having typed out what he’d said verbatim. The following messages from Curt are much less sophisticated, to say the least.

‘WHAT’

‘what’

‘johnathan’

‘???’

‘omg.’

There are a few threats thrown in too in Curt’s impatience to be filled in on John’s evening, and the texts eventually come to an end a little after one a.m. with a defeated, ‘fine i’m gonna sleep and i better wake up to a whole storytime or else xoxo’.

John feels bad for unintentionally leaving him on a real–life cliffhanger, knowing he’d go absolutely insane if Curt had pulled something like this on him, but he’s nowhere near coherent enough to relay the night’s events, so he sends back a quick ‘i’ll fill u in at work tn <3’ and then snaps his phone shut.

The room spins a little when he pushes himself up onto his elbows, feeling more like he’s still drunk rather than hungover, but his vision settles after a few blinks, and he notices the door to the bedroom is closed now. Unless sleepwalking is a habit he’s unaware he partakes in while drunk, Gale must’ve woken up earlier and shut it, and that sends a fresh spark running through his nerves, wondering what the man is up to.

The thought of voluntarily stepping out of the room and facing Gale after how much he’s embarrassed himself makes John feel a bit sick, but it occurs to him that Gale could be waiting for him to leave so he can get on with his day, and the fear of being any further inconvenience is stronger than his fear of humiliation, so he reluctantly slides out of bed and pads over to the door.

He holds his breath when he turns the handle, not sure what to expect when he pulls the door open, peering out into the sunlit hallway. The entrances to both the kitchen and living room are visible from where John stands, but the only sign of life is coming from the bathroom to his left, quiet music and bright light spilling through the open door.

John steels himself, then knocks on the wall next to the door so he doesn’t startle him, and Gale steps out of the bathroom, hair cream in hand.

“Morning,” Gale greets him with a tired smile, voice so sleep–rough it makes John’s knees go a little weak. “Sleep okay?”

John nods, feeling shy all over again. He doesn’t know whether to be sad or relieved that Gale’s fully clothed, the ink on his arms standing out boldly in contrast to his white t–shirt, looking casual in light blue jeans but so attractive that it feels unfair first thing in the morning. John doesn’t want to think about how he looks in comparison, unkempt hair and clothes wrinkled from sleep, still barely awake and squinting from his headache. He wraps an arm around his middle self–conciously, placing his hand on his other arm.

“I was gonna make breakfast, but Rosie called and asked if I could swing by the shop to help unload a quick delivery,” Gale says apologetically as he turns back to the mirror, spreading product between his hands and running it through his hair, pushing it back out of his face, watching John in the reflection.

“The shop?” John asks, leaning against the door frame.

“Rosie and I run a mechanic shop with a friend,” Gale answers, and John tucks this piece of information into the small but growing filing cabinet of Gale Things in his mind. “We’re only open weekdays, but sometimes deliveries come in on Saturdays.”

Gale rinses the remaining hair product from his hands and shuts off the bathroom light, stepping into the hall.

“You’re welcome to come along,” Gale squeezes his shoulder as he passes by, and John trails aimlessly after him into the kitchen. “We can get food after, but I can just give you a lift home too, if you’re still recovering from last night.”

John’s face warms at the reminder, but it’s an unnecessary one, because all he can think about is what Gale must be thinking about him after his drunken spectacle. Gale doesn’t mention it further though, grabbing a thermos that’s already sitting on the counter and passing it over, and John takes it on autopilot, still trying to blink himself to full alertness. Gale huffs out a laugh, leaning back against the counter.

“It’s iced coffee,” he says. “Sorry to make you rush around like this first thing, bud.”

John shakes his head, finding it silly that Gale’s apologizing at all when he’s the one who’d crashed at his house and made him an unwilling drunk–sitter.

“S’alright, I‘m just not good at being a morning person,” he rubs at his eyes. “Thanks for the coffee.”

John wants to come along on Gale’s errand so bad that he considers calling in sick for his evening shift at the hotel for that purpose rather than for how shit he actually does feel; spending the morning watching Gale sweat in the sun sounds like as good a plan as any. But he doesn’t want to overstay his welcome, still anxious that Gale feels obligated to offer in an attempt to not seem like he’s trying to get John out of his hair, so he accepts that it’s time to stamp out his hopes and dreams for the day.

“I have work in a couple hours, so I need to go home and get ready,” he says regretfully. “I can catch the bus though, it’s no trouble.”

Gale shakes his head immediately, pushing off the counter.

“I can drop you off on the way,” he says easily. “You need an aspirin or anything?”

“I’m okay, thanks,” John smiles appreciatively. He’ll take something before he leaves for work, so he doesn’t have to worry about it wearing off before his break. “I’ll go get my shoes.”

When they head out into the steadily–warming morning sun, Gale leads him over to his pickup truck instead of his bike.

“Easier for errands,” he says, opening John’s door for him and waiting patiently for him to clamber up onto the bench before closing the door behind him. John wants to slump down over the dash at the way the courteous gesture melts his insides. It’s not that the bar is low, even after his disaster of a date from the previous day– it’s the confirmation that of course Gale’s gentlemanly like that, thoughtful even in trivial actions regardless of his relationship with someone.

The radio plays quietly as they pull out of the driveway, the age of the truck showing through its crackly sound, and it feels fitting for the man, rough around its edges the same as Gale. The downside is there’s no air conditioner, but they keep the windows rolled down and John has his iced coffee and that’s more than enough with the heat of the day having yet to set in.

John rests his arm on the window’s ledge and leans his head on top of it, letting the wind whip his hair around, the sensation distracting him from the unpleasant tension in his head. He doesn’t recognize the area they drive through that well; despite growing up in Manitowoc, he hasn’t spent a lot of time on the other side of the river. Aside from the zoo and the public pool, he’s never found much reason to hang around the neighbourhoods past downtown when there’s plenty of enthralling wilderness to explore on the city’s outskirts.

The north end is mostly the same as his side of town though, just a bit more peaceful with its countryside appearance. The houses are spaced further apart, businesses located on quieter streets, sprawling fields of green lining the railways that wind through the whole city. John likes living closer to downtown, at least having somewhere to wander around even if there’s not a ton to do there, but the cozy feel of this side is nice too.

It’s only once they drive over the bridge back to the south end of town that things become familiar again, passing his old highschool, and the one main shopping center they have, and all the playgrounds and forests that make up his childhood stomping grounds. It’s never quite felt like home to him, his heart always pulled by some call to venture outside of his small town, but he hopes that starting university will help fill the void that his restless boredom leaves empty.

“You still wanna talk?” Gale asks, steady voice cutting through the music and engine–rumble. They’re stopped at an intersection, waiting for the light to switch, turn–signal clicking quietly along with the radio fuzz. It takes John a second to understand what he’s referring to, but as soon as he does, he sincerely considers throwing himself out of the truck while they’re at a standstill and legging it the rest of the way home.

“No,” John mumbles, face lighting on fire, stomach twisting with mortification. He imagines the colour of his cheeks matches the red traffic light that he’s currently got his eyes trained on, fixated like he thinks if he stares hard enough, he can get it to turn green.

“Alright,” Gale says, neutral, indecipherable as always. John doesn’t glance over to see if he looks disappointed, too scared that he’ll get a face full of relief instead, confirmation that he’s asking out of pity, or for the sake of sticking to his word.

John does want to talk about it– rather, he wants Gale to talk about it, so he doesn’t accidentally talk himself into a deeper hole or screw things up worse than he possibly already has. But his chest feels tight at the thought of hearing something he doesn’t want to hear, because at least right now he can pretend, to some extent. He thinks that if he has to hear Gale tell him that he’s too young, that he doesn’t swing that way, that he’s simply not interested, anything to the tune of a rejection, he might climb into the garbage disposal in the hotel’s maintenance room during his shift tonight and cash in on all the favours Curt owes him to get him to hit the compressor button and put him out of his misery.

John has a hard relationship with feelings of rejection as is, getting bristly and reclusive at any perceived signs of being unwanted or not fitting in, but this is different. He’s never spilled his feelings for someone and been rejected– save for when he and Curt put an end to their fling, but that was more mutual than anything– because he’s never had proper feelings for someone in the first place.

To be fair, John doesn’t even fully remember what exact words came out of his mouth last night, but he knows he was honest. It’s not like he’d professed his love for Gale; he barely knows the man, it’s not like that. But he’s never had his heart pulling acrobatic stunts in his chest like this around someone, and he very much understands why it’s called a crush now, because it truly feels like he’s being pulverized, beaten to a pulp every time he so much as thinks about the man to his left.

And he’s not sure he can handle those feelings coming to an end before they’ve been given a fighting chance to grow.

Even though they’re not on his bike, Gale comes to a stop a bit down the street like John had asked the previous night before they ended up at the pub, and John feels grateful as much as he feels like he’s been seen right through, Gale clearly picking up on his worry running deeper than he’d let on with the admission John had let slip of being afraid to go home drunk.

As relieved as he is to escape the silence of the truck, he feels a bit sick when he unbuckles his seatbelt, realizing that if Gale really is over dealing with him, he might never see him again. But Gale stops him with a quiet call of his name when he opens the door.

“Let me know how you’re feeling later, okay?” Gale says, and there’s nothing on his face that suggests he’s being disingenuous; his eyes are kind, voice warm, and it soothes John a little to be given an excuse to reach out, knowing he’d spend days agonizing over it otherwise.

“Okay,” John agrees, smiling shyly. “Thank you for everything, Gale.”

“Anytime.” Gale smiles back, wrist draped over the wheel, waiting while John steps out of the car and shuts the door. Gale gives him a wave, and John waves back, and the faded blue truck pulls away, driving off down the street.

He watches it as he walks until it turns out of sight, and then he’s left to his own devices, and a new heaviness grows in the pit of his stomach as he nears his house, knowing he’s going to get an earful and then some for disappearing for the night. He should’ve texted, but in his intoxicated state it had seemed easier to ask for forgiveness later rather than ask for permission prior, especially when that permission wouldn’t have been granted.

It seems he might have done something to deserve some good karma though, because when John turns to walk up his driveway, his dad’s truck isn’t there, and it feels like he can breathe a little bit easier when he steps into his house.

“John?” Frances Egan’s wary voice sounds from the kitchen.

“Just me, momma,” John calls back, shutting the door behind himself. His mom wanders into the hall, and John can immediately tell she’s well on her way towards a morning wine–and–benzo daze, eyelids heavy and posture slack.

“You better’ve been at Curt’s,” she says, leaning against the wall, eyeing him like there’s some clue she can spot that’ll give away his whereabouts. John nods, watching the way speckles of dust spin round and round in the hazy sunlight that filters through the window.

“I was, I’m sorry,” he says, not worrying about the lie because he knows Curt will cover for him without question, but he also knows his parents will never bother to check. “I forgot to text.”

“Your dad’s not gonna care how sorry you are,” she says, turning and heading back into the kitchen. John hears a cupboard open and shut. “We were worried sick.”

He laughs under his breath at that, shaking his head, but he doesn’t comment on the exaggeration. He’s pretty sure most kids with ‘worried sick’ parents would’ve at least woken up to a missed call or two after disappearing for a night, but he’s aware by now that’s not how things go in his household.

“I don’t get why it matters,” John kicks off his shoes and follows her into the kitchen, reaching into the box on the counter for a granola bar.

“I tell him,” she gestures vaguely, a new bottle of cheap corner store wine in one hand. “I say ‘Johnny’s grown, why d’you get on him for living his life?’”

She sounds entirely uninvested and uninterested in the matter, shuffling her feet as she makes for the hallway.

“Y’know last night, he told me that ‘if he’s so grown, he can hit the road ‘nd make his own rules,’ so I shut my mouth,” she turns around once more, hand on the doorframe, watching John as he rummages around in the cabinet for a waterbottle to bring to work.

“If you wanna do that, you can take it up with him. It’s between you two anyway, not my business,” she drawls out, then pauses, trying to put her thoughts together.

John stays quiet as he fills the bottle, not knowing what to say to that. Half the time he thinks it’s an empty threat when his dad says stuff like that, but lately it hasn’t felt like it so much. It’s not like he doesn’t want to move out, but he’s got a plan– get through his first year of university, prove to himself that he can do it, and then he’ll get the hell out into his own apartment by the end of next summer.

There’s a reason he’s spent the two years since graduation working non–stop, not wanting to worry about trying to balance his job and classes for his first school year, saving every dollar so he can put anything that’s not going towards tuition into rent and bills next year and pick up a new job then. John knows plenty of people work full time while in university, but he’d had a hard enough time focusing in highschool as is, so he wants to give himself a proper chance without other distractions.

He’s already given his notice at work for his last day, which will be at the end of August just before school starts, but he’s a good employee; he’s sure they’d take him back if circumstances change, he’d just rather not get kicked out and be left scrambling to find an apartment right before the start of the semester. As much as he wants to be out of this environment and have a space to call his own, he knows the smartest decision right now is to keep his head down and stick it out for another year.

“I just don’t get why you can’t listen, Johnny,” his mom finally says, sighing heavily, a noise that’s soundtracked much of John’s childhood. “It wouldn’t be so bad if you’d just listen to him.”

John almost snorts at that, pulling the fridge open and reaching for a can from his drawer of energy drinks. They both know very well that John Senior finds any reason to start things up if he wants to; it’s free game as soon as booze whets his palate, a single wrong look as good as a strong set of fighting words in the man’s mind.

John doesn’t need to say that to her though, she knows, she doesn’t care. She’s better at turning a blind eye than anyone he’s ever met, twenty–some years of practice, and she’s right, he is grown– enough to know better than to go thinking things are going to change now.

“Sure mom,” he says instead, shutting the fridge, keeping his expression even when he turns to her, and she nods as if satisfied by his response.

“Anyway, he’s prob’ly on his way home from the shops now and he left in a damn mood ‘cause of you, so I’d make yourself scarce before he gets back,” she says, exiting the kitchen and appearing to float down the hall in her flowy sundress, wine bottle dangling from a loose hand at her side.

John swears under his breath and hurries down the hall too, slipping into his room to get changed and get his things together, resigning himself to using the shitty staff showers at the hotel. His shift doesn’t start until noon but he knows Curt won’t be awake anytime before then on a weekend, so he doesn’t really have anywhere else to go kill time, and no one’s going to rat him out for using the facilities at his own job.

He’s aware that he’s only prolonging a blow–up by avoiding his dad, probably making him angrier too, but his head still hurts and he’s tired and he needs to conserve energy for work, so he’ll deal with it later.

He changes and then gets his backpack out and shoves his book, waterbottle, snacks, toothbrush, and toothpaste inside, and when he opens the cupboard above the bathroom sink to grab something for his headache, only an empty aspirin bottle greets him. John accepts defeat, slinging his bag over his shoulder and heading back to the entryway, hoping he can get a coworker to spot him something when he gets to the hotel. He slips out the back door just as he hears his dad’s truck pull up, and then he begins the walk to the bus stop, dreading the full evening ahead.

John is two hours into his shift when Curt arrives for the start of his own, and the moment they cross paths alone in the laundry room, Curt’s on him like a moth to a light, badgering him with a million questions and chewing him out for leaving him hanging after dropping a bomb on him like that.

John still feels bad about it, and he does his best to match Curt’s enthusiasm, the effects of his hangover having ebbed away after getting lost in the routine of cleaning and restocking, and after Helen, the angel she is, had given him some painkillers and made sure he wouldn’t be working in the noisy dining area tonight.

“I feel so bad,” Curt says for the hundredth time as they fold freshly washed sheets side by side. He hasn’t stopped shooting John guilty looks all evening for his part in sending him on his disaster of a date, apologizing on Ken’s behalf too even after assuring John that Ken had no idea Michael would be like that either; it was much more of an acquaintance of an acquaintance situation like John had suspected. He’s relieved about that at least, glad he doesn’t have to worry about Curt hanging around some questionable figures when he’s with Ken.

“I’m going to shove you into one of the washing machines if you don’t cut it out,” John glares at him. It’s not like Curt isn’t tiny enough to fit into one if necessary.

“I owe you a bajillion favours now,” Curt says it so seriously, like he’s solemnly swearing himself to the debt, and John can’t help but laugh.

“Alright, I’m cashing one in now,” John says, and Curt looks so hopeful at the chance to redeem himself that he almost feels bad when he says, “no more apologies allowed.”

Curt deflates, shooting him a dirty look.

“Fine,” he relents. “I’ll just bother you about Gale instead.”

“Who’s Gale?”

John nearly flinches out of his body at the unexpected chirp of Helen’s voice, whipping around with a hand over his chest.

“Why do you sneak up on people like that?” Curt complains for him, evidently receiving a good scare too. Helen beams her best cheshire–cat grin, sweeping past them to steal from the growing pile of clean laundry.

“It’s my job to be seen but not heard, boys,” she taps her newly acquired supervisor badge with pride, then her eyes go wide in a look of brief horror. “Oh god, I can’t start caring about this place.”

“The power’s gonna change you,” John snickers. “You gonna start writing us up for slacking off?”

“I might,” she hums thoughtfully, leaning her elbows on the countertop. “If you don’t spill the gossip. Who’s Gale?”

John presses his lips into a flat line, shaking his head fervently and returning to his folding. Helen knows which way he and Curt swing– she’s his closest friend aside from Curt, more like an older sister to the both of them sometimes after two years spent working together– but that doesn’t make him any more keen on detailing his shame for a second time tonight.

“It’s a long story,” Curt supplies, clearly trying to get on John’s good side, because normally he’d be jumping at the chance to embarrass him.

“I like long stories.” Helen’s eyes sparkle when she turns to bat her mascara–darkened lashes at John. “C’mon, I got you out of dinner service today.”

“He means it,” John says gloomily. “It’s a lot.”

“Sounds like a perfect story to tell me on break then,” Helen says decidedly, smiling gleefully, and John looks at her in despair.

“It’s embarrassing,” he whines, and her smile widens.

“My favourite,” she claps her hands together excitedly before scooping up the pillowcases she’d come to gather, heading for door in a flurry of white cotton. “See you in twenty!”

John sits on the curb in the staff parking lot after his shift ends, phone in hand, typing and re–typing the same message. His phone reads ten p.m. when his eyes flicker to the top of the screen, and he groans quietly. It’s been half an hour since he’d changed out of his uniform and showered and grabbed his bag from the staff room, which means he’s spent half an hour trying to write a simple text to Gale instead of walking to the bus stop.

John knows he should’ve really just headed straight home to face his dad, but the closer he’d gotten to the end of his shift, the more sick he’d felt at the thought. By the time he’d clocked out, he’d decided he might as well put the confrontation off even further if it was inevitable either way, and finding a way to pass time in hopes of getting home well after his dad’s drunk himself to sleep seems a lot more appealing than being responsible now.

He’d confided in Curt about his reluctance to go back and Curt had immediately invited him to spend the night, and John would normally jump at the chance, but he doesn’t want to push his luck that much when he’s already on thin ice with his dad. He doesn’t feel like waiting around in the empty staff room for another hour until Curt’s shift ends anyway, so he pushes himself up off the curb and starts his slow amble to the bus stop, in no rush with the next one still ten minutes away.

John sighs in frustration as he walks, fingers tapping at the keys again. Gale had asked him to let him know how he was feeling, so he needs to text him regardless, and this is at least one bandaid he can rip off in the midst of avoiding his dad.

‘breaking news: hangover cured by energy drink and buffet muffins. ^-^’

John stares at the text for a minute more when he reaches the bus stop, feeling stupidly juvenile, but he hits send anyway, tired of overthinking it. That’s the easiest part, anyway; the waiting is so much worse.

He shoves his headphones over his ears once he’s seated at the back corner of the bus, connecting to his iPod and putting on his favourite playlist. He leans his head against the window and closes his eyes, ignoring the way his headache comes creeping back as the pane vibrates against his temple with each bumpy stretch of road, ready to just crawl into bed and sleep everything off by the time he’s stepping off the bus, tiredly thanking the driver.

The last stretch to his house is a short walk, but John drags it out as much as he can, counting the cracks in the sidewalk, swatting mosquitos away from his bare arms. He’s as quiet as he can possibly be when he turns the handle of his front door, stomach twisting when he finds it unlocked; someone else is awake, otherwise it would be locked for the night.

Still, he closes it gently behind him, turning the lock slowly, leaning against the wall as he silently toes his sneakers off. He doesn’t hear any movement when he rounds the corner of the entryway, and he lets himself feel a little spark of hope that maybe his parents had just forgotten to lock the door, until he hears the leather of the couch creak.

“Come over here, boy.”

John does. He trains his expression into something neutral as he steps into the living room, adjusting the straps of his backpack where they bear down on his shoulders as his dad pushes himself up off the couch.

“Where were you?” He asks, moving to stand in front of him.

“At work, sir,” John holds his stare, but he relaxes his posture, makes himself unimposing. It’s harder now that he stands as tall as the man, but it’s reflexive.

“Told you I didn’t want you out so late no more,” his dad says. It’s such a nonsensical response that John is immediately aware he’s just looking to pick a fight; he wants to argue that he can’t tell him to hold a job and then get onto him for being at work, but he knows his dad isn’t stupid enough to not realize that on his own– he’s just itching for John to react.

“Yessir, sorry,” John says instead.

“You never listen, huh, boy?” His dad steps closer, and John has to fight off the way his nose tries to wrinkle at the smell of whiskey on his breath, double the reason to be put off by it now after having his own run–in with the taste.

“Twenty years and your ears still don’t work?” A hand comes up and knuckles rap harshly on the top of his head, and John grits his teeth at the way it draws his headache closer to the base of his skull. “Nothin’ in here.”

John says nothing, and his dad works his jaw, rage building as he sways on the spot. Sometimes the silent complacence is enough to deescalate, but it seems to strike a cord the wrong way tonight, because the man grabs his upper arm hard enough to almost surprise a noise out of him.

“Your nose been missing the wall?” He asks, jerking him forward needlessly, grip bruising. “We can go back to that if we need to.”

“No sir,” John says shakily, clenching his other fist behind his back, bitten nails digging into his palm. He can take being a punching bag for a man who won’t confront his own shit, but the threat of punishment from his childhood is enough to make him cold–sweat even now.

Suck it up and take it like a man. John can at least thank his old man for instilling that in him, for giving him a mantra to hold on to in these moments, the irony of using his own words against him almost enough to combat the pain of his hold.

“Then don’t make me tell you again.” He’s released with an abrupt shove, stumbling back a step, and he nods quickly.

“Yessir,” John mumbles, and he takes the gruff “get outta here” as a gift, slinking down the hall to his room and shutting the door quietly behind him, leaning his forehead against it as he tries to calm his rapid heartbeat. His arm stings as the feeling comes back to it, and it makes the rest of his skin prickle uncomfortably.

It’s been a while since his dad has snapped in an outright physical way like that, a raised voice or traditional discipline usually his preferred outlet, but there’s a reason John’s always ready for the other shoe to drop when he’s at home, holding his breath like he’s waiting on a hang fire to sound off. Letting his guard down means things like this shake him up worse, so it’s better to keep alert, to expect things to go downhill.

He tells himself it’s not pessimistic– he’s just being realistic, protecting himself. If he’d been too careless to anticipate an altercation all day, he wouldn’t be standing in front of his mirror now, more upset by the inconvenience of the hand–shaped ring of red he’s watching set in around his bicep than the incident itself.

He hisses quietly when he presses his own hand to the mark, gently massaging along the edges of it in an attempt at getting some blood flow to the area, hoping to minimize the bruising he’s already sure he’s going to wake up to.

In some unorthodox way, John feels a bit proud of himself as he gets ready for bed. His first instinct is always to feed into heightened emotions, and it’s escalated more confrontations with his dad than he can count from the time he’d learned to talk back, but he feels like he did an okay job at defusing things today by swallowing down the frustration that had bubbled up, even if he hadn’t been able to win either way.

He still feels sick as he crawls into bed, so he kneels on the mattress and pushes his window open to let some cool air in, sliding the screen to the side and pillowing his head in his arms on the window sill. His gaze settles on two crows perched atop the lamp at the edge of his dead–end street, spindly black talons overlapping, beaks tucked into each other’s feathers. He can’t tell if they’re asleep from this distance, but they look more tranquil than he’s ever felt.

John used to sit like this all the time as a kid after getting reprimanded, letting the night air soothe flushed cheeks and red–hot tear streaks, watching the birds fly overhead, crossing his fingers on both hands and wishing under his breath for his own set of wings.

It’s a childish hope, but John still wishes for them. It just means something different to him now, more of an escape rather than a yearn to physically fly, although he’d happily take the latter too.

He feels a buzz from the other end of his bed, and he pulls his head back into his room, sliding the screen shut but leaving the window open for the night. He lies down on his stomach to reach for his phone, and the effort he’s just put into steadying his heart flies right out the window to join the birds when he flips it open and finds Gale’s name waiting for him in his message notifications.

‘Glad to hear it.’

God, is that what growing up is like? Not even a smiley face? John would probably overthink the flat delivery if it weren’t for the fact that Gale doesn’t seem like an emoticon guy, and if it weren’t for the message beneath it.

‘Everything else okay?’

And after all the shit he’s stayed composed through tonight, that simple message is what finally makes John’s eyes sting, warmth blooming outward from behind his ribcage. It feels like someone’s just thrown a warm, heavy blanket over him, and he smiles as the words on the screen go blurry, drawing in a shaky deep breath.

He blinks rapidly, wiping the back of his hand over his eyes and typing back an ‘all good, just very tired. :P you?’

He crawls under his thin summer blanket while he waits, the pillow a sweet, soft relief beneath his tired head. It only takes a minute for another message to come in.

‘Same here, about to hit the sack. Make sure you get some rest too.’

John feels silly for the way he swoons over the consideration, but the way it settles warm in his heart is such a sharp contrast to the feelings of isolation and neglect that had frosted over it only moments prior.

‘okay, u too. :-)’

John sleeps a lot better than he expects.

He has a dream that he’s thousands of feet above the clouds, wind in his hair. He can feel something to his left, but he can only look straight ahead, can only keep moving forward, gliding through wisps of white amidst a sea of blue. It should be a nightmare; his fear of heights is something he’s never grown out of. But the sun is warm, and the presence at his side feels familiar, and he knows deep down that he’s safe.

The last week of July drags on uneventfully, and John is for once happy to be bored after his emotional rollercoaster of a weekend.

The sporadic texts he and Gale start to exchange are more than exciting enough for him anyway, even if they don’t talk about anything of substance. John’s too scared to be the first to message after that post–work check–in on Saturday, not wanting Gale to feel like he’s stuck talking to him just because he’d given him his number for emergencies; it’s not like John expects them to suddenly be texting buddies anyway.

But John’s phone goes off on Monday afternoon when he’s sitting at his desk, half–heartedly running around in Grand Theft Auto with a fan aimed directly at his face to combat the heat his computer puts out. He assumes it’s going to be a message from Curt, but instead it’s Gale, and his heart bunny–hops around in his chest as he reads the casual ‘Surviving the heat?’

He wants so badly to be smooth, to hint that he’d be surviving it a whole lot better in Gale’s air–conditioned house, preferably in his bed. Instead he replies with a ‘no, ur texting my ghost sry :(‘ and gets a ‘Haha. Oh boy.’ in return. If he weren’t so enamoured with the man, he’d probably be cringing at his unsavvy texting habits, but John’s quite sure Gale could text him one word replies and he’d still be smiling like an idiot at his screen.

This continues on throughout the week, simple check–ins and occasional banter, and John even gets brave enough to reach out first once he’s able to feel assured that Gale’s not just texting out of some sense of moral obligation.

It does make him wonder though why Gale is bothering to keep up small talk like this, especially once it becomes a daily occurrence. It’s enough to have John holding onto some shred of hope that his unintentional drunk confession might’ve piqued his interest, rather than sent him running for the hills, but he tries not to dwell on it too much.

His week gets more interesting when he’s informed by an absolutely ecstatic Curt that Ken is going to be staying in town for the weekend to sign a lease on an apartment with his friend Alexander, and with barely a word in edgewise, John finds himself roped into playing tour guide with Curt (“because there’s so much to do here,” he says sarcastically when Curt suggests it).

Truthfully, John’s excited– he finally gets to meet Ken instead of suspiciously staring at him from across a pub, and Ken’s visit falls on what’s probably Manitowoc’s most exciting day of the year (outside of Summerfest): the annual town beach blowout.

It’s closer to a really large neighbourhood barbecue than an actual event, and it’s mostly an opportunity for local restaurants to advertise their businesses by renting food trucks to set up on the most popular stretch of beach next to Lake Michigan. But it feels like half the town’s population shows up, and it’s a pretty big deal to the locals in a place where the summer months drag out slow and quiet and hot.

Most people treat it as an excuse to host get–togethers with family, the beach always filled with clusters of lawn chairs and firepits, but a lot of people just go to hang out with friends and eat good food and escape from the sun in the cool waters of the lake, and that’s exactly what Curt plans for them to do.

Ken and Alex drive into town on Friday morning, and Curt and John meet up with them at a cafe for lunch after the two of them are done sorting things out with the apartment, and John likes both of them right away. Ken is exactly as Curt’s been describing him– very genuine, a good conversationalist, charismatic even in his moments of shyness (and just as sincerely apologetic for the whole Michael–fiasco as Curt had been). Alex is just as fun to be around, kind and easygoing but quick–witted and playful, and John’s relieved that he doesn’t have to pretend to like Curt’s new sorta–boyfriend and his friend.

The four of them spend the day wandering around downtown, popping in and out of shops and indulging in jumbo–sized slushies when the heat of the afternoon really sets in, and it’s all around a nice day, until Alex parts from their group in the evening to go meet for a late dinner with another local friend group, and John’s left on his own with Ken and Curt.

Curt suggests that they go back to his house to order food and watch a movie, since his parents and sister are in Milwaukee for his sister’s dance recital and won’t be home till tomorrow afternoon, and John politely tries to extract himself from the equation out of the goodness of his heart, wanting to give them time alone. But they both insist that he doesn’t have to go home, that he should at least stay for food, and John doesn’t want to seem rude when he’s just met Ken, so he reluctantly obliges.

It’s a mistake, and this becomes evident to him only twenty minutes into the movie, when trying to meld into one single cell seems to be a lot more interesting to the pair than the actual film. To their credit, they’re not making out next to him, but they’re getting handsy and giggly enough for it to not matter; John’s just glad he’s on the opposite end of the couch.

He gets it, really– if the roles were swapped and John had full access to a willing Gale in the dark on a couch, he’s fairly certain he’d make what Ken and Curt are up to look like a formal handshake. That doesn’t mean John’s having a good time though, and the relief he feels when his phone buzzes is so strong that he mutters a “thank fuck” under his breath.

His spirits are raised even further when he sees it’s a text from Gale, and he doesn’t have to worry about hiding his smile with how engrossed his companions are in each other.

‘How’d lunch go? He turn out to be a serial killer?’

Maybe John’s just used to his own absendmindedness, but he finds it sweet that Gale remembers plans he’d offhandedly mentioned earlier in the week.

‘i wish he did lol i’m stuck watching a movie with both of them and he’s so nice that i can’t even be annoyed at the pda T_T’

John wonders then if Gale has any idea what his emoticons mean, and the thought of him trying to decipher the little faces makes him laugh a little.

‘Oh nooo. You can’t make up an excuse to leave?’

He can, and he knows Curt would find it really funny if he told him the truth later on, but he’s not a good liar and he doesn’t want to mess up and make Ken feel awkward. John can be blunt and honest with Curt with how close they are, but Ken is still new to both of them, so he doesn’t want to just straight up say that he’s leaving so they can be alone either.

‘no i don’t want ken to feel bad 3 i feel like anything i say would sound fake but i rly wanna go sleep tbh lol’

With how little John usually socializes outside of work or hanging out with Curt, the latter of which doesn’t count since being around Curt doesn’t drain his social battery, he’s wiped after the group hangout and it’s barely even eight o’clock. Going home to crash early and sleep for twelve hours sounds much more appealing than finding out how the movie ends.

‘Want me to call you?’

Butterflies erupt in John’s stomach before he even processes why Gale’s asking, blinking at his screen in confusion for a few seconds before he realizes the out he’s offering. He’s not mentally equipped to talk to Gale whatsoever with such short notice, let alone over the phone for the first time, but there’s no way John’s going to turn the opportunity down when it’s been almost a week since he last saw him. And, embarrassingly, he kinda (really) misses Gale.

‘ur a genius yes pls’

The noise of surprise that John makes is genuine when ‘Mr. Brightside’ blares from his phone’s speaker half a minute later, accompanying the ‘Incoming Call: Gale :)’ message on his screen, and Curt and Ken’s heads snap over.

“Gale’s calling me,” John squeaks out, feeling just as nervous as if he hadn’t been given warning beforehand, pushing off of the couch.

“What?” Curt’s eyes go wide. John grabs his wallet and keys from the coffee table, hurrying for the door.

“I’m gonna– don’t worry about pausing, I’ll just–”

“Go!” Curt shoos him off, giggling sadistically at his state of fluster, Ken looking between the two of them in bewilderment. It seems Curt really has been keeping this between them, if he had been vague enough with Ken that Ken doesn’t even know who Gale is, and it sends a rush of affection for his friend through him as he gives him a hurried wave and steps out of the house, shutting the door behind himself. He’ll text Curt once he’s home to tell him the truth, but he’s got bigger things to worry about right now.

“Hi,” he breathes out when he answers the phone, walking down Curt’s driveway into the night air.

“Hey there,” Gale’s low voice come through the other end, and John has to cover his mouth with his hand when he nearly giggles reflexively, heart fluttering. “Mission success?”

“I have escaped the hostage situation,” John confirms, keeping his eyes on the ground as he walks.

He hopes Gale can’t hear his smile in his voice, because there’s nothing he can do to tame it, cheeks warm. It feels like someone’s set off party poppers inside his chest, fizzy candy crackling in the gaps of his ribs, sparklers searing the insides of his lungs. It’s just a phone call, but he’s experiencing symptoms of cardiac arrest, and he’s not sure what to do about that.

“Was it at least a good movie?” Gale asks. There’s shuffling in the background, then a whump and silence, save for a tired exhale. John wonders where he is, if he’s at home, if he’s in his bed.

“I couldn’t pay attention,” John says honestly, pushing his hair out of his face. “I was scared I was about to be an involuntary cuck.”

Gale snorts at that, and John grins so hard his cheeks ache. If he didn’t know this suburb like the back of his hand, he’d worry about getting turned around with how wholly enraptured he is with his phone.

“You’re a trooper,” Gale commends him, and John thinks he can hear a smile through the line, and his stomach flips.

“I try my best,” he sighs like it’s the biggest inconvenience, and then falls quiet for a moment, turning to glance behind him.

“Well, I’m out of view of his house now, so, y’know,” he reluctantly tells Gale, not wanting to keep him on the phone longer than necessary. He sounds like he’s had a long day, and as much as John wants to find another excuse to keep him talking, inconveniencing people makes him too uncomfortable.

“It’s late, I’ll stay on ‘til you get home safe,” Gale says easily, like it would be silly for John to expect otherwise, and John’s face nearly becomes well acquainted with the curb in his surprise.

“Okay,” he barely gets out, pressing his palm to the side of his face to soothe the fluster, looking up at the sky in silent prayer.

He’s certainly not going to point out that he walks home alone in the dark almost every day after work and survives just fine; he doesn’t mind staying on the line in the slightest, so long as he can wrangle his mouth and brain into behaving themselves, which feels like a big ask whenever Gale is around.

“What’d you do today?” John questions, wanting to hear more of Gale’s voice as much as he wants to take the pressure to speak off of himself. Gale hums quietly, and John’s almost positive he hears blankets shift when he moves, and it’s a wonder he doesn’t lurch headfirst into the storm drain at the image his brain procures of a sleepy, shirtless Gale lying where John had been only a week prior.

“Real exciting stuff,” Gale drawls. “Worked, went grocery shopping, stopped by the pub for a drink after dinner.”

“Living life on the edge,” John comments sarcastically, trying to picture the man doing mundane things like buying food, or working behind a desk. Although if his job is running his mechanic shop, John supposes he’s probably doing actual mechanic things, and the image of Gale bracing himself over the hood of a car in a grease–stained tanktop doesn’t fair well for his already frayed mental state either.

“Didn’t have to third–wheel anyone, though,” Gale shoots back playfully.

“There’s always tomorrow,” John says, then groans at the reminder.

“What?” Gale presses, sounding curious.

“That just reminded me that I’m gonna be stuck third–wheeling again tomorrow,” he says. “We’re going to the lake, but Ken’s friend isn’t gonna be there till later, so I’m gonna be playing beach–trip–chaperone till he joins us.”

Gale laughs sympathetically, then pauses.

“The beach blowout?” He inquires, and John hums affirmatively.

“Most of us from the pub are going,” Gale tells him, and John’s world suddenly feels exponentially less dreary. “You’re welcome to come hang out with us if you’re suffering.”

“Are you sure?” John asks, trying to hide how hopeful he feels at the suggestion. “I don’t wanna intrude.”

“Wouldn’t offer if I wasn’t sure,” Gale says warmly. “The guys have been asking after you anyway, wondering if you’re still alive after last Saturday.”

“Oh god,” John winces. “Tell them I’m not– we can pretend it never happened.”

“I think they feel bad,” Gale snickers. “That’ll teach ‘em not to peer pressure.”

“I don’t think I’ll ever be able to stomach whiskey again,” John gripes, and then he comes to a stop, realizing he’s reached his driveway.

“Probably a good thing,” Gale reasons.

“Probably,” John agrees, shuffling his feet idly, shoving a hand in his pocket to fidget with his keys as he stares morosely at his house. Both cars are home, but the lights are all off inside, so there’s a good chance he’ll just be left to his own devices to knock out for the night.

“Well, I’m home,” John dutifully informs Gale, regretful but a little less sad now that he knows he’ll probably be seeing him tomorrow, if he can work up the courage to go over to his group.

“All good?” Gale checks lightheartedly. John’s not sure what he means, but he nods anyway, until he remembers they’re on the phone.

“All good,” he echoes. “Thanks for, uh– walking me home? Kinda?”

“Anytime.” John can hear the smile in Gale’s voice again, and it makes his legs feel a little wobbly. “Sleep well.”

“You too,” John murmurs, smiling as well.

“Y’know you can always text me if you need anything, yeah?” Gale adds after a moment of silence, and John thinks he might have to sit down on the concrete if he doesn’t hang up soon, the kindness too much for him to handle.

“Okay,” he says quietly. “Thank you, Gale.”

“Goodnight, John.”

“Goodnight.”

Ken, Curt, and John all pile into Ken’s car late in the afternoon the next day to head to the lake, lawn chairs and pool floaties and snacks crammed into the trunk. John feels a bit like a dog, relegated to the backseat, but he’s quickly distracted when he gets a text from Gale letting him know where he and the others have set up camp for the day.

Before he can respond, Gale follows up with reassurance that John isn’t aware he needs until he reads it.

‘We’re looking forward to seeing you again, John.’

John smiles at his screen, feeling his nerves settle a little, texting back a ‘ditto :-)’.

The lakeside is already packed by the time they find parking, with brightly coloured food trucks parked along the edges of the sand, a local band playing live music, vendors selling sunglasses and waterguns and towels. There are volleyball nets set up around the beach, and the water is littered with inflatables and multicoloured beach balls. No matter how old John gets, being at this part of the lake always makes him feel like a kid again.

The three of them find space to set up their cooler and chairs, and then they head straight for the water, the sun scorching hot with no shade to hide under. John’s already prepared to be burnt regardless of the sunscreen they’ve all put on, but right now the water feels too nice to care, light waves from the warm breeze lapping against his middle before he dunks his head under, fully submerging himself in the blue.

A couple of hours later, John’s lounging in his lawn chair, having about as much success reading his book as Curt and Ken are having pretending to just be very physically affectionate straight friends sharing an innertube in the water (not a lot). They’d all swam and chucked a foam football around until they’d tired themselves out, and to the lovebirds’ credit, they’ve both been surprisingly bearable, though John assumes this has a lot to do with the fact that they’re in public rather than the safety of Curt’s house.

John can’t relax even with Curt and Ken entertaining themselves in the lake; he keeps glancing to his left up the beach as if it’s possible to spot Gale or the others from this far away, and he’s checked his phone three times, each time telling himself he’s allowed to get up in ten minutes and then chickening out when the time rolls around.

He eventually gets hot enough that he has no option but to either get back in the water or get moving, so he pushes himself out of his chair and shakes out his damp curls and starts his walk along the beach with his towel draped over one shoulder, not bothering to let Curt and Ken know that he’s leaving because they’re already aware of his side–quest.

It’s times like this where he’s trying to pick out someone from a crowd that John wonders if everyone’s vision is this shit or if he should be concerned, but he spots the taco truck Gale had told him they’d set up their chairs by, and when he looks out at the lake he can see a bunch of men roughhousing in the water. He recognizes Hambone’s rowdy shouts before he even determines that it’s Gale’s group, two guys locked in a battle of chicken fight on the shoulders of two others, cheered on by their spectators.

John spots Gale at the same moment that a woman’s voice calls his name, and it’s one of the hardest things he’s had to do, dragging his eyes away from where Gale stands in the water, backwards baseball cap and sunglasses on, tattoos and tan skin on full display like his soul purpose is to torment John.

He blinks himself back down to earth, looking to his left to find a mostly empty circle of chairs, apart from four that are occupied by a group of women, two of whom he recognizes– Paulina and Marge.

“I was wondering how you were doing after Friday,” Paulina’s saying, and John groans, shielding his eyes from the sun. He’s never going to live his spectacular crash and burn down.

“I’m alive,” he offers with a grimace.

“John?” Marge questions with a curious smile, and John feels nervous for some reason, like she’s somehow an extension of Gale. “You’re the John our boys were telling us about?”

She sounds exactly how she looks, her voice sweet as honey, warm and friendly. She lifts her sunglasses, looking up at him with one eye squeezed shut against the bright glare, and John nods, smiling shyly.

“Unfortunately,” he says. Marge’s laugh is like birdsong, and John thinks he wouldn’t even be mad if Gale was head over heels for her– he’d understand.

“I’m sure it wasn’t that bad,” she sympathizes. Paulina makes a doubtful noise before wrapping her lips around her straw, and John pouts. The other two women watch him with mild amusement, and Marge gestures to them, dropping her sunglasses back over her eyes.

“This is Jean and Peggy,” she introduces them, and John waves nervously, feeling very out of place.

“I’m Marge,” she adds as an afterthought, tilting her head like she’s trying to figure out if Gale’s mentioned her or not. John smiles and nods.

“I know,” he says, and she grins, leaning back in her chair and crossing one leg over the other.

“So he does talk about me,” she says, nodding to herself smugly. “Sap.”

This confirms to John that she doesn’t have any idea what context Gale had mentioned her in, and he’s not about to get Gale in trouble by being the bearer of bad news about his illegal drinking. He’s thankful– even if it’s embarrassing now– that he’d been unintentionally transparent in his drunken state about his jealousy, because he’s sure envy would be coursing through him right now if Gale hadn’t offhandedly made it clear that he and Marge aren’t involved in a more–than–friendly way.

“Bucky!” Someone shouts from the water, and it takes John a moment to remember his new tag, turning to the lake in time to watch DeMarco have a spectacular fall from Crank’s shoulders, Crosby crowing victoriously from atop another man’s shoulders, one John doesn’t recognize.

He’s much more occupied with the smile Gale shoots him, and he hopes desperately that the sun has already roasted him thoroughly enough for the warmth that rises to his cheeks to be written off as a light burn.

“You comin’ in?” Gale calls, and John almost can’t focus on the question, very belatedly realizing that he should’ve prepared himself for the fact that a beach day means a whole lot of bare skin, specifically Gale’s.

“Yeah,” he calls back, wrapping his towel around his phone and dropping it in the sand before making his way down to the water, trying not to squirm or feel self conscious. Even through the shades of Gale’s aviators, his watchful gaze feels like an internal sunburn, and John feels jealous that he can’t watch him back just as casually for fear of making a blushing fool of himself.

“Let’s give Bucky a go,” Brady says once John’s waist–deep in the water, and John hesitates. A game of chicken fight is always fun, but he thinks he might become an actual drowning risk if he has to come into contact with Gale’s bare skin, and he would rather die than get pulled out of the water by a lifeguard in front of the group.

The guys don’t take no for an answer though, rallying together for another round. John instinctively glances at Gale, but only finds amusement on his face, and he gets a nod of encouragement.

“You’re scrappy, maybe you’ll give Cros and Bubbles a run for their money,” Gale says.

Bubbles? John thinks that between him and Hambone, he got pretty lucky with his nickname. It’s just a bonus that it’s complimentary to Gale’s.

He jumps when a wet hand gives him a firm pat between his shoulder blades, turning to find that Hambone has claimed him as partner, jaw set with a vendetta against Bubbles and Crosby’s winning streak.

“Up you get,” Hambone crouches low in the water, leaving no room to argue, and John clambers up on the man’s back. Rough hands lock around his shins as Hambone walks him over to where Crosby’s perched on Bubbles’ shoulders, and John’s admittedly a bit nervous, having seen how full–on they all were fighting earlier.

But it turns out that Hambone’s feral determination and John’s stubbornness to prove himself to the others is a deadly combination, because when Rosie gives the go–ahead, Hambone digs his heels in and John forgoes playing offense in favour of bracing himself hard, and it takes half a minute of slippery hands and rough shoves before John manages to dodge a lunge from Crosby and the man sends himself headfirst into the water.

John’s knocked backwards in Hambone’s haste to rejoice, coming up out of the water spluttering but grinning, and from then on they’re crowned the new reigning champions, beating out each duo. It’s a bit of an unfair competition, with John being fresh and full of energy while the others are drained from all the previous duels, and maybe they’re going a bit easy on him, but he’s genuinely having to fight for his life to stay on top of Hambone’s shoulders, so he considers it a win anyway.

Then it comes down to the last duo, Gale and Rosie, and it’s obviously not a balanced fight– Rosie’s taller than Hambone, and Gale’s got twice as much muscle as John, but he’s not about to back down now. He wants to earn his bragging rights fair and square, and he tells Gale as much.

“Don’t play nice, I can take it,” John insists when Rosie walks Gale over on his shoulders. He has to look up at Gale with the height both he and Rosie have on him, but he straightens his back and tilts his chin up resolutely when Gale laughs at his claim.

“You can, huh?” Gale drawls out, pushing wet hair out of his face, cap and sunglasses long ago tossed up onto the beach.

“Uh–huh.” John’s heart is pounding before Crank even gives them the green light, Gale’s eyes shining with the exhilaration of the challenge as they look at each other, bracing when Hambone and Rosie surge forward.

Gale takes his request seriously; John doesn’t have a moment to work up the courage to put his hands on him because immediately he can’t do a thing but fight to stay upright, grabbing onto Gale’s arms to keep himself from being pushed off. His palms slip against his slick sun–heated skin, struggling to find purchase, calves tensing against Hambone’s sides.

John likes to think he’s decently fit from all the spring and summer hikes he’s dragged Curt and Helen on this year, but when Gale gets an arm around his middle and puts his weight into the shove, John doesn’t stand a chance at pushing him away, and the easy time Gale has at physically overpowering him melts his brain a little. When Gale leans his shoulder into the motion, John can hear him panting so close to his ear that he gets lightheaded, every inch of his skin sizzling at the puffs of breath that hit his neck.

His limbs go weak like they’re made of jelly, and it throws him off enough that Gale manages to brute–force him sideways off of Hambone’s shoulders in a slide of wet skin–on–skin, the crash of the water beneath him a merciful escape from sensations that are going to haunt his wet dreams for the foreseeable future.

He comes up with wide eyes and electricity still jumping around his body as chaos erupts from the breaking of his and Hambone’s winning streak, Gale grabbing Rosie’s wrist and raising it above his head in triump like a boxing champion. All John can bring himself to do as he catches his breath is stare up at the firm lines of his torso, the muscles that twitch beneath ink as he pulls Rosie’s hand up, the water that collects in the dark hair beneath his arms and trails down, down, down.

His face is burning by the time he stands back up, shaking water droplets from his hair to buy more time to compose himself and hide how dazed he feels, putting on a sheepish smile as if losing isn’t the last thing he’s concerned with right now. Hambone reaches out and gives his shoulder a shake, nodding approvingly.

“Held out longer than I thought,” he commends with a flash of a gold smile. “Not bad, kid.”

John waves him off lightheartedly, thanking him. He’ll let himself feel proud for proving himself to the rough–and–tumble guys later, when he’s not trying to shove all his braincells back into their rightful spots, and when he’s not trying to ensure no situation arises beneath his swimshorts.

“Gotta get the two champs on the same team,” Crank says as Rosie slides Gale off his shoulders, and the second John registers what he means by this, he nearly lets out a panicked laugh, opening his mouth to make up some excuse, but Gale looks at him and his words die in his throat.

“Whaddya think?” He asks, gesturing to the others. “You can pick your opponent, I think you’ve earned it.”

John can feel heat creeping up the back of his neck already, and he forces a nod and a smile, wanting the attention off of him. Gale smiles, wading over as John tries to think strategically. There’s no way he’s going to survive this, that’s his first problem, but if he somehow doesn’t drop dead the moment Gale’s hands are on him, his next objective is gonna be to get knocked off as soon as possible so he’s not roped into further rounds.

“Brady,” he decides. He hasn’t faced him shoulder to shoulder yet, with Brady playing carrier for DeMarco when they’d faced off, but he’s energetic and competitive and definitely won’t go easy on him like John suspects the others might have.

Brady gives him a little salute and determined smile, eyes glinting dangerously, and he predictably calls for DeMarco to complete his duo, the two of them very much in sync when they operate together.

And then Gale’s crouching in the water in front of John, and he feels like his heart’s going to beat right through his flesh when he places his hands on Gale’s shoulders, hoisting himself up, surprised he doesn’t turn into liquid and slide right back down to become one with the lake. He’s more aware of every inch of skin than he’s ever been in his life, conscious of how close his thighs press to the sides of Gale’s face, of how he most definitely can not pop a stiffy against the back of Gale’s neck right now, of how–

Gale’s hands surpass his calves and come up to hold onto his thighs, arms locking into place on either side of them, fingers digging in firm to the sensitive skin on the insides, and John thinks he might genuinely start stress–crying, swallowing down a strangled sound as he fights to resist squirming in his grip. Some sunglasses would be really nice right about now. Or, ideally, a ski mask– even a water–resistant paper bag would do, because he’s not sure how much more flushed his cheeks can get before sunburn stops being a valid excuse.

His hands flex at his sides, not sure where to place them, but Gale starts walking forward to meet the other two and John’s own hands fly out to settle on top of Gale’s as the forward motion almost unbalances him.

“Easy there,” Gale chuckles, hands squeezing lightly, and John nearly keels over. “Can’t lose before we even start.”

He’s going to pass away, he’s sure of it now. There’s no timeline in which he survives something like this.

Bubbles counts them down, and then all John can hear is the blood rushing in his ears as Gale’s hands clamp down hard to give him a better shot at staying stabilized when he and DeMarco rush at each other, water sloshing around their limbs. John’s so tunnel–visioned on what’s going on below his waist that it’s all he can do to try to counteract Brady’s attack, pushing hard against his side and leaning into his weight.

He doesn’t even have to pretend to be overpowered– which is the whole point of choosing headstrong Brady– because despite Gale’s steady hold, hands sliding down to wrap his arms around the tops of his thighs instead, John locking his legs in place the best he can, he finds himself being bowled over backwards by Brady’s unrelenting advances.

John hears Brady crash into the water a second after he does from the force of his push, and it’s still technically a loss on his end, but when he comes up for air the others are cheering for a rematch.

Absolutely not.

“I gotta call it,” John pants, bending his legs to sink down to his shoulders in the water, discreetly adjusting his shorts. “I’m tired.”

“One more to settle the tie,” Brady insists, and John opens his mouth helplessly, only for Gale to come to his defense.

“Give him a break,” he laughs, turning to John. “Tired yourself out, huh? You wanna go sit?”

John nods, flooded with relief, feeling flayed and strung upside down by the soft edge to questions.

“Alright princess, go sit with the ladies,” Gale teases, voice rough from all the yelling, and John really, really wishes a timely wave would come along and drag him to the bottom of the lake. It takes him a moment to get moving, braincells knocking uselessly against the inside of his skull, but he wades out of the lake and back up to the beach to where he’d left his towel, giving the girls an exhausted “hi” and dropping flat onto his stomach the moment he sufficiently lays the towel out.

“Gonna feel all of that tomorrow,” Marge says sympathetically, and John huffs out a laugh, knowing all too well he’s gonna be feeling it just as much as he’s gonna be replaying it on a loop in his mind.

“S’my workout for the week,” he mumbles into his arm, pressing his cheek against hot skin, closing his eyes as he tries to pull his head out of the gutter. There’ll be plenty of time to think about how it feels like Gale’s hands have burnt permanent marks on his thighs when he’s alone in bed later, trying to conjure the sensation back up with his hand down his shorts.

It’s not quite in the right context, but John still feels like he’s just experienced something monumental, because he’s never been touched like that by a guy. He had no idea his thighs would be sensitive like that, though it’s possible it’s more about who had been touching him, rather than where, but it feels like something’s been unlocked in the back of his mind that he’d rather not unpack in his current location.

The girls offer him a (delightfully non–alcoholic) drink once he finds the energy to sit up, and he accepts it gratefully, more than happy to sit on dry land and watch the guys– Gale– screw around and exhaust themselves in the golden–hour sun. It’s not like Gale’s usually super serious or anything, but it’s definitely a change to see him so carefree and playful like this in comparison to his quiet contemplation at the pub, or his much more reserved teasing when the two of them are alone.

It’s like a glimpse of a different side to him in a way, and it fills John with endless questions, from the most mundane to things that feel much too weighted to pry into, but he can let himself dream.

The guys all head back up onto the beach a short while later, getting a fire started in the pit so they can cook dinner, and John checks his phone, wondering if he should head back, not wanting to overstay his welcome. But Gale stops next to him as he’s debating texting Curt, and John peers up and tries to feel normal about the angle.

“You wanna stick around for dinner?” Gale asks warmly. John hesitates, and Gale breathes out a laugh, giving him a look. “You’re invited, and more than welcome to, John.”

John can’t help the bashful smile that tugs at the corners of his mouth, and he dips his head a little.

“Okay,” he says shyly. “I just gotta let Curt know.”

“Alright,” Gale says, stepping away, shooting him a cheeky smile. “Come help me out after, earn your keep.”

John laughs and tells him he will, and Gale turns to walk over to their cooler. As John’s gaze drops back down to his phone, his eyes catch on a jagged scar that runs horizontal across the back of Gale’s right ankle, and a more precise one above it that branches out vertically halfway up his shin, both pale and faded with time.

He stares for a moment longer, painfully intrigued, forming stories in his head as he types a message to Curt letting him know what he’s up to. Surgery? Broken bone? Motorcycling accident?

‘having dinner with gale’s group, if u guys aren’t bored 2 death without me :P’

John would feel worse for leaving Alex with Curt and Ken, but the man had said he might bring his girlfriend along, so John reasons that there’s a good chance he’s dodging an evening of double–third–wheeling.

‘don’t have too much fun ;)))’

John scoffs, putting his phone away and pushing himself to his feet, walking over to join Gale where he’s dragged a log up to the fire to use as a makeshift table.

“Is he devastated?” Gale jokes, passing him a pack of picnic utensils to open while he sets up some sort of grill–stand over the firepit. John snorts, wondering what Gale would think of the actual implications of Curt’s text.

“I’m not sure he’s even dragged his eyes away from Ken once today,” he says as he rips open plastic casings, and Gale smiles sympathetically.

“Young love,” he muses, and John nods, resisting to urge to pointedly say that he wishes he could relate, too on–the–nose even for his impulsive tendencies. Besides, John doesn’t wanna come off as too inexperienced or naive when Gale’s probably much more keen on maturity and confidence.

He diligently helps Gale, passing him burger patties and hot dogs to set on the slats of the grill, and it’s incredibly hard to control his eyes when Gale’s standing there in all his shirtless, toned glory, looking straight out of an Inked magazine. When John leans over with a plate for Gale to stack the cooked food on, Gale’s own eyes stray momentarily, but not in the way John wants, because the man’s eyebrows furrow with concern as he brings a hand up to gently turn John’s arm.

“Is that from fighting in the lake?” He asks, sounding both worried and guilty, and John’s heart plummets into his stomach. He’d been anxious about the stubborn yellow–green mark that still refuses to fade fully, but he’d forgotten about it as the day went on. Curt knew because John had told him, but Ken hadn’t pointed it out, and none of the guys had noticed in the lake, so he’d let it slip to the back of his mind.

He wants to lie and say it is just from the chicken fights, but he doesn’t want Gale to fret about being too rough with him, and he’s not sure it would really be believable anyway, so he gently pulls his arm back against his side to stop him from getting a better look at its shape.

“Oh, that’s from work,” John says lightly, laughing quietly. “The taller counters in the kitchen are not kind to my lack of spacial awareness.”

He’s not sure Gale buys it, even with the small noise of amusement he makes, but he doesn’t press John about it, even with the vaguely troubled expression he wears as he turns back to the fire with the plate John passes him.

Gale sticks close to him for the rest of the evening, and John has zero complaints; minor hiccup aside, it’s one of the best days he’s had this summer. He gets to listen to everyone swap stories over dinner, sitting on the log by the fire between Gale and Marge, and the girls join them in the water to toss around a ball as the sun begins to set, a large fishing boat making its way out on the lake in preparation for the fireworks show.

The group treats him like one of their own, as comfortable and spirited around him as though he’s always been there, and John feels a little overwhelmed with emotion as they all stand in the lake watching brilliant colours explode across the sky, fractals reflecting on the water’s surface.

His heart is content, warm and full with the unexpected direction his summer has taken. Even if it’s all temporary, he feels lucky he gets to hold onto it for now, grateful that Gale’s welcomed him into his life in some small way, whatever it means.

When the display comes to an end and it’s time to head home, Marge wanders over and pulls him into a quick side–hug as he’s gathering his things, and he looks at her in surprise.

“I’m glad Gale brought you round today,” she says simply. “You’re always welcome to stop by The Stoplight, too.”

“Thanks,” John says, glancing at Gale where he stands behind her, and he has to bite his cheek to stop himself from laughing at the firm shake of his head and pressed–lips he receives, confirmation that Marge is still blissfully unaware of the whole under–twenty–one debacle.

He assures her he will soon– September is technically soon– and they part ways, and then he turns to say goodnight to Gale as well, but Gale speaks first.

“I’ll walk you back to the others,” he says, and John flushes, grateful for the dark of night.

“You don’t have to,” he says meekly.

“I want to,” Gale replies, gesturing for John to lead the way, and so he does, smiling down at the sand as they walk.

They’re both quiet for a little bit, winding around the smoking charcoals of firepits and bits of driftwood that have been dragged around, vendors and food trucks closing up for the night to their right, groups of people exiting the beach to head back to their cars.

“Thanks for letting me hang out,” John breaks the silence, always too antsy to let it sit for long. Gale huffs out a laugh, and John looks up, confused.

“I’m not ‘letting you,’ John,” Gale says, seeming equal parts exasperated and entertained. “I like having you around. They all like you too.”

“Okay,” John relents, a little embarrassed. Gale reaches out to squeeze his shoulder reassuringly, and John relaxes, feeling a bit disappointed as they near the lot where Curt and Ken are waiting for him in the car.

“That’s my ride,” John comes to a stop at the curb, gesturing to Ken’s car a few parking spaces away, refusing to look at it because he knows they’re going to be pulling faces at him through the window.

Gale nods, looking at him thoughtfully. John waits, heart pattering nervously.

“Whatever’s going on in your life is your business, and I know I’ve said it before,” Gale says after a few seconds, talking slowly like he’s trying to figure out how to word what he wants to say, “but I’m here if you need anything, alright? I mean it.”

John blinks up at him, caught fully off guard by the sudden kind sentiment. He nods, a little bit scared that his voice isn’t going to come out all that strong if he speaks, and then Gale pulls him into a gentle hug and John’s insides turn to mush.

He doesn’t remember the last time he’s gotten a proper hug, and he feels stupid for how emotional he is after two unexpected ones tonight, throat feeling tight. But then John catches a glimpse of Curt and Ken’s faces over Gale’s shoulder and he has to stifle the laugh that threatens to bubble up, both of them looking like startled deer, wide–eyed and clearly trying to fight off giggles of their own even in the safety of the car.

John’s face is hot when Gale pulls away, but he hasn’t cried tonight, so he decides he can’t be choosy about the little wins, smiling timidly.

“Get home safe,” Gale says, and John can’t help but grin.

“I’m gonna tell Ken to drive extra fast, actually,” he teases, and Gale rolls his eyes, lightly flicking John’s forehead as he turns to walk away.

“Goodnight, John,” he says over his shoulder.

John can hear the smile in his voice, and his face hurts with the force of his own.

“G’night.”

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.

Chapter Text

August 06, 2005

John is pulled from sweet, sunlit dreams by the heat of the real sun beaming down against his closed eyelids where he lies sprawled on his back on a suspiciously large mattress. He reflexively tries to turn away from it, but finds that he’s pinned in place by a weight draped over his chest, and there’s no room to roll over with his side against something solid.

When he breathes out a sound of confusion, still not quite free from the depths of sleep, the something rumbles out a laugh, and John all at once becomes much more conscious of his current situation than he likes.

The arm around him retracts to give him space to move, and John wants to grab it and forcibly return it to its prior position; instead he feels around for the edge of the blanket and clumsily tugs it over his head with a slurred out, “s’too bright.” His cheeks burn in his slightly–less–blinding cocoon, enough light still seeping through the thin summer blanket that when he peels his sleep–blurred eyes open, he can see the outline of Gale’s body to his right, and John promptly snaps his eyes right back shut.

Judging by the trajectory of the sun’s accosting rays, it’s much too late in the day for any sort of action below the waist to still be considered morning wood, so if he can avoid making an already embarrassing situation worse, that would be preferable.

The abrupt realization of the possible time of day has John freezing then, stomach clenching with a spike of panic like a blow to the gut, and he yanks the blanket back off his face, squinting against the bright light to fumble around the nightstand for his phone and coming up empty.

“Wh’time’s it?” He mumbles, pushing himself up onto his palms to scan the room for his missing phone. “I’ve got work at two.”

He spots the missing device on the dresser where he’d left it the night before, and he’s about to crawl out of bed to retrieve it when Gale places a hand on his shoulder, pushing gently, and John pushes back against his hold with a disgruntled noise.

“It’s only eleven, Johnny,” Gale says, and if all the fight hadn’t immediately seeped out of John’s body with that knowledge, the low rasp of his voice would’ve had a similar effect. His shoulders slump, and he lets Gale’s touch ease him back down, draping a wrist over his eyes, feeling the heat of his face against the back of his hand.

“Fuck,” he grumbles. This might creep to the top of his list of days he has absolutely not wanted to go into work; his eyes hurt, puffy from all the crying, and his chest feels heavy, dark clouds crowding into the space between his ribs.

What’s more, Gale feels like the only semblance of an anchor he’s got right now, and just the thought of leaving his house makes him feel uncomfortably untethered. That’s a whole other thing to unpack later, when Gale’s hand isn’t now gently sinking into his curls as if this is routine for the two of them.

John’s eyelids droop at the drag of blunt nails against his scalp, suppressing a shiver, giving up on willing away the surely splotchy pinks and reds that bloom over his cheeks.

“You sure you have to go in today?” Gale murmurs, voice painted with concern. John nods miserably, tilting his head ever so slightly into Gale’s hand. He thinks he hears Gale breathe out a quiet noise of amusement through his nose.

“Yesterday was a lot, bud,” Gale says gently. “I don’t think calling in sick is a terrible idea.”

It feels unfair that Gale’s trying to talk him into being sensible when he’s running his fingers through his hair; John’s not sure any decision made in these dire circumstances can be considered to have not been made under duress. A small part of him suspects that this is intentional, that Gale knows exactly what he’s doing– weaponized petting.

“They’d kill me,” he says, shaking his head. “Curt’s already off all weekend, they’d have to call someone else in to cover me.”

Gale wraps a curl around his finger, tugging lightly before letting it go, humming quietly.

“That’s not your responsibility,” he reasons. “You’re allowed to call out if you need to.”

John’s close to agreeing just to escape from the gentle pulls and pets, because as heavenly as it feels, between that and the fact that he’s laying in Gale’s bed, surrounded by his smell and body heat, John’s going to have a problem.

“I don’t know,” he mumbles. “My manager was kinda short with me yesterday, I’m scared he’ll be the one to pick up if I call in.”

“Can you text a friend instead?” Gale asks, and John shrugs, eyes sliding the rest of the way closed at the behest of Gale’s skilled fingers.

“I can try.” His tongue feels too thick for his mouth, limbs heavy; the thought of making any decisions right now, let alone moving to do so, is entirely unappealing.

“It’s up to you,” Gale says, hand slowly leaving his hair, and John barely swallows down a displeased whine. “I’m around all day, if you wanna hang out here, or I can give you a ride somewhere.”

The offer to hang around with Gale is enough to make the decision for John, anxiety over calling in be damned. Gale’s warmth leaves his side, and John wants to roll over and drag him back in with desperate arms thrown round his waist, but he stays put, peeking out from beneath his arm as Gale circles the bed, chest going all fuzzy at the sight of sleep–mussed hair and sweatpants slung low on his hips.

His heart leaps at the sudden urge to call his name, to drag Gale back into bed by his shirt, to have Gale’s arms bracket his head as he hovers above him, to listen as Gale takes advantage of the huskiness of his morning voice and murmurs obscenities in his ear. Decidedly unhelpful urges, more so when Gale turns to look at him as he reaches the doorway, expression too soft for the images gracing the inside of John’s brain.

“I’m gonna make us breakfast,” he says, leaning against the frame. “Feel free to use the shower, whatever you need– take it easy, okay?”

John feels guilty for his less than pure thoughts, but Gale’s endlessly warm patience blankets him, makes the mattress feel even softer beneath him. He nods, thanking Gale quietly, and he waits for him to leave the bedroom before he rolls over onto his stomach, shoving his face into the pillow with a shaky sigh.

The more he strays from the blurry edges of sleep, the more he can feel the threat of overthinking creep back in, and there’s a lot to think about, so much so that he doesn’t know where to start. So he reluctantly drags himself out of bed instead, padding over to the dresser and grabbing his phone before sitting back down on the edge of the mattress, chewing at his thumb nervously as he navigates to his messages.

John’s not sure whether to be comforted or not at the lack of notifications, no missed calls and no texts save for an image from Curt. He opens it and makes a face– it's just a picture of a wall full of an array of crosses and rosaries, all different shapes and sizes, like some sort of shrine. He reads the messages beneath it and snorts.

‘luhmaow i think i could pray for anything in here and it would come true. it’s like catholic santa claus XD’ and then, ‘do u think i could pray my gay away??’

John types back, ‘where tf are u lmao’, and then for good measure, ‘no amount of praying cud possibly save u curt lol’.

He switches over to his messages with Helen then, stomach in knots as he decides what to say. He’s not anxious to text her, but he’s anxious she’s not going to be around, and then he’ll have no choice but to call in.

‘are you working today? i think i need to take a sick day but i rly don’t wanna call in. :’)’

While he waits, he opens his dad’s contact, knots tightening until it feels like they’ve turned into one giant pit in his gut, and he decides not to text. He reasons that if anything bad– or out of the ordinary type of bad– had happened, he’d have woken up to a missed call at the very least, so he doesn’t want to poke the bear, sure everyone in his house is going to be in a foul mood after yesterday’s stress. He also doesn’t want to risk reminding his dad of his existence in case he’s then asked to come home, because he’s still so rattled that the last thing he wants to do right now is step back into that environment.

John gets a reply from Helen as he closes the bathroom door behind himself, and he sighs with relief at the confirmation that she’s already in and will relay the message for him. It’s one pressing worry taken off his plate, and he feels a lot less tense now that he doesn’t have to dread a full day of plastering on customer service smiles, especially with no shift scheduled for tomorrow either.

He thanks Helen profusely, and then he sets his phone down on the counter, finding a neatly folded towel and washcloth waiting there for him, and he smiles at the inanimate objects like he’s smiling at Gale himself. He feels incredibly out of place and unsure of himself as he approaches the shower; it feels so strange to be using his things, and he never in a million years could’ve predicted he’d be standing in Gale’s shower after only three weeks of knowing the man, much less sleeping in the same bed as him, and yet.

John nearly has a pavlovian reaction when he pops the lid of Gale’s shampoo open and catches a whiff of the now–familiar Old Spice smell, and he hastily turns the water from hot to cold before he actually squeezes the soap out. There’s no way in hell he’s going to jerk one out while Gale’s in the kitchen making him breakfast with a head most likely clear of any of the thoughts John’s having, so he hisses when he dunks his head under the freezing water, but he forces himself to bear it for a minute for the sake of not having to face Gale minutes after having a hand around his dick.

He doesn’t account for the outcome of this shower being that he now smells like Gale, nearly groaning to himself when he towels his hair off after stepping onto the mat. He’s thankful for the fogged–up mirror, not needing to see his reflection to know how red–rimmed his eyes probably still are, or how fluster–heat–flushed his face must be (and likely will stay, with a day spent in Gale’s company).

He pulls Gale’s clothes back on instead of his own from yesterday, deciding that wanting comfy sweats for a day in is a passable enough excuse, though even with the aid of the beautiful air–con, he’s going to need to swap out the hoodie for his t–shirt sooner rather than later.

John feels shy all over again when he shuffles his way down the hall, as if the fifteen minutes apart reset his comfort levels back down to square one, à la mildly panicking in Gale’s vicinity. It doesn’t help that when he reaches the kitchen’s entrance, Gale’s looking like a vision despite his sleep clothes– maybe because of them, really– where he leans a hip against the counter, and fuck John dead, he’s wearing glasses.

Some greater power wants him done away with, he’s certain of that now. He can’t even find it in himself to poke fun at Gale for the way he looks like a typical suburban dad, thin–rimmed (but devastatingly dapper) reading glasses sliding down his nose as he scans over a half–folded newspaper in one hand, the other holding a coffee mug.

Gale looks up when John steps into the room, scanning him over instead of the newspaper and smiling, placing it on the counter.

“How was your shower?” He asks, and John is so, so grateful he hadn’t given in to his impulses five minutes prior, because the innocent question would’ve had him squirming.

“It was good,” he gives Gale a small smile back, tracing his finger over the ridge in the doorframe. “I took the sick day.”

Gale eyes crease where they watch him over the rim over his mug, nodding as he sets it down next to the newspaper.

“Good,” he says warmly, and John experiences a faint ringing in his ears, hand coming up to nervously swipe at his nose to mask the way the simple approval goes to his head. “You need some celebratory eggs and toast?”

John laughs a little, nodding. “Yes please.”

The two of them end up eating breakfast at a wooden table on Gale’s back porch, the not–yet–scorching sun too nice to hide away from. The backyard is a lot bigger than John expects, privacy fences only lining the sides of it to divide his yard from the neighbours’, but the far end of it is wide open, save for a short two–railed wooden fence. It allows for an unrestricted view of the stretching fields beyond, Gale’s street being the furthest west in his neighbourhood, the closest to all the farmlands and industrial buildings they’d driven around the night before.

As John had suspected, with all the plant life in the house, it’s clear Gale’s put a lot of love and time into the space, plenty of open grassy area but lots of planters and seemingly in–progress projects strewn about the outskirts of the yard. It’s endearing– among other things– to imagine him spending his weekends out here, tending to his garden and working on whatever sort of construction appears to be going on in one corner. John wonders if he listens to music while he works, and he pictures what kind of music he might listen to, and he swallows down a million questions along with each bite of his toast because he doesn’t want to overwhelm Gale first thing in the morning (well, afternoon) and make him regret talking John into taking a sick day.

John knows it’s hypocritical to want him to talk less surface–level subjects when he’s shoving down his own urges to pry, but Gale hasn’t said a thing to allude to their late night impulsive hand holding, and John’s starting to think he’d imagined it, or that Gale regrets it, or that he’d just taken it as nothing more than an act of comfort in the moment. And really, maybe that’s a perfectly reasonable conclusion to come to, and John’s just overthinking it because he’s full of big disgusting embarrassing feelings for the man currently sitting across the table from him, but he can’t help the hope he holds onto that maybe Gale had felt something shift last night too, especially with the easy affection this morning. Hope doesn’t mean he’s going to bring any of it up on his own though.

“How’s your mom?” Gale asks quietly, dragging John from his thousand–yard–stare as he tries to figure out what the pile of wood stacked against the back fence is going to be used for. John curses himself for wishing for a little more substance in their conversation, because he hadn’t meant for it to lean that way; he doesn’t want to think about any of that right now when there’s not a thing he can do about it.

He shrugs limply, staring at the crumbs left on his empty plate as if they’re going to save him from confronting his emotions.

“I haven’t heard from anyone, so,” his knee jumps up, narrowly avoiding thunking into the underside of the table. “Usually that means everything’s fine.”

John makes a face at that last word, because it’s not quite the right descriptor for things like this, but he’s not sure how else to talk about it. ‘Usually that means no one’s hospitalized’ doesn’t sound much better. He can feel Gale’s eyes on him regardless, can see his thumb tracing the handle of his mug in his periphery as he thinks.

“Do you want to go see her?” He asks carefully, leaning back in his chair. John shakes his head, looking up.

“My aunt’s there, I think, and she’s– I don’t know, it’s just, it’s gonna be a whole thing,” he says glumly, and Gale nods, eyes gentle, no judgement to be found, and John’s grateful when he doesn’t push the subject.

“Alright. The day’s yours then, bud,” Gale says encouragingly, smiling a little. “You wanna stay in, you wanna go somewhere, just say the word.”

John blinks at him, warmth blooming in his chest once again. The thought of a whole day with Gale is overwhelming; it kickstarts happy jitters in his stomach despite the less than desirable circumstances that have got him in this position.

“I don’t mind,” he says. He really doesn’t– he’s content to do anything or nothing, so long as he doesn’t have to think about the shitshow he’s going to have to eventually return home to.

“I just… wanna be distracted, I guess.” John forces himself to give Gale a little more honesty, winding his finger around the frayed ties of one of his bracelets.

“What do you like to do when you need a distraction?” Gale shifts, pushing his hair out of his face, and John doesn’t stare, the same way he doesn’t think about a multitude of less than appropriate things Gale could do to distract him.

“Um,” he looks back out at the sprawling sun–drenched fields, because it’s easier to think when he’s not squirming under a heavy blue gaze. “I usually go on walks, if my friends aren’t around. Well– hikes, to get away from the suburbs.”

“We can do that,” Gale says without missing a beat, gesturing at the sky. “Not like it’s gonna rain anytime soon.”

John likes the sound of that; less pressure to not stumble over his words when there’s some sort of activity to distract him, but still getting to be in Gale’s presence.

“Can we?” He asks shyly, and Gale laughs a little.

“Course,” he says. “I’ll just have a shower too, and then we can go?”

John nods and helps bring the dishes back into the house and tries not to dwell on the fact that Gale’s about to be very naked in a shower in the same house as him, because that’s no way to be thinking about his gracious host–turned–hiking–companion.

It feels weird to be left alone once the bathroom door shuts. After brushing his teeth over the kitchen sink, glad he always brings his necessities with him to work, John’s much more interested in looking around the room, now that it’s day and he’s not preoccupied with trying to avoid having a mental breakdown in front of Gale. He observes from the couch at first, keeping a respectful distance like the man will somehow know that he’s looking at his belongings, but it’s not like he’d told John not to.

He has to get up anyway to change into his own shorts and tee, and on the way back from Gale’s bedroom after, he lingers by the bookshelf, keenly scanning over the array of novels and, surprisingly, poetry books. John guesses it makes sense, what with Gale’s comment about being an English major had he gone to university, but it makes him smile all the same, thinking about him pouring over the likes of Housman and Ginsberg, authors he’d studied in high school.

But he’s most intrigued by the picture frames that had been too obscured for him to see in the dark, leaning in to look at the one closest to him and realizing with a start that a younger Gale is staring back at him, arm wrapped around the waist of an equally baby–faced Marge. They don’t look any older than bright–eyed teenagers, and it’s jarring to see the two of them so much closer to his own age, lanky and soft in too–baggy summer clothes.

John hadn’t been aware they'd known each other for so long; he’d assumed there was at least a little history between them with how close they’d seemed at the beach, but the penned June ‘85 in the bottom corner confirms they go back further than he’d thought. The picture that the frame next to the first holds is much more recent– Gale’s amongst a group of men, many of whom John recognizes from the pub, sitting around a fire in a forested area, in varying states of laughter or with middle fingers aimed at the camera.

The image in the third frame is nearly identical, but looks to be a good decade or so older than the other group picture, and John doesn’t recognize anyone other than Gale in this one, though all the men are wearing similar jackets to the ones Gale and the guys at the pub wear. He wishes he could just sit Gale down and ask him everything he wonders about, pick him apart to his heart’s content and hear all of the stories he’s undoubtedly amassed. There’s something about him that makes John so painfully curious, like he can almost see things sitting just beneath the surface, but he can’t quite dip his hand in and reach for them– a forbidden touch tank.

“I leave you alone for ten minutes and you start snoopin’?”

John almost smacks his head on a shelf with how fast he straightens, whipping around to look at (a gloriously steam–flushed and wet haired) Gale with a face he’s sure is painted with guilt, feeling like he’s been caught red–handed doing something he shouldn’t be. But Gale’s smiling as he walks into the living room, grabbing his wallet and keys off the coffee table, and John relaxes ever so slightly, realizing he’s not actually upset.

“Sorry,” he says sheepishly, gesturing to the photo of him and Marge, deciding it’s probably the least invasive one to inquire about. “I just– I didn’t know you two go back so far.”

“Easy, I’m just playing,” Gale assures him, and John’s tense shoulders settle at the verbal confirmation. He glances at the frame on the shelf as he pockets his wallet and sunglasses, slotting his finger through the ring of his keys.

“Yeah, we grew up on the same street,” Gale responds to his casual prompt, eyes softening. “Dated all through high school, but it didn’t work out, clearly.”

That’s news to John. Gale doesn’t seem bent out of shape about it, not in the slightest, which doesn’t help dampen the urge to blurt out– “Why not?”

John at least has the decency to look apologetic afterwards, but Gale only seems entertained, eyeing him for a second before seeming to come to some sort of decision, passing John to lock the sliding door.

“Mostly ‘cause she’s not a man,” he says nonchalantly, snapping the lock closed before padding back through the living room to the hall, and then he laughs a little. “But if you asked her, she’d say it’s ‘cause I’m not a woman.”

Oh. Oh. “Oh.” Incredibly eloquent. John doesn’t know what else to say, with the abrupt surge of emotions he’s just been bombarded with. “Guess it worked out, sorta.”

Gale nods, not masking his amusement at John’s surprise as he trails after Gale to the entryway. John feels all warm again, being trusted with this information, but also– knowing. Knowing that Gale’s like him, knowing he and Curt aren’t as alone as they feel, knowing there are people older than him who love the way he does and live life normally. And, not as much of an afterthought as John would like in comparison to those other much more prominent realizations, knowing that in some small sense, his hope for reciprocal feelings is at the very least not entirely impossible.

John’s quiet as he pulls his shoes on, mulling this new piece of information over. Is Gale telling him for the sake of telling him, trusting him with it because he knows John is the same? Or is Gale telling him so that John knows he swings the same way as him, and if so, what’s he supposed to do with that, aside from internalize it and drive himself insane?

He follows Gale out to the driveway once they’re both ready to go, and Gale puts two water bottles in the saddlebag of his bike before leaning over, fumbling around the other side of it.

“I got you something,” he says. John’s curiosity is just as quickly steamrolled over when Gale straightens and turns to reveal what that something is.

John gives him a look of betrayal as he stares at the motorcycle helmet that’s being offered to him, and Gale laughs.

“Figured if we’re making a habit out of this, I gotta get you some sorta safety,” he says, bumping the helmet against John’s chest.

“You don’t wear one,” John protests even as he takes it from him, sulking.

“Driver’s rules,” Gale says, leaving no room for argument. “I worry about you back there, alright? Don’t need you turning into an organ donor on my watch.”

John can’t help but giggle at that as he pulls the helmet on, lifting the visor and reaching inside to shove his still–damp curls out of his face.

“How do I look?” He asks playfully, fairly certain he looks like a complete dweeb, but Gale appears so fond that for a split second John second guesses himself.

“Cute,” Gale says easily, knocking on the side of his helmet. John slides the visor shut before Gale can see the way he flushes, holding his breath to cut off the reactionary noise that threatens to slip out. He’s glad he doesn’t have to worry about hiding his smile beneath his face–shield, or about not staring when Gale slides on his aviators.

“Where are we going?” John asks a little breathlessly as he climbs on the bike behind Gale, voice muffled inside the helmet.

“I know a nice shaded trail, unless you wanna go somewhere specific?” Gale asks, leaning an arm on the front of his bike to twist and glance behind him. John shakes his head, bringing a hand up to run it through his hair and knocking against his helmet–prison instead, dropping his hand back to his lap with a huff.

“Anywhere’s fine by me,” he says, and Gale nods, turning back around.

“Alright,” he says, moving to start the bike, but he pauses, dropping his hand to pat John’s knee. John nearly shoots up off the bike at the unexpected touch, eternally grateful his arms hadn’t already been around Gale’s middle, certain he would’ve unintentionally compressed him with the way he’d tensed.

“Watch your legs by the pipes,” Gale says, sounding like he’s trying not to laugh, and John’s face warms further inside the already stuffy helmet. “Normally wouldn’t let you ride with shorts, but we’ll just be careful.”

“Yessir,” John faux–salutes, and Gale swats at his knee before actually starting the bike up, but then he pauses for a second time.

“Arms,” Gale nudges him after a moment, and John gets out an “oh”, quickly leaning forward to wrap them around Gale’s waist. He decides then that he absolutely hates the helmet, because he doesn’t get to feel the warmth of Gale’s shoulder beneath his cheek, or breathe in the smell of gasoline and open road, but it’s a small price to pay for getting to be back on the bike.

The upside is he can keep his eyes open without them getting wind–dried as they ride through the quiet neighbourhoods, passing yards of yellow–green sunbleached grass, kids running around sprinklers, teens skateboarding in swimsuits to the rec center, dads out mowing lawns. Eventually the Saturday afternoon suburbia gives way to open fields, Gale taking the roads along the outskirts of town as they ride south, the breeze against John’s arms giving him some reprieve from the heat beaming down, trapped inside his helmet.

It’s the longest time he’s been on the bike yet, maybe twenty minutes spent winding through shady forested roads once they get far enough from town, but he doesn’t mind, and not just because that’s twenty minutes with his arms wrapped around Gale, pressed up against his back. John really does understand the appeal of biking now, even if he’s not sure he’d quite trust himself to drive one on his own. It’s calming, the swaying motions and the ceaseless rumble of the motor when they’re going fast, putting his full faith in Gale to keep them steady, only having to worry about sitting still and holding on tight.

They slow down as they turn onto a dirt road, more of a path than anything, dust kicking up around them as Gale steers them up the slight incline before coming to a stop next to a trailhead, cutting the engine.

“Watch your legs,” he reminds John, staying seated and tapping his own shoulder. “Hold on if you need to, I don’t want you leaning against the exhaust.”

Yeah, John wouldn’t mind holding onto his shoulders, threat of hot exhaust pipes or not. That doesn’t mean he escapes without the familiar flutters in his stomach when he leans a hand on Gale as instructed, carefully lifting his leg up and over and stepping back onto solid ground. He yanks his helmet off with a dramatic gasp, shoving his hair off his forehead, not sure whether it’s damp from the shower or sweat now.

“Alright, princess,” Gale teases at his exaggerated inhale, taking the helmet from him to lock it back onto the bike.

“Felt like I was in a sauna,” John grumbles defensively, lifting the bottom of his shirt to wipe sweat off his forehead, and to conveniently mask the flush that rises to his face at the return of the nickname, one that’s spent a little too much time knocking around in his head since that day at the beach, whatever that says about him.

He finds Gale already looking at him when he drops his shirt back down, and that certainly doesn’t help matters, so John promptly turns around, stepping close enough to the trailhead to read the lettering on it.

“Ten miles?” He sputters as Gale nudges John’s arm with one of the water bottles he’d grabbed. “It’s like, 85 degrees.”

“We’re not walking the whole thing,” Gale laughs. “We’ll go till you’re bored, or tired, whatever comes first.”

“Oh, okay,” John says, relieved. He’s not out of shape, per se, his job keeps him on his feet more than long enough every week, but ten miles in any weather is a little much for him, let alone on a hilly incline.

He falls into step with Gale, properly taking in the fresh air of the forest, the heat of the day seeping into the dirt and producing rich, earthy smells that take him right back to childhood summers. The birds are out and chirping in the shade of the trees, the sun filtering through the leaves and casting mottled shadows on the trail in front of them, and the sounds of cars are nonexistent out here.

It’s more peaceful than John remembers; it’s been a while since he’s been able to trek somewhere so far into the wilderness, usually only going places accessible by his bicycle, or a short walk from transit, and that doesn’t get him much further than the university just outside of town. Everything on his shoulders feels just a little bit lighter after only a few minutes of walking, a little less heavy on his heart when he’s physically so distant from home.

Gale seems content to walk in companionable silence, and John wants to get better at being okay with that too, since silence doesn’t seem to mean anything bad when he’s with Gale. He’s just used to getting antsy when people go quiet around him, waiting for a sudden outburst, going in circles in his head trying to figure out why they’ve gone quiet, but with Gale he’s learning that there doesn’t have to be a why. It’s weird, and hard to sit with, so far out of his comfort zone.

He lasts about ten minutes with only sporadic comments on the surrounding nature and complaints about the heat exchanged between the two of them before he feels like he physically can’t handle the silence anymore.

“Can I ask you something?” John’s mouth moves before his brain gives him permission, not for the first and certainly not for the last time. Gale glances over, smiling.

“Always,” he says easily, nodding. And well, John hasn’t actually thought that far ahead, so he listens to the crunch of their shoes on dusty gravel for a few seconds while he tries to actually pluck a singular question from the cluster he’s been juggling around in his mind since breakfast.

“Do you think I’ll be allowed back in the pub?” John settles on. Easy enough, and he’s been wondering since he’d let his fake ID antics slip after his night of getting white girl wasted. He’s thankful Gale’s been so accommodating of him this weekend, especially with it being so last–minute, but the thought of inconveniencing him like this again makes him uncomfortable, so it would be nice to know he has somewhere he can just go set up camp without directly needing to ask Gale for help, as much as John kinda wishes he could spend every waking minute around the man.

Gale makes a half–amused, half–uncertain noise at the question.

“Been sitting on that one, huh?” He asks slowly, clearly giving himself time to word his answer, and John pouts, because he’s pretty sure that means it’s a no.

“I still need to talk to Marge about it,” Gale admits, and John feels guilty all over again for putting him in an awkward position.

“I’m sorry,” he says sincerely, kicking a pebble along the path as he walks. “It really was dumb. Wasn’t worth it either, Ken didn’t even try to murder Curt.”

Gale snorts, and John smiles at the sound.

“S’alright. We all do stupid shit sometimes,” Gale says, nudging the pebble back over when it strays from the path. John gives it a solid kick in thanks. “I’ll try to work up the bravery to face her wrath when I see her on Monday.”

“What do you think she’ll say?” John can’t help but ask. She’s well within her rights– legally, no less– to bar him from returning to The Stoplight; he wouldn’t hold it against her. Gale hums.

“I think she’s gonna cuss me out first,” Gale jokes, and John can picture it, having seen glimpses of a candid firecracker personality beneath Marge’s easygoing nature that day on the lake. It’s something he’d liked about her right off the bat; it had reminded him of Curt, unassuming and soft–spoken on the surface, but blunt and quick–witted around people he’s close with. “But I know her– I could tell she was fond of you at the beach, Johnny, she’s not gonna ban you. I doubt she’ll let you back in before your birthday, though.”

“That’s fair,” John nods, Gale’s assurance of her acceptance of him filling him with that same warm feeling he’d had watching the fireworks with the group. “It’s only a month away, anyway.”

“Yeah?” Gale glances at him. “What day?”

“September eighth,” John says. He doesn’t care much for his birthday, always content to go see a movie with Curt or just sleepover at his place and spend the night gaming, never one to make a big deal out of it, but the thought of it being his ticket back into the pub with Gale gives him a little bit of a reason to look forward to this one.

“Twenty–one’s a big one,” Gale comments, and John supposes he’s right, but he thinks it would feel more exciting if he had any interest in drinking or going clubbing or whatever usual activities accompany hitting legal drinking age.

“I don’t think much will change,” John reasons. “I’ll be more busy with the start of uni than anything else.”

“I think you’ll survive if you take a night off,” Gale says playfully. “Maybe you and Curt can come have your first legal drink at the pub.”

“Maybe,” John says, hoping his smile doesn’t betray the enthusiasm he feels at the suggestion. They lapse back into silence then for a minute before John clears his throat nervously, twisting and retwisting the cap of his water bottle in his hand.

“Gale,” he says, and Gale hums in acknowledgement. John can feel his eyes on him, and it doesn’t help him get his words out, but he can’t stop thinking about what Gale had so nonchalantly confirmed earlier, and he can’t help how many questions he has about it all. He’s never had someone he can talk to about this stuff other than Curt, and neither of them have been much help to each other past suffering in solidarity, both of them stuck in the same boat.

“How did you… how did you know?” John gestures vaguely, cheeks a little warm. Sometimes the word itself feels tainted, dirty– he knows it’s not, but it’s hard to say it out loud when he hears it roll off of people’s tongues with disdain more often than not.

“Gonna have to give me more than that, bud,” Gale says goodnaturedly, and John stares stubbornly at the opening in the trees far ahead, tips of his ears hot.

“Um,” he peels at the label on his water, pulling back the corner and resticking it, again and again. “Like, how’d you know you didn’t like girls?”

It feels easier to word it that way, than to ask him outright how he’d known he was into boys, let alone to ask how he knew he was gay.

“That’s a– that’s a loaded question,” Gale breathes out a laugh, but he doesn’t seem uncomfortable with it when John risks a glance at him, so he swallows down his apology. He waits patiently, as much as he’s able to, knowing by now that Gale likes to take his time getting his words in order before he speaks. He wishes he were like that; it would save him from a lot of less than desirable situations.

“Well, you just kinda know, don’t you?” Gale muses. “The other guys say things about girls you don’t even think about, and you feel different from ‘em, and eventually it clicks.”

“What about Marge?” John asks, then flushes at his lack of filter. “Sorry– you don’t have to talk about it, I don’t mean to be nosy.”

“You’re allowed to ask questions, John,” Gale says warmly, encouragingly. “Marge… I mean, we grew up together. Everyone just kinda expected that’s how things would be with us, y’know? And so did we, so we gave it a shot in high school.”

John does know. He remembers the feeling of hanging out with girls in elementary school and immediately having everyone pestering him about whether they were dating, and being so confused until he got a little older and realized how the world works. It’s how his first kiss had happened– obligation, under the bleachers in grade six with pretty, blonde, doe–eyed Sarah, because he’d learned that if a boy and a girl talk to each other, it means they have to want to kiss.

And then of course all the guys wanted to hear about it, so John had gotten good at lying real quick, and probably hurt Sarah’s feelings a little when he’d started avoiding her after that, but he had thought it was better than telling her that kissing her had felt the same way it had felt sitting in his room kissing his own hand to practice for what he was sure would be a life altering experience, hopes sky–high after seeing the way the movies portrayed it.

In high school with Jane it had been a little different, since John had actually enjoyed her friendship, and hadn’t had that heart–in–throat, tight–chested feeling every time they were alone, anticipating the ‘natural’ next step. But it had come, of course, the other guys– notably not Curt– asking how far they’d gone, and John had gotten psyched out, thinking it was weird and abnormal that he hadn’t made a move yet when according to them, Jane was pining for it.

He’d thought that time he might feel something, since he cared for her so deeply as a friend, but if anything it had felt more wrong than it had with Sarah, like kissing a sibling, or something equally uncomfortable. Unfortunately, Jane had felt much more enthusiastic about their encounter, and John had been left to pick up the pieces after a messy not–breakup, losing not only a close friend but a lot of self confidence too.

It had only been while venting to Curt about it afterwards that Curt had ever so tentatively said something about how “maybe the problem is that she’s a girl,” and John had to sit with that one for a while. And then he and Curt had nervously kissed to ‘test the theory’ that both of them had been thinking about themselves, and regardless of John’s feelings towards his best friend, the way kissing a boy had felt had been more than enough confirmation. They’d never progressed past shy wandering hands and heated makeouts in the dark of Curt’s room, both of them subconsciously aware it was more of a convenience thing rather than actual feelings, but John wouldn’t have been interested in doing any of those things with a girl, and that was enough for him to– as Gale said– just know.

“I wish I had something more exciting than that,” Gale jokes, dragging John back to the present.

“That’s okay,” he says, smiling apologetically at Gale for his silence.

“Why’d you wanna know?” Gale asks, shooting John a playful look. “You having doubts? Got your eyes on a girl?”

“God, no,” John’s quick to shut that down, both because it can’t be further from the truth, and because he doesn’t need Gale thinking he’s off limits, if he’s thinking about him at all. The pebble he’s been kicking along finally flies too far off the path for retrieval.

“Was just curious, I guess,” he says. “Curt’s, like, the only person I’ve met who’s– like me, y’know? Feels like we’re more rare than unicorns, sometimes.”

Gale laughs, nodding.

“I know what you mean,” he says. “We’re out there though. Gotta remember that, or it starts feelin’ lonely sometimes, yeah?”

“Yeah,” John agrees, biting back a “you make me feel less lonely,” reaching his hand up to drag his fingertips along the leaves of a low–hanging branch. It’s oddly comforting to know that Gale might share the same worries as him sometimes, but that he’s made a life for himself despite it all; it makes John feel like things might be okay, eventually.

“Do you–” John pauses as they reach the edge of the dense treeline, listening. “Is that water?”

He looks at Gale, and Gale smiles, gesturing for John to go on ahead. John runs to cover the last bit of distance to where the trees part and reveal a rocky outcrop in the middle of the forest. The sun beams down into the open area, rays glimmering on the surface of a beautiful natural swimming hole further down the rocks, a small but steady flow of water cascading over the rock’s edges and into the deep blue.

“No way,” John breathes in, peering down the slope, a clear trail leading to the water’s edge. It’s like something straight out of the nature documentaries and library books he’s poured over when trying to decide on his major, nestled right into his very own city. He’d never have found something like this on his own, with what little distance he’s able to explore without a car.

“Thought you’d like that,” Gale says when he catches up to him, staring down at the shimmering rock pool. “You still hot enough to swim?”

John looks at him, elated at the possibility, but–

“We don’t have swim–shorts,” he frowns, looking wistfully back down at the inviting water.

“You haven’t gone commando today, have you?” Gale says, teasing, and it takes John a second before he snaps his gaze back to Gale, glowering even as he feels heat creep up his neck.

“Course not,” he grumbles defensively, looking away.

“No worries, then,” Gale shrugs easily, patting John on the back before heading off down the boulders. John’s head feels a little fuzzy as he watches him go, feet feeling very reluctant to follow after him as he watches Gale pull his shirt up and over his head, much more content to stare from the safety of the ledge he’s stood on (and very capable of throwing himself off of at a moment’s notice, if need be). But Gale glances over his shoulder to see if he’s following, so John shoves down his arsenal of less than believable excuses that sit on the tip of his tongue and begins clambering down the nature–made rocky steps after him.

When Gale tosses his shirt over a tree branch by the shore and his hands drop to the fly of his shorts, John comes gravely close to losing his footing, dropping his eyes to the ground with cheeks flaming red, heart pounding so hard the sound of it nearly overpowers the splashes of the small waterfall. He shucks off his own shirt as he walks before he can talk himself out of it, and he keeps his eyes down as he works on his own zipper, not sure how he’s going to come out of this situation alive. He might just drown himself, to save himself from wondering.

There’s the sound of sloshing water as John steps out of his shorts, and he looks up in time to see Gale stepping into the small lake, tattoos sliding slow over golden skin as his shoulder blades roll in time with the tensing of his arms. John’s eyes don’t know where to settle, can’t stay in place for more than a breath, snapping low to the curve of tight black boxer–briefs, down further where the fabric hugs muscled thighs, then back up when Gale starts to turn, mouth feeling drier than the dusty path that had led them here.

“You chickening out now?” Gale smiles, wading backwards, letting his fingertips drag along the calm surface. John shakes his head, draping his shorts over the branch with their other clothes and stepping up to the water’s edge, hissing as soon as he dips his feet in.

“It’s cold,” he exclaims, arms reflexively wrapping around his middle as he edges in up to his ankles, stalling. Gale’s eyes don’t leave him as he continues walking backwards, and John can’t help the way his gaze darts low to where an inked stomach tenses as the water laps up against it. He never thought he’d be jealous of water, and yet.

“You were moanin’ about being sweaty the whole way here,” Gale flicks some water at him with a grin, and John yelps, jumping backwards. “You’re gonna be miserable if you don’t cool down before we head back.”

John’s not trying to embarrass himself in front of Gale, but as much as he despises the heat, he’s still a bit of a baby about cold water. Lake Michigan’s a whole lot warmer than a small woodsy lake like this one, and his body temperature’s also risen so much from the whole visual attack of a half–naked Gale that the chill of water feels even more sharp.

“Okay, I’m going,” he surrenders, rubbing his hands up and down his sides like he can preheat his skin before the water reaches it. His idea of going is a little slow–moving, holding his breath as he inches his way in, staring down into the pebbley blue shallows, listening to Gale wade deeper and deeper, but then the sounds of water start getting closer rather than further, and he looks up to find Gale moving towards him.

“You’re torturing yourself,” Gale hums, pushing wet hair out of his face, eyes glinting. “It’s painful to watch.”

John watches him approach, mildly suspicious until the corners of Gale’s mouth quirk up, and then his breath catches as Gale lets his true intentions slip. He hardly manages to turn and dash towards shore before there’s a surge of water behind him and wet hands catch him around his middle, pulling a gasp of “Gale!” from his lips at the cold as he’s dragged backwards. Gale spins him and gets an arm around his waist before he throws him unceremoniously over his shoulder, turning and marching the two of them right back into the water.

“Do not,” John pleads even through giggles, trying to dig his knee into Gale’s ribs so he’ll drop him, but Gale only hoists him over further, wrapping his arm around his thighs instead.

“I’m only helping you out,” Gale pants out a laugh as John squirms, hips pinned against his shoulder, hands slipping along his wet back, face burning at all the skin–to–skin contact.

“Gale–”

“Putting you out of your misery,” Gale continues, and John can hear the grin in his voice, and it makes him feel so weak that he gives up the fight, accepting his fate as Gale walks them in waist–deep.

“Cooling you off,” Gale drawls, pushing John further over his shoulder until John’s hair is dangling in the water and Gale’s holding him by his calves, and then he lets him drop. The cold steals the air from John’s lungs when he plunges in, but it soothes the flush on his cheeks, suspended in still blue silence for a second before he pushes himself to his feet, sputtering.

John can’t see Gale, dark hair dripping wet over his eyes, but he drags his hand through the water to sweep it over in the general direction he can hear quiet laughter coming from and ducks back under the surface before Gale can retaliate, tilting his head back on his way up to push his hair out of his face. He gets a single breath in before a spray of water hits his face, and he wipes his hand over his eyes, glaring in jest.

“Can’t hit a man while he’s down!” He insists, splashing back. Gale jerks out of the way with a grin, golden curls falling over his brows.

“I’ll show you a man down,” he laughs out, lunging forward the best he can at the depth where they stand, and John dives under the water in a bid to escape, cheeks hurting from the force of his smile as he swims away, slippery as a fish. He swims towards the sound of crashing water, cracking his eyes open and squinting into the blue–green depths, sunrays hazy in the unnatural environment.

Gale doesn’t try all that hard to catch him, the chase half of the fun. John ducks behind the cascading falls like he can use them as a shield, beaming at Gale from behind the wall of water, the cool spray of it spattering over his face. They swim cat–and–mouse circles around the tumbling blue until Gale abruptly disappears beneath the surface, only ripples left behind, and John paddles backward as he tries to peer into the unsettled water to spot his assailant.

A hand closing around his ankle is all the warning he gets before he’s yanked under, laughter and shouts coming out in bubbles as he squirms away from Gale’s blurry form, feeling his hand slide up his calf to try to get a better grip. If John had more breath in his lungs, he’d stay submerged in the navy depths long enough to feel Gale’s hands glide over every inch of skin, but he’s short on air as is, let alone with the way the graze of callused palms has him burning up from the inside.

He shakes his leg in slow–motion beneath the water, pushing up for the dappled sunlight on the surface, and Gale releases him, letting him pull fresh air into his lungs and bare his face to the sky once again.

The rocks are warm beneath John’s bare skin where he lies on his back at the top of the outcrop, Gale stretched out on his stomach next to him, the two of them rotating their bodies every few minutes like they’re roasting on spits under the sun to let their underwear dry off. Exhausted as he is from rough–housing and making the most of the swimming hole, John quickly grows bored of lying in place, propping himself up on his elbows to stare out at the treeline. He can see Gale crack an eye open when he shifts, but he closes it when he realizes John’s only readjusting his position, and John takes this opportunity to look at him without being watched back.

He trails his eyes along Gale’s arms, down his back, over all of his tattoos, properly taking them in for the first time. It’s clear they’ve been accumulated over a number of years, some more faded than others, or in different styles, some with a lot more finesse and some that look like they were done while drunk, or in the dark, but they all fit together nicely anyway, dotted with freckles and little white–marred secrets. John hopes Gale will keep him around long enough that he’ll get to ask about each piece, to learn the stories behind the lines, to connect the dots of the man beneath them.

He continues down further, where dark damp cotton still clings, rounded and firm, elastic hems stretched round muscular thighs. In an ideal world, he’d let his gaze linger there for the rest of the day, but he really doesn’t feel like tenting his own boxers when that’s the only bit of cloth between him and an embarrassing situation, so down long athletic legs he goes, until his eyes settle on the jagged upside–down T–shaped scar that spans the length of Gale’s right calf.

He mulls it over, always curious, wondering at what point, if ever, it becomes appropriate to ask someone about a pretty obvious mark like that.

“What are you thinking about?”

John jumps, eyes snapping back up to Gale’s face, relieved to find his are still closed.

“What?” He says flatly, buying himself time.

“I can hear the wheels in your head turning.” Gale does open his eyes then, getting his hands beneath himself to roll himself over onto his back, and John operates on Gale’s cue, rolling onto his stomach and pillowing his cheek on folded arms, crossing his ankles over each other.

“I was…” John pauses, chewing on the inside of his cheek. Gale had been forthcoming with his answers earlier, so maybe it’s okay. “I was wondering– what happened to your leg?”

“My leg?” John watches Gale lift his head to look down, and then his eyes go comically wide as he gasps. “Oh shit, what happened to my leg?”

John groans at the joke, hiding his face in his arms so Gale doesn’t see the way it’s managed to pull a smile out of him. It’s quiet for a few seconds, and John thinks maybe the joke is as much of an answer as he’s gonna get, which is fine, really. Gale doesn’t owe him anything, and he’s only nosy.

“It’s a long story,” Gale finally says, pensive. Normally John would make some quip about how he’s got time, but the hesitation in Gale’s tone stops him, and he’s glad it does, because Gale adds, “Maybe another time, huh?”

“Okay,” John nods into his arms, careful not to sound disappointed– he’s just more curious, if anything, but he can be patient. It’s not like he’s in any rush to leave Gale’s life, so as long as Gale wants him around, he’s got all the time in the world.

They redress after a little bit longer in the sun, John trotting back down to the shore once more to cup some water in his hands and wet his hair before they leave, because the heat of the afternoon has well and truly set in now. The cold droplets running down his shoulders as they set off are more than welcome now, the air thick and muggy even in the shake of the trees, and he’s a lot more tired from all the exercise than he’d expected.

A few minutes pass of their descent down the mountain trail before John starts peeking at the edges of the path, veering close to the brush, and Gale quickly takes notice.

“What’re you doing?” He asks, sounding amused.

“Looking for a stick,” John answers, undeterred in his search, crouching to pick up a promising one, but making a face and tossing it when he determines it’s an undesirable shape.

“A stick,” Gale echoes, pausing to wait for him each time he slows.

“A good one,” John amends matter–of–factly, and Gale snorts.

“What constitutes a good stick?” He asks, and John can hear the smile in his voice again.

“Yay–high,” John gestures above his waist. “A T–shape is ideal, but not strictly necessary.”

He can feel Gale watching him when he bends down again, getting his hand around another lengthy broken–off branch and making a triumphant noise when he straightens up, satisfied with his find.

“Good stick?” Gale asks, and when John looks up from his new prized possession, the expression he finds awaiting him is almost unbearably soft, and he’s glad he has the stick to lean on for the way it makes his knees go weak.

“Good stick,” John confirms quietly, smiling and jabbing it experimentally into the ground before continuing along the trail, Gale falling into step with him.

Even with his handy walking stick, it doesn’t take long for John to start dragging his feet, the emotional and physical exhaustion of the past twenty–four hours seeming to catch up to him all at once. Gale’s at least not walking as fast as he had on the way up, whether that’s because he’s tired too or because he’s picking up on John’s fatigue, but John’s legs still feel the burn.

“Gale,” he stops, squinting into a beam of sun when Gale turns to look at him. “How much longer?”

“Bout ten minutes, bud,” he says, the corner of his mouth twitching up. “You good?”

John shifts from one foot to the other, leaning against his stick.

“I’m not built for this,” he groans, and Gale loses the battle of fighting off his smile.

“You said you like hiking,” he says, a gentle jab, and John slumps, grabbing the front of his shirt and shaking it to fan the sweaty skin beneath.

“Like, outskirts–of–town hiking,” he says, flushed. “I don’t ever get to go to the mountains like this. And it’s hot.”

Gale hums a teasing but sympathetic noise, dragging his eyes down his energy–sapped form before nodding.

“Alright, up you get.” He turns, crouching and patting his back expectantly. John scoffs at the suggestion, making no move to do so, gawking at the man.

“Nah,” John protests, face warm. “Just need a break, ‘s’all.”

“C’mon,” Gale breathes out a laugh. “Say goodbye to your beloved walking stick and hop on. We’re almost down, anyway.”

John eyes him for a few seconds longer. It’s an appealing offer for a number of reasons, some of which he’s sure aren’t Gale’s intention, but he feels bad.

“Are you sure?” He asks, twisting the end of the stick in the dusty ground. Gale pats his back insistently again.

“It’ll be my workout for the day,” he assures him, and John doesn’t need much more convincing, legs weary as he regretfully lays his walking stick on the side of the trail and rejoins Gale. He hesitates for a moment before shyly placing his hands on Gale’s sun–hot shoulders and hoisting himself up, big hands catching him by the undersides of his thighs, jostling him into a comfortable carrying position.

“Okay?” John checks, timid, aware that Gale’s in (unfairly) good shape but still not wanting to be too much of a handful.

“Easy as pie,” Gale says, squeezing one hand around his thigh as he starts walking. “My human–backpack on and off the bike, now.”

John lets out a surprised giggle, letting go of Gale’s shoulders to loop his arms more comfortably around him, closing a hand around his own wrist where it drapes against Gale’s chest.

The sway of his steps is enough to relax John, mind just as wiped as his body, eyes drooping as they continue on in silence. If he didn’t have to work to keep his head up, he’d probably doze off like this, regardless of the discomfort of their too–hot bodies pressed against each other’s. He’s too tired to even get keyed up from it, just enjoying the safe feeling of being held until the trailhead at the fence and Gale’s motorbike come back into view.

“Watch your legs,” Gale reminds him once they’re seated, and John leans his helmet–covered head on his shoulder, sighing out contentedly.

“Wouldn’t even feel it,” he says, half–convinced his legs are too dead to notice a burn.

“Let’s not test that theory,” Gale says, and John nods tiredly, humming his compliance. He keeps his eyes open long enough to see the prettiest parts of the forested ride back, but he lets them slide closed by the time they get to the sprawling farms on the edges of town, soaking up the sun and warm breeze and sounds of the open road.

It’s a little after three when John drags his feet after Gale into the house, goosebumps rising on his arms when the crisp air conditioning envelopes him. He kicks his shoes off and follows Gale aimlessly, feeling in his drowsy state that he’s imprinted on him like some embarrassingly helpless baby animal, content to just hover and wait for further direction.

Gale hands him a glass of water in the kitchen and John takes it on autopilot, thanking him before rehydrating the day’s worth of sweat he’d lost on the hike, leaning back against the wall. He watches Gale move around the kitchen through heavy eyelids, plastic water bottles tossed, fresh ice cubes placed in the container of water in the fridge, a cupboard pulled open.

“You hungry?” Gale asks as he shifts things around inside.

“M’tired,” John says, and Gale closes the cupboard, looking at him. John blinks at him slowly, fighting back a yawn, sliding down the wall a little bit more.

“You wanna nap?” His voice is softer now, and John nods. He doesn’t want to waste a minute with Gale, but he can barely keep his eyes open, and a nap in the nice cool air conditioning sounds heavenly. As tired as he is, he’s grateful for the way it’s taken his mind off of everything; his thoughts haven’t strayed as much as they usually do, the day not spent ruminating on what might be waiting for him at home the way he’d expected, too wrapped up in all the things Gale’s been keeping him busy with.

“Alright,” Gale smiles, tilting his head towards the door. “Go on.”

John pushes away from the wall, resisting the childish urge to ask to be carried the few steps down the hall, one piggyback already verging on too much for his psyche today. He feels Gale hovering behind him as he walks, but he stops outside of his bedroom, unsure if Gale means for him to nap on the couch or in bed, the latter feeling a lot more intimidating in the light of day, without overwhelming emotions dulling his inhibitions.

Gale’s hand finds the small of his back when John turns to look at him in silent question, and John aches to curl his fingers into the front of his shirt and pull him over to the bed, no matter the fact that he’s nearly asleep standing up.

“You can sleep in there,” Gale encourages, placing his other hand on the doorframe. “I don’t wanna keep you up while I’m moving around out here.”

John wants to whine at the confirmation that Gale’s not going to join him for a nap, but he thinks he’s gotten more than he could’ve hoped for already, waking up next to him earlier that day, so he hums his assent and shuffles into Gale’s room, letting himself teeter face–first onto the mattress as soon as his knees bump into the side of the bed. He hears soft laughter, then feels hands close around his ankles where they hang off the edge of the bed, mentally transported back to the rock pool with a quiet noise of surprise, but Gale just maneuvers his legs up and over onto the mattress, turning John lengthwise in the process.

John melts into a puddle on the mattress, unbothered by the way the movement has twisted the blanket beneath him, only lifting his head to drag the pillow under himself before burying his face in it with a heavy sigh.

“You want the blinds closed?” Gale murmurs, a hand still resting on his ankle, warm and solid and so very tethering. John shakes his head, pillowcase dragging against his cheek, and Gale’s hand squeezes before he pulls away.

“I’ll wake you up at five, how about?” John doesn’t open his eyes when he sounds his agreement, arm tightening around the pillow, but when he hears the door handle turn, he mumbles Gale’s name.

“What’s up?” Gale responds quietly.

“Can you leave th’door cracked?” John asks shyly, almost a whisper. It’s a silly request, and he doesn’t quite know why he says it, but he’s got one foot in the door to dreamland and not a lot of self control left to show for himself, and he thinks he’d just feel better not being fully cut off from Gale while he sleeps.

“Of course.” Gale doesn’t leave him with even a second to doubt himself, and John doesn’t have to open his eyes to see if Gale follows through or not; he trusts him, and the quiet sounds of books shifting on the bookshelf as John drifts off are enough to let him know that trust isn’t misplaced.

John wakes up on his own to the TV playing low, the garble of unintelligible voices reaching just far enough into the room to stir him from his sleep. The stretch that possesses his whole body is so strong it makes his arms vibrate around the pillow he’s still holding close, legs aching in protest at the motion, the blanket crisp and cool beneath him. He feels like the sun has soaked down to his marrow, leaving him deflated and fuzzy, TV static in his head and jelly for bones.

He could fall back asleep in a heartbeat, but he thinks it must be close to five, feeling like he’s slept for at least an hour, so he reaches an arm out to fumble around to check the time on his phone before realizing he has no idea where it is. He pats himself down, not feeling the familiar shape in his pocket, and it’s not on the dresser either when he forces an eye open, so he must’ve left it in the kitchen earlier.

He groans, rolling onto his back in defeat, resting for a minute more, feeling the warm yellow glow through the window on his lids before he reluctantly pushes himself up, stumbling to the door with slits for eyes. The living room is closer than the kitchen (and also contains Gale), so John shuffles over there, finding him lounging on the couch with a book in hand, feet up on the coffee table, stupid (hot) glasses on.

“Why don’t you have a clock in your room?” John slurs out as he drops onto the couch. He closes his eyes once he doesn’t need to see where he’s going anymore, curling his legs beneath himself and sitting with his back against the arm of the couch, leaning the side of his head on the cushions. He hears Gale breathe out a laugh, paper crinkling quietly.

“Wait till you’re thirty–five,” he teases. “It’s all internal by then; you won’t need an alarm to wake up.”

John barely processes the thirty–five, mouth already plowing on ahead, lips loose from residual sleep.

“Well, I still need one,” he pouts, rubbing his eyes, complaining for the sake of complaining. “Would make my life easier if you got one.”

John goes still the moment the words slip out, realizing the implication of the offhand comment a second too late. He keeps his eyes shut, settling his hands in his lap, pressing his cheek against the cushion like he can get the words back in if he uses enough force. Whatever unspoken balance that’s been formed between them, John’s sure he’s just shattered it with his unintentional presumption of further nights spent at Gale’s, and he wants to cry a little bit as half–thought–out attempts to backpedal crawl up his throat.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean–”

“I think I’ve got one laying around somewhere in the garage,” Gale says nonchalantly. “I’ll look for it next time, before you come over.”

Next time. As fast as all of John’s anxiety had fizzled to life, it seeps out like a cool wave, warmth creeping in to take its place. He doesn’t say anything back, too busy desperately fighting back a face–splitting grin, managing to tame it down to an easy smile, one he hopes looks a lot more calm than he feels.

John doesn’t even care what Gale’s idea of a next time entails, too elated at the promise of there being one at all, at the notion of being able to keenly await it, knowing Gale wants to spend more time with him. As much as he’s sure today has been fun for Gale too, every moment feeling ultrapure on the mountain, there’s a tiny bit of him that’s still been apprehensive at the possibility of it all being out of obligation, of Gale feeling like he needs to take care of him because of how out of hand things had gotten under his supervision at the pub.

So it’s as reassuring as it is hopeful to hear him allude to more, dampening the last sparks of the underlying current of uncertainty.

John finally forces his eyes open when he feels the cushions shift a bit, blinking away the blurriness of the sun–filled living room and watching Gale set his glasses and book down on the coffee table, a receipt tucked in to save his spot. Gale turns to look at him, then cracks a smile.

“I was gonna ask if you’re awake enough to go get dinner, but,” Gale gestures at the general state of him, and John pushes his bottom lip out, running his fingers through lake–tangled curls in an attempt to make them presentable enough without needing another shower before they go.

“I’m awake enough,” John insists, hunger catching up to him after all the swimming, more aware of it now that he’s had his much needed nap. Gale stands, stretching, and John tilts his chin up, waiting for an okay.

“Alright, get your shoes,” Gale says, and John pushes himself off the couch, heading back to the bedroom for his backpack, grabbing his phone from the kitchen on his way to rejoin Gale at the front door. When he crouches to pull his shoes on, Gale makes a quiet noise, and John looks up, peering through his hair.

“You wantin’ to go home after?” Gale asks, motioning to his bag, and John balks, stopping with one shoe on and one off.

“Oh, I thought– I mean, I should,” he trips over his words, thrown off by Gale’s surprise. “I don’t know, I just thought you might want me out of your hair for a bit, and I don’t wanna push my luck disappearing from home for too long.”

Gale’s confusion softens, furrowed brows smoothing out, and when he brings a hand down to ruffle John’s hair, John almost keels over, scrambling to pull his other shoe on before he loses his balance.

“I don’t mind you bein’ in my hair, Johnny, I like having you around,” Gale says sincerely, and John regrets standing back up, putting himself in the direct line of fire of those watchful sea–blues. “Just wasn’t sure what your plan was, with it being the weekend and all. I can take you home no problem if you feel better about that.”

John thinks he might need to sit back down with how overwhelming his earnest consideration is, the reassurance he gives so willingly without John having to actually ask for it– he feels bowled over by it all. Instead he smiles and prays he doesn’t look too love–sick while he’s at it, slinging his bag over his shoulder.

“Thank you,” he accepts Gale’s words, albeit bashfully. It feels cruel to have something he wants so badly dangled in front of him like this when he knows he’s going to have to turn it down, wanting both to see with his own eyes that his mom’s alright– he feels selfish already for having such a good day when shit’s probably been hitting the fan at home– and to ensure he doesn’t undo the damage control he’s put so much effort into lately to keep his dad off his back.

“I do wanna stay, I just feel like my dad– well, I should make sure I’m there if he or my mom need help, or anything.” It’s not a complete lie, but John hates not being fully honest with Gale after everything he’s done for him. He just doesn’t want to weigh him down with more than what he’s already opened up about when there’s nothing either of them can do about it; it’s not productive and he doesn’t want Gale to worry about him, he can take care of himself good enough.

“That’s alright, bud,” Gale says, pulling the front door open and holding it for him, shutting and locking it before he leads John to his truck. “You can always tell me what you need, I don’t want you worrying about that.”

As sad as John is about going home after dinner, he feels so much more settled with Gale’s understanding, and with the knowledge that he has something he can count on to look forward to, now. It doesn’t make him any less reluctant to leave the diner though after Gale pays for their food– “How about you focus on savin’ for paying off the cost of that smart brain of yours, and let me worry about this?”– but it’s a relief to not have the familiar knot in his stomach when it’s time to say goodnight.

Gale turns to him once he’s parked down John’s street, looking tired but content, mirroring John’s own feelings.

“Try to take it easy tomorrow, bud,” he says quietly. John can’t help the face he makes, and Gale gives him a look. “John.”

“I was gonna try to pick up a shift to replace today’s,” he tells Gale sheepishly, hugging his backpack in his lap. “I’ve only got like, three weeks left there, I wanna make the most of them.”

“You gonna take care of yourself in the meantime, at least?” Gale relents, and John nods– he means it, too. Maybe it should be enough to take care of himself for himself, but when Gale asks him to, it makes John feel a lot more inclined to actually listen.

John hesitates then, looking down where he tugs absently at the side–zipper on his bag, working up the nerve to be a tiny bit brave.

“When can I see you next?” He asks shyly, blinking at Gale. The soft smile he gets does nothing to steady his heart.

“When are you off next?” Gale questions, arm resting on the open window.

“Wednesday,” John says, hopeful.

“We’ll do something when I clock out then, that sound good?” Gale decides, and John nods happily, about ready to burst with how good it sounds. Only a few days to drag his feet through, and then he gets to see Gale again; everything else in between seems so much more manageable now.

“Okay,” Gale nods too, and John unbuckles his seatbelt, feeling a little less like he’s preparing to march to his grave when he opens the truck door. “Text when you’re in.”

“Force of habit already,” John says cheekily as he climbs out, pulling his bag over his shoulders. They bid each other goodnight, and John makes the familiar walk home in the hot late–evening sun, heart warm and full in his chest.

Seeing everyone’s cars in the driveway isn’t enough to dampen his spirit, though he does steel himself before he opens the front door, not sure of what to expect when he steps into the entryway, quietly shutting the door behind himself and toeing off his shoes. He doesn’t hear any yelling this time– no voices at all, actually, aside from the ones blaring too–loud on the TV in the living room.

John glances at the end of the hallway on his way to his room, and he catches a glimpse of his dad and aunt sitting on the couch in front of the screen, nursing drinks and looking mildly uncomfortable in each other’s company. Neither of them notice his presence as he slips down the hall, but the sight of his bedroom door standing open makes him furrow his brows. He always leaves it shut when he goes out, has done so from the day his dad had screwed it back on its hinges a few months after taking it off as punishment for a particularly bad argument in eighth grade.

He enters the room cautiously, immediately able to sense that something’s off by the faint smell of tobacco and perfume before his gaze even falls on the clothes crumpled at the foot of his bed, and the jewelry on his bedside table. He notices a bag hanging off the post of his bed too, and he tilts his head back on his shoulders to stare up at the ceiling for a moment, stifling a groan.

He drops his bag by the door and grudgingly makes his way back down the hall, stopping at the edge of the living room.

“Hi,” he says quietly, and Aunt Ethel turns her head, looking worn–out.

“John,” she acknowledges tiredly, setting her glass down on the coffee table, a cigarette in her other hand.

“I thought you were staying at Curt’s,” his dad comments, eyes not leaving the screen, and John deflates even further. If he’d known that was the assumption being rolled with, he could’ve just stayed at Gale’s for another night.

“I– yeah, I was,” he doesn’t elaborate, trying to work out how to approach asking about his bedroom situation without seeming accusatory, but his dad speaks again.

“Ethel’s staying here for a couple nights to keep an eye on your mom,” he says casually, like none of it’s a big deal in the slightest, nothing worth consulting John over. “You don’t mind sleeping on the couch, do you?”

Yeah, he does mind, actually. It’s not phrased as an actual question though, or an option, so John just nods wearily, glancing at the clock on the wall. Not even eight p.m. yet; he’d been planning on just going to bed as soon as he got home to avoid everyone, but now he has to putter around until his dad and aunt are done in the living room.

“How’s mom?” He asks tentatively. Ethel glances at his dad, but he seems done conversing, so she turns back to John, tapping her cigarette on the edge of an empty glass, stray ashes drifting to the bottom.

“Sleeping a lot,” she murmurs. “Pissed, obviously. I searched the house like a damn safety inspector and found a few stashes; God knows how long she’s been using again.”

John nods, stomach twisting. He feels like he should’ve noticed sooner, wonders how many times this summer he’d talked to her assuming she’d popped some Xanax or Valium without knowing she’d actually been in the bathroom with a band wrapped around her arm only a few minutes prior. It’s always just a matter of time before she goes too far like she had yesterday morning– it feels like a lifetime ago already– but he wishes he could’ve caught on before it came to that point. He’s just grateful there hadn’t been a hospital visit this time.

“I’m gonna go check on her,” he says. “And shower, if no one needs the bathroom.”

“She’s probably asleep,” Aunt Ethel says, turning back to the TV, but neither of them give John anything else, so he shuffles out back down the hall to his parents’ room. The door’s already open a crack, so he pushes it open quietly, peering into the low lamplight as he walks around the bed to his mom’s side.

She’s asleep, judging by the heavy, even breaths he can hear, a thin sheen of sweat visible on her forehead. John turns to the bedside table, grabbing a few bits of trash and an empty glass, making sure she’s got enough ibuprofen and mints before slipping back out to the kitchen. He tosses the trash, puts the empty glass in the sink and fills up a new one with cold water, and brings that and a granola bar back to her room, carefully setting them down on the table and watching the rise and fall of her shoulders for a moment longer, his own feeling heavy again.

Not much else left to do, John grabs some clothes from his room and retreats to the bathroom, the small tiled space the most privacy he presumes he’ll have for the next few days. He gets out his phone before starting the shower, opening his and Gale’s messages.

‘i’m home :) ik you’ll tell me not to say it, but thank u for everything gale.’

He hits send before he can overthink himself into typing and re–typing, and then he opens Helen’s messages.

‘sryyy i swear ily outside of u being the best supervisorrr <33,’ John sends first. ‘butttt r u still short staffed tmrw with curt gone? i’m begging for a shift pls. anytime idc, i’m there T_T’

By the time he’s showered all the lake water off himself and changed into sleep clothes, he’s got three messages waiting for him– one from Helen, asking if ‘anytime’ includes a morning shift, to which he miserably tells her he’ll take it, and two from Gale.

‘Well, can’t say it now that you’ve called me out on it.’

John smiles a bit, able to hear it in his voice as he reads it.

‘I hope everything’s okay. I’m around if you need anything.’

John leans against the counter, radio static back in his chest, warm and soft.

‘yea it’s all good, thank u. i picked up a morning shift tmrw :P hope u and ur internal clock sleep well’

He pockets his phone and gets a change of clothes and whatever else he’ll need for tomorrow from his room incase his aunt is still asleep when he needs to leave bright and early for his shift, bringing them to the living room and setting them down on the empty armchair, and his phone buzzes as he steps out into their overgrown backyard with a gatorade and a book.

‘I hope you and your alarm clock aren’t too tired in the morning. Have a good sleep, John.’

John settles down in a sun–faded red armchair and smiles at his phone and thinks about that promise of next time.

Chapter Text

August 07, 2005

The first thing John does when he wakes up at six a.m. on Sunday morning with his back feeling all sorts of fucked up from his night on the couch, is mourn the loss of Gale’s bed. The pining for the big comfy mattress is secondary only to how badly he’s already missing the feeling of waking up next to Gale, grumpy as he gets ready for his shift with the knowledge that he could have gotten away with spending another day at his house.

Maybe it’s overkill after being glued to his side for a solid twenty–four hours already, but John feels like the more comfortable he gets around Gale, the more he wants to be around him, and it scares the part of him that worries about being too much. He can be relaxed about this though, he tells himself; Wednesday isn’t that far away.

John repeats that sentiment in his head an embarrassing amount of times throughout the day while he works breakfast service at the hotel, and then while he spends the afternoon cleaning rooms as patrons check out, a mantra to get him through a boring day without Curt and Helen. There are texts waiting from both Gale and Curt though when he goes on his lunch break– Gale checking half–jokingly whether John actually woke up to his criminally early alarm, and Curt confirming the plans they’d made the previous night to meet at the mall after John’s shift.

John hasn’t had a chance to see Curt since Thursday, with him out of town with his family to visit his grandparents, and it’s much longer than either of them are used to going without seeing each other, so John’s beyond excited to catch up later once Curt’s back. He has too many questions about the cryptic– bad cellphone service and terrible camera quality– pictures he’s been receiving over the weekend, and he has a lot to catch Curt up on.

John changes out of his work clothes at three and heads straight to the mall after saying a quick hello to Helen when she arrives for her shift. When John gets off the bus, Curt’s waiting for him on a bench at the front of the building, headphones on and lost in his own little world as his sneaker taps along to his music, and it’s too good of an opportunity for John to resist bugging him.

He pulls out his phone and snaps a quick picture of Curt before opening his messages with him, sending him the image of himself and waiting patiently. It only takes a few seconds for Curt to check his phone, blinking at the screen for a second before looking up and turning in John’s direction, pouting and flipping him the bird as he pulls his headphones off.

“Welcome back to civilization,” John grins as he walks over, waiting for Curt to finish stuffing his iPod and headphones into his bag. “How was the cult?”

It’s not actually in a cult; Curt’s grandparents live on a large piece of farmland almost fully off the grid in a strange sort of community, and they’re a bit loony, the religious–fanatic conspiracist types, but nice enough. He and Curt just like to joke about Curt getting beamed up in the rapture when he goes to visit them, and he always comes back from his stays with weird stories to share.

“Whacky as always,” Curt grimaces, slinging his backpack over his shoulder. “I’m just happy to have wi–fi again, and my own room.”

They end up having an early dinner in the food court, Curt relaying his tales of tractor–driving, exploring freaky caves with his older brothers, and partaking in some warped kind of Sunday service communion that morning before making the drive home.

“And did you miss your boyfriend?” John can’t help but tease, snickering at the way Curt’s sunburnt cheeks go a little more red as he scowls at him.

“Not my boyfriend,” Curt corrects him, stealing a fry off John’s tray. “Don’t act like you wouldn’t miss Gale if you had to go more than a week without seeing him.”

It’s John’s turn to flush then, shoving his straw in his mouth, and Curt grins, knowing he’s won.

“I’m actually going to stay with Ken this weekend,” Curt says, and John looks back up, surprised. “He’s moving on the fifteenth, so I’m gonna help him pack and then drive back with him on Monday.”

“Wow, Curt, your first overnighter with Ken,” John wiggles his eyebrows, and Curt rolls his eyes. “Did they give you time off?”

“Well, no,” Curt admits, and John gives him a look. “I’ve got Sunday off, so I’m just gonna call in sick on Saturday.”

John groans. “They’re gonna hate both of us so much.”

“What do you mean?” Curt furrows his brows. “Shit, are you calling out too?”

John shakes his head. “No, but I called out yesterday.”

“Oh, why?” Curt asks, playfully leaning back. “You’re not gonna get me sick, are you?”

John laughs, then clears his throat quietly, not quite sure where to start, but dropping a bomb seems as good as any option.

“I stayed at Gale’s house again on Friday night,” he says, and Curt’s mouth pops open.

“In his bed,” John adds, “with him. So I didn’t really wanna go in to work the next day.”

Curt’s eyes go comically large, the half–eaten nugget in his hand immediately forgotten on his tray, leaning even further forward.

“What?” He gawks. “Did you…?”

John shakes his head, flushing further, and Curt sags back in his chair in defeat, looking at John in disbelief.

“Not even a kiss?” He asks, staring at John like he’s hopeless.

“No, but we went sorta–skinny–dipping,” John says defensively, and watches Curt go through mental whiplash again.

“How’re you managing to do things in reverse order?” Curt wonders aloud, and John snorts. He’s right; he hadn’t thought about it like that. He’d shared a bed with Gale before working up the bravery to hold his hand, and he’d seen him in his underwear before even kissing him, not to mention him bawling his eyes out in Gale’s arms less than a month after meeting.

“Says the one who had his not–boyfriend alone in his house last weekend and didn’t take advantage of it,” John retaliates anyway, and Curt opens his mouth to argue, then shakes his head.

“You’re not sidetracking me,” he says firmly. “How’d that even happen?”

Well, that part’s much less fun. Normally John would’ve told Curt about his mom right away, probably would’ve gone straight to his house after an incident like Friday’s, but he hadn’t wanted to worry Curt when he was out of town and only able to text sporadically when the shoddy signal allowed it. It’s not like Curt hasn’t been around for similar situations, but John assumes that doesn’t make it any less stressful to watch a friend go through it.

“My mom relapsed on Friday,” John admits, and Curt immediately sits up straight, hissing his name and kicking him under the table.

“What the fuck, why didn’t you tell me?” He asks, face drawn tight with concern. “Is she alright? Are you alright?”

“You couldn’t have done anything about it while you were out there, I didn’t wanna taint your weekend for no reason,” John says apologetically, and Curt glares at him, though he doesn’t seem surprised by his answer. “And she’s alright, I think. The aftermath is always the hardest, you know how it is.”

Curt hums his understanding, nodding sympathetically.

“And I’m mostly okay now,” John assures him. “Friday was just a fuck around, and my aunt came over, and I just didn’t wanna be at home so Gale came and got me and let me stay.”

“That’s really nice of him,” Curt softens. “Does he know, like, all of it?”

“I told him about my mom, yeah,” John says. “Not all of it, just that it happened. He was really understanding, and he took me on a hike yesterday to keep me busy. He was gonna let me stay another night too, but I didn’t wanna piss my dad off.”

Curt nods again, seemingly thinking, and then he narrows his eyes a little.

“So… all of that, and he didn’t make a move?” He asks suspiciously. “Same bed and everything?”

John’s grateful Curt knows he doesn’t like to dwell on family stuff, and at first he answers semi–confidently, telling Curt about how they’d technically cuddled, how he’d initiated the hand–holding, how Gale had come out to him. But Curt keeps eyeing him in a strange way, and John starts to second guess.

“What?” John questions nervously. “Is that bad? Is it weird he didn’t do anything else? Oh god, do you think he’s not interested?”

Curt makes an incredulous noise then, pinning him with a look that says ‘you’re an idiot’ without even having to open his mouth.

“I think he like–likes you, dumbass,” Curt says slowly, like he’s only just realizing it himself. “For real, how many guys do you know that would wait weeks to make a move if they were just wanting to hook up, or something?”

“But what if he’s doing all this to be friendly?” John frets, relieved that he’s finally able to communicate all his doubts to Curt. “Like, I keep thinking about how he’s older, and he’s got more experience, and I’m scared I might bore him, or be too immature for him.”

“Oh, yeah, the man who voluntarily spooned you and took you half–skinny–dipping in the mountains and keeps inviting you over is just being friendly,” Curt says sarcastically, nodding in faux–sincerity, and it’s John’s turn to kick him under the table.

“I’m serious, Curt,” he sulks. “I’m freaking out over it. I can feel myself getting attached and it’s scaring me, and it all feels so unconventional, like, I just don’t know what to think.”

“I mean, yeah, it’s obviously a little unusual,” Curt acknowledges, “but from an outsider’s perspective, I feel like it would be more weird if he was doing all this and he didn’t have feelings too.”

John groans, leaning his cheek in his hand. He thinks Curt’s right, or at the very least he wants to believe he is. He knows his friend isn’t afraid to be blunt with him, so John would know if Curt feels like something is amiss, but he also thinks his worries are perfectly reasonable.

“I don’t know, John,” Curt picks the forgotten nugget back up. “If you’re having a good time hanging out with him anyway, just keep doing that, and see what happens. Maybe he’s worrying about the same things you are, you never know.”

John makes a face at that. He can’t picture Gale sitting across from Marge, or Rosie, or any of the others and spilling his uncertainties about John onto them; he always seems so sure of himself. But then John thinks about the way Gale had seemed hesitant to move closer in bed until John had sort of given him the silent push to do so, and how he’d only reciprocated the hand–holding after John had initiated, and he wonders whether there’s a tiny chance Gale’s waiting on him to set the pace.

The possibility is terrifying, because the thought of having to be the one to take that leap and hope things haven’t gotten lost in translation is enough to have John’s heart in his throat in the middle of a shopping mall food court.

“Fuck,” John says flatly.

“When do you think you’ll see him next?” Curt inquires, not bothering to hide his amusement.

“Wednesday,” John answers, nudging a burnt piece of fry across his tray.

“Maybe you’ll get an answer then,” Curt says hopefully, way too giddy for the predicament John’s found himself in. “Not much you can do till then anyway, unless you wanna profess your feelings through a text.”

“I hate you so much,” John grumbles. “This is literally all your fault.”

“Is not,” Curt feigns offense.

“I wouldn’t have met him if I hadn’t come to the pub to babysit you.”

“That’s as far as my blame goes.” Curt flicks the wrapper of his straw at him. “No one made you go sit at his table, you whore.”

John can’t help but laugh even in his moping, feeling both reassured and a different kind of stressed with Curt’s input. Curt’s right, though– there’s really nothing he can do but wait and see what Wednesday brings, even if he drives himself insane along the way.

Monday and Tuesday aren’t half as bad as John anticipates now that Curt’s back home. When John tells him about the couch situation, Curt immediately insists he stay over Sunday night, promising his family won’t mind so long as they quiet down by the time everyone goes to bed, so that’s at least one night where John manages to avoid feeling like a stranger in his own house. He stays at Curt’s until they head out at the same time for their shifts on Monday evening, and when John gets home after work everyone’s already asleep anyway, so he’s able to crash on the couch as soon as he drags himself into the living room.

Tuesday has John, Curt, and Helen all scheduled at the same time for dinner service, so that day passes by quickly as well, with Helen getting caught up on all of his and Curt’s respective weekend adventures. She’s a lot more cautious about Gale than Curt is, never masking how protective she is over the both of them, always feeling like a big sister when it comes to things like this. John appreciates how much she cares, but it’s funny watching her fret over every detail he divulges about his time with the man.

Wednesday itself is the hardest because with Curt at work, there’s nothing to keep John occupied while he waits for Gale to text. It feels like the most patience he’s ever had to exercise in his life, resisting the urge to ask Gale if he can go hang out at the shop just to squeeze in a little more time together, but he refrains. John still doesn’t know what they’re going to do after Gale’s done with work, neither of them discussing it during their short conversations over the past few days, but he really can’t find it in himself to care, looking forward to hanging around him in any capacity.

He ends up taking the bus to the grocery store in the afternoon to restock the fridge, since somehow even between his aunt and dad being there, no one’s gotten around to making sure there’s food in the house. That kills a lot of time, and John’s halfway done putting the groceries away when he hears his phone buzz on the counter, and he almost knocks himself out on the corner of the cupboard in his haste to get to it.

‘Done in 30. Want me to come get you?’

John counts to one hundred in his head before he lets himself reply, loaf of bread forgotten where it’s tucked under his arm.

‘okay :)’

Casual, he can do that. Except he doesn’t know what they’re doing, so he doesn’t know if he should eat dinner at home first, or if he should bring anything, or if he needs to change his clothes–

His phone buzzes again before he has to agonize over whether or not he should ask Gale about any of this, and his shoulders slump in relief.

‘Dinner and movie at home sound good?’

It does; anything sounds good when Gale says it. It also means John’s about to go right back to trying to keep it together in the dark on Gale’s couch under very different circumstances than the last time he’d done so, but that’s a problem for him to deal with later.

‘yeah! ^-^’

John stares at his phone for a minute longer but nothing else comes in, so he reluctantly returns to putting away the groceries before heading to the bathroom to freshen up a little bit, feeling jumpy with anticipation. He can hear his mom and Ethel talking quietly in her bedroom, so he doesn’t bother letting them know he’s going out, figuring they’ll just assume he’s at work.

John pulls on his sneakers ten minutes before Gale’s even meant to be done, and at five sharp his phone buzzes and he leaps to his feet.

‘Leaving now, see you in 10.’

His heart flutters with excitement, and he manages to fidget in the entryway for about two minutes before he’s pulling the door open and leaving the house. He walks slowly to pass time, but he still ends up sitting on the curb for a few minutes, head snapping up at every engine he hears before Gale’s truck finally rounds the corner.

When John opens the passenger door, he’s overwhelmed with the almost unconscious urge to crawl across the bench and wrap his arms around Gale, so elated to see him after what feels like a stupidly long time despite how short it’s actually been, but he beams up at him instead as he pulls himself into the truck.

“Hi!” John chirps, shutting the door and getting his seatbelt on before he properly turns to look at Gale, heart doing a loopy sorta thing in his chest at Gale’s amused smile.

“You’re in high spirits,” Gale comments warmly, giving him a once–over so quick John almost thinks he’s imagining it. “You have a good day?”

John feels himself flush a little, not sure how to tell Gale that it’s actually been an entirely ordinary day, that he’s just that painfully excited to spend time with him. He thinks Gale knows, anyway; he’s learning that there’s very little the man doesn’t pick up on.

“I am now,” John says, a little shy but more honest than usual. “You?”

Gale looks at him for a second longer before putting the truck in drive, the soft smile not leaving his face as he turns his eyes to the road in front of him.

“Am now,” he echoes. John thinks it’s a wonder he doesn’t start twirling his hair or giggling at that, biting his tongue as he turns to face forward too, the familiar heart palpitations returning.

“Thinkin’ we go to Blockbuster first, then pick up some pizza?” Gale suggests, navigating his way out of John’s neighbourhood. John nods before Gale’s done speaking, knowing full well he’d agree to anything right now.

Just being back in Gale’s truck feels so grounding, like the static beneath his skin has settled, replaced by the warmth of his cheeks and the butterflies in his stomach. John realizes then that this is their first pre–planned hangout, their other get–togethers stumbled into via necessity or boredom, and the waiting has made it that much sweeter to be back at Gale’s side again.

“How was work?” John looks at Gale, flattening his hands just above his knees to keep his legs still, trying and failing to tame his grin.

“Same old.” Gale dips his head, glancing at John for a moment. “The boys’ve been asking after you.”

John’s chest warms further, and he makes a little noise of surprise.

“They have?” He asks, almost unable to wrap his head around Gale’s friends wondering about him when he’s not around. Gale smiles, nodding.

“Rosie keeps opening the office door real quiet,” Gale tells him. “Said it’s just in case you’ve snuck back in for a nap.”

John scoffs, realizing Gale’s pulling his leg. “No he didn’t.”

“He did, once,” Gale concedes, corners of his eyes creasing. “He told me today to say ‘hi’ from him, when I left to get you.”

John slides down in his seat a little, smiling to himself.

“Hi Rosie,” he waves to no one in particular, and Gale laughs.

“I’ll pass it on,” he says, turning onto the street that leads to the small cluster of shops near the grocery store John had been at earlier, the blue and yellow of the Blockbuster sign awaiting them. “Everything been okay on your end?”

John hesitates for a beat, torn between being easy versus being honest.

“Mostly, yeah,” he decides, nodding. “Just been working and hanging out at Curt’s lots.”

Gale doesn’t immediately respond, just giving him a doubtful sidelong glance as he pulls into a parking space. John kicks himself, feeling like he’s chosen the wrong dialogue path in one of his video games, wishing for a redo button.

“John,” Gale says gently, and John keeps his eyes stubbornly on the front of the store. Gale clears his throat, dropping his hands from the steering wheel, turning to look at John. “I know I promised that I wouldn’t pry, but– has anyone ever told you you’re a really bad liar?”

That gets John to swivel, caught between offense and surprise, but Gale’s smiling a little and any argument dies on John’s tongue at the compassion he finds in his eyes. It’s not like Gale’s wrong, anyhow; he’s never been good at evading the truth.

“You’re not the first,” John says dryly, turning back to face the dashboard. Gale waits patiently, giving him space to speak, but John doesn’t really know where to start, or what to say when he does.

“What do you think’s gonna happen if you tell me things?” Gale asks then, softly, like he can coax John’s thoughts out. John shrugs.

“I dunno,” he says truthfully. It’s not that he thinks Gale’s going to react a certain way, or that he doesn’t feel safe divulging things to him; it just makes him uncomfortable, feeling like he’s shouldering Gale with his own issues, even if it’s at the man’s insistence. Curt aside, John’s used to handling things on his own– it feels weird to lean on someone else, foreign.

“It just– I don’t know,” John repeats, struggling to figure out how to verbalize his thoughts. “It feels pointless because, like, there’s nothing to be done about it.”

Gale hums quietly, shifting a bit, keeping his eyes on John.

“Maybe,” he considers. “Doesn’t mean it won’t help to talk about it. Might make you feel a little better, y’know?”

Gale tentatively places his hand on John’s knee then, squeezing gently. John’s leg jumps a bit, but Gale keeps his hand there, and John’s pretty sure he can physically feel his blood pressure spiking, but it’s a comforting weight otherwise. Lately there’s a little part of John that’s starting to become convinced Gale knows he can exploit physical touch to break down his resolve, and it feels incredibly unfair when he doesn’t have a way to retaliate.

“I’m just a little tired,” John says, and it sounds like all his other excuses, but this time he elaborates, because he doesn’t want Gale to feel like he’s being shut out. “My aunt’s been staying with us to keep an eye on my mom, so I’ve been sleeping on the couch for a bit.”

Gale’s thumb rubs gently over his bare knee, and he nods understandingly.

“And I just really miss my own room,” John pushes himself, eyes darting to Gale’s hand, then away, then back again before he looks back up at Gale’s face, finding a little bit of frustration beneath the sympathy there. He knows it’s not directed at him, knows Gale at least well enough to be sure of that by now, but it still makes him nervous.

“I’m sorry bud,” Gale murmurs. “It’s nice your aunt’s helping out, but that’s rough on you. You can’t stay at Curt’s?”

“I do most weekends,” John says. “His parents have just never been big on him or his sisters having friends stay overnight on weekdays, which is fine, I get that.”

“I meant it when I said my door’s always open,” Gale says after a pause. “I’m always here, John. I know it’s hard to ask for help, but it’s good to lean on the people who care about you.”

Comfort from the reassurance and unease at the genuine care wrestle for space in John’s head as he drops his gaze back down to his lap, but he smiles, cheeks warm.

“Okay, thank you,” he says shyly, toeing at the floormat, then adds matter–of–factly, “That’s all I have to say.”

Gale breathes out a laugh, squeezing his knee once more before moving his hand away, and John’s leg itches to follow the movement.

“Thank you for trusting me,” Gale says sincerely, giving him a smile before he reaches for the door handle. “Good to go?”

“Yessir,” he says easily, feeling lighter as he opens his own door, his own smile not leaving his face.

John bounces back to his previous cheeriness as they wander through the aisles, Gale pointing out stupid DVD covers to make him laugh, John staring at him with what he’s certain are embarrassingly blatant heart–eyes every time Gale turns away.

They browse around the westerns, the sci–fis, the comedies; John passes by the more risqué covers in the romance section with a flush to his cheeks, deciding he’d rather succumb to a painful death than try to make it through a sex scene while sat next to Gale. Eventually they’re left rifling through the horrors and thrillers, a genre John doesn’t usually lean towards when he and Curt are picking out a movie to watch, but he braves his way through them sometimes for Curt’s sake the same way Curt sits through niche science documentaries for him.

Gale doesn’t seem any more interested in the gory slashers than John is, but he looks a little more keen as he scans over the new releases, and John’s so far gone for him that he thinks he’d watch anything Gale likes without a peep of complaint.

“D’you like horrors?” John asks, peering over Gale’s shoulder at the one he’s reading the back of.

“Hated them when I was younger, but I watch them all the time now,” he says. John pockets this information, holds it close to his heart, feeling for some reason like the scarce mentions of Gale’s life outside of the present are something to be cherished.

“You like ‘em?” Gale asks, and, well. It’s not like John thinks Gale will judge him if he admits to being a baby when it comes to scary films, but all the same, he doesn’t want to seem uncool. And from a strategic standpoint, it doesn’t seem like a bad choice for tonight, because if John’s lucky he’ll be too freaked out to worry about anything other than the movie itself, no room for overthinking how close he’s sitting to Gale or whether watching a movie in the dark together means anything to the man.

“I watch them with Curt all the time,” John answers, and it’s only a little bit of an exaggeration, really. “What’s this one?”

Gale flips it around to show him the cover before setting it back on the shelf.

“Might freak you out too much,” Gale warns jokingly, and John takes it as a challenge, picking it right back up to get a proper look at it.

“What makes you think that?” He asks defensively, scanning over the summary like he can pick out something that might’ve made Gale assume that, and Gale laughs.

“I’m just teasing,” he says, ruffling John’s hair. “The trailers have looked scary, though.”

“Let’s watch it then,” John decides, glad to technically avoid having to pick something.

“If you’re sure you can handle it,” Gale goads him on, smiling this time, and John nods, passing the case back to him.

“It’s not as scary watching horrors at home as it is in the theatre,” he insists, trailing after Gale to the register, where a teen rings up their rental after reciting his obligatory customer service lines in a voice devoid of life. John feels his pain, stuck inside a quiet store on a nice summer day, sure he comes off equally as unenthusiastic at the hotel sometimes. He gives the boy a sympathetic smile on their way out, and they head a few shops down to an equally quiet pizza chain.

Gale orders them two pizzas and doesn’t so much as let John reach for his wallet to pay for his, telling him that he’s the one who invited him, so it’s only fair. John’s brain keeps screaming this is a date as these little gestures continue to stack up, whittling away at his ability to convince himself his fondness is one–sided.

“Work been okay this week?” Gale asks as they seat themselves on barstools at a counter beside the window to wait for their food.

“It’s been alright,” John answers, spinning from side–to–side on the swivel–stool, eyes trained on his sneakers. “Got to work with my friends yesterday, but we were stuck on dinner service.”

“Not a fan?” Gale leans an elbow on the countertop.

“It’s okay sometimes, but usually it’s a bunch of older folks snapping their fingers at me or asking for things that are way above my pay grade,” John rolls his eyes, and Gale cracks a smile.

“I always hated that part of customer service when I was a waiter,” he sympathizes, and John looks at him, curious.

“You were a waiter?” He asks, and Gale taps his rings gently against the counter, nodding.

“In highschool, until I was about your age,” he answers, and John hides a wince at the reminder of their age disparity, the one he’s actually got a number for now.

“And then?” John asks, unable to stop himself from prying. Even after spending more time together, he still feels like he barely knows anything about Gale, at least not much outside of his day–to–day life. John’s not completely inept; he can tell Gale’s cagey about some things, but sometimes when he asks he gets little pieces of his story, so it’s hard to talk himself out of trying.

“I’ve worked a lotta jobs since then,” Gale says, careful as he chooses his words, and it does nothing to quell John’s interest. “Used to work the bar at The Stoplight when I first moved here.”

John tries to picture it, and then very quickly has to try to stop picturing it, his brain supplying an image of Gale mixing drinks, hair gelled neatly, dressed in a nice black button up like the one Paulina wears behind the bar.

“You’re not from here?” He asks, and Gale shakes his head.

“Grew up in Wyoming,” he answers.

“How’d you end up running the mechanic shop?” John plows on, eating up each bit of information like he’s been starving for it, swinging his feet.

“I met Rosie while working at the pub,” Gale answers patiently. “We became close friends, and when he inherited the shop from his dad, he asked if I wanted to co–own.”

“And the club? With the guys?” John leans forward, intrigued now that he’s finally getting some backstory out of him, but he can tell right away that he’s tread somewhere he shouldn’t, Gale’s shoulders tensing almost imperceptibly.

“Can’t give away all my secrets so soon,” Gale smooths his discomfort over with the tease, and John flushes when he realizes he’s been interrogating him.

“Sorry,” he apologizes quickly, messing with the hem of his shirt. “I was just curious.”

“That’s alright,” Gale smiles reassuringly, bumping the toe of his boot against John’s shoe. “It’s another long story, anyway.”

Their order number is called then, and John shoves his curiosity aside as he jumps up to retrieve it for them, thanking the worker and following Gale back out to the truck.

“Gale,” John looks at him as they pull back out of the parking lot, and Gale looks almost amused, as if John’s becoming predictable with how he starts his questions.

“What’s up?” Gale glances at him before returning his eyes to the road.

“Do you think we can go back to that lake sometime?” John asks meekly. Of course he’s spent his week thinking about the day he had with Gale, but he’s thought about their time at that peaceful hideaway more than anything else, his itch for adventure feeling the most satiated it had ever been while out there on the mountain.

Gale laughs a little, nodding easily. “Course. We can go wherever you wanna, John.”

“Okay, cool.” John drops his gaze back down, smiling to himself. It’s not entirely intentional when he asks things like that, but he likes it when Gale indulges his questions about the future with answers that assure John that he intends on sticking around; it settles something deep in his chest.

Gale tells him about a few other nice spots he thinks he’d like as they drive home, promising John that he’ll take him to one the next time they find a day that works, and John already knows he’s going to cling to these somedays to get him through all the rough ones.

John holds the pizza boxes while Gale unlocks the front door, and he almost feels a little bit teary when he follows him inside. Even with the scent of cheese and pepperoni a few inches away from his face, he can still tell that Gale’s house smells the exact same as before; fresh linen, the vanilla candle on the shelf in the entryway, lingering cologne.

The familiarity is like a tight hug, and it feels like everything outside of the house ceases to exist when Gale shuts the door behind them, the peace and quiet settling over John like a cool blanket, making it a little bit easier to breathe. He wishes he could bottle the feeling up so he can carry it with him on days when he needs it most, a little piece of this comfort to hold close to his chest.

Gale takes the pizza so John can lean against the wall while he kicks his shoes off, and then he leads him to the living room, setting the boxes down on the coffee table.

“I’m gonna grab us some drinks, you wanna put the movie in?” Gale passes him the case, and John nods, crouching in front of the TV to find the power button as Gale disappears into the kitchen. He slots the disc into the DVD player, sitting back to make sure it loads up, and then a sudden burst of noise blares out from the speakers as the menu screen loads.

John nearly flinches out of his skin, swearing under his breath as he scrambles for the volume on the remote, and he hears Gale laugh as he sets some drinks and plates down on the coffee table.

“Movie’s not started yet and you’re already jumping,” Gale taunts as he straightens. “You sure you’re gonna make it?”

John pouts, standing and retreating to the couch, placing the remote on the table.

“I’m sure,” he insists, though he feels a little less confident than he had in the video store. There are more important things to worry about though, namely deciding what the appropriate level of closeness is when it comes to seating himself next to Gale, but he’s saved from figuring that out when Gale passes him, gesturing to his bedroom.

“I’m just gonna change into some sweats quick,” he says, and John nods, lowering himself onto the couch as Gale slips into his room. The open door taunts him as he gets comfortable, curling his legs up beneath himself, trying to pretend that he doesn’t want to lean over the arm of the couch to peek through the doorway.

Gale returns a minute later in the same sweats and tee he’d worn last weekend, and John almost squirms with how badly he wants to wrap himself around him when he looks cozy and soft like that, hair all mussed from changing, but he stays put as Gale rounds the coffee table. He picks up the remote before he settles himself next to John, casual as ever, like there aren’t only a few inches of space between the two of them, like John hadn’t dozed off with his head in his lap the last time they’d sat on the couch together.

“All good?” Gale asks. John hums his assent, and Gale hits play, the menu cutting to black and plunging the room into darkness, save for the waning light that sneaks through the closed curtains by the sliding door.

The food is a nice distraction, something to occupy John’s hands and mind as the movie starts, opening with slow orchestral music and a wide shot of an eerie–looking forest. It’s hard not to think about his conversation at the mall with Curt, or about how he and Gale are sitting close enough that he can smell his aftershave, or about how this is a very date–like activity, but the film does eventually sucker him in enough that his thoughts quiet a little.

It’s a slow build, with long, drawn out scenes that keep seeming like there’s going to be a sudden scare, only for the music to calm before the tension climbs again. It feels very much like how being around Gale does– something unspoken bubbling up, so close to the surface that John is sure it’s going to spill over, but it never does, quieting back down to a simmer until the next time.

John’s still so hyperaware of every movement next to him, more so once they’re both done eating, nothing left to busy his hands with. Gale doesn’t seem to have a problem with this, wasting no time in draping his arm over the back of the couch behind John, and John has the impulsive but fleeting urge to turn his head and sink his teeth into Gale’s bicep, to mar the ink there with his canines, to make Gale feel a fraction of what’s been festering beneath his own skin for the past month.

John elects to keep his eyes on the screen instead, trying his best to lose himself in the story again, stretching his legs out beneath the coffee table and digging his feet into the shag carpet. It takes a bit to get used to the feeling of Gale sitting so close now, albeit still not touching him, but eventually John gets dragged back into the film as he relaxes, eyes wide through every moment.

He’s so drawn in by the anticipation as the action picks up that when Gale accidentally nudges one of the pizza boxes with his knee, John jerks to the side, slapping a hand over his mouth to muffle a yelp.

“John,” Gale sputters out around a laugh, turning to look at him in disbelief, and John slides his hand up to cover his eyes as if he can hide from his mortification, cheeks burning. It doesn’t help his racing heart when Gale moves his arm from the back of the couch to settle it over John’s shoulders, fingers pressing against the side of his arm as if to coax him into returning. John lets his touch guide him back into place, closer this time, enough that he can feel Gale’s warmth through his shirt.

“I was focused,” he defends himself shakily, Gale snickering away as he turns his attention back to the TV, leaving his arm in place like it’s the most normal thing in the world. John lifts his legs back up onto the couch, both because it feels scary to have them on the dark ground now and to give himself some sort of shield from the dangers lurking on the screen, pulling his knees to his chest and wrapping his arms around his shins.

His lungs feel like they’re trying to climb up out of his throat as the weight on his shoulders sinks in, warm and steady, comforting as much as it is overwhelming. John rests his chin on his knees, reminding himself to draw in even breaths as he attempts to zone back into the movie yet again, the music swelling as lights flicker in the character’s house.

Then the scene goes so dark he has to squint, and everything falls silent as the protagonist climbs the steps to the very obviously bad–news attic. John’s hands creep back up to his face, and he feels Gale go very still next to him too, both of them glued to the screen.

John whispers an “oh my god” when one of the steps creaks, slowing the character’s progress down even more, barely able to handle the stressful wait, Gale shifting with an exhale of a laugh at his suffering. There’s a distant thump, and John’s about ready to pull out his hair when the girl rounds the corner at a snail’s pace, her flashlight beaming around the creepy attic, and then something dashes out of the shadows at the camera with an explosion of sound.

John flinches back and covers his face so fast that his reaction seems to make Gale jump more than the scare itself, both of them sucking in sharp breaths, John leaning reflexively into Gale’s side and just barely peaking through his fingers at the horrifying chase scene. The half–obscured creature thrashes its way down the attic steps after the girl, the drums mimicking a heartbeat as she flees down the long hallway, flashlight swinging at her side.

She manages to lock herself in a room at the last second, leaning against the door as her pursuer thuds against it before going quiet, and the music slowly fades to something more calm. John drops his forehead onto his knees, exhaling a whoosh of air, already deciding that there’s no way Curt’s going to talk him into rewatching this one for his sake.

He feels Gale move against him, arm sliding down from his shoulders to wrap around his middle instead, and John’s breathing stutters for an entirely different reason now, cheeks warming as he keeps his face hidden.

“You still alive?” Gale asks, doing a terrible job at concealing his amusement.

“I’m gonna have a heart attack,” John groans, though he knows that his rapid heartbeat isn’t the fault of the movie half as much as it is the way he’s pressed up against Gale’s side.

“Need protection from the big bad TV?” Gale teases softly.

John turns to shoot him a glare, having to look up a little with how close they’re sitting, cheek squishing against his knee.

“I’m sorry,” Gale relents with a smile, fingers dancing along John’s ribs. “C’mere.”

Gale gives him a little nudge and adjusts himself, making space against his chest, and John thinks he might die for real this time.

He blinks at Gale for a second, pulse racing as if the chase scene is still on. This isn’t friends being friends; he’s not naive enough to believe that anymore. But John nods, mostly to himself, shuffling a little until he’s leaning rigidly against Gale’s chest, heart beating so loud he can’t hear the movie.

Gale makes a quiet noise at his stiff attempt at cuddling, and John almost makes one of his own when firm hands find his hips to move him, sliding him down until his head rests just below Gale’s shoulder. John’s face is so hot that he’s pretty sure touching it would result in third degree burns, not daring to breathe as Gale moves his hands down to his knees, pulling him over until he’s turned towards Gale rather than outwards, legs leaning halfway into his lap.

Then Gale lets the arm that’s around him relax, leaving his other hand resting on one of John’s knees, keeping him close and secure.

“Better?” Gale murmurs, and John feels his chest rumble beneath him, eyes falling closed at the sensation. He’s not sure better is quite the right word when he feels seconds away from going into cardiac arrest or from saying something he shouldn’t, not sure which would be worse at this point, but he nods his agreement nonetheless.

He feels Gale’s chest rise slow beneath his head in a deep inhale, and John sinks back against him on his exhale, letting himself melt into his embrace the best he can. He feels small and safe like this, wrapped up against him, hardly paying attention to the TV anymore with all of his senses honed in on Gale.

He thinks he’d be able to fall asleep like this if he weren’t so keyed up, and if he weren’t actually still invested enough in the movie to try to bring his mind back to the present. But he regrets opening his eyes back up as soon as he does, because the camera is panning in on two of the other main characters as they fall into bed together, completely oblivious to the nightmare taking place on the other floor of the giant house.

John’s flush is no longer constrained to his face as the two kiss hot and heavy, hands roaming along each other’s bodies in the dark, and John can’t handle the silence in their own dark living room, shifting a little.

“How did they not hear the shitshow in the attic?” He whispers, masking his restlessness as fretting for the characters’ sakes. “Is that room soundproof?”

Gale hums in amusement, and John tugs at the threads on his bracelets, ready to crawl out of his skin, far too aware of Gale’s hands on him while he watches the man on the screen drag his hands up the woman’s sides.

“They’re gonna die,” John hisses out, slowly bringing his hands back up to his face, ready for the creature to show back up. “Oh god, it’s gonna kill ‘em.”

Gale breathes out a laugh at his stressing, squeezing his knee, murmuring a “relax” as if that’s not the last thing John is capable of doing right now, the touch only stoking both his nerves and the heat in his stomach.

He’s given a valid reason to tense up anyway when, as predicted, the bedroom door flies open just as the couple gets undressed, the monster launching itself onto the bed to claim the lives of two of the three remaining survivors. John’s not even bothering to hide the fact that he’s watching all the scariest scenes through the cracks of his fingers now, much more preoccupied with the gentle touches and the warm body beneath him.

The moment Gale’s pointer finger starts absently drawing circles on his knee is when John fully clocks out of the movie; it’s all he can do to keep himself from squirming too obviously, eyes darting between the screen and the reflection of it on Gale’s rings.

He thinks Gale has to know how he’s affecting him at this point, even if it weren’t for the way John’s sure he’s emitting enough heat to warm the whole room. Is he really just waiting for John to do something? Is Gale nervous? John can’t imagine him being nervous about anything, at least not the way he is right now. Maybe Gale’s just so engrossed in the movie that he doesn’t want to interrupt it, which is fine with John, because he doesn’t feel capable of forming a coherent sentence anymore.

John jumps from thought to thought in time with the gentle back and forth of Gale’s touch, burning up until he’s staring at the circular motions as if he expects flames to suddenly lick their way up Gale’s hand. He wouldn’t be able to explain the ending of the movie for any amount of money if someone were to ask him, can’t even remember the title of it anymore, and when the credits seem to roll out of nowhere, his pulse syncs up to the beat of the dark, surging orchestral music.

He shifts a little, and Gale’s hand stills, and John wonders whether it might actually be possible to asphyxiate on his own heart with the way it seems to settle itself in his throat. He’s slouched so far down in his attempts to relax that if he were to turn his head to the side, he could press his ear to the center of Gale’s chest and find out whether his heart is beating as fast as his own.

“Good movie,” Gale’s low voice startles him, and John nods nervously.

“The dog deserved better,” John says, still distantly bitter, and Gale's breath of a laugh jostles him a bit.

“You wanna write them some hate–mail?” Gale asks, and John smiles to himself, nodding.

“Maybe,” he says, and then he goes quiet, chewing on his lip, the building jitters in his limbs feeling like a thousand fire ants under his skin urging him to do something.

“You tired?” Gale asks quietly, punctuating the concern with a gentle squeeze of his side, and John nearly flies off the couch, closing his eyes for a second to compose himself.

“A little,” John lies, feeling the furthest thing from it but needing to buy himself some time to work up courage.

Gale doesn’t make any move to detach himself from him though, and it seems like time slows to a crawl as the credits come to an end and the music fades out. It feels like they’re both holding their breath, like the whole house is too. John swallows anxiously, heart feeling like a bird that’s lodged beneath his adam’s apple, flapping wildly and erratically.

“Gale,” he manages, hushed, mouth dry.

“Hm?” Gale rumbles out. John can feel the steady rise and fall of his chest against the back of his head, and he tries to match his own rhythm to it, pulling in a slow, shaky breath. He exhales, and then he turns his head to the side and tilts his chin up to look at Gale, cotton brushing against his cheek, face warming when he finds Gale already looking down at him.

“Hey,” Gale says softly, expression just as gentle, patient while John tries to make his brain work.

John’s gaze slides slowly down to his lips, then back up, blinking up at him with big eyes as his blood rushes in his ears. Everything is so much more real and nerve wracking than he’d anticipated– it’s nothing like the butterflies of laying in bed and picturing it in the dark of his own bedroom, it’s nothing like the shyness of sitting cross–legged in a field and kissing his best friend at sixteen, and it’s certainly nothing any romance movies could have prepared him for.

But what if this is the bravest he’ll ever get, in the dark with Gale giving him every opportunity to be bold?

He wants to go for it– he’s just so terrified that somehow, despite every reciprocal sign Gale’s given him, he’s going to fuck things up by crossing this line. He’s more scared now than he’d been during the whole movie, almost feeling like he can’t get his lungs to work, or his mouth to move. But John doesn’t think he can handle much more of this torturous back and forth in his head, the constant guessing and waiting and wanting, so he takes another deep breath and decides it’s now or never.

“Is it okay that I– that I think about kissing you?” It comes out quiet, and it’s not exactly what John means to say, but he feels Gale go very still beneath him, and he wonders if he’s stopped breathing the same way he has.

“Jesus,” Gale exhales, hand flexing where it rests on his knee. “Yeah, it is, baby.”

John makes a strangled little noise in the back of his throat at the pet name, lungs constricting almost painfully, eyes wide as he stares up at Gale. He can barely hear his own voice over the sound of his aggressive heartbeat when he speaks again.

“Will you kiss me, please?” John whispers, hardly able to believe that the words are leaving his mouth. Gale nods, expression softening, lifting his hand from John’s knee to gently hold his face. The warmth of his palm seeps into John’s skin and sears through the haze of his nerves, and he thinks Gale must feel the heat of his cheek against it too, his whole body burning up in anticipation.

John angles his chin up, waiting, feeling more vulnerable than he’s ever felt in his life, and then Gale leans in. His eyes slide closed as Gale’s lips meet his own, soft and warm, the initial contact sending a red–hot jolt through John’s entire body, breath catching in his throat.

Gale kisses him slow, deep, deliberate, and John’s hand curls instinctively into the fabric of Gale’s shirt, fingers gripping tightly as he tries to pull him even closer. Every inch of his skin feels like it’s on fire, a heady mix of nervousness and need melting his insides down to liquid. John gasps a quiet sound against Gale’s lips when the hand on his side tightens, the gesture both grounding and exhilarating, making his heart race even faster.

He must be dying. He really, genuinely believes it for a moment, forgetting how to breathe as he presses back into the kiss hard, head spinning. Neither of them can get much leverage from the partially–upside–down angle, but it’s everything John’s been aching for, and he chases Gale’s lips with his own when he finally leans back.

John desperately pulls himself up until he’s properly facing Gale, flushed and trembling, spilling half into his lap as he shifts closer.

“Do it again, please?” John breathes out, and Gale’s hands settle on his waist, squeezing lightly. Gale smiles when he leans back in, and John groans into his mouth when their lips meet again, feeling feverishly hot as he loops his arms over Gale’s shoulders, almost in tears with how right it all feels.

He’s kissing a man. He’s kissing a man, and there’s a firm thigh beneath him and strong hands circling his waist, and he can feel stubble against his chin and everything feels exactly how it’s supposed to be, how he’s always known it should be.

Gale’s teeth catch on his bottom lip in a gentle tug this time when he pulls back, and John shudders, keening at the sensation and dragging his heavy eyelids open just enough to get a good look at Gale, but the intense dark eyes that greet him have him ducking his head, bringing his hands up to his face with a nervous half–laugh, half–groan.

“Gonna get all shy on me now?” Gale asks playfully, voice low and gravelly, a direct assault below John’s waist. He squirms a little, feeling the flush of embarrassment and arousal against his palms.

“Why didn’t you do that sooner?” John whines, and Gale huffs out a laugh, thumbs gently stroking up and down his sides, doing nothing to cool the heat beneath his navel.

“Was letting you make the first move,” Gale murmurs. “Didn’t wanna rush you.”

John feels so frustrated with himself for how long he’s potentially deprived himself of this for. The regret twists in his stomach, but it’s softened by the feeling of Gale’s hands on him, dizzy with the reality of it all. He lowers his hands from his face, placing them back on Gale’s broad shoulders, gaze jumping from blue eyes to kiss–flushed lips.

“Again?” He pleads shyly, eyelids drooping as he stares, trying to keep still and patient despite his eagerness. Gale’s laugh shakes his body, and he nods, wrapping his arms around his waist instead.

“Yeah, baby, let me just–” Gale shifts beneath him, pulling John against his chest to lift him up as he adjusts the both of them, and John swallows down a noise of surprise at the effortless motion, mind supplying a deluge of fantasies of Gale manhandling him with ease. For the first time, they don’t feel like just fantasies.

Gale sits him back down in his lap properly this time, with John’s knees on either side of his hips, feet tucked beneath Gale’s thighs. The closeness does away with what’s left of John’s working brain function, all coherency zapped out of his head with the feeling of Gale’s hips pressed to his, solid thighs beneath him keeping his own spread, strong arms a steadying force around him.

“Alright?” Gale rasps out, and John quickly nods, lost for words, all the blood in his head having run south long ago.

Gale tilts his chin up this time, seated just a little lower than John with how he’s settled in his lap, and John leans in at the silent invite, unable to stifle the quiet whine that slips out when he presses his lips to Gale’s again. It pulls a low noise of appreciation from Gale too, and John’s hips rock forward reflexively at the sound, blinding white bursts of light blooming behind his eyelids.

Gale’s hands slide down to grab his hips at the motion, and his firm grip only stokes the fire in John’s lungs, letting his own hands run down Gale’s sides, ignoring how they tremble with nerves and overwhelm and need. He tentatively tugs at the hem of Gale’s shirt, a wordless question as he presses deeper into the kiss, and he slips his hands beneath the fabric when Gale hums, sighing against his lips at the feeling of muscle and hot skin beneath his palms.

Gale dips a hand beneath John’s shirt in response, tracing his fingers up his spine, and John arches into the touch, the sensation of Gale’s callused fingertips against his bare skin making him gasp. He shifts, angling his body to press impossibly closer to Gale, pulse jumping at the spark of friction when he rolls his hips down again, a broken moan muffled by the kiss.

John hadn’t known kissing could feel so good. Whatever he’d expected when he’d pictured kissing Gale over the past few weeks doesn’t hold a torch to anything he’s feeling now, swallowing down desperate sounds as Gale lets him rock his hips against his, the intensity with which he’s being kissed enough to let him know it feels good for Gale too.

His shorts are uncomfortably tight, aching cock trapped between the fabric and his thigh, and he’s genuinely at risk of coming in his pants, going so lightheaded he forgets to breathe every time he remembers that he’s in Gale’s lap, and Gale’s hands are on him, and he’s making out with Gale.

He adjusts his weight as Gale slips his tongue between his parted lips, and the next time he presses his hips down, he’s certain he can feel the hard outline of Gale’s cock against his, and his eyes roll back behind his closed lids for a brief second, hands tightening on Gale’s sides.

“Oh– fuck,” he gasps into his mouth, brain overheating, whimpering out a “Gale.”

Gale’s hips roll up to meet his own with a ragged groan, and John feels near–hysterical, convinced he could come just from the sounds Gale’s making. He whines in protest when Gale pulls back a little, peeling his eyes open, panting against his lips, thighs trembling in his effort to hold still.

“What d’you want, sweet thing?” Gale murmurs, squeezing his waist, and John huffs, too worked up to think straight.

“Anything,” he pleads. He wants so much, now that he’s allowed to want; he wants Gale’s hand around his cock, he wants to keep grinding against him until he makes a mess of his shorts, he wants to feel the weight of Gale’s cock in his hand, he wants to sink to his knees in front of the couch and taste him–

Buzz.

John nearly jumps as the vibration of his phone cuts through the haze of need, glancing to his left where it sits forgotten on the couch before turning his attention back to Gale, poking his tongue out to wet his lips. He watches Gale’s eyes hungrily follow the motion, and he flushes all over again.

“I–”

Buzz.

John glares at the offending device, and Gale breathes out a laugh, rubbing his palm in slow circles over the small of his back.

“Wanna check it?” He asks.

“No,” John grumbles even as he reluctantly reaches for his phone, flipping it open, finding two messages from his dad waiting for him, stomach flipping anxiously.

‘Ethel’s gone home for the night, I want you home to help out.’

‘We’re going to take your mom to stay with Ethel for a few days tomorrow morning, so you need to help her pack some things.’

John could cry, truly. It feels like a cruel joke, finally getting to experience what he’s been yearning for only to be interrupted by something so gloomy, and it’s humiliating to have to fess up to Gale mid–makeout that he’s been told by his dad that he has to come home. He’s a little scared to tell him, worried the reminder of the years between them will be sobering enough for Gale to regret whatever just happened, but he doesn’t have much of a choice.

“Everything okay?” Gale asks, and the look of concern on his face makes John feel even worse, putting his phone down and dropping his forehead onto Gale’s shoulder with a noise of complaint.

“Yeah. I have to go home,” he breathes out, fidgeting with the hem of Gale’s shirt, trying to ignore the ache below his waist. Gale runs his hands soothingly along his sides, humming understandingly.

“It’s okay,” he says quietly, and all John can pay attention to are his hands against his bare skin. “Should probably slow it down anyway, hm?”

“No,” John pouts, and Gale laughs softly– until John rocks his hips down once more in retaliation and draws a sharp breath out of both of them.

“Cut that out,” Gale pulls his hands out from under John’s shirt, and John mourns his touch as soon as it’s gone, whining breathlessly against his neck.

“John.” Gale rubs his back apologetically, coaxing him back out of hiding. John’s eyes still feel so heavy and sleepy when he leans back in Gale’s lap, taking in the number he’s done on him, resisting the urge to cover his face when Gale takes in his own flushed cheeks and kiss–bitten lips.

“Oh, baby,” Gale murmurs, bringing a hand up to cup his face again, and John reflexively leans into his palm, eyes sliding closed to hide from the intensity of Gale’s stare. “The prettiest thing.”

John lets out a little choked–off noise at that, the compliment knocking the wind out of him, using it as an excuse to roll out of Gale’s lap and onto his stomach, burying his face in one of the couch pillows. He hears Gale laugh under his breath, husky and low, and it takes serious restraint to not rut his hips down into the couch to finish himself off.

“C’mon, I’ll drive you home,” Gale says, seeming every bit as unenthusiastic as John feels. John sighs heavily into the cushion, and he jumps when Gale’s hand closes around his ankle, squeezing apologetically before he pushes himself to his feet.

“Let’s not get you in trouble,” he says, and John reluctantly sits up at the reminder, glowering. He tries to tug his shirt down past his waist when he stands, cheeks still hot, the situation in his shorts not helping whatsoever, and he squirms when Gale gives him a lingering once–over and an amused look.

“Next time,” Gale promises, and John’s not sure how he’s meant to function until then, not with the way he can still feel the ghost of Gale’s fingers pressing into his waist, trailing along his heated skin. But he gets his phone and follows Gale to the door anyway, legs wobbly, a quiet, constant hum buzzing through his foggy head as he goes through the motions of putting his shoes on.

John can’t resist pressing extra close as soon as he’s seated on the back of Gale’s bike, hands dropping a little lower than usual when he clasps them around Gale’s middle, tongue feeling too big for his mouth. It feels like his body hasn’t gotten the message that it’s time to cool down, every muscle still strung taut, and his hips shift forward against Gale’s back without his permission when the bike rumbles to life beneath him.

“I’ll drive you in the truck instead if you don’t behave yourself,” Gale warns him lightheartedly, and something settles hot and heavy deep in John’s stomach at the tone, feeling like he’s going to turn the inside of his helmet into a furnace with the way it gets to him.

He stays quiet, but he obediently moves his hands, wrapping his arms around Gale properly, leaning against his shoulder, and he feels Gale relax before he pulls out of the driveway.

It’s the most muted John’s mind’s been in a while as they cruise along the quiet streets, all his energy going towards calming himself down. He purposefully turns his attention to what might be waiting for him when he gets home, intentionally getting himself anxious because it’s something to focus on other than how bad he wants Gale to turn down some quiet road and have his way with him.

John’s reluctant to move when Gale brings the bike to a stop along the sidewalk. He doesn’t want to bring the night to an end, both because he doesn’t want to say goodbye, and because he’s terrified that as soon as Gale’s alone, he’s going to decide it was a bad idea.

He wraps his arms around Gale’s waist just a little tighter, wishing he could bury his face against the back of his neck, cursing his helmet once again.

“Hey,” Gale murmurs, and John slackens his grip, heart thumping. “You gonna freak out as soon as I leave?”

John almost laughs, Gale’s words unknowingly echoing his own worries.

“No,” he says, hesitating. “Are you?”

It’s a small reach for assurance, something to tide his brain over until the next time they see each other. Gale shoots him a smile over his shoulder, shaking his head.

“Don’t overthink it,” Gale says gently, patting John’s arm. “You’re calling the shots here, John. Nothing has to change if you don’t want it to, okay?”

He does. John desperately wants everything to change– he wants to be able to go home and know everything will be different now, to be able to tilt his chin up in a wordless request for lips against his own whenever he wants, to be able to stare at Gale unabashedly and not worry about messing shit up by doing so.

“Okay,” he says instead, steadying himself before clambering off of the bike to stand at Gale’s side, pulling his helmet off and handing it to him so he can hook it onto the side of the seat. Gale looks up at him when he’s done securing it, eyes soft when he smiles.

“When are you off next?” He asks, and John feels ready to cry again, so grateful for Gale’s willingness to reassure him, to give him things to hold onto.

“Saturday,” John tells him, still nervous even after everything.

“Why don’t we see each other then?” Gale suggests warmly, and John nods, trying not to think about how he’s going to cope with waiting the rest of the week to properly see Gale after he’s gotten a taste of what he’s been wanting, but he’s absolutely not going to risk coming off as needy by asking to see him sooner.

He must be pouting more than he intends, because Gale breathes out a quiet laugh at his sulking, leaning an arm against the handlebars of his bike.

“You’ll survive, baby,” he says, and the name goes straight to John’s knees again, verbal whiplash on a silent street in the dead of night. “Text me when you get home, alright? Let me know if everything’s okay?”

“I will,” he promises, finally stepping up onto the sidewalk instead of leaning in for another kiss, too risky even in the dark. He gives Gale a shy smile and waves when the engine starts back up. “Night, Gale.”

“G’night, Johnny,” he smiles back, and then John has to watch him and his bike pull out of view, left alone with his overheated body and a fluttering pulse and an unresolved problem in his pants, the latter of which pushes him to reluctantly start his walk home.

He doesn’t stop smiling the whole way.

Chapter Text

August 12, 2005

John wakes up on Friday morning to a blissfully quiet house. His dad has already left for work, and his mom is at Aunt Ethel’s house for– well, John’s not actually sure how long. Until she feels ready to come home, or until his dad and Ethel decide she can be trusted without someone keeping an eye on her, he supposes.

When John had returned home on Wednesday night after the most brain–chemistry–altering event of his twenty years of life thus far, he’d had to sober up his mind (and body) once he’d closed the front door behind him, slipping back into his responsibilities. He’d ended up spending the night in his parent’s room, his dad taking the couch because “I just need one uninterrupted sleep to get through the rest of the week.”

John had understood– it’s a lot to deal with, he knows that. He’d just hoped his mom hadn’t overheard, not wanting her to feel worse than she already had been. That night had been bittersweet, laying in bed next to his mom for the first time in years. He’d almost felt like a kid, like he was the one sick and needing comfort, but the illusion hadn’t held up against the near–constant shivering behind him as he’d tried to fall asleep, or the constant flip of the blanket all night, on and off as she’d gone hot and cold.

As tired as John had been the next morning, helping her pack before his dad had driven her to Ethel’s, nothing could dampen his spirits when he’d headed to work. Curt had clocked his good mood with warranted suspicion the moment he’d met him at his locker, shouting out a triumphant “I told you so!” as soon as John had let the cat out of the bag. Filling him in on the previous night’s events had been almost as much fun as filling Helen in later on break, watching her eyes mimic dinner plates the same way Curt’s had, fork hanging limply in her hand.

And he might as well have floated through the rest of his shift, further uplifted by the message Gale had sent on his lunch break wishing him a good day. He’d smiled at his phone until his face hurt, trying to tone down his glee just a little in his reply, and he’d been untouchable by even the snappiest hotel guests, butterflies seeming to take up permanent residence just below his heart. The house had been empty when he’d gotten home, so he’d managed to get cozy in his room with some snacks before his dad had pulled into the driveway, and he hadn’t been interrupted once while he’d lost himself gaming for hours before eventually dragging himself into bed for the night.

Now, Friday morning, as John pops a CD into his music player and sets it down on the kitchen table, turning the volume up as loud as he pleases, he feels lighter than he’s felt in days. It’s like he’s living alone, sort of, and he feels a little guilty for enjoying the peace and quiet so much when the circumstances allowing it to exist are less than ideal, but he decides that it can’t hurt to find the good in the cards he’s been dealt, because the cards are going to stay the same regardless of how he feels about them.

He’s just finished making breakfast when his phone buzzes, and John’s heart still jumps when he sees Gale’s contact name regardless of how common morning texts have become between the two of them.

‘Good morning. Sleep well?’

John’s about to type out a response– for once he did sleep well– when a second text comes in.

‘What are your hours today?’

Immediately John feels a rush of excitement that he has no chance of suppressing, unable to stop himself from hoping that Gale’s just as impatient to see him as he is to see Gale, and that Gale’s about to ask to see him today.

‘morning, i did thx! did you? :) and 10–7, why?’

John’s eyes don’t leave his phone while he eats, and it buzzes again a minute later.

‘I did too, thanks. Was wondering if you want to come over after work instead?’

Yes, yes he does. Only– John deflates the tiniest bit. As elated as he is at the chance to see Gale sooner, he also feels a little disappointed, because an evening isn’t nearly as much time together as they’d get hanging out on Saturday, and with Curt staying in Milwaukee with Ken for the weekend, he’s really been hoping for an excuse to not be home alone with his dad. Still, he’s not going to turn Gale down. Maybe he’s had something come up; John will happily take an evening over not seeing Gale at all.

So he replies with an ‘okay! ^-^’ and tries to force down the rest of his breakfast despite the nerves messing with his appetite now.

‘Should I come pick you up after?’ Gale messages, and John sends back, ‘if you don’t mind! c:’

He’s just finished putting away his dishes and is about to step into the shower when Gale gets back to him.

‘Not at all. You’re welcome to stay over, unless you’re staying at Curt’s this weekend?’

Just like that, John’s excitement shoots right back up to where it had been before, a giddy smile on his face as the nervous butterflies return with a vengeance. His response of ‘i’d like that. :) curt’s going out of town :P’ is a lot more relaxed than he feels at his new evening plans, breathless all through his shower and ridiculously upbeat as he gets dressed and packs his bag, both with things for work and for overnight. He packs some of his own clothes this time, though he secretly hopes Gale will offer up his own again instead, and then he’s off to the bus stop, headphones on and heart feeling light.

John doesn’t even mind that Curt and Helen don’t start work till noon today, because he spends the first two hours of his shift daydreaming– and flustering himself– about the evening ahead, cleaning rooms and making beds on autopilot. He feels a little bad for Helen when he and Curt are chatting about their respective weekend plans in the laundry room, and she pouts and tells them how single they’re making her feel, though he knows she’s mostly playing.

In the two years John’s known her, she’s never been big on boy–talk, nor has she shared much about her dating life in general, but she’s always come off as very casual about it all, so he’s just assumed dating isn’t high on her list of priorities. Even so, John eases up on his Gale–isms, at least after a quick tease about how Helen should just pop into the pub for a night and she might leave with a man too, since the place seems to be some sort of love shack.

He gets a swat with a towel for his efforts, dodging further attacks with a pillow–shield while giggled–out apologies spill from his lips. When the end of his shift rolls around– which seems to take an eternity– Curt and Helen trail after him to the hotel’s entrance, both of them keen to get a glimpse of ‘the outlaw,’ as Helen’s deemed Gale.

Gale’s already out front on his bike, arms folded against the handlebars, parked a little off to the side. He’s changed out of his work clothes, inked arms on display in a t–shirt, too hot today for his jacket, and he looks relaxed as he slouches over, eyes trained on the sprawling green hotel grounds, fingers tapping a pattern on the back of his other hand as he waits.

“John,” Helen admonishes, though she sounds more surprised than anything else. “That’s who you’re frolicking around with?”

John snorts at her choice of words.

“What happened to not judging a book by its cover?” He chides lightheartedly, hoping his expression doesn’t give away how nervous he actually is to see him again. Helen makes an incredulous noise, and Curt pats her shoulder in an effort to comfort.

“He’s a big ol’ softie, Hel,” Curt assures her. “Seen it with my own two eyes.”

John’s heart gets a little melty at that, and he smiles to himself, adjusting the strap of his bag.

“Have a fun weekend Curt,” he raises his eyebrows suggestively, and Curt scoffs. “I’ll see you Sunday, Helen.”

Curt makes a kissy–face at him when he turns to leave, and John rolls his eyes but blows him an air–kiss back as he steps through the automatic doors, breath catching in his throat when Gale’s head turns at the sound of them sliding open. The absent look on Gale’s face gives way to one that’s almost unbearably soft as soon as his gaze falls on John, and John wants to drop his own face in his hands and turn right back around to hide in the lobby, a nervous giggle almost slipping out as he approaches the man instead.

“Hi,” he says shyly as Gale straightens, and he gets a fond smile in return.

“Hey, wage slave,” Gale says, holding out his helmet, and John’s sigh of complaint is a lot less effective with the laugh that bubbles out at the greeting. “How was work?”

“Good,” John says as he tugs the helmet on. Truthfully, it could’ve been the worst shift of all time and he’d still be flying too high on his excitement over seeing Gale to remember any details. “How was yours?”

“It was a day, alright,” Gale says, corner of his mouth quirking up, and it sounds like a promise of story time. John starts to inquire, but before he can Gale tells him, “I’ll tell you over dinner.”

Over dinner. Alright, he can feel normal about how casually Gale throws that out. John nods, smiling openly behind the safety of his visor.

He’s overwhelmed with how badly he wants to hug Gale, but he settles for wrapping his arms extra tight around his middle once he’s settled on the bike, hoping that does enough to convey the sentiment. He thinks it does, with the way Gale squeezes his joint hands gently before pulling out of the hotel’s lot.

John leans his head on Gale’s shoulder as they ride, pretending he can feel soft cloth against his cheek, keeping his eyes on the road and feeling a thrill roll through him when he realizes they’re nearing Gale’s street. As much as he enjoys going out to eat together, he’s not sure he can handle waiting another hour or two to be alone with Gale, so he has no qualms about going straight home.

Despite how much time John’s spent over the past few days thinking about seeing Gale again, thinking about how he can– maybe?– just kiss him whenever he wants now, once he’s back in Gale’s entryway, Gale waiting for him to finish kicking his shoes off, he feels shy all over again.

But it’s a different kind of shy now, because just as much as he’s allowed to look at Gale without hiding his yearning, Gale can look at him the same, and John’s not prepared in the slightest for the things that does to him. He follows Gale to the kitchen, where he’s immediately engulfed by the mouth–watering smell emanating from the oven, his hands quite literally twitching at his sides with the urge to grab the front of Gale’s shirt and pull him down for a thank–you–kiss, in full disbelief that the man has cooked for him.

“Sit,” Gale gestures at the small table as he passes by, pulling open a drawer. John hesitates.

“You don’t want help?” He asks, feeling bad about just sitting while Gale cooks, but Gale shakes his head, smiling at him.

“It’s almost done,” he insists, pointing at the chair with his spatula when John opens his mouth to argue. “You rest for a bit.”

John reluctantly does as he’s told, setting his bag down on the floor next to his chair, leaning his chin in his hand as he watches Gale move around the kitchen for plates and cutlery. He decides being banished to the table isn’t all that bad then, cheeks warm as his eyes drag unabashedly over Gale’s form as he leans down to check on what looks like some sort of baked pasta in the oven. John wants to be brave, to beckon Gale over and tug him down for a kiss, for a hug, at the very least– he just wants to touch him, to hold him in some way, to prove to himself that what happened Wednesday was real.

Mostly though, he wants Gale to touch him, to make a move on him this time, and he can’t help get in his head about it, because why hasn’t he yet? John thinks back to their last proper conversation when Gale had dropped him off on Wednesday night, wondering if he’d somehow given him the idea that he’d regretted kissing him, but then he remembers Gale had made it clear that John’s the one calling the shots, and he almost groans at the thought of having to verbalize to Gale that he’s still very interested.

The warmth on his cheeks blooms into a proper flush when Gale closes the oven and straightens, turning to glance at him, and he gives John a knowing look as he turns back to whatever he’s got cooking in the pot on the stove, stirring it a few times before taking it off the heat.

“What’re you thinking about?” Gale asks, and John makes a quiet noise, dropping his eyes down to the tiles. Honesty hasn’t hurt him so far, and he’s not sure how much more bravery he’s got left in him, but he can try.

“I just wanted you to know that I– that I didn’t change my mind,” John gets out, tracing his finger along a line on the table, stubbornly staring at the wooden surface, hastily adding, “y’know, if you didn’t either.”

“That right?” John looks up at the question, watching as Gale turns to lean against the counter, bracing his hands on the edge of it, and John has to work to keep his eyes trained on Gale’s face. He nods meekly, tucking his sock–clad feet behind the legs of his chair to stop his own legs from bouncing.

Gale smiles a bit and leans back, tilting his head. “You askin’ for something?”

John’s face goes hot, and he feels like he’s been seen right through. His lips part, but he can’t get the words out; he can only blink up at Gale as he walks over to the table and leans on it in a near–mirror image of the first time they’d spoken in the pub.

“Hm?” Gale presses, and John nods again, eyes dancing around Gale’s face, heart mimicking the motions against his ribs.

“You don’t have to ask, baby,” Gale tells him softly as he places a hand under John’s chin, tilting it up a little. John’s lungs feel like they malfunction when Gale leans down, pressing his lips to his own, kissing him sweetly, and it feels every bit as mind–melting as it had the first time. John lifts his chin further, eyes sliding closed as he pushes into the kiss, fingers curling around the edge of the table, feeling Gale smile against his lips.

Gale’s thumb presses into the soft of his cheek, guiding him closer, and John sighs contentedly, the restlessness beneath his skin feeling sated for the first time in days. He wishes Gale would stay longer, because the brief kiss only leaves him wanting more, but he’s lightheaded enough as it is when Gale pulls away, so he thinks it’s maybe for the best. It’s an effort to peel his eyes back open. Gale’s own eyes are still lingering on John’s mouth when he does, and John can’t handle the intensity when his gaze lifts to meet his, reflexively pulling his face away from Gale’s hand.

He folds his arms on the table and promptly buries his face in them as if he can run from his own flustered state, and a whine of complaint slips out when he hears Gale laugh at his reaction.

“You hiding on me now?” Gale murmurs, and John feels fingers thread through his hair, breathing out a quiet sound of acknowledgement at the rhetorical question, melting into his touch. His racing pulse slowly begins to settle itself, but his stomach is no closer to ceasing its somersaults than his ears are to losing their redness, and John’s not sure how he’s meant to survive anything if every kiss makes him feel this way.

“S’okay, you can hide,” Gale coos, running his hand through John’s hair once more before pulling it away. John only turns to pillow his cheek in his arms when he hears Gale open the oven again, heart feeling pulled by gravity over to the man as he pulls the dish out and begins to plate their food.

They eat dinner at the kitchen table instead of on the couch, the radio on the window sill playing quietly, and John can’t remember the last time he’s properly eaten dinner at the dining table with someone, usually making food for himself and slipping away to his room to eat, or carefully balancing plates with Curt in his bed, or rushing through meals in the breakroom at work. He actually can’t remember the last time he’s eaten a home cooked meal like this, something that doesn’t come from a microwave package or doesn’t involve slapping ingredients between two pieces of bread, and it fills his body with warmth, never mind the fact that Gale made it.

John can’t stop staring as they eat, can’t process what’s happening, keeps expecting to suddenly snap out of some incredibly vivid daydream only to find himself back at work, having zoned out during a lapse in customers. But he’s here, in Gale’s kitchen, and Gale is telling him about the insane customer he’d had earlier like this is the most normal thing in the world, and John wants so badly for it to be.

He feels a little guilty, because it’s hard to be fully present when half of his brain is occupied thinking about– fantasizing about– how the rest of the night is going to go, and he wonders if Gale is thinking about the same things that he is. He hopes Gale is.

But John would be more than happy to sit at the table with him until the sun comes up too, slowly growing more at ease as they chat. It feels like a light he hadn’t known was missing comes on when he’s around Gale, a steady glow right in the center of his chest, seeping into his bones like liquid gold, like he’s been flayed open so the sun can shine where he’s never felt it. It scares John just as much as he wants to lean into the feeling, only because it’s so foreign and good, and he doesn’t trust that it’ll stick around, but he trusts Gale, and that matters more to him than anything else.

Despite Gale’s protests, John joins him at the sink when they’re done eating, diligently drying dishes off as they’re passed to him. With both of them having gotten their wild work stories out of their systems over dinner, Gale asks John if he’s gotten up to anything else interesting over the past few days, and John finds himself a minute into telling Gale about the plot of a book he’d finished the day before when he stops mid–sentence, stomach twisting as he catches himself.

“Sorry,” he blurts out, setting a dried plate down onto the rack next to the sink, embarrassed. “I didn’t mean to– you’re not reading it, so–”

“You’re stopping there?” Gale interrupts, and John glances at him, taking a bowl Gale hands him. “I was invested, you can’t cliff–hang me.”

John stares at Gale for a second, abruptly feeling like he might cry. His chest squeezes tight, a glove closing around his heart, but he feels like he can breathe easier than ever, a knot in his stomach unwinding itself as he slowly towels off the bowl.

“Um,” he tries to find where he’d left off, eyes still stinging as a smile tugs at the corners of his lips.

“The field,” Gale reminds him, voice warm, encouraging, and John nods.

“Right, the field. It was a crazy landing…”

With the kitchen cleaned up and leftovers put away in the fridge, they end up on the couch watching a late night trivia game show, both of them trying to guess things before the contestants do. It’s nice, light and easy, relaxing John’s nerves– the ones sparked by the arm draped over his shoulders and the warm body he’s pressed up against– a little bit.

The sun has long since stopped shining through the drawn curtains, the only light in the room coming from the flickering colours on the TV screen, and when the program ends and some random reality show starts playing, John’s antsiness returns without something to actively focus on. Gale’s body is as comforting a presence to his left as it is a torturous one, and John thinks Gale’s paying as little attention to the TV now as he is, feeling his fingers idly tracing patterns on his arm where his hand hangs over his shoulder.

John accepts, with deep resignation, that Gale’s still not going to instigate anything, and he understands his stance, but that doesn’t mean he likes it. Just the thought of making a move has him experiencing heart palpitations again– the only consolation is that this time, he’s one hundred percent certain Gale wants him back, and he doesn’t have to feel anxious about possible rejection.

That knowledge brings John enough comfort that the next time Gale shifts a little, he takes a deep breath, and then– all or nothing– he rolls to his left and settles himself down in Gale’s lap in one clumsy motion. Gale makes a noise of surprise, hands immediately finding John’s hips, and John’s stomach flips when his thumbs press gently into his hip bones.

That’s as far as John’s bold impulsivity stretches. He feels like he’s flailing, lost at sea, so incredibly out of his depth again as he blinks down at Gale, but Gale mercifully takes pity on him. He rewards John for his desperate show of courage by bringing a hand up and cupping his face, smiling when John presses his cheek shyly against his palm.

“Hey, pretty boy,” Gale murmurs, and John forgets how to breathe, a quiet whine climbing its way up his throat. The hand on his hip flexes a bit, and Gale’s thumb brushes over his cheekbone, the gesture so simple yet so grounding, like Gale’s reminding him that he’s here, that this is real, that it’s just the two of them. The motion has John’s bottom lip catching on the heel of Gale’s hand, and unthinkingly he turns his head and presses his lips to Gale’s palm in a soft kiss, eyelids sliding closed. He feels Gale shift beneath him, hears him inhale unsteadily, and then Gale’s guiding him down, warm lips meeting his.

John melts into the kiss just as quick as he had the last, everything seeming to fall into place, nerves thawing and giving way to the slow, deliberate movements of Gale’s lips. Gale’s mouth is soft but firm, the gentle pressure coaxing John into relaxing further in his lap, the hand on his face remaining a steady, reassuring presence. John’s hands find Gale’s shoulders when he deepens the kiss, head spinning as heat pools south, feeling far too alive and lit up to care about how fast he’s getting flustered; he’s been waiting to be back in Gale’s arms for long enough.

The hand still resting on John’s hip begins to move in slow circles, the pads of Gale’s fingers grazing the sensitive skin just above the waistband of John’s jeans. The touch is light, almost teasing, and John shivers, squirming. Gale seems to sense the effect he’s having, his lips curving into a smile against John’s mouth before he deepens the kiss further, his tongue moving against John’s in a way that makes his heart race.

John’s breath hitches, a soft gasp escaping him as he instinctively rocks his hips forward and feels that Gale’s hard beneath him too. The movement is small, barely noticeable, but the friction it creates as he presses down against Gale’s lap sends a jolt of pleasure through him, and he pulls back slightly, eyes wide with surprise at the intensity of the sensation, at how fast he’s gotten worked up. Gale’s hand tightens on his waist, and his other slides down to rest there as well, keeping him close.

“Easy,” Gale soothes, voice low and reassuring. “You wanna cool it down, baby?”

The consideration is sweet, and John knows it has to take a whole lot of restraint to offer it, but he whines and shakes his head insistently, sliding his hands down to Gale’s chest, splaying his fingers out.

“Want more,” John breathes, and Gale rumbles out a laugh, not seeming at all surprised by his response.

“Yeah?” Gale purrs, and John nods, even as his cheeks flush with embarrassment. He feels like he’s teetering on the edge of something new and nerve wracking, but the warmth in Gale’s eyes gives him the courage to lean back in, reconnecting their lips. He wants so much, wants to feel more, to feel everything Gale will give him and then some.

Slowly, John begins to move his hips again, more deliberately this time. The friction between them is intoxicating, each drag drawing a soft, involuntary sound from John’s lips, muffled by the kiss. Gale’s hands guide him, encouraging him to find a rhythm that feels good until John is rocking steadily against him, the heat in his stomach building with every movement.

Gale’s breathing grows heavier, his hands firm on John’s hips as he helps him find the perfect angle. The hard line of Gale’s cock presses against John’s inner thigh, the pressure sending sparks of pleasure through him with every roll of his hips. He’s lost in the sensation, in the feeling of Gale’s hands on him, leading him, grounding him, making him feel wanted in a way he’s never felt before.

Gale pulls back to press a kiss to the corner of John’s mouth, then his cheek, and he trails his lips along John’s jaw, down to the sensitive spot just beneath his ear, where he nips gently at the skin. The feeling pulls a whimper from John, and he falls forward, placing his hands on the back of the couch as he tilts his head to the side to give Gale more access, shuddering as he works his way down his neck.

Gale’s hips begin to move in tandem with John’s, the grinding turning into a slow, firm rhythm. John feels lips and teeth close around his pulse point, Gale’s nose bumping against the underside of his jaw as he drags his tongue over his skin, and John feels almost dizzy with all of the stimulation. It’s all so new, so overwhelming, but he wants more– needs more.

“Gale,” John gasps, and Gale’s response is immediate, hands squeezing his sides reassuringly as he pulls away, letting John settle back.

“I’ve got you, doll,” Gale rasps, voice sounding just as gone as John’s does. “What do you need?”

John wants to pick up whatever imaginary lead Gale seems to think is in John’s hand and pass it over to Gale, because his nerves are going to fry themselves to a crisp if he has to keep making decisions, his brain feeling like soup in his skull, his insides nothing but hot liquid.

“I need–” John cuts himself off with a whine, frustrated, pleading with his eyes. “Please.”

He rocks his hips down, keening quietly, pawing at Gale’s wrists, unable to bring himself to ask outright, feeling like he’ll die if he tries. Gale groans at his desperation, squeezing his waist once more.

“Okay baby, okay,” he relents, moving his hands to the button on John’s pants, and John almost chokes on his own tongue, certain he’s about to ascend straight off the couch and through the ceiling.

“Oh my god,” John whispers frantically, hands flying up to grab onto Gale’s biceps, chin nearly tucked to his chest so he can watch as Gale gets his zipper down. It’s like one of his wet dreams is happening in real time, vision swimming when Gale palms him over his boxers, groaning as he feels himself leak into the fabric, blunt nails digging into Gale’s arms. “Gale, oh my god.”

“Relax, baby,” Gale sounds amused despite how strained his voice is in his effort to stay composed, and John nearly lets out a disbelieving laugh, because as if this is a situation he can have any hope of relaxing in.

Gale slips his hand into John’s underwear and wraps his fingers around his cock, pulling it from its cotton confines, and John’s vision whites out for a solid second, hips jerking into his touch, head falling back on his shoulders. His jaw goes slack, lips parting in a silent moan, and even with Gale keeping his hand still to give him time to adjust, he’s certain he can come like this. But he fights against every impulse, tilting his chin back down and reaching for Gale’s belt with shaky hands.

“Need your– you too, please,” John feels almost hysterical as he fumbles with the buckle, and Gale bats his hands away, taking over for him. John can’t mourn the loss of his hand around his cock because he’s too busy staring as Gale’s long fingers work at the clasp of his belt, pulling the leather past the metal and getting his zipper down.

His ears ring as he watches Gale’s hand dip into his boxers, shoving the waistband out of the way the best he can with his other hand, freeing his cock from the fabric. John swallows hard, hands twitching where they hover over his thighs, staring as his own cock throbs. It’s his first time seeing another man’s dick outside of a locker room shower or computer screen, and if he wasn’t so close to shooting off already, he’d take his time looking, touching, taking in how hard Gale is, knowing he made that happen.

But he’s dangerously close to coming untouched, so he reaches down– only for Gale to knock his hand away again.

“Please–”

“Let me,” Gale breathes, pulling John closer by his hips. John doesn’t comprehend what he means until Gale takes John’s cock back in his hand and angles his own hips so his dick is in line with John’s, and then he collects the wetness from the head of John’s cock on his palm and wraps his hand around both of them.

A strangled sound slips from John’s mouth at the sight, obscene and hot and something he absolutely would not have imagined happening to him only a mere month ago. His stomach draws tight when Gale drags his hand down, the movement slicked by how worked up John is, and the punched–out moan it gets out of him has him covering his mouth with his hand, face hot at how little control he feels like he has over his body right now.

Gale works his hand around both of them, muscles in his forearm flexing with each slow push and pull, and John feels close to hyperventilating as he watches the heads of their cocks slide out of the top of the tight hold Gale’s fist creates. It’s too much– the soft heat of Gale’s dick against his own, the feeling of his thighs tensing beneath him, the sounds Gale’s making, the drag of his calluses against his cock.

John’s harder than he’s ever been in his life, and he’s never felt so good, and he wants this to last forever, but he can’t help the way his hips roll up into Gale’s fist on each downstroke, the knot in his stomach tightening. His hand drops from his mouth to grab hold of Gale’s arm again, teeth biting into his bottom lip as frantic sounds bubble up from his throat, ragged and desperate.

“Fuck,” Gale groans, and John glances up to find Gale watching him instead of what he’s doing, and the hungry look on his face brings John straight to the edge with no warning.

“Gale–” he barely chokes out before his mouth is falling open, hips stuttering into Gale’s tight fist, fingers digging into his arms.

“Go on, baby,” Gale encourages, speeding up his movements, pulsing his hand around him. “Doing so good, come on.”

John spills over Gale’s fist with a broken whimper, squeezing his eyes shut and fucking up into his hand, Gale’s touch like magic as he works him through his orgasm. All of his nerve endings feel like they’re firing off at once, pleasure ripping through him like a forest ablaze, stealing the air from his lungs as he slumps forward against Gale. John’s forehead falls onto Gale’s shoulder as his hips rock up a few more times, chasing every bit of bliss that he can until he’s twitching away from Gale’s touch, the too–good crossing into too–much territory, a whisper of a whine slipping out.

Gale removes his hand, and John lets go of his arms to drape them over Gale’s shoulders instead, heart still thumping in his ears as he catches his breath, feeling both weightless and like his bones have been swapped out for rocks. Gale’s hand rubs his back while he comes down, and when John’s stopped trembling enough for his senses to return, he can hear slow, slick sounds beneath him, and he cracks blurry eyes open to see Gale idly jerking himself off.

John makes a quiet noise, watching the way Gale’s thumb swipes over the head of his cock on an upstroke, and then he forgets how to breathe all over again when he realizes his own come is slicking Gale’s movements now, heat blooming across his cheeks again. He stares, transfixed, still not quite processing that he’s looking at Gale’s cock, and he lifts his head from Gale’s shoulder once he’s recovered enough to move.

John feels twitchy and sluggish and half–gone, but he’s never touched someone else’s dick beyond– courtesy of his best friend– fumbled groping over layers of clothing. Gale’s cock is pretty and flushed and big and he craves the weight in his palm so badly, has spent an ungodly amount of time thinking about it over the past few weeks, so he pushes past his nerves, leaning back in Gale’s lap and flushing as he meets his eyes.

“Can I?” He asks in a whisper, and Gale groans out a “yeah, baby,” nodding and taking his hand away.

Even after everything else they’ve just done, John still feels shy as he tentatively wraps his hand around Gale’s cock, but any hesitance is quickly forgotten at the curse he draws from Gale when he experimentally drags his hand up, running his thumb over the head of his cock the way he’d seen Gale do. The velvety skin is hot to the touch, and it feels so much bigger in his hand than what he’s used to, than what he's watched on his computer screen in the dark of his bedroom, and John swallows down a whine at the implications.

He can feel Gale watching him, but he can’t tear his gaze away from his fist as Gale rocks his hips up into it, eyes wide at the sight, the feeling, the lewd sounds of it all. Gale’s hand tightens on his waist when John drags his hand back down, then up again, trying to meet each roll of Gale’s hips, mesmerized as his cock slides in and out of his fist.

“God, doll, s’good,” Gale breathes out, and John’s head goes a little fuzzy. He can’t comprehend that he’s making Gale feel good, that Gale’s turned on by him, that Gale wants him the same way he wants Gale; it makes his heart feel full, makes his dick twitch with interest, makes him ache to kiss Gale again.

He does, as soon as he registers that he can, in fact, just do that when he wants to now, heart fluttering as he pulls his eyes away from between the two of them and leans in to capture Gale’s lips with his own. Gale presses back into the kiss readily, groaning against his lips, and John whimpers in response, his hand stilling for a beat as he loses himself to the feeling before he remembers to keep moving.

He squeezes his hand, tries to twist his wrist the way he does it when he’s alone in bed, and it draws noises out of Gale that John knows he’ll be replaying in his head every night that he’s not next to him. He makes his grip more firm when he feels Gale’s hips start to jerk up a little more erratically, leaning deeper into the clumsy, open–mouthed kiss before pulling back to watch, whining at the sight. Gale’s hips twitch at the sound, and John’s stomach flips, eyes jumping up to Gale’s face, then back down, feeling breathless again.

It only takes a few more drags of his hand for Gale to come, rumbling out a low moan of John’s name as his head tips back, hand squeezing John’s waist. John swears under his breath as he watches Gale spill over his fist and his own stomach, mouth dry and head spinning at the way he sounds, feeling heat stir below his navel, feeling Gale’s cock pulse in his hand. John strokes him through it the same way Gale had for him until Gale shudders, gently nudging his hand away, and John obliges, though reluctantly. He thinks he likes touching Gale as much as he likes being touched; he hadn’t expected it to feel so nice, but it’s better than he’s been picturing, and already he’s eager for more.

John lets his eyes devour the sight of Gale beneath him while Gale catches his breath, knowing he’s only got a few more seconds left before he has to be perceived by the man, and then he’ll want to disappear. He stares at the curve of Gale’s neck where his head leans back on the couch, at the rise and fall of his chest, the damp spots on his shirt where he came. John glances at his own hand, seeing that a little bit of Gale’s come has dripped over the back of it, and unthinkingly he raises his hand to his mouth.

Gale lifts his head off the back of the couch just as John’s tongue darts out, tentatively tasting, then cleaning off the back of his hand, hot all over with the knowledge that he’s tasted Gale, that he likes it. He raises his eyes to find Gale watching with blown pupils and parted lips, and he flushes, ready to get out an apology, or some sort of an excuse, suddenly anxious that had been weird. But Gale just groans and cups John’s face in his hands and pulls him down for a kiss, licking hungrily into his mouth, and John breathes out a sigh against his lips, closing his eyes and fisting his hands in Gale’s shirt.

Gale cradles his face with so much tenderness, and John instinctively presses closer, breath hitching as his cock brushes against Gale’s, trying not to get himself worked up all over again. Gale’s hands slide down from his face, trailing along his neck and shoulders, and then down his sides, leaving a path of warmth in their wake. His movements are unhurried, as if he’s savouring the moment, and it leaves John feeling both vulnerable and cherished in a way that makes his heart ache with affection; he hopes he communicates the sentiment when he kisses Gale with a softness to match the way Gale’s hands roam.

John only pulls back when he can’t ignore the need for air anymore, panting against Gale’s lips, feeling Gale’s own breaths ghost over his, and for a moment that’s how they stay, the only sound in the room is their labored breathing and the soft hum of the TV. John feels emptied out and boneless, head buzzing pleasantly, and he moves to lay his cheek on Gale’s shoulder, keeping his eyes closed as if he can avoid confronting everything that way.

Gale’s hand slips beneath his shirt, rubbing soothing circles on his back, and John sighs quietly, nuzzling his nose against Gale’s neck, wrapping his arms around his shoulders. The warmth of Gale’s skin, the familiar smell of his cologne, his callused but gentle hands on him, it’s all so comforting that John doesn’t want to move, burrowing in closer when he hears Gale murmur his name.

He feels Gale rumble out a quiet laugh beneath him, and he hums against his neck in response, facing heating up as he returns to reality.

“You good, Johnny?” Gale asks softly, fingertips tracing down his spine, and John melts against him, pressing as close as humanly possible.

“So good,” he mumbles against Gale’s skin, and Gale breathes out another laugh. John feels him press a kiss to the top of his head, and the gentle affection is almost unbearable; he doesn’t know what to do with it, wants to run from it as much as he wants to beg for more. He does neither, letting his breathing sync up with Gale’s, idly playing with the hair that curls at the base of Gale’s skull, eyelids so heavy he thinks he’s about to lapse into sleep, until Gale shifts beneath him.

“How about I clean us up and we can get cozy in bed, hm?” Gale suggests, and John whines his complaint at the notion of being moved, though laying down does sound really nice, and he’s about a minute away from falling asleep regardless of where he is.

“I know,” Gale sympathizes, squeezing his hips before sitting up, taking John with him. John knows it’s silly, but he clings harder when Gale tries to lay him down on his back, trying fruitlessly to stay tucked away against the safety of his body, where he doesn’t have space to start overthinking or feel self–conscious. Gale makes a sound of amusement, going down with him when John tugs him closer, bracing his hands on either side of John’s head.

“Am I gonna have to perform an extraction?” He teases, bringing a hand down to trail it along John’s side, rucking his shirt up in the process. “C’mon baby. I’ll be so quick, you’ll be in bed before you even feel yourself leave the couch.”

John reluctantly lets go at that, immediately covering his face with his hands when he feels Gale’s warmth leave him, pouting into his palms at the way Gale snickers under his breath and runs his fingers through John’s hair as he stands. Gale really is only gone for a few seconds, a drawer opening and the kitchen sink running, but it’s enough time for the gravity of it all to sink in, getting John all flustered again, in disbelief that someone’s actually seen him like this, that Gale has seen him like this, that he’s seen Gale too.

It’s somehow everything and nothing like what John had anticipated for so many years, but it’s better than he could’ve hoped, and despite how shy he feels now, he feels so comfortable too, so thankful that he’s experiencing these things with someone who makes him feel safe. When Gale comes back, John’s sprawled out, wrist draped over his eyes, a lazy smile and a flush on his face. He feels drained, sated, the butterflies in his stomach gone sluggish with heat and molten amber, but he still tenses a bit when he feels a warm cloth drag over the mess on his stomach, embarrassed about being exposed now that he’s not deep in the fog of desire.

“Gimme your hands,” Gale coaxes, and John does, letting his palms be wiped clean before he hears Gale leave the room again, presumably to toss the cloth somewhere. John gets his pants back on properly, heartbeat finally slowing somewhat, but his head goes dizzy when he pushes himself to his feet, feeling untethered alone in the living room.

He’s about to head to the bedroom when Gale returns from the hallway, smiling when he sees John waiting for him, and John almost can’t handle the way he looks, hair all disheveled, cheeks a little ruddy, clothes rumpled from John’s wandering hands. John smiles back shyly, not sure how he’s supposed to meet Gale’s eyes after all that when he has enough trouble as is, but Gale doesn’t bug him about it, just turns the TV off and places a hand on the small of his back to wordlessly guide him to his room.

It’s dark aside from the dim closet light, and it makes it less scary to undress, though John’s more occupied with staring as Gale pulls his shirt over his head, his cock definitely still ready to go at a moment’s notice even after the evening he’s had. Gale glances at him and John blushes, looking away as he pulls his own shirt off, following Gale’s lead and stepping out of his pants too, feeling entirely too naked despite both of them leaving their underwear on.

“Hey,” Gale says softly, and John looks at him as he crosses the room, heart racing once again. “You freakin’ out a little?”

“A little,” John says honestly; it feels good to say it, to not be expected to play it cool, and Gale smiles understandingly, kindly.

“I am, too,” Gale murmurs, and John scoffs, insides warming at the way Gale’s smile grows.

“No you’re not,” John says doubtfully, and Gale laughs quietly, reaching out to take John’s hand in his, lifting it to his chest.

“I am,” Gale repeats, pressing John’s palm against his sternum, and John goes still when he feels a pulse that almost matches the rapid beat of his own, blinking at Gale in surprise. He can’t imagine Gale being nervous about anything, much less about this– about him. The knowledge is profoundly soothing, and he can’t wrap his head around the fact that Gale’s let him in on this secret so casually, like the gesture isn’t currently rendering John speechless.

John brings Gale’s hand to his own chest then, letting him feel the way his heart is thumping against his ribcage, faster than Gale’s had been, and Gale’s eyes grow impossibly softer.

“Baby,” Gale says in an almost–whisper, bringing his other palm up to John’s cheek, and John’s lashes flutter, body relaxing with his touch. He tilts his chin up reflexively, and Gale doesn’t miss a beat before leaning in, kissing him so sweetly it makes his head spin. He wonders if Gale can feel the way his heart jumps, if Gale’s own does the same, and then Gale’s pulling away, leading him to bed.

It’s not like the last time they’d slept together, when John had been so emotionally exhausted and depleted, when placing his hand in Gale’s had seemed like the scariest but most important thing in the world. This time they already lie close as soon as they crawl into bed, gravitating towards each other, but John doesn’t know what to do with himself, feeling restless in this unfamiliar territory.

Gale must sense it, because he purrs out a laugh and tugs John close like it’s nothing, tucking John’s face against his chest and lifting John’s arm for him, draping it over his middle. Gale mirrors the position with his own arm, wrapping it around John’s waist, pulling him flush against his body. John feels so secure and safe that he doesn’t even mind that they’ll both probably wake up overheated, humming contentedly and nuzzling closer to Gale’s chest.

“Gotta teach you how to cuddle, too?” Gale teases, and John feels the last of his tension unravel, feels every bit of his being melt into Gale’s embrace. He’s pretty sure Gale could teach him anything and he’d be happy.

When the morning sunlight pulls John from sleep, the first thing he notices is that he's in Gale's bed. The second thing he notices is that, when he instinctively turns his head to check the time, there’s an alarm clock on the bedside table that hadn’t been there last weekend, that he very much hadn’t noticed last night in the midst of everything else. He smiles tiredly at it, a little surprised that he’s woken up before nine a.m. on his own, at least until he realizes they both had probably crashed by midnight last night.

He and Gale have moved away from each other in the night, probably ending up too hot like John had expected, but the air–con is doing the job now, the heat of the day still a couple hours away, and the room is comfortably cool. John rolls over onto his other side and finds Gale still asleep on his back, all soft lines in the warm golden light, and his heart does a little spin, overwhelmed with the view and the fact that he’s allowed to witness Gale like this.

John watches for a minute longer, and then he closes his eyes again, pressing his cheek into his pillow, deciding he’ll try to go back to sleep until Gale wakes up. Except now his heart’s going, and he can’t stop thinking about last night, and it’s taking physical restraint to be so close to Gale but to not touch, and now John’s taken aback not only by his voluntary early wake–up, but his inability to fall back asleep– a rare occurrence for him.

He opens his eyes again and inhales deeply, weighing his restlessness versus the guilt he’d feel if he wakes Gale up. It’s not like Gale doesn’t usually start his day early anyway, John reasons; he’s probably only a few minutes from waking up on his own. He wants to close the gap between them, to press up against Gale’s side and rest his head on his chest, but he’s too nervous to bother him first thing in the morning, or to come off as clingy, because he can be relaxed about all of this, if he really tries, he thinks.

So John rolls back over instead, soft sheets slipping across his skin, and he’s about to shimmy his way out of bed as quietly as he can to go get his phone when he feels the mattress dip behind him. He turns his head just as warm arms close around his waist, and he yelps as he’s dragged across the mattress like he weighs nothing, finding his back flush against Gale’s chest before he can blink. John feels Gale press his lips to the back of his neck, and he flushes, heart thumping, trapping his bottom lip between his teeth in a futile attempt to fight back a crush–dumb smile.

“Up before me?” Gale murmurs, surprised, and John suppresses a shiver when his breath warms his skin, humming quietly.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you,” John mumbles, and Gale makes a noise of disagreement.

“Was already half–up,” Gale says. “Didn’t wanna wake you.”

John smiles, tentatively wrapping his hand around Gale’s forearm, thumbing over the ink he knows is there despite the twisted sheets covering most of their bodies. Gale tightens his arms around him, and John exhales happily, letting himself be folded against him, more than content to suffocate in his hold. The pressure is grounding, bringing his antsiness to a simmer, like a weighted blanket but so much better.

It’s almost enough to get John’s eyelids drooping again, feeling like those dogs in the ThunderShirt commercials he’s seen on TV, tucked away safe and sound. He listens to Gale’s slow breaths, more relaxed than he can remember ever being, the level of affection he feels making him a little bit emotional. He thinks he’ll probably get in his head about it next time he’s alone, because it honestly scares him to feel so much about something good for once, but right now he just wants to bask in it.

Gale inhales deep behind him, nose pressed to his curls, humming low before he speaks. “What d’you wanna do today?”

“I don’t mind,” John answers automatically, meaning it just as much as every other time he’s said it.

Gale laughs quietly, softly tapping two fingers over John’s chest. “You never do. You’re allowed to ask for things, John.”

Trust Gale to aim straight for the heart first thing in the morning. John doesn’t know how to convey to Gale that he really doesn’t mind though, not when he’s with him; he’d be just as happy running errands with Gale as he would be going on an extravagant vacation somewhere.

“There’s gotta be something,” Gale prods when John shrugs.

Well, John’s not sure Gale’s thinking about the same something that he is, so he tucks that thought away for– hopefully– later.

“I really just like being around you,” John says, unintentionally rash, flushing at the honest admission. Gale breathes out, flattening his palm over John’s chest, and John thinks he can hear his smile when he mumbles “you big sap” against the nape of his neck.

They lie still for another minute before Gale squeezes him once more and then slowly retracts his arms from around him, much to John’s displeasure, but Gale pushes himself up to hover over him, planting a kiss on his temple before John can so much as turn his head. He watches sleepily as Gale climbs out of bed, staring as he stretches languidly, eyes dragging down the length of his body, dark ink standing out starkly in the warm light filtering through the blinds.

Gale glances at him as he pulls open a dresser drawer, and John has to turn his face into the pillow, cheeks warming, aching with the force of his smile as he stretches too. He hears Gale unfortunately– or maybe fortunately for his sanity’s sake– pull clothes on before he moves around to the other side of the bed, opening the blinds, bathing the room in more golden sunlight.

John cracks an eye open when Gale circles back around the bed, stopping and crouching next to him so they’re eye level with each other, raising a hand to brush John’s hair out of his face.

“Alright,” Gale murmurs thoughtfully, twisting a curl around his finger, following the motion with his eyes. “Why don’t I make us breakfast, and you can decide if you feel like hanging around here for the day, or if you wanna go exploring?”

John makes a questioning noise, cheek squishing against the pillow as he turns to see Gale better, and Gale smiles.

“Promised I’d take you to some more cool spots,” he says, and John feels abruptly more awake. “S’alright if you’re tired from work though, there’ll be other days.”

John shakes his head, pushing himself up, sheet bunching around his legs as he sits.

“I’m not too tired,” he insists, blinking down at Gale. “I wanna go.”

Gale places his hands on John’s knees, laughing at the quick turnaround, and John shoves down the urge to squirm, breathing out a sigh of relief when Gale stands back up, the prior position putting thoughts in his head that don’t need to be existing before noon.

“Okay,” Gale says, heading for the door. “You got long pants?”

John furrows his brows, nodding. He did pack some, but it’s going to be too hot for pants, surely.

“We gotta take the bike,” Gale tells him. “I need to do some work on my truck. Might be a bit overgrown on the trail too, don’t want your legs getting scraped up.”

“Okay,” John says, excited at the prospect of adventuring somewhere so off the beaten path, even if he had been exhausted after the last time. He waits to crawl out of bed until Gale retreats to the bathroom, feeling self–conscious in the light of day, never mind the way he’d given Gale none of the same grace earlier as he’d stared shamelessly.

He pulls his clothes out of his backpack where he’d left it by the closet after dinner, getting dressed and checking his phone. There’s a text from Curt from an hour earlier, letting John know he’d be getting on the bus to Milwaukee soon, asking him how his night had gone. The fact that Curt’s voluntarily up before noon on a non–work day says more than enough about how head over heels he is for Ken, though John supposes he’s in no position to rib him for it.

He texts back a ‘was a good night. beat u at something at least ;3’ and wishes Curt a safe trip, pocketing his phone and ambling out of the bedroom. He brings his toothbrush with him to the bathroom, leaving it on the counter for after breakfast, washing his face with the cloth Gale has neatly folded on top of a towel for him before rejoining him in the kitchen.

“Can I help?” John asks as he shuffles in, and Gale turns, whisking eggs in a bowl, smiling and shaking his head.

“No, but you can sit,” he says, and John huffs, though he does as he’s told, taking the same seat as the evening before. Gale gives him a look. “You’ll survive.”

“I just feel bad,” John says meekly, leaning his cheek in his hand.

“Well, don’t,” Gale says, like it’s easy as that, and John pouts. “Let me take care of my guest.”

John hums noncommittally, but he smiles a little, watching as Gale moves fluidly around the kitchen, still trying to come to terms with being awake so early.

“You got a clock for the bedroom,” John suddenly remembers, chest warming once again at the thought. Gale almost looks a little bashful when he nods, pushing eggs around a pan.

“I did,” he affirms, “and you didn’t even need it to wake up.”

“Only ‘cause we went to bed early,” John insists, then feels heat rise to his face at the memory.

Gale tilts his head, corner of his mouth twitching. “Yeah, tired yourself out.”

John makes a quiet strangled noise, blushing properly now, caught off guard by Gale’s direct acknowledgement of what he’s been dancing around in his head all morning. Gale glances over at his silence, taking in his flush with a leisurely once–over, amusement settling in on his face.

“Weren’t as quiet then, though,” Gale comments nonchalantly, and John’s knee bangs against the table leg in response, whole body going hot with embarrassment. Gale breathes out a laugh, half–turning back to the stove, and John whines, dropping his face into his hands. He’s not going to survive thinking about last night, let alone talking about it; it’s too much for his brain.

If not for how much he’s looking forward to their adventure, John wouldn’t have any complaints about staying inside Gale’s house all day for a different kind of exploration, already missing the feeling of pressing his palms to hot skin, of soft lips against his, of firm thighs beneath his own. But he focuses on getting his breakfast down instead of losing himself to those memories, and Gale at least lets John help wash the dishes off after, while Gale makes them sandwiches to take along in a small backpack.

They’re both ready to head out of the house by ten, which John’s happy about because the sun is up but it’s not too hot yet. Gale tasks John with wearing the backpack while they ride– “Extra protection,” he jokes– and warns him this place is a bit further away than where they’d gone last weekend, but John doesn’t mind. In other circumstances, he’d be bored doing nothing, but long drives have always been soothing to him, and on a bike with the wind whipping at his t–shirt and his arms wrapped around Gale, it’s even better.

John wishes he could talk to Gale while they ride, but the silence without feeling the pressure to fill it is nice too, just getting to feel Gale’s warmth beneath him and the sun on his arms while he watches the world go by, not needing to pay attention or make any decisions.

They end up going further inland this time, the stretches of farmland feeling like they crawl on for ages on either side of the highway before they turn off it, the rural backdrop making way for forested roads and a slow ascent to what John assumes is another hiking spot. They ride past a few signs, but John can’t read them from this far away, and he doesn’t care all that much anyway, fully trusting Gale after how beautiful the rock pool had been.

Gale slings the bag over his own shoulders once they park at a trailhead, and only when John glances at the sign as they walk past does he have the first inkling that maybe he should have asked more questions, feeling a little unsettled by the words, ‘Bridge in 0.6 miles.’

“Bridge?” John inquires, falling into step with Gale, and Gale smiles.

“It’s a cool one,” he promises, and this does nothing to assuage John’s concerns.

“Cool, like– how?” John prods in what he hopes passes as a casual, curious manner, and Gale snickers.

“You’ll find out in about ten minutes,” he assures John, brushing against his side. “It’ll be worth the patience.”

It’s not, as much as Gale might believe so, worth the patience, because when they round a bend in the trail a long ten minutes later, John’s eyes fall on not just any old bridge, but a real, proper rope bridge. What seems like endless corded handrails and wood slats stretch out far over a ravine, treetops like green clouds down below, the distance far enough that the bridge dips a little in the center. It’s not terribly high up, almost grazing the tops of the trees, but it might as well be a thousand feet skyward with the way John’s knees go weak at the sight.

“Not a lotta people know about it,” Gale’s saying as they draw nearer, seeming not to notice that John has slowed his pace considerably. “Think because there’s one in the state park a lot closer to town, but it’s always so crowded.”

Gale turns then when he reaches the start of the bridge, looking at John. “What do you think?”

“Yeah, it’s– wow,” John stalls, crouching to retie his laces as if they were loose to begin with. “S’it uh, is it up to… standard?”

Gale makes a noise, leaning against the railing, and John’s stomach flips just watching him stand that close. “What standard?”

“Y’know, the standard,” John gestures vaguely, standing back up but still not stepping forward. A bird bursts from the tree to his left, and John flinches like it’s going to somehow push him to the edge with the momentum of its wings, and Gale follows his motion with raised eyebrows.

“John.” He looks torn between laughing and trying to be understanding, and John can feel heat creeping to his face already.

“Yep,” John replies flatly, crossing one arm over his chest to scratch idly at the other.

“You scared of heights?” Gale asks, eyeing him curiously. There’s not a hint of judgement in his voice or on his face, but John still feels embarrassed, like he should have outgrown all his childhood fears by now.

“A little,” he admits, then looks past Gale into the ravine and amends, “A lot.”

Gale’s expression softens, and he steps away from the bridge, walking over to where John’s feet refuse to move any closer. “That bad?”

John nods, hugging his arms around himself, feeling silly.

“We don’t have to,” Gale soothes, placing his hand on John’s shoulder. “I would’ve picked another path if I’d known; there’re plenty around this trail.”

“I’m sorry,” John apologizes, guilty for throwing off their plans. Gale shakes his head immediately, squeezing his shoulder.

“Nothing to be sorry for, hun,” he says firmly. “There’s another path a few minutes back. Just thought you’d like this one, ‘cause there’s a nice swimming spot on the other side.”

John pouts further at that, frustrated with himself. Swimming with Gale again is almost more appealing than his fear is strong, and Gale must catch the opportunity to sway him, because he repostures himself, humming thoughtfully.

“The water’s real nice,” he muses. “It’s quiet, calm, can spend as much time as you’d like there. Just a matter of getting there, bud.”

John shifts his weight from one foot to the other, wanting so badly to be convinced. “Does the bridge move?”

Gale smiles, sliding his hand down from his shoulder to John’s wrist, thumbing over his pulse point. “Not so much as a breeze today. Can take it slow, it’s good and sturdy.”

John looks at the bridge, then back up at Gale, chewing on the inside of his cheek. “I wanna try.”

“Yeah?” Gale squeezes his hand encouragingly. “You don’t have to, but I promise I’ve done it plenty of times, and it’s always worth it.”

John nods, heart in his throat but feeling more compelled by his reluctance to chicken out or make Gale think less of him. Logically he knows Gale won’t, if he decides he can’t do it, but he still wants to prove that he’ll at least try things, that he’s not some scared kid. And really, more than anything, being around Gale makes him feel a little more brave, a little more capable of handling things, even when it’s scary.

“Alright,” Gale says, holding out his other hand, and John takes it without a second thought, hoping Gale doesn’t notice how clammy his palms already are. “We’ll hold hands, yeah?”

“Okay,” John agrees, though it takes him a second to convince his legs to move when Gale takes a step backwards towards the bridge. It’s fine, he knows it is, he knows the bridge isn’t going to come down with them on it, but his body isn’t getting the memo. Still, he lets Gale lead him slowly to the edge, until his legs feel like jelly, until he can see the start of the rope hand–holds on either side of Gale.

John glances at the fence posts with trepidation, and Gale squeezes his hands again to pull his attention away, tugging him a little closer.

“Don’t gotta look around us,” Gale says, holding his gaze. John’s not sure whether his legs are feeling more weak from the height or from the eye contact, but he nods nonetheless, swallowing hard and allowing himself to be coaxed over the edge of the bridge.

He feels a little bit like he can’t breathe as soon as his body registers that there’s no longer solid ground beneath him, just planks of wood, albeit sturdy and gap–less ones. Gale walks slowly, not quite pulling John but coaxing him into moving forward so the space between them doesn’t grow, only John overcompensates in his panic to stay close and almost ends up treading on Gale’s boots with each step.

“Easy,” Gale laughs quietly. “Here.”

He pulls John’s hands against his sides instead, letting John wrap his arms around his middle, wrapping his own around John too, keeping him close. He widens his stance as he walks backwards so that John’s shoes have space to fit between Gale’s, the two of them moving at more of a shuffle than anything else, and John’s cheeks burn at the thought of someone witnessing his humiliation and tackling of his fear.

“You’re doing great,” Gale encourages, and John would smile if he wasn’t so focused on breathing, cheek pressed to Gale’s shoulder, face turned so he doesn’t have to see where they’re going.

When John’s certain they’re almost at the end, he chances a peek, squinting his eyes open, only to realize they’re smack in the middle of the bridge, where it dips lowest, so far from the ground on either side, and his stomach plummets. He chokes out a noise, hands fisting into the back of Gale’s shirt, squeezing his eyes shut again and coming to a stop.

“You good?” Gale murmurs, rubbing his back, and John shakes his head, rooted to the spot, not caring if he’s embarrassing himself anymore.

“I can’t,” he grits out, and Gale hums patiently, holding him tighter.

“That’s alright, baby, only we gotta go forwards or backwards, one way or another,” he says slowly, like he doesn’t want to freak John out with the prospect of having no choice but to keep going. John knows he’s right, but he doesn’t like it. “You wanna head back?”

John thinks for a moment, then shakes his head again, not wanting to make Gale deal with this for nothing.

“Okay,” Gale says, and John could cry for how thankful he is that Gale’s not rushing him, or seeming at all irritated. They stand still for another minute, hot sun beaming down, the air stagnant and muggy as the heat of the day creeps in.

“Hey, John,” Gale squeezes his arms a bit, and John makes a noise of acknowledgement. “Remember when you asked about my leg?”

Of course he does. John nods, confused but curious.

“It’s a crazy story,” Gale continues, and John’s brows furrow as he catches on to what Gale’s doing, frowning as he also realizes he’s not immune to his techniques.

“Is it?” John mumbles, eyes still firmly shut, trying not to move so he doesn’t have to feel the bridge beneath him.

“Mhm,” Gale affirms, and John feels him take in a deep breath before he speaks again. “Guy almost took my foot clean off with a shovel.”

John’s head snaps up at that, eyes wide. “What?”

He thinks Gale’s messing with him until he sees how bashful he looks at the admission, and then John knows he’s serious.

“Why? How?” John asks, mind racing. Gale smiles a little, tugging him close again, and John goes willingly.

“I was stubborn as all hell when I was your age,” he says, moving John with him. “Made a lotta stupid decisions, got in a lotta fights.”

John can’t begin to picture that, mouth parted in surprise as he rests his head back on Gale’s shoulder.

“Couple of guys didn’t like the crowd I ran with, to keep it short.” Gale pulls away a step, and John closes the gap, again and again, making slow progress he’s only half aware of. “And instead of being smart and leaving the pub I was in, I stayed put until they threw me out.”

“And then?” John asks, trying to visualize all of this in his mind, to reconcile a headstrong, rough–and–tumble Gale with the easy–going gentle soul he’s come to know. He supposes it shouldn’t be entirely surprising, with Gale being in whatever sort of club he and the guys have got going on at the pub, but all of them seem so relaxed even with their hard exteriors that John can’t quite imagine them being involved in anything that unsavoury.

“And then I fought ‘em, because I didn’t know how to pick my battles, and,” Gale squeezes his waist, exhaling, seeming to give extra thought to his words. “I mean, they didn’t like how I went about things, and once I was on the ground, I was fair game. Shovel it was.”

“Jesus,” John winces, stomach turning, eyes still big. The thought of Gale being hurt in any capacity makes him feel genuinely sick. “That’s fucked.”

Gale snorts at the understatement, and John nudges his side, pouting. “It’s not funny. That’s awful, Gale.”

“It was a long time ago,” Gale says, as if that makes it any less horrific to imagine going through, voice lighter than it should be. “And I can walk just fine. Big ol’ surgery got me fixed right up.”

The ground crunches quietly beneath Gale’s boots then, and John freezes at the sound, looking down to see that he’s standing on the edge of the bridge, exhaling shakily with relief. Gale pulls him the last few steps onto safe, solid, beautiful ground before moving back to give him some space, and John closes his eyes, breathing in deep, letting his heart slow.

At least until warm lips press against his, and then John’s heart lodges itself in his throat, wholly unprepared for the butterflies that erupt in his stomach again. It’s only a quick kiss, soft and sweet, but John still feels dizzy when Gale pulls away, blinking his eyes open to stare at him dumbstruck. Gale smiles at him, and John feels his insides turn to goo, sure that Gale must see the way he’s gone googly–eyed, the fear of the previous however–many–minutes entirely eviscerated from his system.

“You did it,” Gale says, and John nods dumbly, a belated flush painting his cheeks. “That was really brave.”

John scoffs then, smiling sheepishly as he sidesteps Gale, continuing along the path in an effort to hide his face. Gale falls in line next to him, bumping into him lightly.

“I’m serious,” Gale says. “I didn’t know you were that scared, but you did it anyway. I’m proud of you.”

John nearly missteps, the wobbly feeling returning to his legs as the sincerity settles warm in his chest, the words echoing around in his head. He doesn’t know what to say, how to tell Gale thank you in a way that matters, so he tentatively brushes his hand against Gale’s, hooking his pinky finger around his. He can feel Gale glance at him, but he keeps his eyes firmly on the path, only setting his grin free when Gale turns his attention back to the path too, though neither of them make any move to unhook their fingers.

The afternoon is as perfect as it can get, hours spent swimming in another rock pool, exploring, and sitting for lunch in between. Hands on slick skin, sun–kissed and heated, John’s constant fluster around Gale exacerbated by only the wet fabric of their boxers separating the two of them once again. It’s even worse now that he doesn’t have to worry about the ramifications of being caught looking at Gale, and now he has to deal with Gale’s eyes feeling hot and heavy on himself in return.

It’s overwhelming just knowing he’s wanted like that, let alone seeing it clear as day on Gale’s face, feeling it burn his skin and wring his heart out. If calm and composed Gale is so blatant about it, John doesn’t want to know how unintentionally obvious he’s being.

When they’re both tired out, just enough energy conserved for the walk back to the bike, it still takes a good amount of coaxing from Gale for John to get dressed, knowing another journey across the bridge is waiting for him.

“What story are you gonna give me on the way back across, then?” John asks when Gale suggests they start the return trip before they’re both completely sunburnt.

Gale laughs, tells him, “maybe it can be your turn,” and John scrunches up his face, shaking his head.

“I’ll think of something, then,” Gale promises, pushing himself to his feet, holding a hand out. John takes it, reluctantly parting ways with the warm rocks they’ve been sun–drying themselves on. He groans as he steps back into his pants, the sun scorching now in the mid afternoon, too hot for clothes, so neither of them bother with putting their shirts on for their walk back.

It makes for a very distracting walk for John, more so when they return to the bridge and Gale pulls him close to resume their prior positions, bare skin pressed to John’s. It’s not quite enough to give the jackhammering of his heart a reason to exist beyond fear, but Gale keeps his word and feeds him a story about trying to ride his bike with crutches after the shovel incident, drawing him in with details John’s spent the last few weeks expecting to have to drag out of him.

John feels drained by the time they make it back to Gale’s bike, the second time over the bridge not as bad as the first now that he has proof that he’s capable of pushing through it, but still enough to shake him up (to his credit Gale doesn’t end up needing to piggy–back him again). He’s relieved when he settles down on the bike behind Gale and gets his arms around his middle, shirts regretfully back on now, the fabric sticking to his back from the sweat worked up on their return.

John keeps his eyes closed for most of the ride back, slipping in and out of a blissfully empty–headed state, not quite dozing– he’s not trying to fall off– but not quite fully conscious either. Gale’s hand comes down to rest on his knee at stoplights, and John smiles sleepily in the dimness of his helmet, squeezing his arms around him in response each time.

They get back a little before dinner time and John follows Gale to the bedroom, both of them ridding themselves of sweat–damp pants and shirts in exchange for shorts and tank tops. John’s tired and overheated enough for a nap, but Gale tells him he needs to tinker with his truck for a bit to make sure it’s driveable for work on Monday, and John’s not willing to miss that view for anything.

“Can I help?” He asks, nevermind his complete lack of car knowledge, trailing after Gale to the kitchen. Gale smiles, opening the freezer.

“I don’t know about help, but you can hang out,” he says, and that’s more than good enough for John. Gale pulls a box of popsicles from the freezer, holding it out for John, and he takes one with a shy “thanks,” watching Gale lean into the fridge for two water bottles before he presses one into John’s hand as well.

“Don’t need you getting heat stroke.” Gale runs a hand through John’s hair as he passes by him, and John wants to grab his wrist and keep it in place, the slight tug making his knees go weak. He pads after Gale to the closet in the hall, where Gale pulls out a big beach towel, and then they head back out into the stuffy heat.

“Why don’t you sit in the shade?” Gale suggests, and John nods, waiting for Gale to spread the towel out on the lawn next to the driveway before he drops down onto his stomach, sighing obnoxiously. Gale laughs quietly, nudging his elbow with his boot.

“You sure you don’t want a book or something?” Gale asks, and John shakes his head, letting his cheek rest on the soft, cool towel for a second longer before lifting his head, pushing himself up to lean on his elbows.

“I’m just relaxing,” he insists, pulling at the popsicle’s wrapper. He doesn’t need to tell Gale that he thinks watching him work in the sun will be a hell of a lot more interesting than any book; his theory is proven correct when Gale accepts his answer and walks over to his truck, popping the hood, hands braced on the edge.

John almost drools onto the bright–red popsicle before he even gets it out of the wrapper, dragging his eyes away to pretend the sprinkler that’s going on the neighbour’s lawn across the cul–de–sac is half as fascinating as Gale’s biceps. It’s a losing battle though, gaze recentering on Gale despite his best efforts, pressing the popsicle to the inside of his cheek in an effort to cool himself down as he watches Gale work.

John has no idea what Gale’s doing, much less interested in the tools he has in hand than he is in the loose gold curls that fall over Gale’s forehead, or the sheen of sweat on his arms, or the way his shoulder blades move when he pushes his body into his motions. It feels like his popsicle is melting twice as fast in his mouth from the flustered heat that radiates off him as he watches, artificial cherry dissolving on his tongue, numbing his lips as he works them around the ice.

Gale only lasts a few minutes in the sun before he’s pulling his tank top over his head again, and the wounded sound John makes is mercifully muffled by the popsicle. He blinks slow at the fresh expanse of skin made available for his eyes to drag over, finger twisting around a blade of grass until it snaps from the tension, pressing the flat of his tongue to the cold between his lips. His gaze raises to where droplets of sweat collect at Gale’s collarbones before sliding south, following the damp trails down his firm torso, eyes settling where the tantalizing sheen disappears beneath the waistband of his shorts.

It’s hard not to think about what he now knows is hidden behind the fabric, what he’d been given the chance to feel on the couch, what he’s steadily growing to crave more of. John zeroes in on the sensation of the weight on his tongue from the remainder of his popsicle and imagines something else pressing down instead, and that’s all it takes for his mind to get going, fixating as he stares dazedly.

He’s obviously never done that with someone, but he wants to, has been wanting to almost from the moment his brain had slipped into the gutter while pining for Gale. It’s intimidating and the thought of doing it makes his stomach flip nervously, but more so it’s exciting, and it gets heat stirring in his gut.

He thinks of the noises Gale had made last night, and he thinks of the ones he might make with John’s mouth around him, of how his hands might find his hair to guide him. He pictures the way the warmth of his cock would feel on his tongue, stretching his jaw open, filling all his senses, and yeah, John wants.

John’s cheeks flush with a red he’s sure matches the colour of the last of the popsicle he pulls from the stick when Gale looks up from the truck then, eyes flicking down to John’s mouth for a beat, doing nothing to simmer the heat in John’s stomach. He swipes his tongue over his lips to collect the melted red liquid, dropping the wooden stick in the grass to deal with later and folding his arms in front of himself, resting his chin on them.

“You bored yet?” Gale asks, setting his wrench down on his toolkit. John almost laughs at the notion, as if he could get bored with that view.

“No,” he says, feeling antsy with the warmth that buzzes through him as he looks up at Gale. John watches as Gale reaches for the can of fluid next to the tire, almost groaning at the way the tendons in his hand flex when he lifts the heavy container. He wonders what Gale would do if he pushed himself up from his towel and dropped to his knees right there in front of the truck, if he mouthed at the zipper on Gale’s shorts, splayed his hands out over muscular thighs.

“I’ll be done in ten,” Gale assures him, and John nods, turning his head to lean his cheek on his folded arms. He can’t see Gale now when he rounds the truck, so he lets his eyes slip closed, breathing in the smell of grass and engine oil and sun–baked concrete, attempting to distract himself from the urge to roll his hips down against the towel.

Somewhere in the midst of trying to think about things that don’t get his cock twitching in his shorts where it’s pinned between his hip and the lawn, John half–dozes, the quiet sounds of Gale tinkering with the truck and the oscillating sprinkler on the neighbouring yard soothing him. He’s only yanked back to full consciousness when something cold splatters against his side for a brief second, and he lifts his head from his arms to locate his assailant, finding boots at his side.

John tilts his chin up to look at Gale, pouting, and Gale smiles, flattening his thumb over the nozzle of the hose he’s holding to spray him with a light mist again, and it’s actually nice against his sun–warmed skin. Looking up at Gale from this angle isn’t half–bad either, and the playful set of his face has John’s heart fluttering happily.

He rolls onto his side and props himself up on one elbow, parting his lips and lolling his tongue partially out, waiting expectantly. Gale stares down at him for a moment, the hose spilling water at his side, but then he breathes out a laugh and obliges John’s wordless ask, raising the nozzle and pressing his thumb over the opening to direct a light spray into John’s waiting mouth. Half of it misses, dribbling over his bottom lip, and John squints to shield his eyes from the stray droplets, giggling as Gale purposefully drags the mist up and drenches his face.

John wipes his hand over his face when Gale relents, blinking water out of his eyes, feeling it drip from his chin. When his vision clears enough for him to blink up at Gale through water–clumped eyelashes, the way Gale’s looking at him gets heat rising to his cheeks again. He feels the urge to squirm, or to egg him on, to find out whether Gale’s been thinking about the same things he has, but then Gale sends one more quick spray his way before cutting the hose off, letting it fall against the wall of the house.

“Alright, puppy,” he says pointedly, ruffling John’s damp hair, and John preens, his heart doing a little loop. “Should we head on in?”

“Did you fix the truck?” John asks, pushing himself up onto his knees, grabbing the wrapper and picking his towel up as he stands.

“Good as,” Gale nods, letting John lead the way to the house. John hastily dries his hair with the towel before Gale takes it off his hands, gesturing to the living room.

“Why don’t you find something for us to watch, and I’ll heat up leftovers?” Gale says, and John obediently heads to the living room to do just that.

In all honesty, John feels about ready to vibrate out of his skin still, and it’s hard to find anything that piques his interest while flicking through channels when all he can think about is getting his hands on Gale or vice versa. If this is what it’s like to have feelings for someone, John doesn’t know how anyone gets anything done because he can’t remember the last time Gale hasn’t been at the forefront of his mind, and now that he’s able to explore those feelings, any hope of getting him off his mind for more than a minute is a lost cause.

He settles on some prank show, not wanting them to get roped into an actual movie because he doesn’t think he can handle sitting patiently for that long right now, and then he wanders back to the kitchen to help Gale carry their dishes over to the coffee table. John presses right up against his side without any encouragement this time once they’re both sat on the couch, and Gale drapes his arm around his shoulders as soon as they’re done eating, his fingers sliding underneath the sleeve of John’s tank top, warm against his collarbone.

John’s almost content to stay like this. The living room feels like a safe little bubble, bathed in the warm sunlight from the windows angled at the backyard, the cooled air soothing on skin that feels like it’s soaked up every ounce of sun humanly possible today, the couch (and Gale’s body) soft and warm beneath him. But Gale’s fingers keep tracing circles just above his chest, and it makes goosebumps rise to his skin, and what had wriggled its way into John’s mind outside has now taken up permanent residence.

John sighs a little, turning his head to press his cheek against Gale’s shoulder, letting his nose brush over the crook of Gale’s neck. Gale pulls him closer in response, and John takes the invite and runs with it, untucking his legs from beneath himself and laying them over Gale’s thighs until he’s halfway in his lap, one hand toying with the front of the shirt Gale had thrown on when they’d come back inside.

“What’s up?” Gale murmurs, pulling John’s hand from his shirt and taking it in his own, pressing his thumb into the center of his palm. John angles his chin down to watch when Gale lowers their joined hands to John’s lap, fixated on the way Gale’s hand flexes each time he drags his thumb over, shivering at the feeling of the rough skin against his. “You tired?”

John’s face warms at the question; he’s anything but tired, for once. He shakes his head, humming quietly to buy himself time to find the right words, but then he leans his head back on Gale’s shoulder instead, tilting his chin up to press his lips to the underside of Gale’s jaw. He can taste salt there from dried sweat, and it makes heat pool beneath his navel, parting his lips to taste, heart pattering nervously as he sucks lightly on Gale’s skin.

John feels a barely–there rumble against his lips in response, and it drags a breathy noise out of himself, and then Gale’s hands are on his hips and he’s manhandling John fully into his lap in a repeat of last night. John can’t hide his smile as lowers himself down, settling his knees on either side of Gale’s thighs, warmth blooming outwards from where Gale’s hands slip under his shirt, fingers splaying over the small of John’s back.

“How do we keep endin’ up like this, hm?” Gale teases around a smile of his own, and John shrugs innocently, leaning down to kiss the smiles off both of their lips, eyes immediately sliding closed at the sensation. Even with the way it sends sparks shooting up his spine, it feels like coming home every time, like everything in his brain and body quiets to make space for the overwhelming longing Gale awakens in him.

Gale catches his bottom lip between his teeth, pulling it into his mouth and sucking gently, and John whimpers, hips shifting forward as his hands find Gale’s shoulders to steady himself. It takes so little for Gale to unravel him, his brain turning to goo, groaning when Gale licks his way into his mouth, tongue velvety–soft against his own.

John tries not to get in his head about his own kissing, still feeling things out as he goes, hoping Gale can’t tell how inexperienced he is, hoping his enthusiasm makes up for the lack of practice. Gale’s good at it, gets John melting from the inside out with his lips and tongue, dissolving his organs into warm honey. Trying to form a coherent thought is like trying to wade through a thick syrup, all of his senses drowning in Gale, and John can’t imagine ever getting used to the feeling.

He whines when Gale runs his hands up his sides, rolling his hips down with a heavy exhale, whispering a plea of Gale’s name.

“So needy,” Gale rumbles a laugh against his lips, and John flushes, pulling away to blink down at him, suddenly self–conscious about it.

“Is that okay?” He asks meekly, searching Gale’s face apprehensively, not finding anything but fondness in his eyes.

“Of course,” Gale says it like John’s crazy for doubting it, and it settles John’s nerves, relaxing into Gale’s touches again. “It’s cute, baby.”

John’s flush deepens, pouting, feeling like he’s being teased, but Gale only smiles, slipping a hand out from under his shirt to cup his face in his palm, always so tender with the motion. John’s eyelids go heavy, squirming as he tries to gather himself, sliding his hands from Gale’s shoulders to his chest.

“I wanna…” John shifts, face hot, embarrassed at the thought of voicing it. He looks at Gale pleadingly, like he can figure it out without John having to say it.

“S’alright, honey,” Gale encourages him, patient, sliding his thumb along his bottom lip and pressing down gently. Yes, that’s what he wants. John closes his lips around the tip of Gale’s thumb, hoping to silently communicate what he needs, deliberate in the way he takes his finger further into his mouth. He swears he sees Gale’s pupils expand, the hand on his hip tightening its grip, and it emboldens John a little.

He lifts his hand to take Gale’s own, moving it so two of his fingers brush against his mouth instead, parting his lips in invitation. Gale groans quietly, slipping his index and middle finger between his lips, pressing the pads of them down against John’s tongue, and John feels flames lap at his cheeks, near–ready to jump out of his skin. He pulls Gale’s fingers further into his mouth, eyes slipping shut, wrapping his lips around them and humming contentedly.

“Oh, sweet thing,” Gale breathes out, sliding his fingers out a little, then back in, and John sees stars behind his closed eyelids. “Kept seeing you starin’ outside, this what you wanted?”

John whines quietly, embarrassed at being caught, but he nods, working his tongue between Gale’s fingers, pressing the tip of it against the webbing where they join together. He’s salivating already, lightheaded at how nice the weight feels on his tongue, just as he’d imagined it outside but not quite enough to satiate the simmering need in his chest. He loses himself to the gentle in–and–out for a little longer, fighting against the urge to cough each time he leans into the motion, wanting to prove to both Gale and himself that he can take more.

John feels pressure over his cock then, realizes Gale’s hand has left his hip to palm over his crotch, and he chokes out a moan around his fingers, hips jerking into his touch. He hadn’t registered how hard he’d gotten just from having Gale’s fingers in his mouth, and the press of Gale’s hand over his cock feels so good that he’s half–tempted to give up on his original mission, knowing how easy it would be to grind up into his touch until he’s spilling into his shorts.

But John wants more so badly that he physically aches for it, and he doesn’t know when he’ll get a chance to go for it again, not sure whether Gale wants him to stay another night, if he’ll have to wait to see him until next weekend again. So he moves his head back the next time Gale pulls his fingers to the front of his mouth, letting them slip from between his lips, blinking bleary eyes open to find Gale staring back at him, looking just as gone as John feels. John licks his lips, missing the feeling of his fingers already, taking in a shaky breath.

“I’ve never…” He closes his eyes again for a second, feeling flushed all over, blinking them back open with a shy determination. “But I wanna.” John shuffles back a bit in Gale’s lap, placing his hands on his thighs in silent question.

Gale leans back with a heavy exhale, resting his palms on John’s own thighs. “You’re gonna kill me, baby.”

That’s confirmation enough for John. He crawls backwards until he reaches the edge of the couch, sliding down to the floor on wobbly legs, knees sinking into the soft carpet. The butterflies in his stomach feel like battering rams with how nervous he is, head buzzing as Gale makes space for him to fit himself between his legs, his hands almost feeling numb with anticipation.

Gale shifts until he’s sitting at the edge of the couch, leaning down to rest his elbows on his thighs, bringing his hands to John’s face with gentle concern. John realizes he must look as anxious as he feels, never much good at hiding his emotions, and he’s scared Gale’s going to change his mind.

“I want it,” John repeats breathlessly, holding Gale’s gaze, chest feeling cracked open as honest words slip out. “I just don’t know what I’m doing.”

Gale’s eyes soften, and he gently coaxes him closer, John sitting up on his knees to follow the pull of his hands. Gale meets him halfway, kissing him so tenderly that John’s elbows almost give out where they’re locked in place to hold himself up, heart swelling with warmth, sighing against Gale’s lips. Gale runs his hands through his hair, pushing it out of his eyes, holding it back when he breaks the kiss.

“You can change your mind,” Gale murmurs, and John nods, nerves feeling a little less fried.

“I know,” he says, smiling shyly, fidgeting with the empty belt loops on Gale’s shorts. “Can you…” John hesitates, not really knowing how to ask for help, for guidance. He raises his hand up to where Gale’s fingers rest in his hair, wrapping his fingers around his wrist.

“S’nice, like this,” John mumbles, and Gale smiles understandingly, nodding.

“Okay, baby,” Gale hums, running his fingers through his curls again, and John’s lips part at the sensation, eyelids drooping. He brings his hands to the button of Gale’s shorts, undoing it with shaky fingers, sinking back down to rest on the heels of his feet as he gets the zipper down.

John’s heart is thumping so hard he feels dizzy; everything feels so much more real in the light of day, when he’s not drowsy in a post–orgasm glow. He lowers his eyes to Gale’s lap as he slips a hand into his shorts, flatting his palm over his cock through his underwear and sliding it along the length, the tips of his ears burning at the quiet noise Gale makes in response. John’s own cock rests hard against his thigh as he thumbs over the head of Gale’s, breathing out a groan when Gale’s hips twitch forward a little, still in disbelief that he can get him to react like that from his touches.

He wraps his hand around the outline of his cock, taking in the feeling through the fabric, mesmerized all over again by the warmth and weight of it beneath his palm. One of Gale’s hands moves from his hair to the back of his neck, holding him there gently, and it’s the encouragement John needs.

He tugs down on the waistband of Gale’s underwear, fingers trembling as he pulls Gale’s cock out, staring at the bead of precome that already sits at the tip of it. It’s hot and heavy in his hand when he wraps his fingers tentatively around it, the sight making his mouth water again, a nervous thrill zapping through his veins. His eyes flick up to look at Gale, and Gale’s thumb strokes over the nape of his neck in reassurance, eyes dark but unbearably gentle as he watches John.

John leans closer, the heady scent of skin and arousal drawing him in, gaze dropping back down. The warmth of Gale’s eyes on him makes him feel a tiny bit braver, wanting to do everything right, to make Gale feel as good as he’d felt last night. He wets his lips, pressing as close to the couch as he can get, settling his hand around the base of Gale’s cock and lolling his tongue out, tracing a line from the edge of his fist to the flushed tip.

The taste of salt and lake water and hot skin floods his mouth, and he’s rewarded with a soft groan from above, his own cock twitching in response as Gale’s fingers drag through his hair. John repeats the motion, lingering at the smooth skin over the head of his cock, pressing his lips to it and licking the precome off them when he pulls back, having to remind himself to breathe.

“God, John,” Gale murmurs, massaging his hand over the back of his neck. John takes a moment to gather his courage, then leans back in and opens his mouth, taking the head of Gale’s cock past his lips. The weight of it on his tongue is jarring, unfamiliar, much wider than Gale’s fingers, but the feeling is just as nice, sending more heat running south.

John sucks lightly, lifting his eyes up to Gale’s face the best he can when he hears a breathy moan, searching for any sort of assurance. He nearly whines at the expression on Gale’s face, his lips parted as he watches John’s every move, eyelids looking as heavy as John’s own.

“Baby,” Gale breathes out in something akin to reverence, and John’s chest tightens, eyes slipping closed again as he sighs through his nose. He slides down a little further, flattening his tongue against the underside of Gale’s cock, not quite sure what he’s doing but desperate to pull more noises from Gale. His fingers tighten in John’s hair, not forceful, just grounding, giving John something to tether himself to.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” Gale murmurs, voice low and rough. “S’good, just like that.”

The praise makes John’s stomach flip, a rush of warmth spreading through him, everything around the two of them feeling muffled. He tries to take Gale deeper, lips stretching around his cock, feeling the strain in his jaw. He’s known since last night that Gale’s big, but it’s still more difficult than he expects, the sensation overwhelming. The sound Gale makes spurs him on though; he wants to make Gale feel good, wants to be able to make him feel like he’s losing control the same way John feels when Gale’s hands are on him.

John’s hands find purchase on Gale’s thighs, gripping them for support as he moves his head slowly, trying to adjust, to find a rhythm. He feels clumsy, unsure, but Gale’s soft praises keep him focused, and every time Gale groans or shifts his hips, John’s confidence grows a little, his nerves melting to make way for lust.

The air in the room feels suffocating, thick with tension and need, with the scent of arousal and sweat, and John’s cock is throbbing in his shorts, pressed hard against his thigh. It’s hard to think with his mouth full and all his energy going towards keeping his breathing even, but it feels good to have his head so empty for once, now that the anxiety has lifted a bit.

John pulls back for a breath, panting softly, saliva stringing between his bottom lip and the tip of Gale’s cock. He looks up at Gale again through heavy–lidded eyes, taking in his flushed face and the mix of affection and hunger he wears on it, John’s heart stuttering in his chest.

“You’re doing so good, darling,” Gale murmurs, his voice thick with desire, and it makes John’s stomach flutter with pride. There’s no hesitation when he leans back in, eager to hear more of those praises, to feel Gale’s pleasure build because of him.

John takes his cock deeper this time, letting it slide further into his mouth as his eyes fall closed, feeling the stretch and burn in his jaw. It’s intense, taking actual concentration, but the way Gale’s hips twitch and the soft curse he whispers under his breath is an immediate reward for the effort. John hums around him, the vibration eliciting a choked moan from Gale, and it sends a surge of heat straight to John’s core.

His own arousal is building, cock achingly hard, the pressure almost unbearable where it’s pinned between his shorts and his skin, but he pushes it to the back of his mind as much as he can, focusing on the task at hand. He wants to make Gale come, wants to taste him, wants to feel his hands tugging at his hair and his thighs tensing beneath his hands.

John hollows his cheeks as he works to bob his head faster, taking Gale deeper with each pass, throat clicking when he swallows around him reflexively, coughing a little. He feels Gale’s fingers curl in his hair in a gentle attempt to tug him back, but John pulls against his grip, determined even as his eyes water.

“Fuck, baby,” Gale groans out, voice strained, breaths coming quicker. “I’m close.”

John’s heart leaps at his words, his own cock leaking in response, head spinning. He doubles his efforts, taking Gale as deep as he can, feeling the head of his cock brush the back of his throat. It’s almost too much, but John pushes through, fingers digging into Gale’s thighs, determined to bring him all the way to the edge.

Gale’s body tenses beneath him, his hips jerking forward as he moans low and deep, and John knows he’s doing good, lungs burning in protest, head foggy as he loses himself. He sucks harder, his lips sliding wetly up and down Gale’s length, desperate to feel him come, breathing hard through his nose.

Gale lets out a strangled moan, his fingers tightening in John’s hair as he spills into his mouth, and the taste of him floods John’s senses, painting his tongue. He swallows around Gale’s cock, trying to take it all, feeling the warm liquid slide down his throat, keening quietly at the sound of his name falling from Gale’s lips.

It’s too much– the combination of Gale’s orgasm, the heat and closeness of it all, the overwhelming arousal that’s been building inside him. John’s hips jerk up against nothing, and then he’s lurching forward, his own orgasm ripping through him, intense and unexpected. He groans around Gale’s cock as he comes in his pants, the sudden wetness soaking through the fabric, his body trembling with the force of it.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Gale breathes out, tugging him back by his hair. John pulls off slowly, Gale’s cock slipping from his mouth as he collapses against Gale’s thigh, panting heavily. His face is flushed, his skin hot to the touch, and he can feel the sticky warmth of his release cooling in his pants, but he doesn’t care. All that matters is the feeling of Gale’s hand gently stroking his hair, the soft words of praise that slip from his lips as he comes down from his high.

John feels like he’s melting against Gale, head full of cotton, the ache in his jaw feeling satisfying more than uncomfortable. He vaguely registers Gale leaning down, hands hooking beneath his arms, pulling him up off the floor. John helps as much as he can, settling heavily in Gale’s lap, heart warm and full as Gale cradles him close.

“Okay?” Gale mumbles, and John nods, tucking his face against Gale’s neck.

“You did so good, John,” Gale whispers into his hair, pressing a kiss to the top of his head, and John melts into the embrace further, feeling a warmth beyond anything physical, something inside him fulfilled in a way he’s never felt.

He nuzzles closer, pressing his lips to Gale’s neck, body still trembling from the aftershocks of his orgasm. Gale’s hand strokes soothingly down his back, and John can feel the tension slowly fading away, replaced by a warm, languid exhaustion. He’s never imagined feeling this close to anyone before, this connected, and it’s both exhilarating and terrifying, his heart feeling too big for his chest.

They sit quietly for a while, wrapped up in each other, everything else temporarily forgotten. John’s heart rate gradually returns to normal, the pounding in his chest replaced by a steady, contented thrum. He can feel Gale’s breathing even out beneath him too, the rise and fall of his chest slowing, syncing up with John’s.

Eventually, Gale shifts slightly, pulling back just enough to look down at John, his eyes soft and tender.

“How’re you feeling?” Gale asks, his voice gentle.

John smiles shyly, cheeks still flushed with the remnants of arousal and embarrassment, fingers curling in the hair at the base of Gale’s skull.

“Good,” he murmurs, his voice hoarse. “Really good.”

It doesn’t do how he’s feeling justice, but John doesn’t have the vocabulary to put it into words. He lifts his head instead, pressing a soft kiss to Gale’s lips, slow and sweet without the urgency and heatedness from earlier, hoping he can communicate how he’s feeling through this instead. John can feel Gale smile into the kiss, and it makes his body go weak, resting his hands on Gale’s chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath his palms.

John whines in complaint when Gale pulls back, aching to stay close to him, the intensity of everything buzzing faintly in his veins. He’s still trembling slightly, his body overly sensitive and spent, the sticky evidence of his release cooling uncomfortably in his pants. But Gale’s gaze is soft, almost reverent as he cups John’s face in his hands, thumbs brushing gently over his flushed cheeks.

“You’re so good for me, baby,” Gale murmurs, voice gentle, but there’s something else in his eyes, and it makes John’s stomach flip. Gale shifts slightly, one hand sliding down to the hem of John’s shirt, playing with the fabric in a way that makes John’s pulse quicken all over again.

“Let me take care of you too?” Gale continues, his voice low, eyes searching John’s face for any sign of hesitation. John’s heart skips a beat at his words, a fresh wave of heat washing over him. He’s oversensitive, still trying to catch his breath, but the thought of Gale’s hands on him again, of his mouth on him, it’s enough to have his cock stirring a little.

He’s already so overwhelmed, his body still coming back to itself, but there’s a part of him that craves more, that wants to feel everything he can. John nods slowly, shyly, feeling his face heat up under Gale’s intense gaze. Gale smiles, soft and full of affection, and he presses another gentle kiss to John’s lips before shifting them both on the couch.

Gale guides him onto his back and tucks one of the cushions beneath his head with so much care it makes John’s heart ache, arms looping over Gale’s neck as he lies down. He lets his legs sprawl out, feeling his heartbeat in his ears when Gale settles himself between his legs, bracing his elbows on either side of John’s shoulders, and he swallows a groan at the way Gale looks caging him in like that.

John’s breath catches as Gale’s hands slide down his sides before slipping under his tank top, fingertips brushing over sensitive skin, and he can’t help the soft whimper that escapes him.

“Gale,” he breathes out, equal parts excited and nervous, looking up at him with wide eyes. He’s so sensitive, every touch sending little sparks of pleasure through his overworked nerves, and Gale’s touch is both grounding and electrifying, a paradox that leaves John feeling like he’s floating.

“Shh, it’s okay,” Gale soothes, leaning down to press a kiss to John’s collarbone, his breath hot against his skin. “Just relax, doll. I’ve got you.”

Gale squeezes his waist before he moves his hands to the waistband of John’s shorts, fingers deftly undoing the button and zipper. John can barely breathe, his hands instinctively coming up to hold onto the couch cushions beneath his head as Gale crawls further back and carefully slides his shorts down his hips, along with his underwear. The cool air hits John’s damp skin, making him shiver, his cock twitching with renewed arousal despite the lingering overstimulation.

Gale doesn’t rush, running his hands gently over John’s thighs, pressing soft kisses along the inside of his legs, and John whines, breaths growing uneven again, his body trembling with anticipation and sensitivity. He can feel every touch as if it’s amplified tenfold, and the sight of Gale between his legs is too much for his brain to comprehend, effectively liquefying it inside his skull.

John can’t handle all of the feelings, thighs reflexively trying to close on either side of Gale’s head. It draws a soft laugh from Gale before his hands gently push his thighs apart again, leaving open–mouthed kisses on the delicate skin there, holding John’s gaze as he makes his way back up.

“So pretty,” Gale murmurs, voice gravelly, pressing a kiss to John’s hip, then the other side as he trails his hands up his thighs, and John squirms, fingers digging into the cushion.

When Gale finally wraps a hand around John’s cock, John’s back arches off the couch, a gasp escaping his lips. The sensation is almost too much, everything so intense as is just because it’s Gale. Gale seems to sense this, keeping his touch light and careful, his thumb brushing over the head in a way that makes John’s toes curl.

“Oh–” John’s voice catches in his throat, breaking off into a whimper, his hand trembling as he reaches out to grab at Gale’s hand where it rests on his hip. He feels like he’s burning up, his body strung tight with arousal and overwhelm, but the desire in Gale’s eyes keeps him grounded, keeps him from pulling away.

“This okay?” Gale checks, hushed, his voice soothing the frayed edges of John’s nerves. John nods shakily, eyes heavy, and Gale smiles encouragingly. “Tell me if it’s too much, baby. M’right here.”

John nods again, swallowing hard as he watches Gale lean in, the sight making his heart race all over again. He feels every nerve in his body light up as Gale’s warm breath ghosts over the head of his cock, his tongue coming out to taste him. The sensation is almost too much, and John’s hips jump, hand tightening its grip on Gale’s, his breath coming in shallow pants.

He’s about to get his first blowjob, and the hottest man he’s ever seen is lying between his legs, and he’s so far from where he’d pictured himself to be at the start of the summer that he can’t even begin to wrap his head around it. He doesn’t have time to try anyway, because Gale finally takes him into his mouth, and John’s brain short circuits.

His head falls back against the cushion, eyes squeezing shut as a broken moan falls from his lips. The wet heat of Gale’s mouth envelops him slowly, like velvet against his skin, the sensation all-consuming. His cock is still so sensitive, every movement of Gale’s tongue sending shocks of pleasure through his body, and John grips Gale’s hand so tightly that he’d be surprised if it’s not hurting.

Gale takes his time, his mouth working over John’s cock with a skill and tenderness that makes John’s head spin. Every drag of Gale’s tongue feels deliberate, designed to drive John to the edge without pushing him over too quickly, coaxing the heat in his stomach from a simmer to a boil. Gale’s other hand moves to hold John’s hip too, keeping him from bucking up into his mouth as the pleasure builds, and John whines desperately at the feeling of being pinned in place.

“Gale,” John mewls, feeling barely coherent as he tries to form words. “I need– please.”

He can feel the pressure coiling tight in his stomach again, thighs tensing where Gale’s arms wrap around them, and he feels like he’s melting from the inside out, turning to liquid at the insistence of Gale’s mouth. Blood is rushing in his ears, adding to the faint ringing that’s steadily growing louder, and Gale’s hands squeeze his hips gently like he knows John needs to be brought down a little.

Gale hums around him then, the vibration sending a kick of pleasure straight through John’s cock, and that’s all it takes to push him abruptly over the edge. John’s hips try to leave the couch as he comes with a cry, his entire body shuddering as his second orgasm rolls through him. The overstimulation makes it feel impossibly intense, pleasure and sensitivity blending together until he’s left gasping for breath, his vision going white at the edges.

John’s thighs close against Gale’s head, a strangled whimper forcing its way up his throat, hands curling into Gale’s hair. But Gale doesn’t pull off, his mouth still working gently around John’s cock, drawing out every last bit of pleasure until John’s shaking beneath him, trying to twist away.

“Gale,” John croaks out, tugging weakly at his hair, and Gale finally pulls away. He presses a soft kiss to the tip of his cock as he goes, hands soothingly rubbing up and down John’s thighs as he eases him down from the high.

John pants, his chest heaving as he tries to catch his breath, his entire body tingling. He feels completely boneless, his limbs heavy and his mind hazy, body going limp against the cushions. Gale shifts, and John feels him crawl up to hover over him, a careful hand running through his hair.

“You alive, baby?” He mumbles, and John only realizes his eyes are wet when he drags them open, blinking away the blurriness to focus in on Gale.

“Uh huh,” John breathes out, and Gale makes a noise of concern, brushing a thumb over the outer corner of his eye, smudging a tear away.

“Hey, you okay?” Gale’s eyebrows furrow, and John flushes, nodding quickly to assuage his worry.

“Jus’ felt really good,” John gets out, embarrassed, not sure why his body’s reacting that way. Gale coos softly, brushing a damp curl away from John’s forehead. He presses a kiss there, and then to John’s cheek, the tip of his nose, his chin, and back up again to where John’s smiling at the gesture.

John hums against his lips, eyes sliding closed again, too exhausted to do anything but kiss back, limbs feeling too heavy to lift. Gale leaves for a minute after John assures him it’s fine, and he returns with water and a warm washcloth and a pair of boxers that are definitely not John’s, and John has no intention of telling Gale he has an extra pair of his own in his bag.

Gale gently cleans him off before helping him lift his hips to shimmy into his boxers, and then he adjusts the two of them, gathering John in his arms and squeezing himself between John’s back and the couch. John can’t stop smiling as Gale tucks his chin over his head, a permanent flush settling over his cheeks as he soaks up the warmth of Gale’s body behind him, wrapping his own arms around Gale’s where they hold him close.

They lay in silence for a bit, idly watching TV, the shakiness slowly leaving John’s body as he recovers. Gale hums thoughtfully, chest rumbling against John’s back, and John makes a questioning sound in response.

“Not gonna be able to sit on this couch anymore without thinkin’ of you,” Gale murmurs, and John snorts, feeling Gale laugh too.

“Can pick somewhere else next time,” John mumbles, bold in his drowsy, glowy state, and Gale tilts his chin to press his lips to his hair, squeezing his arms around John.

It’s too early to go to bed, but John doesn’t feel much like moving, and neither does Gale evidently, so their evening is spent cuddling on the couch watching mindless reality programs as the sun creeps low and slips beneath the horizon. Only when the living room is cloaked in darkness does John realize Gale hasn’t specifically invited him to stay over tonight as well, and he’s mulling over a way to bring it up, but Gale asks first.

“You stayin’ tonight?” He asks, bringing a hand up to John’s hair where his head now rests against Gale’s shoulder, both of them sitting up after snacking for a bit earlier. John hesitates, and he swears Gale has a sixth sense for what’s going on in his head at this point, because he adds, “That’s an invite.”

John smiles to himself, nodding sleepily. “Okay. I have work in the afternoon, though,” he says mournfully.

“I’ll give you a ride,” Gale says easily, brushing his fingers through John’s curls, and suddenly John’s dreading work a bit less.

He still feels like he’s floating when he follows Gale to bed a little while later, crawling into what’s come to be his designated side while he watches Gale fiddle with the clock, setting a “just in case” alarm for later in the morning. And then Gale’s slipping into bed, and John rolls over to face him, and he doesn’t have to wait for more than a second before he’s pulled against Gale again, cheek pressed to his chest.

John’s immensely grateful that Gale seems as reluctant as he is to spend any moment not physically touching in some form, glad to make the most of the time they have together before the cycle rolls back around to days of pining and impatience in between their hangouts. John doesn’t mind the routine they’ve fallen into though; he hopes it’s here to stay.

He hopes Gale’s here to stay, too, and John realizes as he’s falling asleep that he’s starting to truly believe that he is.

Chapter Text

August 15, 2005

John’s tongue burns from acidity as he lets a sour gummy dissolve on it, the bag of candy cautiously balanced between his stomach and where Curt’s head rests in his lap. He leans back against the wall, careful not to crumple any of the posters Curt has hanging above where they’re sitting on his bed, staring out the window as he listens intently to the big city adventures from Curt’s weekend, living vicariously through him.

“I just can’t believe how easy it is to get lost,” Curt says, still full of wonder. “Like, Ken knows the city by heart, but if you and I tried to walk around on our own we’d get abducted.”

John snorts, pulling a gummy shark between his teeth until it snaps in half. “We’d make easy targets.”

“God, yeah,” Curt agrees. “There were so many people though, it felt weird to blend in so easily.”

John thinks he’d like that. He hates that it’s so easy to run into people he knows here, that he has memories in almost every building and neighbourhood; it would be nice to go to a place where no one knows him for once.

“Y’know after you and Gale left on Friday, Helen and I were talking about it– obviously,” Curt says, and John looks down, apprehensive.

“Nothing bad,” Curt assures him. “Good, actually. Helen was like–”

Curt rounds his eyes and puts a hand over his chest in his best impression of their friend. “‘The way that man looks at John– gosh, I think he’s smitten.’”

John breathes out a laugh, feeling like his heart is leaking a little. “You guys are stupid.”

Curt shrugs. “I dunno. Think you guys are the dumb ones, not calling it what it is.”

Curt and Ken had made things ‘official’ over the weekend, and with Curt and John having been in sync in every other area of their newfound dating lives, Curt seems to have gotten it in his head that it’s about time for Gale and John to do the same, as if it hasn’t only been a few days since their first kiss. In an ideal world, sure– but John’s not so sure that’s what Gale wants, and everything feels too fragile and new to start thinking about that sort of thing anyway.

“You’re gonna get sugar in my eyes,” Curt cuts himself off mid–sentence, having circled back around to talking about Ken and Alex’s new apartment, and John scoffs.

“Move then,” he dangles a multicoloured worm above Curt’s face threateningly. Curt opens his mouth instead, and John begrudgingly feeds the candy to him, grumbling about feeling like a mother bird feeding her young.

They lapse into silence, all talked–out after catching each other up on their wild weekends and romantic escapades. John looks around Curt’s room, at the flattened moving boxes leaned up against the wall, and the half–empty bookshelf, some of Curt’s novels and knick–knacks relegated to his sisters so there will be less to pack at the end of the month. It feels weird to think about how much is going to change when the summer ends, and it makes John’s heart feel a little heavy.

“We’re gonna be okay, right?” As soon as John asks, he feels silly. He and Curt have survived every petty disagreement, a homoerotic fling, bouts of silent treatment, every proper argument a friendship can possibly have thrown at it throughout the six–odd years they’ve known each other, and they’ve only bounced back stronger every time.

Still, adulthood is a whole different ball game, and as much as John yearns for change, it scares him too. He’s just feeling a little caught up in all of it, next week being his last week working at the hotel, and school starting up the week after that, and whatever tentative thing he and Gale having going on– it’s a lot to come to terms with, simultaneous endings and beginnings and unknowns.

“Us?” Curt blinks up at him, stray sugar granules stuck to his lips. John nods, and Curt watches him pensively.

“Well, yeah,” Curt says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “A lot of things are gonna be different, but– John?”

John’s eyes have suddenly begun to sting a little bit, feeling his throat tighten. Curt sits up so fast he almost spills the bag of candy, looking startled as he studies John’s face.

“Are you gonna cry?” Curt asks nervously, and John glares even as he does just that, eyes blurring over. If he was around anyone other than Curt he’d be embarrassed, but he’s just frustrated with himself for being so reactionary; he doesn’t even really know why he’s crying.

“Oh– John,” Curt stumbles, frowning. John knows Curt’s used to his fluctuating emotions after so many years of witnessing them, but he’s sure that doesn’t make it any easier to sort through them, especially when John himself can’t even get a handle on them. “Is it because I’m moving?”

John shrugs, wiping hastily at his eyes, sniffling. “I think it’s just, everything is changing, y’know?”

Curt nods understandingly, settling down cross–legged in front of him, patiently letting him work through his thoughts.

“Like, you’re moving out, Ken’s moved here, we’re already barely spending weekends together as is and now we’re gonna be even more busy,” John says, letting all his worries tumble out despite how silly they might sound aloud. “It’s gonna be so weird to not walk to your house anymore, to take the bus to your apartment instead– it’s already been weird to not stay with you every weekend.”

“I know what you mean,” Curt nods, playing with the hem of his own shirt. “It’s been on my mind a lot lately, and I feel weird about it too. But we’re still going to be living so close, so it won’t be that bad, y’know? You can still stay over, my brother won’t care. S’just that we’re both a little… preoccupied, right now.”

Curt nudges his leg teasingly, and John gives him a watery smile as Curt continues. “A lot’s gonna change, but we’ll still make time. I’m always here, you know that.”

“I know.” John nods, exhaling shakily. The knot in his stomach feels a little less tightly–wound, his chest warm with Curt’s reassurance. It’s not like John had thought that they’d just abruptly fall out during this transition into a new part of their lives, but it feels good to be reminded of their bond, and to know that Curt’s been thinking about the same things.

“Thanks, Curt,” he says, taking a deep breath. “Think I’m just overwhelmed.”

“Me too,” Curt sympathizes. “But I think it’s all gonna work out, even though it feels like a lot right now.”

“I think so too.”

John’s heart nearly shatters into a million pieces when Gale texts him on Thursday morning asking if he wants to spend the weekend again, because he’s scheduled to work Friday and Saturday, and he half–expects Gale to suggest they wait until Sunday instead when John tells him so. But he’s giddy with excitement when Gale takes it in stride, texting that ‘We’ll make the most of the time in between.’

John likes that sound of that, whether Gale intends for him to take it how he does or if it’s entirely innocent. Because really, he is happy to see Gale in any capacity, even if it’s just sitting in his company for a few hours– the new things they’ve been doing together are just a plus.

Only, talking about relationships and the natural course of things with Curt has got the wheels in John’s head turning. He wants to do everything with Gale; he thinks about it every night in the dark of his room, the corner of his pillow caught between his teeth and a hand wrapped around himself, wondering if Gale ever thinks about him and does the same in his own bed. And while John doesn’t feel any need to rush, or any pressure from Gale whatsoever, he does feel like it’s not unreasonable to assume that things might go further this weekend.

As far as he’s concerned, that’s what happens in relationships– or whatever he and Gale have going on. They’d jumped from sitting in the dugout to breezing past third base in the course of a week, and if things keep going at that rate, then John thinks it’s fair to anticipate more.

So that’s how John ends up laying in bed post–shower with a pillow beneath his hips later that afternoon, blinds closed and bedroom door locked despite being home alone, working a finger into himself for the first time.

He’d debated googling, well, how to do it right, if there’s even a right or wrong way to go about it, but even though his computer is fully his own, John has been too paranoid to risk it on the off chance that somehow someone digs up his search history. Besides, it’s not like he hasn’t watched porn, and while it might not be the most educational, it at least gives him something to go off.

John’s not really sure what it’s supposed to feel like, though judging by the guys in the videos he’s seen, it seems like it’s meant to feel good, except it really doesn’t feel like a whole lot of anything. He uses more lube than is probably necessary, but he’s a little nervous, and maybe that doesn’t help matters, but either way, it kind of just feels strange.

He huffs out a little breath as he pushes a second finger in next to the first, sweating both from the muggy afternoon heat and from the task at hand, trying not to think about how two fingers is already a stretch when he knows that what Gale’s packing is at least double that.

Instead he thinks about Gale’s fingers, about his callused but gentle hands, the way his forearm had flexed and the ink on his skin had jumped as he’d jerked himself off. He imagines how those same hands would run along his thighs, how Gale’s low voice would encourage him as he works him open on his long fingers, and John isn’t feeling much from the act itself, but that thought is enough to get his cock filling out as he manages to fit both fingers in.

He wonders if maybe that’s the whole appeal– maybe it’s not that it feels physically good as much as it’s about the closeness and the person that’s doing it, in which case, John’s more than happy to have Gale get his hands on him in any way the man wants. He definitely feels a little panicked when he reaches his limit at three fingers, because he can’t imagine possibly being able to fit more than that, but he trusts Gale and he doesn’t feel like worrying about that right now.

Not when he’s reverted back to two fingers and wrapped his other hand around his cock, eyes slipping closed as he pictures Gale hovering over him, hips pressed flush to his ass, kissing him sweet as he pushes into him. It’s enough to make the slow, rhythmic in–and–out of John’s fingers feel a little less foreign, imagining Gale in their place, swallowing down a whine at the way his chest aches for him to really be there.

John clenches around his fingers and spills over his fist a few minutes later to the thought of Gale rolling his hips into him, pressing him down against the mattress, murmuring praise into his ear. If he muffles a whimper of Gale’s name into his pillow when he comes, it’s nobody’s business but his own.

John’s ready to jump out of his skin by the time he clocks out of work on Friday, keeping his goodbyes to Curt and Helen brief as he fights the urge to skip through the lobby. Gale’s waiting in his truck this time, and for once John’s happy he isn’t on his bike, because when he shuts the door behind himself, he feels strangled by the need to get his hands on Gale after nearly a week apart.

“Hey, baby,” Gale says, far too nonchalant given the effect it has on John, heat immediately jumping to his face. He does a quick scan of the mostly–empty parking lot, and as soon as he’s certain no one’s around, he does what he’s been aching to do from the first time he’d sat in Gale’s truck, and crawls across the bench.

He almost chickens out when he reaches Gale, feeling freshly–shy after not seeing him for a while, but Gale takes his hand off the wheel and brings it up to John’s cheek with a smile, and John closes the gap between them with a desperate little noise.

Gale’s lips are warm and familiar, and John melts into the kiss, feeling all the tension from the week slip away. He presses closer, fingers curling into the fabric of Gale's shirt as he tilts his head, deepening the kiss. It’s sweet and unhurried, and when Gale’s thumb strokes over John’s cheek, John feels a rush of affection, sighing happily.

The look in Gale’s eyes is soft when he pulls away, filled with a fondness that makes John’s heart stutter; he makes it feel too easy to be honest.

“Missed you,” John breathes out, sitting back a little and flushing at his impulsive admission. Gale’s smile grows, his hand moving to the back of John’s neck, giving it a gentle squeeze.

“I gathered,” he teases, before his expression morphs into something more sincere. “Missed you too, Johnny.”

John settles back onto the right side of the truck with a stupid grin, dropping his bag between his feet and buckling himself in, resisting the urge to drop his face into his hands to hide his fluster.

“How was work?” John asks, a little more breathless than intended. Gale’s tidied up nice, so he assumes he’s been home in between clocking out and picking him up.

“Same old,” Gale says easily, starting the truck. “How about you? Anything eventful?”

“Mostly just boring cleaning,” John says, refraining from mentioning that he doesn’t remember half the day because he’d been so busy counting down the minutes until seven p.m. “Feel like I can’t really complain when I’ve only got a week left, anyway.”

“That’s right,” Gale glances at him as he pulls out of the lot. “How’re you feeling about that? Gonna miss it?”

“I think I’m just gonna miss seeing my friends every day,” John says. “The routine, too.”

Sometimes he thinks the things he worries about must seem so trivial to Gale after evidently living more wild of a life than he likes to let on, but Gale never appears to be bored or irritated, always seeming genuinely interested in John’s life. It still feels foreign to John, not used to other adults paying him much mind; Gale makes him feel so cared for.

“You’ll make a new routine soon enough, with classes and all,” Gale consoles him. “And you’ll be able to stay over at Curt’s still, yeah?”

“I mean, yeah, but I used to stay at his house on weekends, so,” John trails off, a little embarrassed at how fast his habits have changed. He’d feel guilty about it if Curt wasn’t about to do the same thing, now that Ken’s gotten settled in his new apartment.

“You’re not– you know you can say no to staying weekends with me, right?” Gale looks at him as they wait for the light to change, brows furrowed a bit. “I don’t want you missing out on time with friends, we can find other days to hang out.”

John can’t help but smile at his concern, nodding before he can worry too much. “I know,” he promises. “Our weekends just haven’t synced up lately, and now that Ken’s moved to town, I think he’s gonna be occupied too.”

Gale seems to relax with his assurance, turning his attention back to the road. “As long as you’re sure.”

“I am,” John insists, then bashfully adds, “I really like staying with you.”

He’s sure it goes without saying, but Gale still smiles at him when he says it. One hand leaves the wheel to rest on John’s knee, thumb tracing idle lines, and every time Gale has to pull away to shift gears, his hand returns to his leg after. It takes every ounce of mental fortitude for John to participate in conversation as they drive, and part of him wonders if Gale knows exactly what he’s doing, or if John just needs to get a grip.

“I talked to Marge this week,” Gale says when they turn onto his street, and that drags John’s mind away from ungodly thoughts about Gale’s fingers sliding further up his thigh. “Told her about your fake ID stunt.”

“Oh god,” John groans. “I’m so sorry. Was she mad?”

“It’s okay, bud. She wasn’t mad at you.” Gale squeezes his knee, shooting him a look of amusement, and John winces imagining the chewing–out Gale probably received. “She said it was stupid, obviously, but she also said you’re welcome back when you’re ready to have your first legal drink.”

“Really?” John perks up, feeling a flicker of excitement. Even though he’d been miles out of his comfort zone that first night at the pub, he’d enjoyed it more the second time, intoxication aside. It had been nice seeing Gale comfortable around his friends, getting to sit close without anyone questioning it, observing the conversation rather than having to actively participate.

“I told you she wasn’t gonna bar you from coming back,” Gale says, hand leaving John’s knee as he pulls into his driveway. “I’m gonna bar you from drinking that much again, though.”

John pouts at the reminder, unbuckling his seatbelt. “Please do. I don’t wanna get drunk ever again.”

Gale laughs at his anguish, reaching over to pick up his bag off the floor, slinging it over his own shoulder as he gets out of the truck. John’s heart does a little spin at the casual act, smiling to himself as he follows Gale into the house.

“Was thinking we could get pizza delivered,” Gale suggests as he kicks his boots off. “Unless you wanna go eat somewhere?”

“Pizza sounds good,” John agrees, happy to have a quiet night in. Sitting on the couch with Gale has come to feel like a bit of a mental reset for him, a safe space inside a safe space, and if Gale’s content to stay in and relax, John has no complaints.

But tonight, John hopes he can make good on last weekend’s idea of ‘picking somewhere else’ and get Gale to take him to bed for something other than sleeping.

“Do you think I can have a quick shower first?” John asks shyly, taking his backpack when Gale passes it over. “Woke up too late to have one before work, I feel kinda gross.”

“‘Course, don’t gotta ask,” Gale says. “My house is yours too, baby.”

John blinks at Gale for a second as his brain wrestles between the urge to cry or melt into a puddle on the doormat. He steps forward and throws his arms around Gale’s middle instead, drawing a surprised noise out of him before John feels his arms wrap around him too.

“You good?” Gale asks softly, rubbing his back, and John nods against his shoulder, pressing a kiss to the side of his neck.

“Thank you,” he says simply when he pulls back, giving Gale a timid smile. He moves away, intent on getting to the bathroom before he gets sappy, but Gale’s hand finds the small of his back as he takes a step, and John stops to look at him.

Gale leans in and presses a quick, gentle kiss to his lips, catching John off guard. It’s enough to leave his heart fluttering when Gale pulls away, his hand lingering on John, keeping him close for a moment longer.

“Alright, go on,” Gale says softly, a hint of smile playing at his lips. “I’ll be here when you’re done. There’s a towel on the rack for you.”

John nods dazedly, a smile tugging at his own mouth as he steps away and heads for the bathroom, his whole body warm before the shower water even touches his skin. He feels a lot less guilty now when he breathes in the smell of Gale’s shampoo, knowing he’s able to– ignoring the faint embarrassment at the thought of doing so – go bury his face in his golden curls any time he wants.

But he showers quickly as promised, both so he doesn’t keep Gale waiting and because John’s impatient to be near him again. He feels relaxed and excited for the evening when he shuts off the water, pulling back the shower curtain to reach for his towel– and then he lets out a yelp, flattening himself against the tile wall.

As if taunting him, a palm–sized spider sits on the bathroom door just next to the handle, unmoving and spine–chilling in its inaction. John’s heart thumps as he recovers from the jumpscare, staring at the thing like he can pin it in place with his eyes, but the second it scuttles over an inch, he reflexively shouts Gale’s name.

Working on his fear of heights with Gale to help him through it was one thing, but getting any closer to a spider is not on his to–do list under any circumstances; he’s so horrified at his current entrapment that he’s not even embarrassed to call for help so reflexively. He does feel a little bit bad though when Gale appears on the other side of the door unreasonably fast with a mildly–panicked “John?” as he opens the door a crack.

Except the motion sends the spider crawling towards the shower, and John lets out a sound embarrassingly close to a shriek, almost tripping over the curtain in his haste to press himself into the corner, wrapping the liner around himself like the world’s saddest protective shield. Gale flings the door the rest of the way open, looking around the bathroom with wide eyes, one hand hidden behind himself.

“What is it?” He asks urgently, and John clutches the curtain, getting out, “It’s behind the door.”

Gale looks a little less alarmed at this statement, turning around and toeing the door closed, and then his posture fully relaxes when he spots the spider where it now lurks at the corner of the wall.

“John,” Gale breathes out, looking stricken as he turns his attention to him. “I grabbed a knife– hell, almost got my– you scared me, doll.”

John would laugh at the sight of Gale setting a kitchen knife down on the bathroom counter if he didn’t feel so guilty for freaking him out, and if the spider wasn’t on the move again, making a beeline for the shower as though it can smell his fear. John’s stumbling out through the other end of the shower and yanking his towel off the rack before it has the chance to get any closer, almost slipping on the bathroom tiles as he flies past Gale through the open doorway.

“Jesus,” Gale looks like he’s trying not to laugh now, and John pouts, trying and failing to stifle it with a glare as he hastily wraps the towel around his waist, but Gale relents all the same. “Alright, alright, I’ll get it. Don’t you worry your pretty little head.”

John flushes, stepping aside so Gale can pass by, feeling his panicked heartbeat begin to settle.

“Must’ve snuck in when I left the screen door open yesterday,” Gale says calmly as he walks down the hall to the entryway, turning around a moment later with a boot in hand.

“Gale,” John blurts out as he steps into the bathroom, and Gale stops in the doorway, turning to look at him.

“What?” He prompts, perplexed. John looks at the boot in dismay.

“You’re gonna just,” he gestures vaguely, feeling his flush deepen at the look of bewilderment Gale shoots him.

“Yeah,” Gale says slowly. “You’re scared; d’you not want me to get rid of it?”

“Well, yeah, but,” John flounders, feeling stupid for saying anything in the first place, but he knows he won’t be able to sleep tonight with a death weighing on him, even one of a bug.

“Not like that,” John says meekly, and maybe it’s about time he weaponizes something against Gale, so he gives him the saddest puppy–eyes he can muster, and he’s certain he can see the moment Gale’s resolve leaves him.

“You’re really something,” Gale muses as he lowers the boot to his side, exhaling resolutely, but there’s no malice to his words, only thinly–veiled amusement. John’s embarrassed, but not enough to walk back his request, keeping his eyes on the spider where it now sits on the shower wall as Gale puts the boot back in its place and disappears into the kitchen, returning with a cup and newspaper this time.

“That better?” Gale smiles as he holds them up, and John nods bashfully, watching with bated breath as Gale steps back into the bathroom, leaning in far too close for comfort and trapping the spider in the cup with ease. John shudders reflexively when it scuttles further into the glass as Gale slides the newspaper underneath the rim, clutching his towel tighter for emotional support, giving Gale a wide berth when he passes by him with a soft laugh.

John’s heart feels warm as he stops on his way to the bedroom to watch Gale carry the spider out the sliding door and bring it to one of the flower beds at the edge of the yard, carefully tipping it out of the cup into the greenery. It’s a little bit comical, the juxtaposition of his visually intimidating appearance paired with the way he gently ensures the spider has a good grip on a leaf before he retracts the glass, but it only makes John soften that much more.

“You’re always saving me,” John says lightly when Gale reenters the house, and Gale’s face breaks into a smile.

“Fine by me,” he says, and then his eyes not–at–all–discreetly drag down John’s scarcely clothed frame, and John’s blush returns, on the verge of squirming under his gaze when the doorbell suddenly rings.

Gale laughs at the way John’s eyes go wide. “It’s just the pizza,” he assures him, giving him one last glance as he retreats down the hall. “You can borrow some clothes, if you want.”

John hurries into Gale’s bedroom to hide before he hears the front door open, staring at the dresser with his heart doing loops in his chest. It feels like he shouldn’t take him up on it; he’s obviously brought his own change of clothes for the weekend, and surely Gale knows that. But if he knows and he’s still offering…

John pads over to the dresser, crouching to pull open the lowest drawer and picking out what looks like the same pair of sweatpants Gale had given him to wear once before, then moving to the drawer above and grabbing a tee from a few layers down, not wanting to take one Gale might want to wear over the weekend. He’s absolutely not bold enough to venture into the top drawer on his own though, rummaging around in his bag for his own underwear, quickly changing as he hears Gale close the front door.

It’s stupid, because it's just clothing, but John feels so much more secure and cozy knowing he’s wearing something of Gale’s, the cotton comforting against his shower–warmed skin as he walks back to the bathroom to hang his towel up before joining Gale in the kitchen.

Taking him in properly now that he’s not preoccupied with his eight–legged predicament, John’s limbs go jelly–like, eyeing the way Gale’s baggy shirt rides up as he reaches into the cupboard for plates, sweatpants hugging his hips just right. John swallows hard, heart fluttering as he stares for a moment longer before letting the organ take charge, shuffling up behind Gale and tentatively wrapping his arms around his middle.

Gale makes a quiet noise, going still for a second before setting the plates down, gently folding his arms over John’s. John smiles, rubbing his cheek against Gale’s shoulder, sighing contentedly.

“You recovered from your scare?” Gale teases, and John can hear the smile in his voice, his own growing in response.

“Mhm,” John hums, squeezing his arms tighter before pulling away so Gale can move around the kitchen. Gale turns around instead, and John blinks at him as Gale raises his hands to hold his face, running his thumbs along the hollows beneath his eyes.

“Y’know I’m only kidding, right?” Gale asks softly, corners of his eyes crinkling at the blank look John gives him. “About the spider. I think it’s sweet that you don’t wanna hurt ‘em, even though you’re scared.”

John feels his face warm beneath Gale’s palms, his insides gooping together. “I know,” he mumbles, and he means it; he never feels any malice behind Gale’s teasing, never feels like he has to worry about being laughed at.

Gale presses a gentle kiss to his forehead before pulling away, leaning back against the counter and lowering his eyes.

“Chicago White Sox, huh?” Gale says, and John belatedly follows his gaze to look down at his shirt for the first time, vaguely recognizing a baseball team’s logo on it.

“I guess so.” He looks back up at Gale, playing with the hem of the shirt. “You a fan?”

“Not really,” Gale says after appearing to mull it over. “Not much of a sports guy.”

“Me neither,” John smiles, resisting the urge to be nosy and ask why he has the shirt, if he’s not a fan. He’s just relieved he won’t have to sit through cable sports; as much as he’s happy to do whatever makes Gale happy (and he would probably enjoy Gale explaining sports to him), the sound of a sportscaster reminds him of what he comes home to most evenings. It’s nice to know Gale’s house is a safe haven in yet another way.

They end up on the couch as usual, watching a movie as the sun dips below the fence in the backyard, John curled against Gale’s side, trying to fight off the sleep–fog that’s making his eyelids get heavy. When Gale gets up to put the leftover pizza in the fridge, John slumps his way down the couch until he’s lying on his side, head pillowed on his arm, keeping his eyes trained on the colourful advert that’s come on to mark the end of the movie.

“Tired?” Gale asks when he returns, lifting John’s legs as he sits back down, settling his feet in his lap.

“A bit,” John says, knowing there’s no point in lying. “Don’t wanna go to bed yet though.”

“Why not?” Gale hums, trailing his fingers up John’s ankle. “The spider’s not gonna get you, I promise.”

John pouts, kicking Gale’s thigh lightly in retaliation, and Gale laughs quietly, closing his hand around his ankle to trap him in place. John lets out a noise of surprise when he’s dragged along the cushions until his legs are draped over Gale’s lap, shirt rucked up from the motion, but Gale doesn’t let go of his leg, working his thumb in deep circles over his calf as he settles back against the couch, eyes on the TV.

John’s suddenly not tired at all.

He turns his own gaze back to the screen, but he can feel the warmth of Gale’s hand seeping into his skin, can feel where each finger wraps firm around his leg, and all he can think about is what he’d gotten up to in the quiet of his room the day before, and how he wants those fingers somewhere else.

John turns his face further into his arm, trying to hide from his own flush as his brain fixates on Gale’s touch, but his breath catches when he feels Gale’s circular motions slowly begin to climb up his leg, bunching the loose ankle of his sweatpants as he goes. He’s going to burn up and die, he’s sure of it, and he’s too flustered to risk glancing over to see if Gale’s watching him, if he’s torturing him intentionally or if he’s really just idly petting him while watching TV.

Gale’s hand slips inside his too–baggy pant leg when it won’t push up any further, fingers brushing past the pit of John’s knee before he keeps working his thumb into the soft flesh at the back of his thigh, and John has no say in the way his cock awakens at the feeling of calluses against the sensitive skin. He buries his face fully in his arm now, trying to keep his leg from twitching, to keep his hips from rolling down against the couch as Gale kneads at his thigh. But when Gale’s hand creeps higher still, John can’t help himself, pushing back into his touch ever so slightly.

He feels Gale pause for a brief moment before his touch turns to something lighter, more teasing, fingertips trailing from the back of his thigh to the inside of it, drawing an enticing line down to the side of his knee, and then back up again, stopping just below the hem of his underwear before repeating the motion. John shivers involuntarily, goosebumps rising in the wake of Gale’s fingers, cock twitching against his hip, and he hears Gale exhale a laugh through his nose.

He whines into the cushion in response, knows Gale’s being intentional with the teasing now, and Gale coos quietly, squeezing his hand around his thigh.

“Gale,” John mumbles, muffled in his arms, and Gale’s hand retreats, dragging a noise of complaint out of John.

“You wanna come over here?” Gale asks, warm, a smile in his voice as if he already knows the answer. John nods, getting his elbows beneath himself, only just pushing himself up to his knees when Gale’s arms wrap around his waist, gently tugging him backwards into his lap.

John goes easily, letting Gale pull his back against his chest, his warmth surrounding him as he settles against him, heart thumping steadily. Gale’s hands move up from John’s waist, skimming over his sides before one hand slips under the hem of his shirt, fingers grazing over his stomach. The touch has John swallowing down another whine, his breath hitching as Gale’s fingers spread out, mapping the soft skin beneath his shirt.

“Y’get worked up so easy, darling,” Gale murmurs, and the tips of John’s ears go hot. “What’s goin’ on in your head, hm?

John squirms, hands finding Gale’s thighs, shaking his head. He wants to tell Gale that it’s him who gets John worked up so easily, that it’s always Gale that he’s thinking about, that he doesn’t even have to do anything for John to be overwhelmed by how badly he wants everything Gale’s willing to give and take from him. But the thought of voicing any of that, at least right now, when his mind is still mostly coherent, is overwhelming in itself.

“S’okay.” Gale trails his fingers over John’s stomach, back and forth, fueling the simmering heat beneath his navel. “I don’t mind guessing.”

John feels Gale’s chin come to rest on his shoulder, and when he turns his head, he doesn’t have to wait long for Gale to close the gap, kissing him slow and sweet. John’s eyes flutter shut as he leans into it, the warm sensation of Gale’s lips no less electrifying than all the previous times. Gale’s other hand moves to cup the back of John’s neck, holding him in place as he deepens the kiss, his tongue brushing against John’s lower lip.

John parts his lips with a groan, shifting a little as Gale kisses him more firmly before he pulls away to mouth along his jaw, the hand on the back of John’s neck joining the other beneath his shirt. He leans back further into Gale, letting his head fall back against Gale’s shoulder as Gale’s lips brush along the side of his neck, soft and warm.

John lets out a shaky breath, tilting his head to give Gale more access, and Gale takes the invitation, his kisses growing more insistent as he mouths at the sensitive skin just below John’s ear. The sensation stokes the fire beneath John’s skin, making him arch into Gale’s touch with a whimper, his fingers curling into the fabric of Gale’s pants.

Gale’s hands continue to roam, one slipping lower to rest on John’s hip while the other slides back up his chest, brushing over a nipple, making John gasp. Gale’s touch is gentle but firm, his fingers kneading John’s chest before drifting down again, taking his time. John feels his body responding to every caress, his cock leaking in anticipation as Gale’s hand slowly moves down his stomach.

When Gale’s hand dips under the waistband of his sweatpants, John bites his lip in an attempt to suppress the embarrassingly needy noise that threatens to escape, but Gale pulls it out of him anyway when he toys with the elastic of his boxers, teeth grazing lightly against the crook of his neck.

John rolls his hips up in a silent plea, aching for Gale to touch him properly, and Gale obliges with an open–mouthed kiss to his shoulder where the collar of his shirt has slipped to the side, sliding his hand down into his underwear. The first touch is gentle, Gale’s fingers curling around John’s cock with a slowness that sends a jolt of pleasure straight to his core, his pulse quickening.

“Fuck,” John breathes out as Gale begins to move his hand, each stroke languid, almost teasing, like he’s savouring the feeling as much as John is. Gale’s thumb brushes over the head of his cock, gathering the wetness there, and the feeling makes John’s hips twitch involuntarily.

Gale keeps his pace slow, his strokes measured and deliberate, as if he’s in no rush at all. John can feel the heat of Gale’s palm, the rough of his calluses, and it’s so much, every sensation heightened by the agonizing slowness. John’s head lolls back further against Gale’s shoulder, his mouth falling open as he tries to breathe through the pleasure sparking in his veins.

“God,” John chokes out, his voice shaky and laced with need, but Gale doesn’t speed up. He continues pressing kisses to the side of John’s neck, tongue moving against his skin like he’s trying to give him as much sensation without leaving actual marks, his breath warm as he keeps up the unbroken, torturous rhythm of his hand.

“Sound so pretty,” Gale murmurs between kisses, his voice low and soothing. John’s chest tightens at his words, the tenderness making his head spin. Gale’s hand shifts slightly, changing the angle just enough to make John gasp, dizzy at the new feeling.

John’s hips start to move on their own, rolling up into Gale’s hand, desperate for more friction, more contact, but Gale’s hand stays steady, unhurried. The slow pace is driving John insane, every stroke sending waves of pleasure through him, but he wants more, hasn’t forgotten what thoughts got him worked up in the first place.

Gale moves his other hand back up to John’s chest, fingers tracing the outline of his collarbone before dragging back down, his thumb brushing over a nipple again. The touch is light, almost ghostly, but it sends a shudder through John, making him push his chest against Gale’s hand. Gale chuckles softly, the sound vibrating against John’s neck as Gale rolls his nipple between his thumb and forefinger, and John doesn’t know whether to move into or away from the sensation, overwhelmed by the feeling.

If he doesn’t get brave enough to ask for more soon, John knows he’s going to unravel with Gale’s efforts, heat already gathering in his stomach, and as good as it all feels, he wants to know what it would feel like to have Gale work him open, to have him press his fingers into him, to have him sink his cock into him, hips snug between his thighs.

“Gale,” John keens out when Gale twists his hand around him on an upstroke, digging his fingers into Gale’s thighs. “Gale, I need–”

He cuts himself off with a shaky breath, feeling like he’s stumbling blind once again, face heating up as Gale’s hand slows, giving him time to speak.

“What, baby? Tell me what you need,” Gale coaxes, clearly sensing his internal struggle, and John whimpers a little, lightheaded at the raspy edge to his voice. He can’t think clearly with Gale’s hand moving over his cock in firm drags, hips stuttering into his touch without his permission.

“Please– need– your fingers.” The words tumble from his lips, and John feels Gale’s breath come out in a puff of hot air against his neck. “In me,” John adds for good measure, intent on getting his point across so he’s not stuck burning up in embarrassment for no reason.

“Jesus, baby,” Gale breathes out, resting his chin on his shoulder again. John can feel him swallow hard, his hand stilling completely. “You sure?”

John nods insistently, squirming in his lap. “Yeah– yeah, please.”

Gale groans quietly, his other hand settling on his waist and squeezing gently, sounding barely restrained when he tells him, “Don’t gotta rush into things, sweetheart.”

John whines in frustration, rocking up into Gale’s fist reflexively, his mouth moving before his brain can stop it. “Gale, ‘m sure, fingered m’self yesterday for the first time so I’d– so I know I want it.”

Gale’s hand flexes once around cock and then pulls away, and the strangled sound John makes doesn’t have time to fully leave his mouth before he’s being scooped up into Gale’s arms bridal–style, lifted off the couch as Gale stands. John’s heart pounds when he realizes he’s being carried to Gale’s room, hands clinging to his shirt as he leans his cheek on his shoulder, nervous butterflies erupting in his stomach.

Gale lays John down on his bed with all the care and softness that he’d forgotten in his haste to pick him up, ensuring his head is resting comfortably on the pillows, crawling up on the mattress after him.

“God, John, the thought of you–” Gale breathes out, half a groan, knees settling on either side of John’s hips as he stares down at him, eyes dark, clearly thinking about what John had blurted out. John wriggles a little beneath him, embarrassed about his rash admission, curling his fingers into Gale’s shirt and tugging pleadingly.

Gale lets himself be pulled down, bracing his hands on the pillow and capturing John’s lips in a kiss that feels as desperate as John does. It makes his stomach flip, knowing Gale desires him that much, that he has the same effect on Gale as Gale does on him; it’s incomprehensible, but it makes John feel good.

Gale pulls away with a tug to John’s bottom lip, hands sliding down his sides, and now that John’s fully taking in the fact that he’s on his back in Gale’s bed, everything suddenly feels very real and serious, nervous despite being the one to ask for it, heart in his throat. He thinks he must not be doing a great job of hiding it, because Gale softens, hands coming up to brush John’s hair out of his face.

“Hey, you can change your mind, Johnny,” he almost–whispers, smoothing his thumbs over his brow bone. And it’s not that John would ever think otherwise, not with Gale, but hearing it still feels reassuring, easing some of his anxious jitters.

“I know,” John places his palms on Gale’s thighs, ignoring the way his hands tremble. “I want it, ‘m just nervous.”

“That’s okay, baby,” Gale says softly, leaning down to kiss him again, chaste this time, almost painfully sweet and gentle compared to the position they’re in and what they’ve been doing for the past few minutes. “We can wait–”

“Gale,” John can’t help the plaintive whine that slips out, and Gale’s face breaks out into amusement, laughing quietly.

“I just wanna make sure you know, John,” he says around a smile, running his thumb along John’s bottom lip, breath audibly catching when John reflexively presses a kiss to the tip of it. “You’re in control here,” Gale murmurs, eyes fixated on his mouth.

John nods slowly, tilting his chin up for another kiss, and Gale gives him what he wants, cupping his jaw as he presses his lips to John’s. His clothes are starting to feel too hot, too restrictive, and when Gale sits back up, his hands slide down to the hem of John’s shirt as if reading his mind. Even with Gale’s reassurance, John still feels shy.

His fingers twitch against Gale’s thighs as he glances at the soft glow of the lamp on the nightstand, the warm light casting everything in a golden hue that feels as comforting as it does too–revealing. Gale follows his gaze, and John swallows, playing with the fabric of Gale’s sweatpants.

“Gale?” His voice comes out small, timid, the rest of the question getting stuck in his throat, but Gale turns back to him with a knowing look.

“You want it off, baby?” Gale asks, squeezing his hips comfortingly, and John nods, cheeks burning. He’s never felt so vulnerable, and while he hasn’t been particularly self–conscious since the awkward early teenage years, the thought of being completely naked beneath Gale for the first time makes him want to jump out of his skin.

Gale smiles, not missing a beat before he leans over John to flick the lamp off, darkness blanketing the room save for the moonlight that filters in through the blinds. John immediately feels more relaxed, the tension in his shoulders fading away, taking a deep breath as the bed shifts and Gale settles back down.

“Better?” Gale murmurs, voice low and soothing, hand finding John’s face in the dark, brushing his knuckles over his cheekbone.

“Uh–huh,” John hums. “Thank you.” He feels a little silly, but Gale’s tenderness makes it easier to bear, easier to let himself be in the moment.

“It’s okay, sweet boy,” Gale says, fondness audible, and John smiles up at him, the familiar feeling of affection and safety washing over him again.

As Gale’s hands roam, this time with gentle purpose, John closes his eyes, letting himself sink into the sensations, into the care Gale is taking with him. He’s still nervous, still a little shy, but with every soft touch and every sweet word, he feels more at ease, the need building back up in the pit of his stomach.

Gale’s hand is warm as it slides under the hem of John’s shirt, fingers splaying out as they skim over his stomach and up to his chest, making him shiver. Gale takes his time, letting John’s shirt ride up inch by inch until it’s bunched up near his armpits. He pulls back just enough to meet John’s eyes, a soft smile playing at his lips.

“Let’s get this off you,” Gale murmurs, and John nods, heart pounding as Gale helps him sit up just enough to pull the shirt over his head. The cool air hits his skin, and he feels exposed in a way that makes him want to be seen, to be touched; it all feels so intimate in the bedroom. Gale’s gaze roams over him, appreciation evident in the way his eyelids go a bit heavy, and John feels his cheeks warm under the attention. Gale leans down to press another kiss to his lips, this one softer, more tender.

“So beautiful, baby,” Gale whispers against his lips, and John whines quietly, hands coming up to grab onto Gale’s shirt again. He feels Gale’s lips brush over his shoulder, leaving an open–mouthed kiss over his collarbone before trailing up his neck, along his jaw, and John leans into the kisses, closing his eyes as he lets himself get lost in the feelings.

He wants to feel Gale’s skin against his, can already feel the heat of it radiating through Gale’s shirt, so he finds the hem of it and tugs gently.

“Yours too,” he mumbles, and Gale obliges, sitting up and pulling his shirt over his head, and John groans as he stares shamelessly at the bare skin, the dark ink faint in the low light. His hands flatten over Gale’s stomach, a mind of their own, feeling the muscle move beneath his palms when Gale tosses the shirt to the end of the bed.

Gale’s hands return to John’s body, slowly moving down his sides, tracing the lines of his waist and hips before his fingers curl into the elastic of his sweatpants. He looks up, and John nods, squeezing Gale’s waist, impatience drowning out his shyness as his need grows again.

“Off,” John says shakily, lifting his hips up to help, and Gale breathes out a laugh. He slides John’s pants down slowly, letting his knuckles drag along John’s skin as he goes, and John feels like he’s got a fever, burning up at every touch.

When his sweatpants are off and thrown to the side, Gale returns to him, hovering close, blanketing John with his body. He kisses him deeply, unhurried, coaxing John to relax into the mattress. John’s hands find their way to Gale’s hair, fingers tangling in his curls as he pulls him closer, Gale’s weight against him both grounding and exhilarating.

“You’re perfect, Johnny,” Gale murmurs against his lips, the words rumbling through John’s chest and settling into his heart. “So good.”

John blushes at the praise, his face heating up even in the dark, but he doesn’t pull away. He kisses Gale harder, trying to show him how much it means, how much he craves this closeness.

Gale’s hands start to explore again, moving over John’s bare skin with a tender curiosity, like he’s memorizing every inch of him. John whimpers, feeling breathless as Gale swallows the noise before dipping back down, pressing kisses along John’s chest, down to his stomach, leaving a trail of warmth in his wake. When Gale’s fingers hook into the elastic of his boxers, John feels a rush of nervous anticipation, tensing slightly before Gale eases his underwear over his hips and down his legs, leaving him fully exposed.

Gale is back the moment John squirms a little, pressing close, his warmth chasing away the shyness.

“God, you’re so pretty, John,” Gale breathes, and John’s heart stutters, a mix of embarrassment and affection swelling in his chest. Gale’s hand cups his cheek, turning his face gently so their eyes meet in the dim light. “I mean it, doll. Sometimes I don’t know how you’re even real.”

John bites his cheek, all his emotions threatening to spill over as he fights for a way to convey everything he feels for Gale, but Gale kisses him again, deep and thorough, a sweet distraction that pulls John back into the moment. Gale’s hands move over him, soothing and steady, and John melts into his touch, his body responding to Gale with a yearning he’s never felt before.

“Just like that, baby,” Gale murmurs, and John’s eyelids droop, the familiar fuzzy feeling returning to his body as Gale reaches for a pillow, gentle as he tucks it beneath John’s hips. “Let me take care of you. You don’t gotta worry about anything.”

John nods, unable to form words as he clings to Gale’s arms, his heart racing but in a way that feels more thrilling than frightening. Gale’s touch, his words, everything about him is a steady anchor, a promise, making him feel safe and wanted. He hopes one day he can tell Gale how much it all means to him; he hopes he can make Gale feel even half as appreciated.

Gale kisses him once more before reaching over him, quietly sliding the drawer of the bedside table open, and the sight of the small bottle of lube that he returns with makes John’s heart flutter with anticipation. He has to remind himself to breathe as Gale pops the cap open, watching him pour out a good amount, warming it between his fingers.

“Please, Gale,” John gets out, eyes almost glazing over as he stares, and Gale’s other hand returns to John’s thigh, stroking softly as he leans in for another kiss, this one more heated, less restrained.

“Relax for me, sweetheart,” Gale whispers against his lips as his hand moves lower, fingers teasing at John’s entrance. John tenses for a moment, but Gale is patient, soothing him with soft kisses and whispered reassurances until he settles again.

The first press of Gale’s finger is gentle, tentative, and John forces himself to take a deep breath, willing his body to calm. Gale’s so slow with it that John only feels a slight pressure, not the discomfort he’s expecting, lips parting in a silent moan as Gale presses his lips to his forehead. Gale moves carefully, giving him time to adjust, and the tension in John’s body starts to ease as he gets used to the feeling.

A soft noise escapes John’s mouth, his hips twitching instinctively as he begins to relax into it. It’s different from when he’d tried it alone– there’s a warmth, a connection in the way Gale touches him that makes it feel so much better, and his finger feels like it reaches so much further than his own had. A slow burn builds deep inside him, an unfamiliar pleasure that grows with every gentle movement of Gale’s finger.

“That’s it,” Gale murmurs, his voice full of praise as he eases his finger in deeper. “You’re doing so good, baby.”

His thumb rubs soothing circles over John’s hip as he moves, careful and unhurried. John breathes through it, focusing on Gale’s touch, the warmth of his skin, the way his lips ghost over his shoulder.

“Alright?” Gale asks, and John nods, brain feeling like it’s operating in slow motion as he watches Gale watch him, staggered by the look of adoration he receives. John loops his arms around his neck, wanting him closer, and Gale leans down further, pressing as close as he can while still giving his hand space to move.

John can tell he’s watching his expressions cautiously, looking for any signs of discomfort, and he tries to unscramble his brain a little, wanting to give Gale reassurance too.

“Feels good,” John sighs out, eyes slipping closed as he lets himself feel what Gale’s doing, focusing on his hips keeping his thighs spread, the firm hand on his side, the slick movements between his legs. It really starts to sink in– what he’s doing, who he’s doing it with, and he cracks his eyes back open to take it all in, watching the way the muscles in Gale’s arm tense with each curl of his finger, the way Gale’s eyes jump from his own, to his lips, down his body and back up again.

His mouth feels dry at the sight, cock twitching over his stomach, and he whines quietly, twisting his fingers in Gale’s hair.

“More, please,” he whispers, and Gale groans, stealing a quick kiss before sitting up, keeping his eyes on John as he crawls down the mattress, settling himself between his legs.

“This okay?” He asks, pressing his lips softly to his thigh, facial hair tickling the sensitive skin, and John’s brain short–circuits, nodding insistently.

“Yeah, ‘s good,” he says breathlessly, curling his fingers in the blanket. John’s face heats up at how vulnerable it feels to have Gale lying between his thighs, but he’s quickly distracted by the feeling of him slowly easing a second finger in next to the first, whimpering at the stretch, holding his breath as his body adjusts. But Gale is patient, pressing kisses to his thigh between soft reassurances.

“Doing so well, doll,” Gale murmurs, so careful as he works his fingers in, more gentle than John had been with himself. The discomfort fades quickly, replaced by that same good pressure, deeper now, more intense. John can feel his body responding, his hips shifting of their own accord as he chases the sensation.

Gale’s fingers start to move slowly, purposeful, and John feels the heat inside him build, spreading through his veins like liquid fire. He’s never felt anything like this before, this slow, aching pleasure that coils tighter and tighter with every touch, so different from how it feels to take his cock in his hand and get himself off that way.

But John still feels like he needs more, not sure this is enough, until Gale presses against something inside him, and John’s whole body jolts as sharp pleasure shoots up his spine. His heavy eyelids fly wide open, a strangled gasp escaping his lips as his back arches off the bed, his mind reeling from the sudden overpowering sensation.

“Oh, God,” he chokes out, his voice trembling as the pleasure blooms, radiating out from that one spot and making his entire body hum with electricity. Gale stills, letting him catch his breath, a soft smile tugging at his lips.

“There,” Gale murmurs, his voice thick with desire as he watches John’s reaction closely. “That’s it, isn’t it, baby?”

John can’t find the words to respond, a whimper catching in his throat as Gale shifts his fingers ever so slightly and presses against the same place again, and the resulting wave of pleasure is even stronger. John’s vision blurs at the edges, his mouth falling open in a breathless moan. It’s like nothing he’s ever felt before, so intense that it borders on too much, his hips almost attempting to shy away from Gale as his nerves overload, and all at once, John gets it.

Gale’s fingers keep moving, pressing and rubbing against that spot in a way that has John writhing beneath him, desperate for more. Each touch sends sparks through his nerve endings, making him shudder and whine, his body trembling with the force of it, too much and not enough.

“Gale–” John’s voice breaks on a sudden sob, feeling caught in a loop of pleasure. His cock is leaking over his stomach, a mess pooling in the dip of his navel like he’s coming, but he knows he’s not, the building pressure not quite enough to spill over yet.

“God, John,” Gale groans out, teeth closing around the soft skin of his inner thigh, and John whimpers, the sound raw and desperate, hips jerking away. Gale laves his tongue over the bitten skin in apology, and John wants to beg him to leave a mark, but he still can’t get any coherent words out, eyes rolling back as Gale’s fingers curl just right.

“Gale,” he gasps again, his voice shaking. “I– please, I need–”

“I’ve got you, sweetheart,” Gale murmurs, his fingers continuing their relentless rhythm. “I’m right here.”

The pleasure builds and builds, each thrust of Gale’s fingers pushing John closer to the edge, feeling like he’s going to burst from the sheer intensity of it. He needs more, needs something to push him over, and his hand moves down to wrap around his own cock, desperate to come. But before he can touch himself, Gale’s hand is there, gently stopping him.

“Not yet, baby,” Gale says, his voice low and firm. “Let me take care of you.”

John’s breath hitches, his frustration and need mixing with the pleasure in a way that leaves him feeling helpless. “Please, Gale,” he whimpers, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. “I can’t– I’m so–”

“Shh,” Gale soothes, his thumb brushing over John’s hipbone, pressing a kiss just below it, beard dragging over his thigh. “Let me make you feel good.”

John’s hand falls away as though Gale’s gentle command puts his body on autopilot, and he forces himself to focus on Gale’s touch, on the way his fingers are still working him over, pushing him closer and closer to the edge. The pressure inside him is unbearable now, a tight coil ready to snap at any moment. He feels like he’s going to come apart, beginning to rock his hips down against Gale’s fingers, whines and pleas falling from his lips with every motion.

Gale’s other hand finally comes up and wraps around John’s cock, and John cries out in relief, head knocking back against the pillow, fingers twisting into the blanket. Gale starts to stroke him, matching the rhythm of his fingers inside him, his movements slow and steady, drawing him closer with excruciating precision.

“That’s it, baby,” Gale murmurs, his voice like honey, seeping through the radio static in John’s head. “Go on, let go for me, I’ve got you.”

The words are a lifeline, grounding John as the pleasure coils tighter and tighter inside him. Gale’s fingers continue their relentless, sweet movements, every touch sending him spiraling further out of his body. John can barely breathe, can barely think, all he can do is feel as Gale takes him apart.

“Gale, fuck, s’good, I’m–” John’s voice breaks, his entire body shuddering as Gale’s fingers press hard against his nerves, the sensation so intense that it rips the breath from his lungs. Gale thumbs over the head of his cock at the same time, and with one more curl of his fingers inside him, John’s back arches off the bed as he finally lets go.

His orgasm drags through him fiery–hot, wave after wave of overwhelming pleasure, eyes squeezing shut and jaw going slack as he clenches tight around Gale’s fingers. He cries out, Gale’s name falling from his lips in a desperate, broken moan as he comes hard, his cock pulsing against his stomach, thick spurts of come spilling over his skin.

John shakes with the force of it, his hands clutching at the sheets as he rides out the pleasure, every nerve ending fraying as Gale continues to work him through it, letting John’s hips jerk up into his fist as he crooks his fingers in him, slow and steady. He doesn’t let up, guiding John through it until he’s collapsing back against the bed, ears ringing, left spent and boneless.

Tears stream from the outer corners of his eyes, his chest heaving as he tries to catch his breath, thighs trembling on either side of Gale. John whines when Gale pulls his fingers out, too gone to open his eyes when he lets out a pathetic mewl of Gale’s name, reaching out blindly.

Gale is there in an instant, his hand running soothingly through John’s hair, lips pressing soft kisses to his forehead as John wraps his arms around him. “I’m here, baby,” Gale whispers, his voice warm, gentle. “You did so good for me.”

John lets out a shaky breath, his heart full to bursting as he leans into Gale’s touch, feeling safe, cherished, adored. He’s never felt anything like this before– he has the same thought every time he and Gale do anything together, in awe of the way Gale makes him feel, unable to wrap his head around just how lucky he is.

John slowly catches his breath as he lies there, his body humming, heart still thumping. Gale’s fingers trail lightly over his skin, soothing him, grounding him in the warmth of the moment.

“You okay?” Gale’s voice is low, his breath fanning against John’s hair. His hand moves to cup John’s cheek, guiding his face gently toward him.

John nods, blinking slow, vision still blurred with feel–good tears, the intensity of everything beginning to settle. Gale’s lips find his again, soft and slow, and John melts into it with a sigh, feeling a warmth spread through his chest.

Gale doesn’t push, doesn’t rush him, just keeps kissing him, one hand moving through John’s hair, the other tracing lazy patterns over his side. It’s perfect, this slow, calming comedown, and John lets himself get lost in it, savouring the way Gale takes his time, treating him like something that deserves to be shown softness.

It scares John a little, how fast he’s come to find comfort and security in Gale, how much he trusts him after such a short time. He’s never felt so safe around a man, would never in a million years have imagined being able to be vulnerable like this with anyone. But Gale’s so good to him, gives him everything he doesn’t even know he needs until he has it, and John aches to be able to reciprocate, to make him feel even a fraction of that warmth and happiness.

Right now, more than anything he longs to make Gale feel good too, to show him how good he made John feel, because words seem too serious and real, too much room for error. And through the haze in his brain, he doesn’t think he’d have much luck voicing his thoughts to Gale anyway.

He shifts slightly, his hand moving between them, palm brushing against Gale’s cock through the fabric of his sweatpants. John’s breath stutters, his heart racing as he tentatively presses his hand more firmly against the hardness he feels, and Gale groans softly against his lips at the contact, his hips twitching in response, but he doesn’t pull away.

“John,” Gale murmurs, his voice rough with restraint. His eyes flutter open to look down at John, desire and concern flickering in the blue. “You don’t have to–”

“I wanna,” John whispers, blinking up at Gale through heavy–lidded eyes. His hand moves again, more intentional this time, palming at Gale’s cock with a shy but eager touch. His body is still shaking a little, but he feels a new kind of determination. He wants to make Gale feel good, needs to see the same kind of pleasure on Gale’s face that he’d just experienced. He tugs lightly at Gale’s hips, urging him closer.

Gale lets out a soft, breathy moan, his restraint clearly faltering. “John.” His voice is strained, but there’s no real protest behind it, just hesitation, like he thinks asking John to do anything else tonight is too much. But John’s the one asking for more, and he aims to make that clear, almost feeling desperate with how bad he still wants to get Gale off.

“Please, Gale, I wanna make you feel good too,” he whines a little, pulling at his hips again, cheeks flushing at his own impatience, and he sees the moment Gale’s resolve crumbles. With a weak groan, he shifts, straddling John’s chest, and John’s heart pounds as Gale hovers above him, the sight of Gale’s cock hard behind the fabric sending a spark of arousal through his already wiped–out body.

John’s fingers tremble slightly as they tug at the waistband of Gale’s sweats, pulling them down just enough to free him. His breath catches in his throat as Gale’s cock springs free, thick and heavy, the tip already leaking, and John stares for a moment, mind buzzing with the knowledge that he got him in this state, mouth salivating reflexively.

Gale’s eyes are on him, watching carefully, but he doesn’t say a word; he lets John set the pace, lets him find his own comfort. John wraps his hand around the base of Gale’s cock, feeling the warmth of it pulse in his grip, a whisper of a whine slipping out at the feeling. His tongue darts out, tentative at first, tasting the salty slickness of precome as he licks at the tip.

Gale groans, his hips jerking involuntarily, but he holds himself back, giving John space to explore. “Fuck, baby.” His voice is rough, but his hand stays gentle as it runs through John’s hair.

John blinks up at Gale through his lashes, his tongue tracing slow, deliberate circles around the head of his cock, the taste and the feel of him sending a thrill through his body. He still feels lost, like he’s fumbling for anything that feels familiar, but Gale’s reaction– every soft groan, every shaky breath– pushes him on, filling him with pride.

John starts to move his hand, stroking the length of Gale’s cock in steady motions while his mouth stays focused on the tip. He presses his lips to the head, tonguing at it, licking and teasing as best as he can, his eyes never leaving Gale’s face even as his own flushes with the intimacy of it all. He watches the way Gale’s head falls back, the way his muscles tense and jump, the way his mouth falls open in a quiet groan of pleasure. It makes John feel powerful in a way he’s never felt before, being able to make him feel that way, being given full control even when he’s sure it’s hard for Gale to hold back.

“God, Johnny,” Gale’s voice is raspy, his hips jerking again, this time a little less restrained. His eyes flutter open, glancing down at John with a look of pure, unfiltered lust. “You drive me fuckin’ crazy.”

John’s heart skips at his words, at the way Gale is looking at him, like he’s something to be worshipped, his stomach flipping. He tightens his grip, his hand moving faster now, pumping Gale’s cock while his mouth works at the tip, licking up every drop of precome that leaks out. Gale’s body trembles above him, his breaths coming in ragged pants, and John knows he’s close, can feel it in the way Gale’s cock pulses in his hand.

“Oh, pretty thing,” Gale’s voice is breathless, strained with the effort of holding back. His hand slips down to cradle the side of John’s face, thumb brushing over his cheekbone with a tenderness that makes John’s heart ache. “Fuck, baby, you’re so–”

His words cut off as his hips jerk forward, his cock slipping along John’s bottom lip, twitching in his grip. John’s eyes widen as he watches Gale’s jaw go slack with pleasure, watches the way chest heaves, the way his stomach tenses. And then, with a broken moan, Gale’s cock pushes into his hand, and John blinks back up at his face just in time for the first spurt of come to hit his lips, hot and wet, a breathy noise of surprise bubbling up his throat.

Gale’s hips stutter as he spills over John’s mouth, groaning as John’s lips part in surprise, the mess of him hitting his cheek, sliding down over his chin, tongue catching some of it. John doesn’t pull away, his hand still moving slowly, almost in a trance as he watches Gale, wide–eyed and flushed at the sight of the man coming undone. He swallows what made it into his mouth, tongue coming back out automatically, running over his bottom lip, tasting hot salt.

Gale swears under his breath as his eyes follow the motion, fingers wrapping gently around John’s wrist, easing his hand off him. He leans down, pressing a soft kiss to John’s forehead, then his cheek, and finally his lips, and John whines at the thought of Gale tasting himself on his tongue.

“You’re so good, baby,” Gale murmurs against his lips, sounding as full of affection as John feels. “So perfect.”

John’s still breathing unevenly, his chest rising and falling shallowly as his head spins. The feeling of Gale’s release on his lips and face lingers, and all of it: the pleasure, the closeness, the reverence in Gale’s gaze– it makes his heart race. Gale’s hand trails over his cheek, his thumb gently swiping through the mess.

“God, you’re beautiful,” Gale mumbles, his voice filled with warmth and admiration, his eyes locked on John’s face. The sincerity in his words sends another flush of heat through John’s body, making him shy away slightly, even as his heart swells at the compliment.

John closes his eyes, feeling his cheeks burn, and he hears Gale chuckle softly, the sound so comforting it almost makes him get teary again. Gale presses another gentle kiss to his forehead before moving back.

“I’ll be right back, doll, stay put.” His voice is soothing, a low murmur of reassurance as he climbs off the bed.

John nods, but he suddenly feels small and vulnerable without Gale’s weight pressing him into the mattress. He swallows, his hands trembling slightly as he wipes the back of one over his lips, unsure of what to do with himself, too aware of the drying lube between his legs, of the sweat curling the hairs at his temples, of the faint prickle where Gale’s beard had rubbed against his thighs, of his bare skin. He hears Gale moving around, the soft sound of a drawer opening, then the sink turning on, and his heart beats a little faster, nervousness bubbling up in the absence of touch.

It doesn’t take long before Gale returns, holding a warm cloth in his hand. He kneels back down over John on the bed, his expression soft and careful, like he’s handling something precious. Gale’s fingers brush through John’s hair before he brings the cloth to his face, his movements slow and gentle, wiping away the mess with a tenderness that nearly takes John’s breath away, blinking up at Gale in awe.

“You did so well, John. I’m so lucky,” Gale murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper, but the words hit John straight in the chest. He doesn’t know how to respond, doesn’t know what to say in the face of such brazen affection, so he just watches in silence, letting Gale take care of him.

“There we go,” Gale says softly, wiping away the last of the come from John’s lips, giving him a soft smile before pressing a kiss to where the cloth had just been, and John’s heart stutters at the gesture. He’s never felt so cared for. Gale’s touch, his voice, the way he’s looking at him– it’s so much, and yet John can’t imagine ever tiring of it.

Gale shifts lower, his hands tracing down the length of John’s body, gently guiding his legs apart. John tenses instinctively, his blush deepening as Gale kneels between his legs, the warm cloth moving slowly, wiping away the lube from between his thighs with the same gentleness as before.

John feels utterly exposed, his face red–hot, but Gale doesn’t rush, doesn’t treat him like he’s anything but delicate. John bites his lip, trying to hold back the embarrassment that prickles at his skin. Gale’s just being sweet, taking care of him, but the closeness, the intimacy of it all, it’s more than he’s ever experienced, more than he’s ever allowed himself to hope for. It feels so good, but also too much, and all he can do is lay there, blinking down at Gale, his heart thudding in his chest.

“You okay, sweetheart?” Gale’s voice is soft, careful, as if he can sense the nervousness creeping up inside John. He pauses in his movements, looking up, his hand resting on John’s thigh.

John nods quickly, though his words don’t come as easily. “Yeah,” he mumbles, surprised he’s able to get any sound out at all. “Just… feels so– it’s so–” He looks at Gale helplessly, hoping he’ll understand.

Gale smiles at him, a glimpse of something sad behind it before he leans down to press another kiss to his hip, his lips warm and comforting against John’s skin. “You deserve to be taken care of, baby,” Gale whispers. “You’re allowed to want it.”

John feels his throat tighten, overcome by Gale’s words, the weight of them. He’s not used to this, not used to someone being gentle with him, so sincere, and it makes his heart ache in the best way possible.

Once Gale is satisfied, he tosses the cloth aside and moves back up, tucking the both of them under the blanket and pulling John into his arms. John curls into him without a second thought, his body feeling like it fits perfectly against Gale’s, his head resting on Gale’s shoulder. The steady rhythm of Gale’s heartbeat and the soft pressure of his hand rubbing soothing circles on John’s back ground him, calming the chaotic swirl of emotions in his mind.

But the feeling of Gale’s sweatpants against his own bare legs makes John squirm, not wanting to be the only one naked, craving the warmth of his skin against his. He’s hesitant as he rests his hand on Gale’s side, fingertips brushing the soft fabric of his pants. A quiet, nervous exhale leaves him, and before he can talk himself out of it, he shyly tugs at the waistband, his fingers curling around the material in a silent plea.

Gale stills for a moment, pulling back a little to look at John’s face, eyes soft and full of understanding. “You okay?” Gale asks, his voice gentle, no pressure in the question, just genuine concern.

John’s cheeks flush again as he nods, his voice catching in his throat. “Just… can you…?” His words trail off, but Gale’s expression softens even more, a fond smile tugging at his lips. He shifts slightly, just enough to pull his sweatpants and underwear down, kicking them off to the side, leaving nothing between them. The warmth of his body meets John’s fully now, and the sensation of their skin pressed together sends a shiver down John’s spine.

“S’that better?” Gale murmurs, pulling John back into his arms, his hands smoothing over his back.

John lets out a soft sigh, nodding as he nestles his face into the crook of Gale’s neck. He can feel the steady thrum of Gale’s heartbeat, the solidness of him, and it makes him feel so safe. His body relaxes completely, the nerves slowly seeping away as their legs tangle together beneath the sheets.

“Yeah,” John whispers, his voice so soft it’s barely audible. “Wanted to feel you.” He nuzzles his nose against Gale’s collarbone, inhaling the scent of him, familiar, grounding.

Gale’s arms tighten around him, his hand sliding down to rest on the small of John’s back, holding him close. “You’re not alone, baby,” he murmurs into his hair, a low, comforting hum. “I’m right here.”

The quiet, soothing words are all John needs, feeling the last bit of tension that had been clinging to him finally melt away, leaving only a sense of contentment in its place. His fingers trace small, shy circles against Gale’s chest, his heart still fluttering from the depth of everything they’d just shared.

He feels small in Gale’s arms, in a way that feels secure, like he can let go of everything weighing on him for the first time in his life. His eyes flutter closed, his breathing evening out as the steady rhythm of Gale’s heartbeat lulls him into a quiet calm.

“Thank you,” John whispers, the weight of his gratitude filling his chest.

Gale kisses the top of his head, his lips lingering there. “Always, Johnny.”

It feels like a promise.

Chapter Text

August 20, 2005

John flits through lush, glowy dreams, water bathed in sunlight, damp golden skin, unintelligible murmured words lapping over him like waves. Even in the depth of sleep he feels conscious of wanting to stay there forever, content to lapse between fluid picturesque scenes and familiar hands and bright smiles, but he’s pulled out of the strange, hazy dreamscape sun’s embrace before he’s ready.

He wakes up to his cheek smushed against warm skin and fingers threading through his hair, desperately trying to cling to the last dregs of sleep, turning his face further into the crook between Gale’s neck and the pillow with a heavy exhale. The feeling of Gale playing with his curls almost lulls him back into his slumber, eyelids feeling impossibly weighed down, but then Gale murmurs his name, and it’s maybe the sweetest sound to be cruelly woken up by.

Still, John whines, burrowing deeper into his little hollow, squeezing his arm tighter around Gale’s middle. He can feel the rumble against his chest when Gale laughs quietly beneath him, and in his drowsy, half–lucid state, he wants to bite down on the sound, to swallow it down and let it warm him from the inside out.

“Baby,” Gale mumbles, squeezing his arm gently, and John feels more inclined to bite down in complaint now instead, feeling the sleep–fog slip beyond reach as his brain slowly comes to life. “What time d’you work today?”

John groans, grumpy both from being woken up what feels like way too early, and from the reminder of work first thing in the morning.

“Uh–uh,” he grumbles against Gale’s neck, not ready to form words yet. Gale’s hand keeps working through his hair, and it eases the irritation of being involuntarily conscious, at least a little bit.

“It’s eight,” Gale tells him softly. “Didn’t wanna wake you too late in case you have a morning shift.”

John rolls a little and it feels like his whole body objects to the motion, thighs and calves aching from spending so much time tensed up last night, face warming at the memory. He knows it’s silly to feel shy about his state of undress after all that, but his pulse still spikes a little as he grows hyper–aware of Gale’s bare skin against his.

“Eleven,” John mumbles his belated answer, making no move to pull away, lazing further against Gale’s body. It’s easier to not acknowledge anything, to stay suspended in his grogginess and pretend his brain hasn’t become functional enough yet to overthink.

“You wanna go back to sleep?” Gale asks, fingertips trailing gently over John’s arm, up to his shoulder and then down his spine, the blanket shifting as he goes. John shivers involuntarily at the light touch, pulling himself close enough to Gale to feel fused to his side, breathing out a resigned “no.”

Gale hums in response, dragging his fingers slowly through John’s hair, and John sighs against his neck, melting into the mattress. He still feels like his insides are jelly, limbs impossibly heavy, and there’s nothing less appealing than the thought of leaving his cozy cocoon and going into work for nine hours– if he wasn’t on his last few shifts and if he hadn’t already called out once this month, he’d probably be tempted to now.

“Should I make us breakfast?” Gale speaks after a few minutes of comfortable silence, and John whines, almost unable to resist the urge to affection–bite this time, gently grazing his teeth over the crook of Gale’s neck. Gale brings his hand to his waist, squeezing his side, and John jerks away from the ticklish jab with a squeal, rolling over onto his stomach and smushing his face against his own pillow.

“Too early for questions,” John pleads. Gale laughs openly and John’s heart stutters, turning his face fully into the pillow to smother his sleepy grin. The mattress dips, and then his breath leaves him in a whoosh when Gale drapes his upper half over his back, cheek resting against the back of John’s shoulder.

John feels a bit like he might implode from all the bare skin pressed to his own, Gale’s weight pinning him into the bed in a way that makes his brain go a little mushy, relaxing beneath him with a heavy sigh. It brings the butterflies back to his stomach every time Gale leans into physical touch like this, hopeful that he’s gotten the message across that he wants, that Gale doesn’t feel like he has to always let John be the one to initiate.

John turns his face to the side, lips still curled into a smile, and Gale presses a kiss to the back of his neck. “Comfy?”

“Mhm,” John hums. He’s doing his best to ignore the way heat stirs beneath his navel, shoving down thoughts of how easy it would be to squirm a little beneath Gale and instigate something, but he’s too anxious to end up late for work.

“Don’t wanna get up,” he mumbles anyway, cheek squished up against the pillow, goosebumps rising on his arms when Gale’s hair tickles his ear.

“We can stay for a little longer,” Gale says, reaching a hand up to cover John’s where it rests next to his pillow. John’s smile grows when Gale slots his fingers between his, thumb softly stroking over the joint of his own.

“Wanna stay here all day,” John pouts. He knows Gale’s not going to encourage him to call out again, not when he knows John only has a week left, but he almost wishes Gale would, because he doesn’t think he’d be able to say no.

“Just gotta get through today,” Gale squeezes his hand. “Then we can spend the whole day in bed tomorrow, if you really wanna.”

A day in bed with Gale sounds like a pipe dream, and John already knows he’s going to latch onto that thought as he drags his feet through his shift. He nods sleepily, only grumbling a little when Gale pushes himself up, feeling too light when his comforting weight is gone.

John has no hope of keeping his eyes closed once Gale slides out of bed, squinting them open against the early–morning sun to allow himself the pleasure of admiring the view (as a consolation for having to be awake). He’s in the midst of dragging his gaze down Gale’s body and wondering what it’s like to be self–confident the way he is when his eyes catch on a round, slightly–sunken in scar high up on Gale’s thigh, coin–sized and pink–white like the one on the back of his leg, though not as faded.

John stares, curiosity gnawing at him. He’s seen scars like that in the movies, but on Gale? A million questions flood his mind, until Gale’s voice cuts through them.

“You’re shameless,” Gale says when he turns away from the dresser, pulling on a pair of boxers and covering the scar up, and John would be more embarrassed if he wasn’t so busy trying to figure out if it’s actually what he thinks it is. He looks up at Gale, opening his mouth to ask, but Gale evidently realizes the cause for John’s concern, quieting him with a low, “John.”

There’s an unmistakeable edge in that single word, and John’s heart stutters. He knows that tone well enough, can hear the warning in it, but frustration still bubbles up inside him, and instead of backing down, he huffs, frowning.

“Long story?” He guesses. He doesn’t mean for it to come out so bitter, and the second it’s out he regrets it– it’s not fair to throw Gale’s own words back at him. John knows it’s hypocritical too, to pry when he can’t even bring himself to fully open up to Gale about his own shit, but he feels like he knows so little about the man, despite the small bits of information Gale’s slowly begun to give him.

For a moment, Gale looks like he’s going to prove him wrong, hesitating, and then his shoulders slump a little. “Yeah, it is,” he concedes, hand rubbing absently over his side, like he’s trying to ease some discomfort. It’s the first time John’s really seen him look unsure like this, and he feels even worse, wishing he could shove his impulsive words back in his mouth.

“I’m sorry,” John says, stumbling over his words as he tries to backtrack, to numb the sting of his careless comment. “I didn’t mean– I just feel like– like I’m being kept at arm’s length,” he steamrolls ahead once again even as his brain screams at him to shut his mouth. “Like I don’t really know anything about you.”

He realizes too late how dumb of him it is to get hung up on something like this when they’re not even– when whatever they are is far too casual for John to be justified in feeling like Gale owes him anything, especially an explanation for things that, really, are probably none of his business. And he knows plenty about Gale, all things considered; he’s just getting in his head about this today, for some stupid reason.

“I don’t wanna–” Gale cuts himself off, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. The room feels stifling, and John’s chest tightens with the weight of everything unsaid, the frustration long since deflated and replaced with the sick feeling of regret. “I’m not trying to shut you out, John, it’s just a lot for me to get into. It’s not… it’s not easy.”

“I’m sorry,” John repeats immediately, stomach twisting. He doesn’t like seeing Gale antsy because of him, and really, he’s already decided in less than a minute that he’d be fine if Gale never wanted to divulge his past to him. The curiosity would kill him, but if Gale doesn’t feel comfortable, then John wouldn’t dream of pushing him, of pushing him away. “I really didn’t– we can just forget it–”

“No, it’s okay.” Gale runs a hand through his hair and then drops it at his side, looking at John for a second, eyes searching. It makes John want to run from this whole situation. “We can talk later,” he eventually says, though it comes out as more of a question as he glances up at John when he bends over to pick up the clothes that had landed on the floor last night.

John’s heart thumps anxiously as he nods. Gale doesn’t seem mad, but what if he’s just hiding it until he leaves for work? He feels nauseous at the thought, worried he pushed too far this time, wishing he could just shut his mouth for once. The longing to go back and redo the morning and not say a word is all–consuming as John showers and gets ready for work, mourning how warm and fuzzy he’d felt only a few minutes prior, agonizing over what Gale might be thinking as he makes them breakfast.

They’re both quiet while they eat, sitting on the couch with the morning news playing low on the TV, and John can’t stop thinking himself in circles and winding the uneasy knot in his stomach tighter and tighter, glancing at Gale every few minutes. He seems just as lost in thought, and John doesn’t know what that means.

He beats Gale to grabbing their empty plates, needing to stay busy, to be useful, to keep the gnawing doubts at bay, and Gale only protests a little as he follows him to the kitchen before he leans against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest. John can feel his eyes on him as he cleans and dries the dishes, and he wants to crawl out of his skin and hide in his own remains as much as he wants to turn and beg Gale to say what’s on his mind, but he does neither, finishing up in silence and feeling like he only breathes once he hears Gale leave the kitchen.

It’s not like he thinks Gale’s actually going to get mad at him, not really, anyway, but it’s hard not to feel on edge when someone going silent has never meant anything good for him, and he doesn’t know how to make it better. When John and Curt argue, they usually take a day or two to cool off, and then they end up right back at each other’s sides like nothing had happened in the first place, but this isn’t even really an argument– it feels like he’s tread somewhere he’s not supposed to, like he’s asked for too much, and he can’t just go and undo that.

He’s not sure whether he’s happy when Gale leads him to his bike rather than his truck, saved from having to worry over whether he’s talking too little or too much, but now he’s stuck spending the drive to work wondering whether Gale chose the bike because he doesn’t want to talk. He wraps his arms around Gale a little tighter than usual, and Gale still squeezes his knee at a red light, but his brain won’t stop going, and by the time they pull up in front of the hotel, John’s reluctant to leave.

A tiny part of him is scared that Gale’s not going to show up when he gets out of work, even when Gale takes the helmet from him and smiles softly and tells him he’ll see him at eight. He wants to kiss him before he goes, realizing then that he hasn’t yet this morning, but they’re in full view of coworkers and hotel guests without the truck to shield them, so he gives Gale a smile in return and nods and wishes him a good day before turning and walking through the sliding doors.

John spends the afternoon on autopilot, making beds and folding laundry from muscle memory, left alone to overthink and work the sick feeling up so much that by the time his lunch break rolls around, he can barely stomach his food. He can’t even properly talk to Curt about it when he sits down across from him and asks what’s wrong, because he doesn’t want to tell Curt about what had started all his worrying when Gale doesn’t even want John to know, let alone John’s friends.

So John tells him he’s just feeling sad about it being one of his last few shifts, and he’s pretty sure Curt doesn’t fully buy it, but Curt knows by now that John will always talk to him when he’s ready, so he mercifully doesn’t push the issue, giving him space to process.

When John clocks out at eight, he wants to close his eyes as he walks through the lobby, terrified his admittedly unfounded fear is going to come true and Gale’s not going to be there. He’s almost bowled over by the relief that floods him when he sees Gale leaning against his bike. He seems like he’s a world away inside his head when he glances over at the sound of John’s footsteps, but he sits up straight and his shoulders relax a little, eyes looking tired as he sends John a smile.

“Hey,” he murmurs, passing John his helmet. “How was work?”

John blinks at him as he takes the helmet, all his poorly–rehearsed apologies and anxious thoughts warring to come out at once.

“It was alright,” he says instead, tugging the helmet over his head so his expression doesn’t give away more than he intends. “How was your day?”

He feels emotionally stiff, a rarity around Gale lately, but Gale takes it in stride. “It was alright,” he echoes with a knowing look, shifting forward to make space behind him. “You ready to go?”

John nods, climbing on and wrapping his arms around Gale’s middle, inhaling shakily at the feeling of having him close after worrying the whole day about not getting to do so again. He knows– hopes– it’s an overreaction, but he’s always been good at jumping to the worst case scenarios in his head, and it’s no better when he’s in a situation that’s so completely new to him, having nothing to really go off in terms of predicting how Gale might respond.

Half of him is filled with dread when they pull into Gale’s driveway, not ready to confront whatever conversation might be had, but he’s also antsy for the bandaid to be ripped off so he can stop swallowing down his nausea and apologize as many times as it might take for Gale to not be upset with him.

John trails behind Gale as they head inside, toeing his shoes off carefully, like if he makes too much noise it’s going to shatter the tension into something more volatile.

“I made dinner, if you’re hungry,” Gale says, hanging his keys up and turning, opening his mouth like he’s going to say something else, but he pauses when he looks at John.

John feels too–small in the hallway, chest constricting, holding his bag in front of himself with both hands for something to cling onto as his eyes sting. Gale eyebrows pinch together with concern, and he takes a step closer, hands hovering at his sides. “John–”

“Are you mad at me?” It comes out tiny, and John hates how childish it sounds, hates the way his throat tightens after he says it. He tilts his chin up, jaw set stubbornly even as his bottom lip trembles, hands tight around the strap of his backpack as he watches confusion flicker across Gale’s face.

“Mad? No, I’m–” Gale stops, and then his expression abruptly softens, like John’s words have suddenly pieced things together in his mind. “You think I’m upset with you?”

The gentle way he asks makes John feel stupid for ever thinking Gale could be angry at him, but he nods, swallowing hard. Gale makes a quiet noise in the back of his throat, guilt clear in his eyes, and it only makes John feel worse, but Gale closes the space between them, pulling him into a tight hug that has John dropping his bag onto the floor.

“I’m sorry baby, I knew I shouldn’t have left things like that this morning,” Gale says softly, rubbing his back. John’s embarrassed for the way he has to blink to rid his eyes of tears that threaten to spill over, though they’re more tears of relief than anything else, after a whole day of convincing himself that he’d overstepped enough for Gale to be done dealing with him.

John shakes his head, curling his fingers into the back of Gale’s shirt. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles. “I was being stupid, I don’t know why I said it.”

Gale pulls away, frowning and cupping John’s face in his hands, and John meets his gaze miserably, sliding his hands around to cling onto the sides of Gale’s shirt instead.

“Wasn’t stupid, John,” Gale says firmly. “Sometimes shit happens, but I shouldn’t have gone quiet on you. Just caught me off guard, s’all, and I needed to think about it, but I should’ve told you that.”

John can only stare at him, letting his words wash over him, soothing the tension in his body. He can’t quite believe that Gale’s so relaxed about it all, that he’s not mad, and he can’t help but double–check.

“So you’re really not upset with me?” He asks meekly, searching Gale’s eyes for any sign that he might be lying, hiding anger only for it to come out later once John’s let his guard down, but he finds nothing but sincerity.

“Not even for a second,” Gale answers patiently, and John's deep breath is more of a shudder as he drops his forehead onto Gale’s shoulder.

“Oh honey, you been holding onto that all day?” Gale murmurs regretfully, his hand coming up to rest on the back of John’s head, and John hums into the crook of Gale’s neck, not bothering to deny it when he’s clearly done a terrible job at concealing his anxiety. He doesn’t mean to make Gale feel bad, not at all, not when it’s John’s fault, but he’s just so grateful to feel the weight of his worries lift off his shoulders.

“Think you need to relax for a bit,” Gale says gently, his voice a low rumble, quieting some of the extra noise in John’s head. He feels his heart stumble when Gale’s hands slide down to his hips, squeezing once before he gathers him into his arms. John wraps his legs around Gale’s waist instinctively as he lifts him up, arms looping around his neck, cheeks warming at the ease of it all.

“Don’t have to carry me,” John mumbles, though he makes no move to resist as Gale makes his way down the hall. He can’t help but hide his face away against Gale’s shoulder when he chuckles quietly at his weak protest, the need to be close stronger than any shame John feels, like he’s being recharged by the physical contact.

The couch cushions sink a little beneath John when Gale carefully lowers him down, kneeling beside him, a hand still resting on John’s waist like he’s making sure he’s really okay. His blue eyes are filled with so much warmth that it’s almost overwhelming, and John thinks he wouldn’t be surprised if his own have gone heart–shaped as Gale sweeps his thumb gently back and forth over his stomach, his other hand pushing his hair out of his face.

“I’m not mad at you, baby,” Gale repeats himself. “You don’t ever have to worry about that, not with me. Okay?”

John nods slowly, feeling something loosen in his chest, and Gale smiles, leaning in and pressing a kiss to his forehead. The touch is so gentle that John melts into it, his eyes fluttering shut as he feels the warmth of Gale’s lips against his skin.

Gale stays close for a moment after he sits back, his thumb brushing softly along John’s jawline as if he’s reluctant to pull away, and John blinks his eyes open, no hope of hiding the adoration in his gaze as he looks up at Gale. His presence is so warm and grounding, and John can feel his racing thoughts begin to subside, but he still wants more, craving what he hasn’t had all day.

When Gale moves like he’s going to stand, John makes a quiet noise, reaching up to catch the front of Gale’s shirt, tugging at him gently. He swallows hard as Gale gives him his full attention, face burning as he mumbles, “You haven’t kissed me properly all day.”

John’s stomach twists with embarrassment for how needy he sounds, but Gale’s eyes soften again, a flicker of emotion crossing his face that makes John’s heart squeeze. Gale leans back in, his hand coming back up to rest on John’s cheek with a tenderness that makes John’s breath catch.

“Jesus, where’s my head been at today, hm?” Gale murmurs to himself, shaking his head as if in disbelief, and it makes John smile a little as Gale closes the gap between their lips.

Gale kisses him like he’s trying to tell him something, like every brush of his lips is to be taken as reassurance, and John’s hand slides up, fingers curling into Gale’s hair as he pulls him closer, the desperation he’s been feeling all day beneath the worry bubbling to the surface. Gale’s other hand moves to the back of John’s neck, cradling him as he deepens the kiss just a little, enough to make John’s heart race and his body hum with the warmth that spreads through him.

When Gale pulls back, he traces the edge of John’s bottom lip with his thumb, and John’s chest feels too full, floored by how much Gale’s kiss alone has soothed him, and he blinks rapidly, trying to keep his emotions in check. He pulls Gale back down for one more kiss, soft and lingering, before letting him go, the ache inside him finally subsiding.

“I’m gonna go get our dinner,” Gale says, running his hand through John’s hair again. “You take it easy, change if you wanna; I’ll just be a few minutes.”

“Okay,” John murmurs, smiling as Gale stands, the warmth of his kiss still buzzing in his veins. Gale heads into the kitchen, leaving John on the couch, but this time the quiet feels comforting, the space around him no longer suffocating.

He watches Gale over the half–wall for a moment before pushing himself up, wanting to get out of his clothes and into something cozier, happy when he wanders into Gale’s room and finds the clothes he’d been wearing the previous evening folded on the dresser for him. He changes quickly and returns to the living room just as Gale makes his way back in, and John smiles shyly at the way Gale drags his eyes over him, wondering if Gale feels half as much about him wearing his clothes as John does. He thinks he’d live in them, if he could.

John feels better as he eats, realizing he hasn’t had more than a few bites of food over his tense lunch break since breakfast that morning, feeling silly for his panic the more he comes back to himself and gets his head in check. He presses close to Gale when they settle back down on the couch after putting their dishes away, leaning his head on his shoulder and thinking over what to say, not sure how to apologize without apologizing, knowing Gale won’t let him get out another ‘sorry.’

But Gale shifts beside him, breathes in deep like he does when he’s about to say something he’s clearly given some thought to, and John stills, waiting patiently as the TV plays quietly. He can almost hear Gale thinking just as loud as he himself had been a minute before, and John tilts his chin down to press a gentle kiss to his shoulder, pressing closer still.

“It was, uh,” Gale breathes out, clearing his throat a little. “It was a while ago. ‘98.”

“Gale,” John cuts him off, lifting his head from his shoulder, chest feeling tight at the thought of Gale making himself uncomfortable on his behalf. As much as he longs to know more about him, it’s obvious that that time of his life isn’t something he likes to dredge up, and Gale has been nothing but patient with him, so John has no intention of being anything but patient with Gale too.

“You don’t have to tell me,” John murmurs, seeing the conflict in Gale’s eyes when he turns to look at him. “I really didn’t mean to push it, earlier.”

Gale searches his face for a second, and he looks like he’s fighting himself over this, clearly torn. “I know you didn’t, baby,” he says gently. “I wanna tell you more, I’m just…”

John studies Gale’s face when he looks away, wishing he could just crawl into Gale’s lap and press his forehead to his and sap up everything that’s going on inside, like a thought–sponge, a siphon for all the things he feels like he can’t say. Gale turns back to him, almost pleading when he speaks again.

“I just need a little more time to figure out how to talk about it,” he gets out slowly, and John nods immediately, twisting his fingers around the hem of Gale’s shirt. “Been a while since I have.”

“It’s okay,” John says softly, sincerely, hesitating before adding, “I’m not going anywhere.” He swallows down the ‘if you don’t want me to,’ despite his reluctance to assume things, but Gale smiles and looks at him knowingly.

“That’s good,” he murmurs, pushing John’s hair out of his face. “I’d like to keep you ‘round.”

John’s heart sparks and bursts in his chest, heat pooling out from the site of the emotional casualty, a whine catching in his throat as he drops his head down, squishing his cheek back against Gale’s shoulder. Gale breathes out a gentle laugh, pressing a kiss to his hair, wrapping his arm back around him as he returns his attention to the TV screen. His body feels a lot less tense beneath John now, and John feels like he can breathe easier too knowing that even in some way, he’s helped Gale feel more at ease after all the times Gale’s done the same for him.

John doesn’t want to admit it when he gets tired a short while later, not wanting the evening to end, but he keeps nodding off against Gale’s shoulder, head almost slipping each time he catches himself. When he does finally slump forward and Gale braces him with a palm to his forehead, pushing him back into place, he knows he’s unwillingly ratted himself out.

“Alright, time for bed,” Gale says gently, sliding out from underneath John, clicking his tongue sympathetically at his noise of complaint.

“Got all day tomorrow,” Gale reminds him with a soft smile, leaning down to pull him into his arms. John helps the best he can, wrapping his legs around Gale’s waist in a repeat of earlier that evening, too tired to feel bad about making Gale carry him.

“Where’d you leave your bag?” Gale asks as he carries him down the dark hallway to the bathroom, and a second later John hears the quiet whump of Gale’s foot smacking into said bag where John had dropped it earlier, giggling a little at Gale’s quiet “oh.”

Gale sets him down on the bathroom counter and retreats to the hallway, returning with the backpack a second later and rummaging around until he finds John’s toothbrush, passing it over as he reaches for his own. It’s such a small thing, but the domesticity of Gale standing between his legs with a hand on his waist as they both brush their teeth makes John’s stomach flip; the quiet moment feels like it’s going to stick with him for a long time.

When they both finally make it to bed, Gale turns the lamp off before he pulls his shirt over his head, and John’s heart feels gooey at the thoughtful action, smiling to himself in the dark as he begins to undress down to his boxers too. Gale climbs into bed first, holding the blanket up for John expectantly, and despite his earlier reluctance to call it a night, John hurries to crawl in after him, melting the moment Gale pulls him close.

It’s still too warm for them to be sleeping as close as they have been most nights that John stays over, the air–con bringing them just enough respite, but John can’t imagine not curling up against Gale’s side now, the newfound routine so comforting that lately he sometimes finds himself struggling to fall asleep alone in his own bed. Gale doesn’t seem to have any reservations about the cuddling either, cradling John’s head against his chest, holding him snug with a hand on his lower back as his breathing evens out.

John settles as he listens to Gale’s heartbeat slow, winding his arm around his waist and letting all of the day’s jitters seep out into the mattress with a long exhale, smiling when he feels Gale press a gentle kiss to the top of his head. John’s eyes slide closed, and he doesn’t fight against the pull of sleep this time, eager for a long day by Gale’s side tomorrow.

John stirs sometime in the early hours of the morning, his body flushed and restless as the first rays of sunlight pour in through the blinds. He feels warm, almost feverish, tangled in the blanket with his back to Gale’s chest, having rolled over in the night. It takes a few seconds for his brain to catch up, hazy with sleep, but then he becomes aware of the ache between his legs and tight heat in his stomach.

Remnants of a borderline pornographic dream still float around in his head, distant and fragmented but enough to leave him wanting, and he’s embarrassingly hard, cock trapped against his hip, the cotton of his boxers damp from how long he’s evidently been worked up. He breathes in shakily, pressing his cheek harder against the pillow, squeezing his eyes shut like he can force himself back to sleep, back into the touch of dream–Gale’s hands, but his cock throbs with need, and he swallows down a groan.

Gale’s arm is wrapped around his waist, holding him close, and John can feel slow, rhythmic puffs of breath against the back of his neck. It does nothing to quell the ache, and as tired as John is, he knows he’s not going to fall back asleep until he deals with it, but he’s not sure how to slip out from Gale’s grasp without waking him. It feels nice, anyway, Gale’s firm warmth against his back, strong arm keeping him pinned to his chest. It makes John squirm a little, curling his fingers around the corner of his pillow, lips parted as his head buzzes.

He debates how far he could get with wrapping a hand around himself before Gale wakes up, and the thought of trying to stay quiet as he gets himself off makes John’s face grow warm, hips shifting a bit. He almost whines as he presses back against Gale, huffing out a quiet breath, wondering if Gale would be annoyed if he woke him up over this, but then Gale’s arm tightens around him, and John freezes.

His breath catches in his throat and he stays unmoving, heart thumping as the weight of Gale’s arm pulls him closer, pressing him even harder against the heat of his body. He thinks Gale’s own breathing has changed, no longer feeling the same steady whispers of air against the curls at the base of his skull, and John can’t help but push back a little again. Gale makes a quiet noise and shifts behind him, and John fights back a groan, still not fully certain that he’s awake, but then he feels a slow, intentional roll of Gale’s hips against his ass.

Another barely–there grind has John sucking in a breath, the weight of Gale’s cock pressing firmly against his ass, leaving no doubt now that Gale’s awake– and knows exactly what he’s doing. John feels the warmth of Gale’s breath against his neck, the soft press of lips grazing his skin, and it makes his pulse quicken. He bites the inside of his cheek, trying to keep quiet, but the sensation of Gale’s mouth on him, lazy and unhurried, makes his resolve crumble. His hips shift back again instinctively, his body aching for more friction, more of Gale.

“Morning, baby,” Gale murmurs, voice low and rough, still thick with sleep, but there’s a teasing edge to it that has John shuddering. “You’re restless today.”

John’s face burns, but he can’t bring himself to respond beyond a quiet whine, not when Gale’s mouth is on his neck, leaving slow, wet kisses that make his brain forget how to function. His arm stays locked around John’s waist, keeping him tight against his chest as he grinds against him again, the feel of Gale’s cock making John’s head spin. Gale chuckles softly, his lips brushing the shell of John’s ear as his hand slides down from John’s waist, fingers grazing the edge of his boxers.

“So sweet, wakin’ me up like this,” Gale says as his hand dips lower, ghosting over the front of John’s underwear, not quite touching but enough to make John whimper, his body trembling with anticipation. “Could feel you squirming against me… grinding back like you needed something.”

John’s mouth falls open at Gale’s uncharacteristic lack of filter, but all that comes out is a shaky breath as Gale’s thumb brushes over the damp fabric. His hips jerk forward, seeking more contact, but Gale pulls his hand away just as quickly, and John whines out a frustrated noise. Gale’s mouth returns to his neck, sucking softly at the sensitive skin just beneath his ear, and John arches into it, biting back a moan.

“You’re so hard, baby,” Gale murmurs, his voice a deep rumble that has John’s stomach tightening. “You want me to take care of it?”

John lets out another shaky whimper, his hips rolling back reflexively, pressing his ass against Gale’s cock. He can feel how hard Gale is too, and it makes him dizzy, his need burning hot in his stomach.

“Gale, please,” John begs, his voice cracking, not even sure what he’s asking for, just that he needs something or he’s gonna have to shove his own hand down his underwear and deal with this himself. Gale groans softly, his hands already working the waistband of John’s boxers down to his knees, drawing it out painfully slow, teasing him even more.

John abruptly aches to feel his fingers back inside him, wonders if he might slide something else in while they’re both relaxed and sleepy, keens at the thought of it.

“In me,” John blurts out, face hot, pushing back and feeling the fabric of Gale’s boxers against his bare skin. “Can you– please?”

“Let’s see what we can do,” Gale coos, and John's heart leaps into his throat, getting out an impatient whine. He hears the wet sound of Gale spitting into his hand, and his mouth goes dry, heavy eyelids dragging open as Gale’s hand slips between his legs. The elastic of his underwear is bunched tight just above John’s knees, keeping his legs closed when he tries to part them to give Gale more access, but instead of sliding his hand up, Gale wipes his palm over his inner thighs, and John breathes out a sound of confusion.

He feels Gale work his fingers between his thighs, crooking them as if they’re actually inside him, and John’s voice breaks when he chokes out a “fuck,” realizing what Gale’s doing. John shudders at the slow drag of his fingers against the sensitive skin, and Gale breathes out a low laugh, pressing his lips to his neck.

“So desperate,” Gale mumbles against his skin, slick fingers pressing rhythmically between his thighs.

“Gale,” John whimpers, voice trembling as he tries to push back again, hips jerking when Gale squeezes his thigh in response. “Please.”

Gale groans out a laugh, low and rough, the sound wiping any coherent thought from John’s head. “Please what, baby? What d’you need?”

John squeezes his eyes shut, cheeks burning, but the ache between his legs is unbearable, and the frustration bubbling in his chest makes him squirm. “I need you,” he manages, voice cracking. “I need– need your cock, please, Gale.” The last bit comes out more hushed, embarrassed by his own words even in the lingering fog of sleep.

“Jesus.” The shift in Gale’s posture is subtle, but John feels it immediately, the way Gale’s body presses closer, his breath hot against the back of John’s neck. “The mouth on you, doll.”

Gale’s hand pulls away, and John can feel him shoving his own boxers down hastily. He readjusts, lining his cock up with the tight space between his legs, and John gasps when he feels the wet, warm pressure as Gale pushes forward, his cock sliding between John’s thighs in one slow thrust.

John’s entire body jolts as if Gale’s actually just pushed inside him, mouth falling open as the weight of Gale’s cock presses against his skin. Gale’s hand moves to John’s hip, holding him steady as he begins to move, the lazy, grinding thrusts fraying John’s nerves and brain alike. The slick glide of his cock so close to where John craves it most has him shaking; he’s never even thought of this as a thing, but it’s so hot that he feels like he’s going to fall apart in Gale’s arms.

“So tight, baby,” Gale breathes out, his voice deep and barely–restrained as he thrusts again, sliding easily between John’s thighs. “Feels so good.”

“Oh– god,” John whimpers, his back arching, thighs squeezing together reflexively. Gale groans low in his throat, the sound sending a rush of heat through John’s body, making his pulse pound in his ears. His fingers grab at the sheets beneath him, barely able to hold himself together, his body twitching with every teasing slide of Gale’s cock.

He’s so sensitive, every nerve alive and buzzing, and the heat of Gale’s cock against his skin only makes it worse. His thighs clench tighter, and Gale groans again, hips rocking forward with more force this time, pulling a moan out of John.

“Gale,” John gasps, his breath coming in shallow pants. He’s so worked up, his cock leaking and aching, desperate for relief, but Gale keeps it slow, dragging out the pleasure until John feels like he’s going to burst.

“Oh, you’re so needy, sweetheart,” Gale hums, his voice full of affection as his hand slips down, fingers wrapping loosely around John’s cock. His touch is light, barely enough to be considered a stroke, but it has John trembling, his hips jerking forward instinctively. Gale lets out a low noise of appreciation, his grip tightening just slightly. “Sound so pretty for me. You want more?”

John’s only response is a desperate half–whine, half–sob, nodding as he presses his body back into Gale’s, head spinning. He feels feverish, the combination of Gale’s cock sliding between his thighs and the too–light touch on his own cock melting his insides.

“I’ve got you,” Gale murmurs, his voice soft but commanding, the warmth of it anchoring John in the haze of pleasure. His hand tightens properly around John’s cock, stroking him now with slow, deliberate motions that have John swearing under his breath, pressure building with every pass of Gale’s hand. “S’that good?”

John lets out a breathy moan, nodding again, his body sagging into Gale’s embrace as the pleasure coils tighter in his stomach. Every stroke of Gale’s hand sends another surge of heat crashing through him, and the relentless drag of Gale’s cock between his thighs only makes the tension build faster to the point that John feels himself go dizzy with the effort of trying to hold back, clenching his thighs again. The sound it pulls from Gale makes John feel lightheaded, and he repeats the motion, wanting to bring Gale to the edge with him.

“You’re so good,” Gale groans, lips pressing against John’s shoulder, leaving wet kisses in his wake. His pace picks up, both with his hips and his hand, and John feels like he’s coming undone, his breath ragged, his body shaking. “What a sweet thing to wake up to.”

John whines, the praise making his head spin further, and he can’t keep his hips from jerking forward into Gale’s fist, seeking more. His cock throbs in Gale’s hand, leaking into his palm as he grinds back against Gale, the friction sending sparks crackling through his veins.

“Gale, I’m so–” John chokes out, pressing his face against the pillow, fingers curling around the fabric. He’s so close, the pleasure overwhelming, and he’s not sure how much longer he can hold out. “Feels so good, ‘m gonna–”

“Go on, baby,” Gale encourages, voice gruff as he quickens his movements, hips snapping forward faster now, his cock sliding slick between John’s thighs, the sounds in the room obscene. His hand tightens around John’s cock, stroking him faster, urging him on. “C’mon, show me how good it feels.”

John’s body seizes up at his words, no longer breathing as the tension snaps, and he comes with a strangled cry, spilling over Gale’s hand. The feeling shreds through him, leaves him shaking and gasping for air as his thighs clamp tight around Gale’s cock. His come slicks Gale’s fingers, and he whimpers at the wet squeeze around his cock, eyes teary as his hips stutter into Gale’s fist, breathless chants of his name falling from his lips.

Gale groans behind him, hips still rocking forward, and John can feel the way Gale’s muscles tense, his rhythm faltering as his own climax builds. Every thrust sends ripples of pleasure through John, the feeling of Gale’s cock between his thighs better than he could have imagined, slick and hot and heavy. He whines when Gale’s hand around him starts to feel like too much, reaching down to push at his wrist, and Gale lets go and moves his hand to John’s waist instead, pulling him closer.

“Fuck, John,” Gale gets out, his voice rough. His pace quickens, erratic now, and John can feel the tension in Gale’s body, the way his grip tightens on John’s waist. He squeezes his thighs again, aching to feel Gale come, and with a deep moan Gale spills between his thighs, his release hot and wet against John’s skin. He bites down gently on John’s shoulder, his teeth sinking into the flesh just enough to make John gasp, the sensation sending a final shiver through his body.

Gale’s hips kick forward, his last few thrusts slow and drawn out as he rides out his orgasm, groaning into the bite. John can feel the warmth of Gale’s come, slick between his thighs, and it makes him shudder, cock twitching, his own breath still shaky as the aftershocks of his orgasm pulse through him.

They stay like that, both of them breathing hard, bodies pressed close together. The bite turns into a gentle kiss to his shoulder, and John melts into Gale’s touch, his body finally relaxing as the intensity of the moment begins to fade. Gale wraps his arm snug around John’s waist again, the weight of his softening cock still nestled between his thighs making John flush, and he feels sticky, sweaty, but gratification spreads through his body all the same.

Gale’s breathing starts to slow behind him, but John still feels like he’s floating somewhere; the warmth behind him is comforting, but Gale feels impossibly distant. Half–dazed and flushed, John shifts, reaching for Gale’s arm and clutching at it. He tugs weakly, a needy sound escaping his lips as he tries to pull him closer.

“Too far away,” John says, his voice small and breathless, barely more than a whisper as he clings to Gale’s arm. He feels embarrassingly vulnerable, his skin still buzzing with the ghosts of all the stimulation, but he doesn’t care; he just wants to be held.

And Gale doesn’t hesitate. He shuffles closer to John, tightening both arms around him without saying a word, pulling him flush against his chest. John sinks into his embrace, his body fitting perfectly against Gale’s, and he lets out a soft, relieved sigh as he smushes his cheek into the pillow, feeling Gale’s breath against the back of his neck again.

“You did so good, baby,” Gale finally murmurs into John’s hair, his voice soft and full of fondness. John hums, too worn out to respond with more than a small smile, though his heart flutters at the praise. His body feels heavy, his mind drifting in and out of that hazy space between sleep and wakefulness, exhausted as if he’s just had actual sex.

Gale’s fingers trace lazy circles along his stomach, the touch soothing, almost hypnotic, and John finds himself slipping further into the warmth of the moment. His eyelids droop, and soon enough, he’s fading in and out of a light sleep, hardly aware of anything but the rise and fall of Gale’s chest against his back.

Time slips by in a blur. Every so often, John stirs, but Gale only tightens his hold, pressing another kiss to John’s neck or shoulder. The world feels small and safe wrapped in Gale’s arms, and John doesn’t want it to move, but eventually, Gale does.

He does it gently, and it barely registers in John’s half–asleep state. He hears Gale murmur something, maybe a promise to be right back, but the words are distant, muffled by the fog of sleep clouding John’s head. His mind drifts again, floating between the warmth of the bed and the faint sound of the sink running. He rolls over and curls into the sheets on the other side of the bed, Gale’s scent lingering on them, familiar in a way that makes him relax again, and he’s sure it’s only been a few minutes, but it feels like hours have slipped by when he feels the mattress dip again under Gale’s weight.

“Hey,” Gale’s voice breaks through the haze, soft and low, but enough to stir John from his light sleep. A warm hand slides over John’s back, fingers gentle as they trace along his spine. “Time to get up, sweetheart.”

John lets out a sleepy mumble, shifting under Gale’s touch but not fully waking. He feels too comfortable, too wrapped up in the cocoon of sleep and warmth to move just yet. He groans softly, turning his head slightly, but he doesn’t open his eyes.

Gale laughs, warm and affectionate. “C’mon, we need a shower.”

“Said we could spend all day in bed,” John grumbles, but when Gale slides his arm under him and pulls him up, John doesn’t resist.

“We can,” Gale says, “after we shower.” Gale rises from the bed, holding his hands out, and despite everything, John still tries to keep his eyes above his waist as he reluctantly takes his hands, letting himself be pulled to his feet.

His cheeks flush as he becomes more aware of himself, the sticky warmth between his legs, the air cool on his skin where Gale had been minutes before. He feels too exposed, too naked in the morning light, stepping out of his boxers as they slide the rest of the way down his legs, but the weight of his insecurity is softened by the way Gale’s looking at him, so calm and steady. Gale tugs gently, and John follows, one hand still clasped in his as Gale leads the way down the hall.

The bathroom is warm, the light muted and soft as Gale turns the shower on, testing the water with his hand, and John leans against the counter, watching him with a heart that feels ready to burst. He wants to attach himself to Gale, to cling to him until ink lines begin to seep into his own skin, to soak up his warmth and give his own back in return, and with the way Gale looks at him when he turns, John feels like his longing is written all over his face.

Gale pulls in a deep breath before reaching out again, and John takes his hand without missing a beat, following him into the shower.

“Too hot?” Gale asks as he pulls the curtain closed, and John shakes his head, moving closer. The warm spray beats down on his back, enveloping him in a soothing mist as Gale gently guides them both under the water. He feels heavy, his limbs loose, body buzzing with a mixture of relaxation and lingering desire, overwhelmed by how intimate it feels to be in Gale’s shower together.

Gale reaches for the bottle of shampoo, popping it open with a soft click before working a good amount into his palms. John blinks at him, his lashes wet and clumped together, the warmth of the steam making his head feel even heavier. Gale’s eyes meet his, a gentle smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he steps closer, the scent of the shampoo mixing with the clean, fresh smell of the shower.

“Come here,” Gale murmurs, his voice low as he coaxes John gently against him, positioning him under the spray so the water cascades over his head. John tilts his head back, letting the droplets run down his face, over his neck, his shoulders, his muscles relaxing in the heat.

Gale’s fingers find his scalp, rubbing the shampoo into his hair slowly, and John’s eyes flutter closed at the sensation, a quiet sigh slipping past his lips as he leans into Gale’s touch. The feeling of Gale’s fingers working through his hair, massaging his scalp with that same careful attention he always gives– it feels so good, but John’s not sure what to do with himself, not used to being taken care of like this.

Gale’s hands move methodically, working the lather through John’s hair with gentle precision, and John lets himself get lost in the feeling. Every slow drag of Gale’s fingers feels like it’s pulling him deeper into this hazy state of contentment– until it starts to become something more.

The warmth in John’s chest sinks lower, pooling in his stomach as Gale’s fingers continue their careful work, and he feels the tips of his ears burn. He’s embarrassed at how easily his body reacts to Gale’s touch, how quickly the relaxation turns into a slow, burning arousal, but he can’t stop it. His skin feels too sensitive, every brush of Gale’s fingers sending a soft thrill through him, and his hips shift ever so slightly, his body instinctively seeking more.

“Relax,” Gale whispers, his voice comforting against John’s ear as he tilts his head to rinse the shampoo out, and John can’t help but smile faintly at the irony. He’s trying to relax, but every second that Gale’s hands are on him is making it harder to breathe, harder to keep himself focused on the warmth of the shower, heat simmering in his stomach for a second time that morning.

But Gale’s hands are gentle, patient, and John can feel the care in every stroke, every pass of his fingers through his hair. Gale takes his time, rinsing the shampoo out with such softness that it makes John’s head spin a little. When Gale’s hands slip down to cup the back of his neck, guiding him out of the spray, John finally opens his eyes again, looking up at him through the haze of water droplets and steam.

Gale’s smile is soft, his eyes fond as he brushes a few stray curls away from John’s forehead. “There we go,” he murmurs, his voice low and even. “All clean.”

John feels a rush of warmth bloom in his chest at the quiet words, his heart beating a little faster as he watches Gale, his body still humming with that slow–building desire. He’s so close, so warm and solid, and John feels like he’s floating in the space between them, his mind clouded with the need to be even closer. He wants to reach for the shampoo and return the favour, but he wants to give him something else, too.

“You’re lookin’ at me like that again,” Gale teases, his voice low and soft, and the way his lips twitch into a smile makes John’s face heat up. He tries to look away, embarrassed, but Gale chuckles and gently tips his chin back up, forcing John to meet his gaze.

“Don’t hide,” Gale murmurs, his thumb brushing the side of John’s face, and John stops breathing for a moment. There’s something in the way Gale looks at him, like he’s the only living, breathing, tangible thing to exist; it makes his eyes sting a little.

Without thinking too much about it, John leans forward, pressing his forehead against Gale’s chest, his hands coming up to rest lightly on Gale’s sides. The warmth of Gale’s body, the steady beat of his heart under his skin, it makes John’s brain hum, his body reacting before his mind can catch up. He’s hyper–aware of every inch of Gale pressed against him, the lingering tension in his body starting to build into something more insistent.

Gale’s hands come up to cradle the back of John’s head, his fingers sliding through his hair, so tender that it makes John shiver a little. His body reacts– a subtle shift of his hips, a quickening of his pulse, and he almost wants to shy away from how needy he feels like he’s being, but Gale’s unwavering tolerance and patience with him keeps John from pulling away.

“You okay?” Gale asks softly, his voice a quiet rumble, reverberating through John. His thumb rubs soothing circles over the nape of John’s neck, and John nods, though he’s not entirely sure what he’s responding to. All he knows is that he wants more, wants to show Gale how much more than ‘okay’ he is, wants to make him feel good, to say thank you in one of the only ways he knows– is learning– how to.

John’s hands slide down, fingers tracing the firm muscles of Gale’s stomach as his head stays resting against his chest, and his heart pounds faster, his skin feeling too sensitive, too alive against Gale’s. The burn in John’s stomach continues to build, and he shifts, his fingers trailing lower, brushing against Gale’s hip.

Gale doesn’t stop him, doesn’t pull away, and John swallows down a groan as he lets his fingers slide lower, wrapping them loosely around Gale’s cock. It’s still soft, but the moment John touches him he feels it start to stir, to harden in his hand, and the thrill of knowing that it’s because of him makes John feel dizzy.

He strokes him slowly, tentatively at first, watching the way Gale’s stomach tenses with the movement of his hand. Gale hisses out a breath, his fingers tightening slightly in John’s hair, and John bites the inside of his cheek, heat pooling low in his stomach as he works Gale’s cock with slow, gentle pulls.

Gale groans softly, his hips shifting forward just a little, and the sound sends a jolt of arousal through John. He jerks him off a little faster now, more confidently, watching with wide, eager eyes as Gale’s cock hardens completely in his hand, thick and heavy against his palm.

“Fuck, John,” Gale breathes, his voice raspy. “You don’t know what you do to me, doll.”

John’s face warms at his words, and he tightens his grip, his strokes becoming more focused, more intentional. His body is hot with anticipation, his own arousal building again with every sound that leaves Gale’s lips, every soft grunt and whispered praise. He tilts his chin up, his eyes locking with Gale’s, and the need in Gale’s gaze is all–encompassing; John feels like he’s drowning in it, his whole body trembling with the weight of everything he’s feeling.

John’s hand falters for a moment, Gale’s heated gaze and his own desire too much to handle. He’s being dragged under by a craving, a pull to get closer, closer than just his hand, and he feels like he’s going to buzz out of his skin, shyness mixing with a growing boldness. He swallows hard, stealing another glance up at Gale, heart pounding in his chest as he tries to work up the nerve to do what he so badly wants.

With his eyes fixed on Gale’s face, John lets his knees bend, slowly lowering himself down to the shower floor. The tiles are cold under his knees, a stark contrast to the heat simmering beneath his skin, and his breath hitches as he kneels before Gale, his pulse racing as he presses his cheek to Gale’s thigh, fingers trembling slightly as they skim over dark ink lines. The shower spray beats down on them both, water trickling down John’s face and neck, mingling with the slick warmth of his skin.

John blinks up at Gale, water clinging to his lashes, his face flushed as he tries to keep his cool. His chest is tight, his head still spinning, but the need to feel the weight of Gale on his tongue burns hotter with each passing second.

“John…” Gale’s voice is low, reverent as he looks down at him, his fingers tangling gently in John’s wet hair. The awe in Gale’s tone makes John’s heart leap, and he feels a surge of warmth flood through him as Gale brushes a thumb over his cheek. “You’re so pretty like this, baby.”

The words make John’s stomach flutter, and he leans into Gale’s touch, a soft whimper escaping his throat as he wraps his hand around Gale’s cock again, stroking him slowly and feeling Gale’s thigh tense beneath his other hand. Gale lets out a soft groan, his fingers tightening a little in John’s hair, and John’s pulse jumps, blood rushing south at the sound.

Gale’s hips shift forward slightly, rolling into his hand as he sighs out John’s name again. John’s mouth goes dry, and he licks his lips, blinking against the spray of water as he stares at Gale’s cock, his nerves wrestling with want. He’s clumsy, unsure, but so desperate to make Gale feel good that it overrides any remaining hesitation.

John leans in slowly, brushing his lips over the tip of Gale’s cock, heart in his throat. Gale makes a soft, approving sound, and John’s heart stutters in response, the encouragement pushing him forward. He opens his mouth, taking the head of Gale’s cock between his lips, his hand still working the base as he tries to find a rhythm, to seek out familiar motions from the first time he’d done this. It’s sloppy, water dripping down his face, getting used to the sensation again, but Gale’s patient, his fingers massaging John’s scalp, guiding him without pressure.

“Just like that,” Gale murmurs, his voice strained. “You’re doing so good, baby.”

The praise sends a rush of heat straight to John’s core, and he whimpers around Gale’s cock, his own hardening further against his thigh as he tries to take more of Gale into his mouth. His movements are uncoordinated, a little too eager, but Gale doesn’t seem to mind. He strokes John’s hair, gentle and reassuring, his breaths coming out in soft pants as John works him with his mouth and hand.

“God,” Gale groans, his hips rocking forward just a little, the motion making John’s head spin. “You’re unreal, John.”

John’s cheeks burn with his words, and he whimpers again, the sound muffled by Gale’s cock. He keeps his hand moving, stroking the base as he bobs his head, his eyes fluttering shut as he loses himself in the moment, but then Gale’s hand tugs gently, and he lets himself be pulled off with a whine of complaint. He opens his eyes just enough to look up at Gale in confusion, licking his lips, and he squirms at the way Gale’s pupils appear to have swallowed his irises, a pink flush sitting high on his cheeks as he stares down at John.

“Gale,” he breathes out, moving his hand slowly around Gale’s cock, shuffling closer on his knees. Gale leans forward a little to shelter him from the spray of the shower, still holding John back, swearing under his breath.

“You’re so– fuck, you’re somethin’, baby,” he gets out, and John flushes further, resisting the urge to hide away at his uncensored affection. He moves his head to the side instead, pulling against the hand in his hair until Gale allows him to press his lips to his thigh, blinking up as he mouths over ink he hasn’t had the time to study yet. John feels the rough skin of the mystery scar beneath his lips and unthinkingly presses a featherlight kiss to it, not breaking eye contact, stomach turning over on itself at the look Gale gives him, soft and open and vulnerable.

Gale groans, his hips shifting forward and hand loosening in John’s hair, breath coming out heavier, and John takes it as his cue. He leans in again, kissing the tip of Gale’s cock, feeling the heat and the twitch against his lips. He can taste the salt of precome before the water washes it away, and it makes his own cock ache, his need growing fiercer.

John wraps his lips around him again, the weight of Gale’s cock against his tongue feeling so right, and he starts to take him deeper, his hand still working the base as his mouth works the rest. His movements are tentative, but the dizzying sounds coming from Gale fuel him, pushing him to try harder, to take more of Gale into his mouth with each pass of his lips. Gale lets out a breathy moan, his fingers tightening in John’s hair again as his hips rock forward just a little, just enough for John to feel how close he is.

“Fuck,” Gale’s voice is hoarse, choked–off. “You’re doing so good, just like that.”

John’s eyes roll back for a beat before his lids slide closed, cock throbbing against his hip, the praise intoxicating. He hollows his cheeks and sucks harder, his hand twisting as he works Gale faster. Gale’s moans grow louder, more desperate, and John feels the tension in his body, the way his muscles tighten as he gets closer.

Gale’s hips stutter, his breath coming out in ragged pants, and John can feel it– the way Gale’s cock pulses in his mouth, the way his grip tightens in his hair, the way his whole body tenses as he teeters on the edge.

“Fuck– gonna make me come, baby.” The words send a jolt of excitement through John, and he moans around Gale’s cock, his strokes quickening as he works Gale faster, harder. And then Gale’s coming with a curse, hot and thick, spilling into John’s mouth as his hips jerk forward even with the restraint John can tell he’s fighting for.

John tries to swallow, but it’s messy, clumsy, too much too fast, and some of it drips down his chin as he gasps for breath, his cheeks flushed as Gale groans above him, his hand still tangled in John’s hair. John stays there, resisting the urge to finish himself off and wrapping his lips back around Gale’s cock, his hand still moving in slow, gentle strokes as Gale comes down from his high. John looks up at him through the spray of the shower, face hot, his heart pounding; Gale’s expression is one of pure bliss, his eyes half–lidded as he looks down at John in wonder.

“Jesus,” Gale breathes, his voice soft as he releases John’s hair, his hand moving to gently caress his cheek.

John feels himself flush even deeper, and he blinks up at Gale, still panting softly as he lets his lips slip from around him. His jaw aches a little from the stretch, but it feels nice, and there’s a deep sense of satisfaction pooling in his chest at the sight of Gale so thoroughly wrecked, his body still trembling with the aftershocks of his release.

Gale leans down to carefully pull him up, helping him to his feet, and John feels himself go lightheaded, his legs shaky from both the effort and the overwhelm of it all. Before he can fully catch his breath, Gale’s hands are on him again, pulling him close.

He walks John backwards until he’s pressed against the shower wall, Gale’s lips finding his in a messy, heated kiss. John melts into it, his body buzzing with leftover adrenaline, lips parting as Gale’s tongue slides against his, slow and sensual. The kiss is lazy, deep, and John moans into it, his cock almost painfully hard as Gale presses against him, his hands roaming over John’s wet skin.

One of Gale’s hands slides down, wrapping around John’s cock, and John chokes on his own breath, his hips jerking forward instinctively. He’s so sensitive from earlier, so worked up from getting Gale off, and the moment Gale’s hand moves, slick and warm, John’s knees almost buckle.

Gale chuckles softly, his lips still brushing against John’s as he strokes him slowly, his hand moving in an easy, practiced rhythm. “Easy, baby,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough. “I’ve got you.”

John whines desperately, his whole body shaking as Gale’s hand works him over with steady strokes, the pleasure building too quickly. He’s already so close, his mind still reeling, and it doesn’t take much. Just a few more firm strokes, the way Gale thumbs over the tip, the soft praise murmured against his lips, and he’s coming.

His orgasm slams into him, sudden and overpowering, his hips bucking forward as he spills into Gale’s hand with a strangled whimper. His legs give out for a moment, his knees going weak as the pleasure wracks through him, and Gale is quick to catch him, holding him up as John shudders against him, his breath coming in gasps.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” Gale murmurs softly, his voice warm as he wraps his arm tight around John’s back where it arches away from the wall, his other hand still moving around his cock, bringing him through his orgasm. “There you go.”

John can barely breathe as he moves away from the wall to lean heavily against Gale, limp and trembling, his chest rising and falling with uneven breaths. Gale holds him close, both arms secure around him now, and John feels safe, grounded in the warmth of his embrace as the water continues to pour over them both.

“Fuck,” John whispers, his voice barely audible as he pushes his face into the crook of Gale’s neck, tremors easing. Gale hums, pressing a kiss to his temple as he holds him steady, one hand rubbing his back soothingly, both of them catching their breath as they let the hot water stream over their bodies, washing away any residue of their orgasms.

In an attempt to avoid Gale’s eyes when they pull back, John reaches for the bottle of shampoo, intent on returning Gale’s earlier favour. But Gale bats his hand away and assuades his disgruntled noise with the promise of “next time,” and it’s probably for the best given how out of it John still feels, though watching Gale’s arms flex as he works his hands through his hair really doesn’t help, foamy shampoo sliding down his body.

It’s an effort to drag his eyes away from the near–pornographic sight, a permanent flush on John’s cheeks as he washes himself with soap, switching positions with Gale when it’s his turn to do the same, and once they’re both clean and overheated in the steamy room, Gale shuts the shower off and guides him out onto the bath mat.

John can’t stop staring when Gale towels off his hair for him, melting at the softness in his eyes as he ruffles his curls, making sure they aren’t dripping in his face before he drapes the towel over John’s shoulders and reaches for his own. He leans against the doorway in the bedroom with his towel pulled around him like a blanket while he watches Gale pull clothing from his dresser and tries not to think about how much he wishes he could wake up to this every day, because he doesn’t want to accidentally voice a thought like that and scare Gale off, doesn’t want to end up being too much.

But John’s powerless to keep the happiness off his face once he’s cozy in a pair of Gale’s sweatpants and a tank top, trailing after him to the kitchen with the promise of breakfast, eyes following Gale’s movements when he stretches languidly in front of the fridge.

“What do you want?” Gale asks as he pulls the door open, turning to look at John, and John turns away a second too late, face warming at the feeling of his heart–eyes being caught out. Gale laughs under his breath, placing a hand on John’s waist to pull him against his side, letting him look inside the fridge too, and John presses into his warmth, biting back a shy smile at the easiness of it all.

“We can do eggs, toast, pancakes…” Gale lists out the options, to John’s relief, though he still squirms a little at being made to choose.

“Pancakes?” He looks at Gale, and Gale nods, reaching into the fridge. “Can I help?”

Gale sets the carton of eggs down on the counter and glances at him. John prepares to be told to just sit, that he’s a guest, ready to argue that as the guest he’d get plenty of joy out of assisting, but Gale surprises him when he relents without a fight, smiling at him.

“Sure, baby.” John’s heart does a little leap at the feeling of the name being used in such a mundane situation. “You wanna help whisk up some eggs?”

John nods, diligently taking to his task when Gale sets down a whisk and a bowl for him. It feels nice, standing side by side at the counter, the local morning radio show going, batter sizzling away in a pan on the stove. Gale lets him pour each pancake, snorting when John inevitably presents him with an obviously phallic one, immediately assuaging John’s second thoughts about it being too juvenile, and they take their food outside to eat on the porch again in the sun.

“You still wanna spend the day sleeping?” Gale asks when they finish eating, and John looks at him sheepishly, having unsurprisingly changed his mind now that he’s not half asleep.

“Not really,” he reluctantly concedes, and Gale smiles, nudging his ankle under the table.

“You wanna do anything?” Gale stacks their plates together, leaning back in his chair.

“Whatever you wanna do,” John says, making a face at his own predictability, though he preens when Gale laughs at his response.

“Well, I gotta run some quick errands before work tomorrow, but I can leave them until later tonight if you feel like going somewhere else,” Gale says, and John perks up a little. He likes the thought of just hanging around Gale while he gets things done; any time spent with him makes John happy, and he doesn’t really feel like he has the energy for a whole excursion today like the past couple of weekends.

“Can I come along?” John asks shyly.

“You sure?” Gale questions, and he smiles when John nods eagerly. “Alright,” he says as he stands, gathering up dishes, John mirroring his actions. “You can be my little helper, then.”

John beams as he follows Gale into the house, setting their glasses down by the sink at Gale’s beckoning. “Why don’t you go get dressed while I wash these off quick?” Gale says rather than suggests, and John pouts but does as he’s told, slipping away to the bedroom. He reluctantly changes into his own shorts and shirt, brushing his teeth in the bathroom and stepping out just as Gale walks in to do the same.

“You ready?” Gale asks as he squeezes out the toothpaste, and John hums, leaning back against the wall. “Can you do me a favour?” John straightens, nodding.

“I think I left my measuring tape on the bookshelf, I need to bring it with me.” John pushes off the wall before Gale finishes talking, trotting down the hall to the living room like he’s been sent on a scavenger hunt. He might as well have been, because there’s no such tape in his line of sight, so he starts pulling open the drawers, finding notepads and miscellaneous junk, but in the third drawer he finally spots the tape measurer.

When he picks it up, a piece of chain follows it, clinging to the metal clip on the side, and John carefully detaches it, realizing it’s a necklace. John glances down the hall, checking that the bathroom light is still on, and then he unwinds the chain, finding two identical dog tags at the end of it. The text is too small and scuffed for him to read clearly, even as he squints and brings the tags to his face, but he’s fairly certain he sees the word Cleven engraved into the metal along with a string of numbers, and his eyes widen a little bit.

“Find it?” Gale calls as he makes his way down the hall, and it’s too late for John to inconspicuously shove the necklace back in the drawer without Gale seeing. He sheepishly nods when Gale enters the living room, holding the tags gently in his palm, wishing for once he could just not stick his nose where it doesn’t belong, but it’s not like he’d been intentionally snooping.

Gale looks down at his hand, expression unreadable, and awkwardly, not sure how to phrase it, John asks, “Should I be thanking you for your service?” He winces a little at the wording, not inclined to be making any unintentional innuendos right now, but Gale’s shoulders relax, and he gives John a small smile. It settles the brewing unease in John’s stomach better than anything else could have.

“It’s my dad’s,” Gale says, clearing his throat a bit. “Ended up in my things accidentally when I moved. Keep meaning to return it, but…” he shrugs after a beat, waving himself off, and John carefully lowers the chain back into the drawer and closes it, nodding to himself.

“Sorry,” he apologizes, handing the measuring tape to Gale. “I promise I wasn’t snooping.”

Gale’s lips quirk up a bit more, eyes softening. “I don’t mind, baby,” he says, taking the tape and placing his hand on John’s back. “Thanks for finding this for me. Should we go?”

“Yeah,” John says quietly, heart settling at the ease Gale handles him with. He knows Gale hasn’t given him any reason to believe he’d ever do otherwise, especially after how patient he’s been with him this weekend, but every time Gale gives him grace and proves it’s okay to mess up, John feels a little more reassured that he doesn’t have to worry about him suddenly switching up.

He bounces back quickly once they’re in Gale’s truck, buckling himself in, keeping his knee out of the way of the gear shift as Gale starts the engine.

“What’s on the list for today?” John asks, as if it makes any difference to how elated he feels to run around town with Gale.

Gale places his hand on the back of John’s seat as he reverses out of the driveway, looking over his shoulder. “Hardware store first,” he says, turning into the street. “Then gotta drop by the pub– I promised Marge I’d fix the window in the backroom.”

John wonders if he’ll be relegated to the truck, like a dog left with the windows down waiting for his owner to come back, but Gale continues on. “She’ll let you in, don’t worry. No one’s gonna be around drinking.”

“Okay,” John smiles. “And then?”

“And then groceries, so we can go home and I can make us lunch,” Gale finishes, and John nods happily, looking out the window, watching the increasingly familiar streets pass by.

The parking lot outside the hardware store is unsurprisingly full, all the suburban dads slipping away on a Sunday afternoon to work on their projects, and John can’t help but feel a twinge of envy as they pass by father and son duos, unable to remember the last time he’d gone on an excursion like this with his own dad. But he doesn’t let it dampen his good mood, sticking close to Gale’s side as they make their way through the aisles.

“What are we looking for?” John asks curiously, craning his neck around to stare at everything, inhaling the nostalgic smells of lumber and paint and oil. Gale gently tugs at his arm to keep him from walking into a display, making a quiet sound of amusement when John almost stumbles into his side.

“Need some hinges for the window, and some wooden stakes for a few of my plants outside,” Gale answers, keeping two of his fingers on the back of John’s arm like he doesn’t quite trust him to stay put as he stops in one of the aisles, surveying a wall of metal hinges and screws. John does stay still though, squinting at the rows of parts like he knows what Gale’s looking for, quickly getting bored and deciding to watch Gale instead.

Watching him could become John’s favourite pastime, if Gale were to allow it; even in the uneven lighting of the large warehouse, he looks far too golden for this place. Gale would resent the idea, John’s sure, but he thinks Gale looks more fit for modelling on billboards in a big city– it feels like a waste that only John gets to admire him in all his brilliance.

Except, John realizes, he doesn’t actually know if he’s the only one who gets to. The thought smacks him across the face, and he blinks at Gale as he feels his brain attempting to calibrate itself.

Somehow, despite all of his endless worrying over everything he can possibly think of to agonize over, this hasn’t even crossed John’s mind. He hasn’t ever given a moment of thought to seeing someone else, not since the night Gale had taken him home for the first time after his nightmare of a blind date, unable to fathom having space in his brain for anyone but Gale. But even if he had, it’s not like he has many– any– prospects, or much of a social life outside of work.

Gale, though? He works, and he goes out and does things, and he spends at least one night a week at a lively pub surrounded by plenty of attractive people– and he’d definitely stand out to anyone looking. John feels a little sick at the thought of Gale bringing other guys home, and then he feels sick with himself for thinking about it, because really, no matter how he feels about it, it’s not like it’s any of his business. They’ve never talked about exclusivity, and though John aches for something real, he’s not going to risk pushing Gale away or scaring him off by bringing it up.

As much as he doesn’t want to admit it, he’s aware that Gale could have it a lot easier; he could date someone his age with more experience and confidence, someone who doesn’t need as much reassurance, who has a little less baggage. So John wants to stay interesting, to be as easy as he can, still feeling guilty for yesterday’s miscommunication as it is, not wanting to drag something else up that will either result in Gale feeling like he has to comfort him, or in Gale deciding this is too much– whatever this even is.

He’s just going to soak it all in and not take a moment of it for granted, and as long as Gale will have him, he’ll just be happy to be kept around.

Gale gives him a sidelong glance then, and again, John looks away a moment too late, and Gale breathes out a laugh. “You’re thinkin’ so loud, might as well just spit it out.”

John winces when Gale reaches up to grab two of the hinges off the wall, quickly schooling his expression. “I was just… admiring,” he says, face warming a little at his not entirely untrue statement. Gale turns back to him, a bashful smile playing at his lips.

“And thinking?” He questions, passing the metal pieces to John and adding, “Wanna hold onto these for me?”

John nods as he takes them; Gale doesn’t have to know he’s agreeing to both things. Gale doesn’t press it anyway– John’s sure he knows by now that when John has something to say, it’ll creep its way out eventually, though he hopes that’s not the case with this particular thought.

John follows Gale two aisles over to all the shelves full of lumber, waiting as he looks over some sections of thinner pole–like cuts, staring at the stretch of Gale’s biceps in his t–shirt sleeves to make himself feel a little bit better, until he gets restless and wanders further down the aisle like the other genres of wood are going to somehow be more fascinating than the one Gale’s looking at.

The slide of wood against metal makes him turn back to Gale after a minute, watching as he seemingly decides he’s found what he needs, pocketing his measuring tape and pulling one of the cuts from the shelf. Gale looks up then, beckoning John over with a tilt of his chin, and John rejoins him, trailing along to the saw table near the back end of the store.

“Hold this end still for me?” Gale asks after getting the piece positioned, and John obediently stands where Gale points, opposite his side of the table. He glances over to ensure the lumber section’s employee is occupied before wrapping his hand slowly around the cylindrical cut of wood, raising his eyebrows suggestively and looking at Gale pointedly, breaking into a smile when Gale snorts at him before lowering the saw down to make his cut.

“Get your head outta the gutter,” Gale gently scolds him, no real bite to it.

“I didn’t say anything,” John protests, but he’s drowned out by the sound of the saw, pouting when Gale shoots him a teasing smile. He holds the wood still as instructed while Gale cuts it into a few sections to make it easier to transport, and then they make their way to the registers at the front.

The lady greets them warmly, and maybe it’s silly, but John finds it endlessly entertaining to watch Gale have entirely normal interactions with people. There’s something endearing about seeing him make small talk with waiters when they go out to eat, or fielding routine questions from employees, or, now, listening to him read out his membership number for the hardware store when prompted. John smiles at the side of Gale’s face before looking down at his shoes, heart hurting a little bit.

“Got any plans after this?” The lady asks as she scans the barcode on the end of one of the wood cuts.

“Couple more errands, then home for lunch,” Gale answers politely, and the woman makes an appreciative noise.

“It’s so sweet to see fathers and sons getting out and doing things together nowadays,” she says, and John’s head snaps up so fast he almost feels like he’s given himself whiplash. The lady beams at him, and John wills a smile into place before glancing sideways at Gale, sucking in a deep breath at the look on his face, holding his breath so it doesn’t come out in a laugh.

“It’s– yeah,” Gale says weakly, and John immediately turns away from the both of them, lips pressed together painfully tight, giggles bubbling up dangerously at how fast Gale accepts his fate.

“I’m getting a call,” John blurts out as he makes his leave, marching right through the automatic doors before a grin splits across his face, and he leans against the wall outside with a shaky exhale of a laugh. He pulls out his phone before anyone can pass by and give him a weird look, hoping he’ll just look like he’s laughing at a text instead, running a hand down his face in an attempt to get a grip.

When Gale emerges from the store a minute later, John lifts his head and takes one look at Gale and dissolves back into a fit of giggles, spurred on by the way he can see Gale’s mouth quirk up as he tries to fight back his own smile. He rolls his eyes as John walks over, and John snorts when Gale cuffs him gently on the back of his head.

“C’mon, let’s go,” Gale grumbles, and John smiles gleefully as he keeps pace with him through the lot.

“You’re not even old enough to be my dad,” John says matter–of–factly when they reach the truck, still pondering the lady’s wild miscalculation as Gale loads the wood into the trunk, and he watches Gale look briefly at the sky as if in silent prayer before he gets into the driver’s side. John snickers when he gets in the other, closing the door and watching Gale collect himself, biting the inside of his cheek at Gale’s pained expression.

“Gale.” John fights back a laugh when Gale turns his head to pin him with a long–suffering look accompanied by a heavy sigh. John glances out the windshield before he crawls a little closer on the truck’s bench, settling one hand on Gale’s thigh. “She needs glasses.”

“She had glasses on,” Gale says dryly, and John fails to conceal his laugh this time, dropping his head down onto Gale’s shoulder. “Put your seatbelt on,” Gale says after a few seconds of listening to him giggle, and John reluctantly drags himself away, as much as he wants to lean in and kiss the frown off Gale’s face; he knows this isn’t the time nor place.

Gale’s hand finds the back of his neck once they get on the road, arm stretched over the back of the seat, and John can’t quite get the smile to leave his face, squinting into the sun where it sneaks past the visor.

The feeling of pulling into the pub’s parking lot does John’s head in a little bit. It’s unfathomable to him how much has changed in his life since the last time he’d been there, and yet it’s barely been a month; he feels like an entirely different person. And he feels nervous, not sure he’s ready to face Marge, or to face Marge along with Gale. He realizes as they’re walking inside that he has no idea how much she knows, if anything– he doesn’t know if Gale’s told her why John’s really hanging around him, or if he’s made up an excuse, and he doesn’t have time to ask because as soon as the bell jingles on the door, Marge steps out of the back room.

“Oh, you brought Bucky! What a nice surprise,” she greets them, smiling brightly as she rounds the bar. John feels shy again the way he had at the beach, even more worried about the impression he makes now that she knows about his underage drinking transgressions. But Marge brings John in for a hug the moment she reaches him, and she studies his face when she pulls back, narrowing her eyes.

“Have you become an unwitting errand partner today?” Marge asks, and John laughs a little.

“It’s fun,” he says honestly, and Marge raises her eyebrows, looking at Gale.

“You’ve trained him fast,” she comments, and John feels his face warm at the same moment Gale makes a quiet noise of protest, but Marge continues on before John can fumble for a response. “C’mon Bucky, we can hang out while Gale plays handyman.”

If Gale notices the pleading look John shoots him when Marge tugs him towards the office, he doesn’t mention it, giving John a small smile before he heads around to the back door. So John follows Marge across the pub, sitting down in the chair by the desk when she gestures for him to do so. He sees movement out of the corner of his eye and turns to find Gale’s getting to work on undoing the hinges of the window from the outside, and when he turns back to Marge, she’s leaning back against the desk, looking down at him inquisitively.

“You’re starting school soon, right?” She tilts her head, and John shifts, trying to get comfortable in the chair, feeling a bit like he’s at a job interview.

“In about two weeks,” he answers, and she nods slowly.

“Why are you spending your last few weeks of summer hanging out with this old man?” She jabs her thumb towards the window, and John sputters, the heat returning to his face almost as fast as it had left. He’s really wishing he’d thought to ask Gale about the extent of Marge’s knowledge before entering this death trap of a conversation, because there’s not a single molecule in him that wants to accidentally be the one to break the news to Marge that her best friend is hooking up with someone nearly half his age– he thinks Gale’s already been given enough grief today for it.

Marge’s questioning expression softens at his obvious scramble for words, a cheeky grin taking its place. “I’m just playing,” she laughs, nudging the toe of her shoe against his. “S’probably good for Gale, anyway. You can liven him up a little.”

John can’t imagine Gale seeming unlively to anyone– it makes him wonder what he’d been like growing up, if Marge somehow sees him as tame now.

“He’s been taking me adventuring,” John says cautiously, still not sure what she’s privy too, how she thinks John is ‘livening him up.’

“Oh yeah?” Marge’s smile grows. “I’m happy to hear it, I can stop feeling bad about putting off going on his beloved hikes.”

John laughs then, feeling a little more relaxed with some common ground. “My friends said the exact same thing to me when I told them!”

“Works out just fine then,” Marge says easily. “Hopefully they’re not dragging you into any more questionable situations in the meantime?”

John’s eyes go a bit wide at the reminder, horrified at himself for not immediately apologizing as soon as he’d sat down. “Oh god, I’m so sorry,” he groans, slumping in his chair. “That was so stupid– I didn’t even wanna do it–”

“Hey, don’t sweat it,” she cuts him off, shaking her head. “We all do stupid shit, ‘specially for our friends. Just don’t do it again.”

John breathes out a sigh of relief. “You sound like Gale,” he realizes, her sentiment mirroring the one he’d got from Gale that post–pub night. Marge grimaces.

“Yeah, definitely good for him to have his time taken up by someone else, if we’re starting to sound like each other,” she jokes, and John can’t help the way his heart stutters a little, can’t help the way he hopes that means Gale’s time isn’t occupied by someone other than him, at least not in the way John longs to occupy it.

There’s a quiet creak and a shift then as Gale pulls the window open, the hinge installation apparently completed.

“Interrupting our gossip,” Marge says as she turns to look at Gale, and Gale raises his eyebrows at John.

“The window works as an escape route now, if you need it,” he says. John snickers, and Gale smiles at him before turning to Marge. “Should be good now.”

“You’re a doll,” Marge says appreciatively. “You guys hanging around, or running off?”

“We’ve gotta get some groceries for lunch,” Gale tells her, collecting stray screws from the window sill and dropping them into the small tool box he’d brought with him.

“But you’ll be back in again soon, won’t you, Bucky?” Marge addresses him, and John looks at Gale before nodding.

“I won’t be any legal trouble in a few weeks,” he tells her, and she smiles knowingly.

“So I heard,” Marge says, and the window clicks closed just then as Gale leaves his spot. John can’t help but squirm a little bit once Marge’s full attention is back on him, the calculating look in her eyes putting him on edge.

“So what else do the Buckies get up to, other than hiking and running errands?” Marge asks, and John blushes, abruptly feeling much too warm. He really can’t tell if she knows, if he’s being toyed with, and he feels like he’s walking on a ledge trying to tip–toe around the subject.

“Um, we watch movies,” John says, his brain inconveniently wiped of any memories other than ones that involve the two of them in little or no clothing, self preservation skills gone the moment he’s under any sort of pressure. “Or we just… talk, sometimes.”

Marge seems to be considering him for a moment, and John feels like he might as well have just told her he’s become quite well acquainted with Gale’s bed for how obvious he’s sure his flush is, but then Gale clears his throat in the doorway, and John almost flinches out of his chair. He swivels in it to look at Gale, blinking at him like he can telepathically communicate the need to be rescued if he focuses hard enough, but Gale takes one look at him and has the audacity to laugh at his misery.

“Jesus, you interrogating him?” Gale asks Marge, and John’s never wanted to throttle a man more than he does now. “Trying to scare him off?” Gale’s eyes slide back over to him as he leans against the door frame, looking far too amused for how much duress John is under, though there’s a flicker of uncertainty in his gaze.

“Quite the opposite, Buck,” Marge smiles, pushing herself off the desk. “I like him. I think you should bring him around more.”

Yes, John’s brain supplies eagerly. Bring me around, keep me close.

Gale gives John a soft smile before addressing Marge. “I’ll see what I can do. School’s gonna come first, right?” He glances at John.

John nods reluctantly. He doesn’t like thinking about what’s going to happen when school starts; he’s sure he’ll still have plenty of time with Gale on weekends, but he’s also anxious because he already knows how hard he’s going to have to work to keep up with his courses, if high school had been any indication of how his brain operates.

“Well, I’ll let you two go then,” Marge says after a beat, stepping past the desk to give Gale a hug. “Thanks again, Gale.”

“Anytime,” Gale assures her, and John gets up, moving to stand by Gale, accepting Marge’s side–hug too. Gale gestures for John to head out first, but he doesn’t miss the quiet “I wanna talk to you tomorrow” that Marge murmurs to Gale as they head out, and his pulse quickens a bit, hoping his expression doesn’t give away his mild fear as they walk back to Gale’s truck.

He’s a little scared he might’ve said something wrong, or gotten Gale into hot water with his lack of poker face, but Gale’s hand finds the small of his back as they walk, pressing gently, dulling the noise of the worries knocking around John’s head. He likes Marge a lot– he just wants her to like him too, and he doesn’t want to give Gale any more trouble than he already has.

They’re both quiet for a bit as they drive to the grocery store, but Gale gives him a long look at a stoplight before dropping his hand to John’s knee.

“She get in your head?” He teases, but John doesn’t miss the slight waver in his tone, betraying his own worries. He feels bad as much as he feels reassured that he’s not the only one thinking about it, and he smiles at Gale, shaking his head.

“No,” he says. Maybe Gale can see right through his lie, but John sheepishly adds, “I might’ve put some ideas in hers, though.”

Gale gives him a stricken look before turning back to the road as the light goes green. “John.”

“I didn’t say anything!” John defends himself, leaning against the door to properly look at Gale. “I didn’t know what she knew, and then she was asking me things, okay?”

Gale looks as humoured as he does stressed, shaking his head. “She’s gonna tear me a new one tomorrow.”

“So she didn’t know?” John says, horrified at the confirmation. He’d expected as much, but the way her questions had landed, he’d started to doubt it. It’s Gale’s turn to flounder now, looking out the driver’s side window for longer than necessary when he turns into the grocery store lot.

“Only a little bit,” Gale says carefully, and John thinks his ultra–focused hunt for a parking spot is more an effort to avoid his eyes than anything else.

“What’s ‘a little bit?’” John asks, genuinely curious. Stress aside, it’s kind of funny watching Gale squirm for once, especially when it’s about John. He can’t help but grin when Gale gives him a deflated look as he parks.

“She knows you stay with me on weekends,” he says, pulling the keys out of the ignition and leaning back against the bench, scratching at his beard and looking past John. “And that you tried to woo me while almost blackout drunk.”

John’s mouth makes a noise when it pops open, aghast at this new information, and he can tell Gale’s trying not to laugh when he turns back to him. “That’s not– I was not doing that,” John insists. “It doesn’t count anyway if I was drunk.”

“Sure,” Gale nods, easy as ever, and John glares, annoyed at how quickly Gale’s regained the upper hand. “You were very brave,” Gale consoles as he opens the door, and John pouts, climbing out and following after him.

“Liquid courage,” he grumbles, and Gale gives him a smile so fond that John has to try to fight back one of his own.

“After the movie, too?” Gale presses, and John almost stumbles over the sidewalk, caught off guard by the callback.

“That was my survival instinct kicking in,” he protests. He really doesn’t need to relive how terrifying that moment was for him, how much courage he’d had to muster to get through that and to where he is now, grocery shopping with Gale as if they’re like any other couple in the store.

Gale hums, grabbing a basket as they step under the fluorescent lights. “S’that what we’re calling kissing, now?”

John’s face burns furiously; it’s really not an ideal place to be blushing the way he feels himself begin to. Gale tsks sympathetically, squeezing his shoulder before he leads him out of the entryway. “Am I being too mean?” He asks, low and playful. John blinks at him owlishly, stomach flipping, mouth opening and closing uselessly.

He shakes his head, shoving down the urge to hide behind Gale, feeling like surely everyone can look right at him and know exactly what’s going on in his mind. Gale just breathes out a laugh, beckoning John along with a jerk of his chin.

He’s not much help to Gale, not used to the layout of the store, only ever shopping at the one on his end of town, and he thinks he might be going a little bit insane with the way he finds it endearing to witness Gale’s grocery habits. It’s only been a month and John’s thinking about how a shared grocery list would look taped to Gale’s fridge– meanwhile Gale’s closest friend doesn’t even know that John’s anything more than a college kid with a stupid crush.

It’s sobering in a pit–in–his–stomach sort of way, and John swallows hard as he follows at Gale’s heels like a lovesick puppy, mustering up a small smile when Gale glances his way.

John’s abruptly struck with the realization that this is probably going to hurt like hell. He accepts it in the very same breath.

Chapter Text

August 24, 2005

“We could get matching shirts!”

John watches Curt hold up two tees, blinking up at Ken with a cheeky smile, the store’s music blaring far too loud for a quiet Wednesday afternoon at the mall. Ken makes a face as he takes in the designs, amusement clear in his eyes.

“Not sure either of us need to be walking around wearing an ‘I Love My BF’ shirt,” he snorts, and Curt pouts, but he hooks the clothing hangers back on the rack, obviously aware that it wouldn’t be a great idea. Ken squeezes Curt’s side apologetically, glancing around instinctively before pulling him in for a brief hug, and the look on Curt’s face is so entirely lovesick that John feels like he has to avert his eyes, looking around under the guise of making sure no one’s watching the two of them get all sappy.

Curt and Ken are careful with how much affection they show in public, both for the sake of their comfort and to not draw unwanted attention, but John still can’t help the jealousy he feels over the way they get to be out and about together as a couple, even if they don’t outright hold hands or portray themselves as one. It’s nice getting to go out with Gale, getting food or running errands or whatever they get up to, but it makes his heart ache to think that he doesn’t get to have those shared, knowing looks with him the way Curt and Ken do.

It’s such a small detail to be hung up on in the grand scheme of things, but since his less than ideal revelations over the weekend, John’s had a hard time not yearning for something more solid with Gale, and being around a sickeningly sweet couple really hasn’t been helping matters. He likes Ken a lot, and he has a fun time hanging out with him and Curt, but more often than not it leaves John feeling sad about his own situation, wondering if he and Gale will ever be anything more than what they are, if Gale even wants to be more.

It’s not fair to put that on Gale, not when he never signed up for John getting attached or asking for more from him, not when Gale has already made things so much brighter and given John so much of himself and his time. So John’s long since resigned himself to keeping those feelings inside, not wanting to scare Gale away, and not wanting to make Curt feel guilty simply for finding someone he’s happy with. It’s not like talking about it with Curt will fix it anyway.

“I’ve been wanting to see that one,” Curt comments as the three of them pass by some rom–com movie poster upon leaving the shop, hunger pulling them towards the food court.

“Let’s go on Friday,” Ken suggests. “Something fun before you spend a weekend in moving purgatory.”

“It’s a date,” Curt beams, Ken matching his radiance with his own grin. John feels like he needs some sort of shock collar on himself that’ll zap him– or ideally, fry his brain– every time his mind strays to Gale, because immediately all he can think about is going on a movie date with him, deflating at the reminder that it’ll really only ever stay a thought.

John swallows his misery and gags exaggeratedly at the two of them, but he smiles when Curt shoves him, glad he knows he only teases out of love. He really is elated to see his best friend so happy, especially knowing how badly Curt’s ached for something like this, both of them growing up watching their school friends fall in and out of relationships, pining for the opportunity to experience something like that too. John just wishes it could also be his turn to have that chance.

John drags his feet as he turns into his driveway on Thursday night, exhausted after pulling overtime on a shift that had already felt way too long before he’d agreed to tack on the two extra hours. His dad’s truck is in front of the house, but given how late John’s come home, there’s a decent chance he’s gone to bed already, or at least fallen asleep on the couch.

He pauses for a minute on the doorstep, leaning his forehead against the front door and pulling in a deep breath, trying to leave the stress of the day outside; he just wants to sneak some food away to his room and text Gale before he crashes for the night. But he flinches when the sound of shattering glass cuts through the quiet, sharp and unmistakable, from the backyard. His head snaps up, and his heart skips, tension creeping into his chest.

The back gate rattles as another crash sounds from the yard, the echo unnerving in the still night, and John’s pulse quickens, immediately worrying about the neighbours waking up from the racket. They’ve had enough noise complaints called on their house over the years for John to be on edge, and he really doesn’t want to deal with that tonight.

He unlocks the front door, stepping inside and wincing as the sound of another smash fills the entryway. A part of him wants to turn down the hallway, to just leave it, let his dad burn himself out, but he can’t when the very real threat of having to deal with cops is there, looming on top of everything else. He sets his bag down, his steps tentative as he moves through the house toward the sliding glass door that leads to the backyard.

His dad’s voice drifts into the house, low and mumbling, and John steps closer, catching sight of him in the dim light, a shadowy figure swaying near their old table. He’s lined up a row of empty beer bottles, all neatly spaced, and he’s tossing rocks at them with a half–hearted effort that matches his drunken state. Another bottle smashes, glass skittering across the table.

John’s hand hovers over the door handle, trying to work up the courage to go out. He takes a deep breath before stepping into the humid night air, heart pounding in his chest as he hesitates. He watches his dad from the shadows before he inches closer, stuffing his hands into his pockets, hoping the alcohol will slow him down enough to keep this from turning into a fight.

The old man’s already spotted him, his glazed eyes narrowing, and his voice grows louder. “Well, look who it is,” he slurs, stumbling a bit as he leans against the table, clutching another rock. “Back from slavin’ away too, huh? All the fuckin’ same.”

John swallows hard, understanding quickly that this is some work–induced anger, glad at least that something worse hasn’t set him off. He doesn't dare interrupt, letting his dad rant as he hurls another rock at the lined–up beer bottles. It misses, clattering against the fence with a dull thunk.

“No fuckin’ respect,” his dad continues, voice rising. “None of ‘em give a shit. Just like you, John, you don’t listen either. Always coming home late like y’own the place, don’t matter what I say.” His words slur together, and John’s fingers twitch inside his pockets, nervous energy building. It doesn’t matter that the man’s on about nothing, each thought seeming disconnected from the last– in his mind, he’s getting a point across, and John’s not going to try to argue with him.

John shifts his weight from one foot to the other, forcing himself to stay quiet as his dad goes on, even as his stomach churns with anxiety. He doesn’t want to be here, but he can’t just walk away, not if his dad isn’t going to go quiet on his own.

When there’s a short break in his dad’s drunken rambling, John finds his voice, shaky in his attempt to sound calm. “I hear you, I’m sorry, but this is– we don’t want the neighbours calling–”

“Why do you care?” his dad cuts him off, sneering, staggering as he grabs another rock. “You’re hardly ever here. You scared, John? Huh? Worried the neighbours’re gonna rat us out?”

John opens his mouth to respond, but before he can, his dad’s arm swings back, and the rock flies through the air, aimed in John’s direction. His breath catches as it whizzes past, missing him by a few inches, and he flinches hard, hearing the dull thud as it strikes the wall behind him. For a moment, John can’t move, his chest tight with fear. His dad stands there, swaying, glaring at him through the haze of booze. “You gonna run now? Can’t stand your ground like a man?”

John takes a step back at that, muscles tense with the need to flee, realizing this is gonna turn into something more if he stays outside, and that’s exactly what his dad wants. He turns and heads back, trying not to rush, trying not to provoke him any more than he already has, slurred shouts following him as he pulls the door open.

“Yeah, there it is, go ahead John! Always runnin’, just like your ma.”

John slides the door shut behind himself with shaking hands, not waiting around to see if his dad is stumbling after him, grabbing his bag from the hall and slipping away to his bedroom. He locks his door, leaning against it and barely breathing until a few minutes pass without the sound of another bottle smashed in the yard, relieved when it seems like his dad has finally let up.

He swallows down the sick feeling that’s crept up on him, pushing away from his door and quietly unpacking his bag. John’s body is still strung tight with tension, the transition out of fight or flight a slow one, only feeling himself relax a little once he hears the door to his parents’ room slam shut. He calms himself down enough to start getting ready for bed, reminding himself that it could’ve gone worse, but when he gets back to his room after brushing his teeth, he abruptly remembers he’d meant to text Gale when he got home, swearing under his breath as he reaches for his phone.

A ‘Home safe?’ text waits for him from ten minutes ago, and John’s heart pangs with guilt as he quickly types up a reply.

‘sry!! phone died on the way, home now :P’

The lie is reflexive, and probably not that believable, but it feels easier than getting into it, too tired to deal with any other emotions tonight. Gale replies so quickly though that John feels even worse, wondering if he’d left him worrying.

‘Don’t be sorry. Glad you didn't fall asleep on the sidewalk. You going to bed?’

John smiles despite everything, sinking down onto his bed, bracing his elbows on his knees to steady his still–shaky hands.

‘loll. yeah, r u?’

‘Yep, just got into bed. Get some sleep, baby.’

John’s heart flutters, the warmth of his affection fighting to push the last of the fear–adrenaline out of his system.

‘will do, u too. :) x’

John wakes up before his alarm goes off in the morning, stretching sleepily, then tensing up as his ears tune in to the sound of voices down the hall, still on edge from last night. It takes him a few seconds to decipher who they belong to, but when he picks up on his mom’s voice he closes his eyes again, shoving his face into his pillow and letting out a heavy breath, wondering if the news of her planning to come back is what had actually set his dad off.

If she’s back home, that means she’s doing alright, and he’s happy about that, but John also knows how these things go– he’s not a naive kid anymore. She’ll keep busy for a few weeks, driving his dad up the wall with her constant go–go–go, the two of them snowballing into fights, and then she’ll lose the momentum and start falling back into old habits. It’s not hopeless, he knows it never is, but he’s also learned that sometimes it hurts more to have hope than it does to accept the cycle, to distance himself from it all in an effort to protect his heart.

So John pretends nothing is out of the ordinary as he gets ready for his last day at the hotel, hiding in his room until his dad leaves for work, then making conversation with his mom like he hadn’t been crying on her bedroom floor two weeks ago, watching her become a shell of herself. It’s easier than asking how her time at Ethel’s had been and watching her stumble over her words, and he doesn’t want to start something, so he manages to keep things surface–level until he heads to work.

Helen gets teary during their first break together, and John tries his best to cheer her up. He tells her she’s being silly, reminds her that they can still hang out whenever, that she’ll still get to work with Curt, but he has a hard time not getting choked up himself. It feels so strange to say his goodbyes to everyone, even the co–workers he talks to less; the hotel has been his life for the past two years, as mind–numbing and stressful as working there often is. And it really does just feel like all of the change in his life is compounding, so much happening at once, his throat feeling tight with overwhelm at letting go of yet another bit of routine and familiarity to make room for things new and exciting and terrifying.

John has to excuse himself for a breather when a regular finds out it’s his last day and gives him well wishes for his future, telling him how sad they are to see him go– he hadn’t expected it to be so hard to make it through his last shift. Gale messages during his lunch break to see how things are going, and John replies with an obnoxious amount of sad faces, to which Gale tells him that ‘We’ll turn those upside down tomorrow.’

It makes John feel a little better, having that to look forward to, but he’s sad that they won’t have as much time together as usual this weekend. Gale’s celebrating a friend’s birthday at the pub so he won’t be home till late tonight, and John’s planning on getting up early tomorrow to go help Curt move, so they’d decided he might as well not head over to Gale’s till after that so he doesn’t have to go back and forth across town, but John’s regretting the decision now, missing him a little too much.

He regrets it even more when he finally makes it home from work just after eight and opens the door to a house that looks like a tornado’s crashed through it.

“Mom?” He calls out, stepping around an open black garbage bag and almost tripping over a cardboard box.

“In here,” his mom replies from the kitchen, sounding far too cheery for what’s transpired around her. John finds her perched on the counter, deep cleaning the cupboards, dishes stacked on the kitchen table.

“What are you doing?” John asks cautiously, though he’s already surmised that this is the outcome of some sort of ‘fresh start’ mindset, and he’s also already mentally preparing to have to be the one to finish the job when the house inevitably sits in this same state for weeks.

“Cleaning,” she says, as if he hasn’t gathered as much. “We have so much stuff lying around, I thought it would be good to deal with it.”

John nods, not about to challenge her on something that’ll hopefully at least keep her busy for a few days. He tries not to think about how badly his dad’s going to blow a fuse when he gets home to this mess; he doesn’t have the energy to deal with it. He feels emotionally wrung out from his final shift, and he thinks his body’s become used to going to Gale’s on Fridays, because he feels all wrong being at home, stifled as he wades through the piles of clothes in the hall and shuts his bedroom door behind himself.

John tidies a little bit around his room as if to compensate for the chaos outside it, glad his mom has at least left his own space alone, but he can’t rid himself of the ants under his skin, and when he hears his dad’s truck pull into the driveway, he gets his phone out and writes up a message to Curt. He’s sure that Curt’s still going to see a movie with Ken tonight, but maybe plans have changed.

‘up for one last sleepover at yours before moving day? :P’

He gets back a ‘date night, sryyy :( everything ok?’ at the same moment he hears his mom and dad’s voices begin to pick up, and he knocks his head back against the wall, legs curled beneath himself by the window. It’s not fair to be upset, he knows that. It’s melodramatic, but it feels like the universe is letting him have it all at once this week, reminding him of how messy his life is, of how he feels like he’ll always be chasing something like what Curt has with Ken, of how even with so much changing, there are so many things he can’t escape.

He decides to tell Curt that everything’s fine, because he doesn’t want him to worry while he’s meant to be having fun with Ken, and because really, it’s nothing John can’t handle. It’s just that every increasingly loud shout feels like it’s keying up the restless buzz in his chest, piercing through the thin walls as if he’s standing right between the two of them in the living room, and he really needs to get out of his head and out of his house.

He hovers over Gale’s contact, pulling in some deep breaths to make sure he’s not just forgetting to try to ground himself, but his chest still feels just as tight, and so he decides it can’t hurt to see if he can go over tonight instead. It’s not like any guy has ever complained about getting a booty call– and really, that’s all it is, John decides. He wants his hands on Gale and vice versa until that’s all he can think about, until there isn’t space in his head to worry about what they are, or about his parents, or about everything he’s jumping headfirst into next month. It feels like a foolproof plan.

‘how tired are you?’

John sends the message before he can talk himself out of it. The worst Gale can do is say he’s too tired after the pub, and then John will suck it up and shove on his headphones and try to sleep through the fighting. It’s a few minutes before his phone buzzes.

‘Not too tired for you. What’s up?’

He huffs out a breath, running his hand down his face. It really doesn’t help when Gale says stuff like that, because every time he does, John can almost let himself believe that this is more than it is. Sometimes he wishes Gale would just rip off the bandaid and tell him to stop hoping so that John can try to enjoy their hangouts without wishing for more.

‘would u be opposed to having me in ur bed tonight?’

John has to roll over and pull his blanket over his head after hitting send, feeling fake for how bold the message is in comparison to how shaky he’d been while typing and retyping it, almost feeling a little guilty too for trying to hook Gale with it instead of just being honest.

‘Never.’ John can’t help but smile at the quick reply, despite his internal conflict. ‘Not gonna wrap up here till around 10, though. Is that okay?’

If he hurries, he can catch the last bus to that end of town so Gale doesn’t have to go out of his way to pick him up after a long night. He’ll have to wait around for a bit for Gale to get home, but he doesn’t mind; he’s just happy to have an out.

John replies telling Gale that he’ll meet him at his house, and then he gets his things together, hastily shoving his clothes and toothbrush in his bag. He’s pretty sure he could slip out the front door without being noticed in the midst of the arguing, but he doesn’t feel like taking the risk of catching strays and getting dragged into it, so he climbs out of his window instead, sliding it closed behind him. He makes it to the bus stop just in time, finding a seat at the back of the mostly–empty bus, and then he puts his headphones on and tries to zone out for the hour–long ride ahead of him.

It doesn’t work. If anything, the frustration and restlessness have only manifested themselves further by the time he gets off the bus, a tangled web of confusing feelings stretched from one side of his ribcage to the other, wound hopelessly tight around his heart. John knows the one thing that could unravel it, but he also knows he can’t have it, so as he walks the last ten minutes to Gale’s, he resigns himself to settling for the next best thing.

Gale’s truck is in the driveway when John makes it to his house, but his bike isn’t, so John sits himself down on the mat and leans back against the door, closing his eyes and letting his music play. He picks absently at the corner of the wooden door frame, trying to breathe evenly, working to shove all his stress down deep so he can slip past Gale’s far–too–attuned radar. The summer air feels muggy and thick, even this late in the evening, and John’s already craving the chill of the air–con, the way it’ll contrast with the warmth of Gale’s body; it feels like his insides are trying to crawl up through his throat when he pictures it, his need so strong that it threatens to strangle him.

The ground rumbles beneath John before the headlights of Gale’s bike flit across his closed eyelids, and he suddenly feels rooted to the bristly doormat, arms leaden as he pulls his headphones off and shoves them into his bag. He fights to settle the shake of his hands as he listens to Gale cut the engine, boots scuffing against concrete when he climbs off his bike, keys jingling. John’s heart thumps as Gale’s footsteps draw near, and he steps into John’s line of sight with a quiet sound of surprise. John only realizes then that he hadn’t thought to text and let him know he’d arrived.

“Hey,” Gale greets him carefully, like he’s not sure what to expect from him, and John hates it, hates that he’s somehow become so predictable in his instability, hates that he keeps letting Gale in to see it.

“Hi,” John blinks up at him, accepting Gale’s outstretched hand, wincing as he helps him to his feet. Gale gives him a quick once–over, concern palpable, and John wants to snuff out the questions before they can even start.

“How long were you waiting?” Gale asks, and John moves closer, feeling like he’s being drawn in by gravity.

“Not long,” he lies, gaze jumping from Gale’s eyes down to his lips.

“Why the change of plans?” Gale continues, his hand finding John’s side. John looks at him for a beat before winding his fingers into the front of Gale’s shirt and pulling him into a kiss, effectively cutting off his inquiries.

It takes a moment for Gale to catch up, but his other hand settles on the back of John’s neck as he leans into the kiss, and John feels everything in his head shudder to a halt, groaning at the smell of Gale’s cologne and the lingering tobacco from the guys at the pub.

“Missed you,” John breathes against his lips, and it’s not like it’s a lie. Gale relaxes further at his words, and John feels relieved, having successfully masked his anxious jitters as heated impatience. Gale fumbles with his keys, trying to unlock the door without breaking the kiss, his lips warm and soft against John's, beard rough against his chin. The metallic jingle of the keys is the only sound that permeates John’s heartbeat in his temples as he presses himself closer, his hands tightening their grip on Gale's shirt. It takes a few seconds for Gale to get the door open, but John is thankful for every bit of distraction, focusing solely on the heat of Gale’s body, the electric pull between them.

The click of the door barely registers before they stumble inside, tangled together. John grabs at Gale’s jacket, his shirt, his arms, pulling him closer, scared that if he moves away for even a second, the heat between them will wane enough for Gale to sense something is off. John hears the door shut, and they both kick their shoes off blindly, nearly tripping over them in their impatience, too caught up in each other to care.

Gale groans softly against John’s lips, his fingers threading into John’s hair as he presses him back against the wall of the hallway, their kiss deepening, hungry and needy. It’s fast, messy, all heat and impatience, and John's hands tug desperately at Gale's jacket, trying to get it off. He lets out a frustrated noise, his lips never leaving Gale's.

“Off,” John huffs, insistent, and Gale breathes out a laugh against his mouth, pulling back just enough to shrug the jacket off his shoulders, tossing it somewhere behind him. John's hands are on him immediately, fingers sliding under the hem of Gale's t–shirt, feeling the warmth of his skin, the firmness of his muscles. He can feel the way Gale's breath stutters at his touch, the way his body responds so instinctively, and it drives John forward, needing more than he can possibly have.

Gale’s hands move to John’s waist, thumbs brushing bare skin where his shirt has ridden up, and the touch sends sparks skittering up John’s spine. He’s losing himself in it, in the fire of Gale’s mouth on his, in the slow, deliberate slide of Gale’s hands over his sides, tugging his shirt up. John lets him pull it over his head, the cool air hitting his skin for only a moment before Gale is on him again, pressing him back against the wall, chest to chest, the heat between them sweltering. John lets out a shaky breath as Gale’s lips trail down his jaw to his neck, kissing, nipping gently, keening at the sensation.

John's fingers fumble for the hem of Gale’s shirt, impatiently yanking it up, and Gale helps him, their bodies disconnecting for a split second as he pulls it off, discarding it with the same carelessness. John's breath catches in his throat as their bare chests press together, the feeling of Gale’s skin against his own making his heart leap, and his hands find Gale’s back, pressing into the curve of his spine as though he can keep him anchored against him with sheer willpower alone.

They move through the dark hallway, not breaking apart for longer than a breath, John clinging to Gale as they stumble into his bedroom. John barely gives Gale a chance to catch his footing before pulling him down on top of him, both of them falling back onto the bed in one fluid motion, mouths still pressed together.

Gale groans again, a sound that vibrates through John’s entire body, making him arch up into him, desperate for more. John’s hands slide down Gale’s back, blunt nails scraping lightly against his skin as their hips align, the friction between them stoking flames deep in his gut. It’s intoxicating– Gale’s weight pressing him down into the mattress, the heady mix of heat and pressure, the way their bodies slot together. John's head spins, drowning in all of it.

They grind against each other, hips moving in sync, and John gasps against Gale’s mouth, his breaths coming in short, ragged bursts. Gale's hands slide over his chest, gripping his sides, his thighs, pulling him closer. The desperation in Gale’s touch mirrors his own, and John can’t think, can’t focus on anything except the need that’s curling through his veins, setting every nerve ending on fire.

Gale’s lips move back to his neck, kissing and mouthing down to the hollow of it, and John lets out a low moan, his hands grabbing at Gale’s arms. It feels good, so good, and for a moment, John lets himself believe this’ll be enough, that he can lose himself in Gale’s body, in the heat and touch and sensation, and push everything else down.

But even as his body responds, even as he whines and rolls his hips up against Gale’s, the ache in his chest lingers, gnawing at the edges of his mind. He wants more. He wants all of Gale, not just his body, not brief moments where he can pretend this is more than it is, not late nights alone in his bedroom, holding his breath waiting for Gale to call things off. John knows Gale cares about him, obviously– he’s never felt so safe, so adored. But he wants to fall fully into him, to be able to trust that Gale wants him around for more than the summer, to put a name to what they have, as juvenile as he feels for thinking it.

But he can’t ask for any of that. He can’t tell Gale what he really wants, because he feels certain that if he does, he’s going to push Gale away and everything is going to fall apart, and he’d rather have this than nothing.

John squeezes his eyes shut, trying to block out the onslaught of heart–wrenching thoughts, to focus on the feel of Gale’s hands on him, the way their bodies move together. But the knot in his chest tightens, and no matter how hard he tries to shove it down, the pressure builds, squeezing down on his heart. It’s difficult to fill his lungs properly, his chest constricting painfully.

Gale's lips find his again, but John's reciprocation falters, mouth trembling against Gale's. He tries to keep kissing him, tries to push through it, but the hurt is too much. All at once, tears are burning in his eyes, spilling over before he can stop them. His breath shudders as he fights to hold it all in, struggling to keep it together, but a small, choked noise escapes.

Gale goes still.

John’s heart races, eyes snapping open and panic surging through him as Gale pulls back slightly, lifting himself up onto his forearms, hovering over him. The cool air between them feels like a wall that’s abruptly built up, a reminder of the distance John’s been trying so hard to ignore, and he’s convinced this is going to be the final straw for Gale.

“John?” Gale’s voice is quiet and soft, brows furrowed in concern. His hand comes up to rest against John’s cheek, his thumb brushing over the tears that have slipped out. “Whoa, hey,” he murmurs when John closes his eyes, turning his face away.

“Sorry,” John whispers, his voice breaking. “I’m sorry, we can keep going, it’s okay.” His hands clutch at Gale’s arms, trying to pull him back down, trying to pretend everything is okay even though he knows it’s futile at this point. When Gale doesn’t move, John lolls his head back over and opens his eyes, and even through the blur of his tears, he can see the stricken look on Gale’s face.

“What are you talking about, baby?” Gale breathes out, hushed, sitting back and cupping John’s face in both hands. “What’s going on?”

John just keeps blinking, trying to clear away his tears, heart lodged uncomfortably in the center of his throat. He’s certain he’s watching the beginnings of everything coming apart.

“Give me something, honey,” Gale says gently. “Did I do something?” There’s so much in his voice– concern, patience, that quiet, steady strength that always threatens to unravel John’s carefully constructed defenses. John shakes his head, biting down hard on his lip to stop it from trembling. He can’t answer. He doesn’t want to answer, because the truth is too real; he doesn’t want Gale to know how badly he’s been spiraling, how badly he’s been hurting. He doesn’t want to ruin whatever this is by admitting he can’t handle it.

But the tears keep coming no matter how hard he tries to stop them. His chest shudders, and all the emotions he’s been trying to bury rush to the surface, breaking through the dam he’s been holding up.

“I don’t–” John starts, but his voice cracks, and he can’t finish the sentence. His body shakes beneath Gale, skin crawling at the feeling of crying in front of him again, and he feels small and fragile and exposed in a way that terrifies him. The guilt is just as all–consuming as his fear, knowing that Gale doesn’t deserve having to deal with this, coming home from a nice night out only to have John make a mess of things.

“Oh, sweet thing,” Gale softens, eyes searching John’s face for a moment longer before he shifts, sitting up and pulling John with him, wrapping his arms around him and holding him close. In his panic, John instinctively tries to push himself away, every muscle in his body tense with the urge to run from this, like he can avoid the inevitable if he never has to talk about it. But Gale holds him firm, and it only makes John cry harder, that Gale knows what he needs before John even knows he needs it.

He quickly gives up the fight, sagging against Gale’s body with a defeated sob, squeezing his eyes shut again as he lets Gale cradle his head to his chest. He feels on the verge of hyperventilating as he clings to Gale, crying it all out, accepting that there’s no hiding it now; it’s too late to backtrack.

“It’s okay,” Gale soothes, petting John’s hair, rubbing his back, his touches gentle and steady. “Just breathe, baby, ‘m right here.”

But that’s half the problem– he’s here now, but how long until he gets fed up, or until he realizes this isn’t what he wants? How long until he decides the hook–ups aren’t worth the moments like these, the constant fluctuation of John’s emotions, his insecurities and lack of experience? The hardest part is that John gets it, that he understands why he can be too much, so he doesn’t even feel justified in asking Gale to stick around.

And yet here Gale sits, patient and unwavering, pressing his lips to the top of John’s head and murmuring sweet reassurances that John doesn’t feel like he deserves, no matter how much he craves them. John presses his face to Gale’s chest like he believes he can burrow inside if he tries hard enough, arms tight around Gale’s middle, afraid to let go as his sobs even out to quiet shudders, wet inhales, shaky sniffles, his throat and chest aching.

It feels like half the night has passed by the time Gale carefully pulls back, though John’s sure it’s probably not even midnight. His eyes are painfully puffy, nose clogged and head pounding, eyelashes wet and clumped together with tears as he avoids Gale’s eyes, letting his own slide shut as Gale brushes his palms over the dampness on his cheeks.

“Let me get you some water, baby,” Gale says, hushed, gently tugging at John’s arms. John lets him detach himself, dropping his hands into his lap, swallowing as his throat tightens again. He feels the mattress dip as Gale moves, and he cracks his eyes open, heart thudding as he watches Gale stand.

“Don’t leave,” John shakily blurts out, and Gale stops, one hand still on the mattress.

“I’ll be right back, I promise,” he says softly. John opens his mouth, then closes it, shaking his head. His bottom lip trembles as he watches Gale work out what he means, watches his eyebrows knit together, watches him struggle to find his footing.

“I’m not– where the hell’d you get that idea from, Johnny?” He asks, so careful it’s almost a whisper, like he can’t quite believe John would think anything like that. And really, John knows it’s not fair of him to think it, to put that assumption on Gale when Gale hasn’t done anything to make him believe he will leave, but the fear grips him so strong that he doesn’t even know where to begin to go about calming it.

“I know I’m a lot,” John starts, or tries to, words getting caught in his throat again. Gale shakes his head immediately, leaning back against the mattress and reaching for John’s hands, pulling him to his knees.

“None of that,” he murmurs, firm but gentle, and John lets himself be coaxed off the bed, swaying unsteadily. Gale squeezes his hands, reeling John in against his side and guiding him to the kitchen in the dark, getting them both water before steering John back to bed, mercifully leaving the lights off.

“Let’s get these off,” Gale crooks two fingers in the belt loop of John’s shorts, and John obediently pulls at the button with shaky hands and does as he’s told as Gale sets the glasses on the bedside tables. Gale folds the blanket back, propping the pillows up against the headboard, placing his hand on John’s lower back as he climbs into bed.

He waits until John’s settled before lowering the blanket back into place and passing John his glass. “I’m just gonna lock up quick, but I want half of this gone when I’m back, alright?” he prompts gently, running a hand through John’s hair, and John nods, thankful to be given some sort of direction, relaxing a little with a task to focus on.

He diligently rehydrates while he watches Gale leave, listening to the sound of the front door locking before Gale returns, slipping out of his jeans and rounding the bed, crawling in next to John and nodding approvingly at his half–emptied glass.

“Good job,” he murmurs, and even in the heaviness of it all, John preens, glad to have done something right. Gale opens his arms in invitation, and John can’t put the glass down fast enough, squishing so close that he’s halfway into Gale’s lap when he feels his strong arms envelop him. Gale squeezes tight, burying his face in John’s hair, breathing in deep, and John mimics the motion, dragging in a shaky breath of his own.

They sit quietly for a minute, the dark of the room and the warmth of Gale’s skin easing the ache in John’s chest, giving his brain time to recalibrate before Gale speaks.

“I know you’ve gotta be up early tomorrow,” Gale says, keeping his voice soft, “and normally I’d say we should sleep on this.” He trails his fingers along John’s arm, and John can tell he’s choosing his words carefully. “But I don’t think I want either of us going to bed without resolving whatever’s going on up here.”

He brings his hand up to John’s head, gently tapping two fingers against his temple. John can’t fault him for that; he thinks he’d drive himself insane if their roles were reversed, and Gale expected him to go to bed without finding out what had spurred on an emotional breakdown. So John nods, and then he tries to collect his thoughts, but he can’t quite figure out where to start, or how, still terrified of voicing any of them out loud.

“Did something happen?” Gale asks, throwing him a line, and John shakes his head.

“Not really,” he mumbles. “Was just hard, having my last day, ‘nd my mom came back home this morning.” Gale makes a sympathetic noise, and John’s grateful he doesn’t admonish him for not telling him sooner; he hadn’t wanted to bother Gale about it, knowing he had a busy day ahead of him. “Think it just made everything else come up too.”

Gale drags his fingers through John’s hair, and John has half the mind to ask him to stop, because it makes his eyes go so droopy that he thinks he could fall asleep sitting up like this, but it feels too nice. “What’s ‘everything else,’ hm?” Gale pushes him on, and John chews on the inside of his cheek, realizing he can’t stall anymore.

He pulls in a breath, focusing on the heat of Gale’s skin against his cheek, the steady beat of his heart beneath his ear. “I’m scared that… that all of this is temporary.” John hesitates, then adds, barely above a whisper, “That we’re temporary.”

“John,” Gale says softly, sounding pained, but John continues, not ready to hear him confirm his fears, or to try to accept his pacifications.

“I know it’s not even been that long since we met,” he says, “and I know you didn’t sign up for any of this. I didn’t mean to– to get attached.” John pauses, frustrated with how hard it is to grab for the right words amidst the flurry of doubts and fears clouding his brain.

“I thought I could be fine with casual– I mean, I still can be, if that’s what you want,” he quickly amends, though he’s sure Gale knows he’s lying through his teeth. “I just need to know, because I,” John swallows hard, half–convinced his heart is going to beat out of his chest. “I really like you.”

Gale’s gone so still beneath him that John would wonder if he’s fallen asleep, if not for the hand still working through his hair. It kills him to be patient, to not ask Gale to say something, but John tries his best to give Gale the same patience that he’s been shown, letting him think, ignoring the way he feels like he might be on the verge of tears again.

Finally, Gale says, “John… I don’t think this is what you want.”

Well, that’s not what John expects. He’s been mentally preparing to be told it’s not what Gale wants, trying to come to terms with that and accept it before the words even leave Gale’s mouth, but this? He hasn’t rehearsed anything to say in this scenario.

John can’t help but pull away, sitting up to look at Gale properly, mouth parted in surprise both at how thrown off he is, and at Gale’s wild assumption. Gale almost looks reluctant to meet his gaze, but he does, hand warm when it slides down to rest on John’s waist.

“You were right when you said you don’t really know anything about me,” Gale says, and John winces, shaking his head.

“Gale, I didn’t mean–”

“Just listen, baby,” Gale gently squeezes his hip, and John quiets, albeit unenthusiastically, and Gale smiles a little at his impatience. “It’s not fair to rope you into something more when you don’t have all the pieces needed to make a proper decision,” he continues. “And I know that’s on me, for letting this go anywhere without having a conversation about that, but I didn’t want you to feel pressured.”

“Well, I don’t,” John interjects, and Gale breathes out a laugh.

“I know that now,” he assures him. “I’m happy you were the one to bring this up, I’m just sorry that it had to come up the way it did.” Gale brings his other hand up to John’s face, and John reflexively leans his cheek into his palm before it even makes full contact, face heating up at the fond look in Gale’s eyes.

“Do you like me? Like that?” John asks shyly, feeling silly for his phrasing, but he doesn’t know how else to talk about something like this, miles out of his depth. Gale looks like he might eat him alive, expression gone so soft that John has to close his eyes.

“Course I do, baby,” Gale says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, but John’s heart doesn’t get the memo, racing so fast he’s sure Gale must be able to hear it. “I just…” Gale goes quiet for a few seconds, long enough for John to open his eyes again, finding blue ones still on him.

Gale looks caught, conflicted, unsure of how to proceed; it’s comforting to not be alone in those feelings, at the very least. He eyes John cautiously, as if he can tell how ready John is to protest whatever he’s about to say. “You’re starting this whole new chapter of your life next month. You’re gonna meet so many people your age– I don’t want you to be held back, or to feel stuck with me. You deserve to experience everything.”

John does indeed open his mouth to argue, and Gale slides his hand from his cheek to his mouth, covering it with a laugh. “Wait,” he insists, and John glowers. “You’re also still young–” That gets his palm nipped, and Gale snorts as he drops his hand. “Yeah, didn’t think you’d like that one. But you are, John, and I’m saying that as someone who–”

Gale seems to catch himself off guard, but he continues on after a breath. “–as someone who was also with someone older, when I was your age. There’s so much you don’t know still.”

“You can teach me,” John says coyly, lips curling up into a smile, being purposefully obtuse because he doesn’t like the direction this is going– though Gale’s admission gets his attention, a glimpse into his past. Gale gives him a look.

“That’s not what I mean,” he says, and John huffs, dropping his forehead down onto Gale’s shoulder. “You have so much to experience– you don’t know what you want yet. A little bit of fun is one thing, but dating is different when you’re young.” Dating. John knows he’s focusing on the wrong things, but hearing Gale talk about them dating makes his heart skip a beat.

“So?” John lifts his head. “When’s the cut–off then, for being ‘too young?’ Do I get to know what I want when I’m 25? 30?” He’s not trying to be argumentative, but he can’t imagine Gale being a bad decision in any form, not when all he’s brought to his life– minus the heartache of pining– is pure sunlight.

“I get what you’re saying,” John adds, wanting Gale to know he’s taking him seriously. “But I’m really happy when I’m with you, and it’s not like this has to be some big decision.” He stops then, feeling a flicker of anxiety, not meaning to steamroll ahead like this.

“But– if you don’t want us to be– if you don’t want more than this, you can say that,” John says quietly. “I know what you mean, what points you’re making, but I also don’t want you to feel like you have to make them instead of just, y’know, telling me, if you want things to stay the same. I can handle it.”

Honestly, he’s not so sure he can, but the last thing he wants to do is make Gale feel pressured into anything. He knows how much Gale cares about him– that’s indisputable regardless of where this conversation goes– and he doesn’t want Gale moving forward with something just because he knows it’ll make John happy.

Gale shakes his head. “That’s not it at all.” John wants to bask in the reassurance, but Gale still looks hesitant, like he’s looking for reasons to talk John out of this, like leaning into it is too scary.

“Are you scared?” John realizes abruptly, staring. Gale seems disarmed, blinking back at him, hand flexing on John’s waist.

“I’m… yeah, a little, I guess,” he says carefully. “I don’t really– I haven’t been with someone for a while.” John can’t imagine that, not with Gale. He wants to know why, if it’s by choice, but he shelves those questions for another time, waiting for Gale to gather himself. “I don’t wanna mess you up, or do something wrong. I’m scared that my judgement’s clouded, or biased, because my first relationship with a man mirrored this, us, in some ways.”

John thinks for a moment, head reeling with curiosity, trying to stay focused on the topic at hand. His heart hurts knowing Gale doubts himself like that; he wishes he could bottle up everything good and pure that Gale makes him feel and transfer those emotions over so he can understand how secure John feels around him.

“Well, I’m not scared of that,” John says sincerely, unthinkingly looping his pinky through Gale’s where his other hand rests on the blanket. “Not one bit.”

Gale smiles, almost seeming a little bashful at John’s honesty. “No?” He asks, and John shakes his head insistently. “What are you scared of, then?” He unhooks their pinkies and slots his fingers with John’s instead, squeezing gently.

It’s John’s turn to hesitate. It would be easy enough to give Gale some surface level answer, to not risk anything else tonight, but he decides that he owes Gale the same openness he’s giving John, and if there’s ever a time to lay things out on the table, it’s now.

“I think… mostly of being too much. Or too little,” John says quietly, like if he says it loudly, it’ll come true. Like if Gale knows where his insecurities lie, he’ll suddenly notice them, and realize that yeah, John is too much to handle, or that he isn’t enough for someone like Gale.

“You could never be either of those things, baby,” Gale says just as insistently as John had, running his thumb over John’s palm. “Have I ever made you feel like that?”

John shakes his head. “No.”

“Then all I ask is you tell me if I do. Talk to me, when you start overthinking,” Gale holds his gaze, and John feels a bit like crying again at his sincerity. “I’ll never be upset, or bothered, or whatever your pretty head might cook up. Okay?”

“Okay,” John nods, insides long since turned to goo. He watches Gale with hearts–for–eyes, feeling something buried deep in the mess of his chest, something he thought he’d given up hope on years ago, begin to mend itself a little.

“And I don’t want you to be scared to change your mind,” Gale adds, “if your life starts to change and you realize you want something different.”

“I won’t,” John says stubbornly. He believes it more than he’s ever believed in anything. It’s not like he’s thinking about forever, but he’s certainly not thinking about a summer fling either, not now that he knows Gale isn’t; John can’t imagine even looking at anyone else, not when Gale’s everything radiant and golden and soft and good.

“Marge said something about me being good for you, at the pub,” John remembers, smiling a little, omitting the bit about him ‘livening Gale up.’

“Did she, now?” Gale makes a face, failing to mask his amusement, and John’s smile grows.

“She did,” he nods, watching their joint hands as he flips them over, then back again, antsy in his vulnerability. “But it’s the other way around, too.” John looks up at Gale, finding the same softness in his eyes that he feels throughout his whole body right now. “Life’s been a lot better with you in it.”

John hears Gale breathe in deep at his words, and for a long moment, Gale just stares, like he’s memorizing the sight of him. And then Gale moves, fast, as if he’s too overwhelmed to hold back. He tackles John down onto the bed, playful but firm, making John squeak in surprise as his back hits the blankets. Gale hovers above him, a smile spreading across his face, his hands braced on either side of John's head.

“You’re killing me,” he mutters, voice husky and full of affection, his body pressing close. John flushes, his nerves melting into something lighter as he squirms beneath Gale, and he giggles when Gale dips down and kisses his cheek, beard grazing John’s skin. Gale presses a kiss to John’s other cheek, then another to his jaw, and John’s laughter turns soft and breathless as Gale trails kisses down to his neck. Every touch burns like a flame lapping at him, making his skin tingle, and soon John’s giggles turn into little whines as Gale’s lips travel lower, down his collarbone and across his bare chest.

“Gale,” John murmurs, voice small and a bit pleading, his fingers tangling in the blanket as Gale’s mouth continues its slow journey. He gasps when Gale’s lips brush over his stomach, the teasing and tenderness almost too much with all the happy chemicals knocking around his body.

Gale hums against his skin, his warm breath making John shiver. “What?” He sounds amused, like he’s enjoying John’s reactions far too much. John squirms again, cheeks burning as he feels the tickling sensation coil low in his stomach.

“Kiss me,” he says, sounding both shy and demanding, his voice catching a little on the words. His fingers find their way into Gale’s hair, threading through the soft strands, needing something to hold onto, needing to feel him close. Gale looks up at him, his blue eyes shining with warmth, and John’s heart flutters.

“I am,” he teases softly, but, as if unable to resist, Gale moves back up and finally presses his lips to John’s. The kiss is everything– soft, slow, careful, and Gale’s lips move gently, but there’s a deep, undeniable feeling of something more behind every movement. John melts into it, curling his fingers tighter in Gale’s hair, pulling him closer, feeling like he could dissolve into the kiss and still never get enough.

Lucky. It’s the only word John can think of as Gale kisses him, sweet and slow, like he has all the time in the world. He feels so incredibly lucky– for everything. For Gale, for this moment, for the way his heart feels full to bursting, emotions threatening to spill over. He doesn’t know what he’s done to end up here, if this is the universe’s way of balancing things out, if Gale’s some sort of angel that’s been sent into his life, but he knows he’s so very lucky.

When they break apart, John is breathless, eyes half–lidded, his chest rising and falling quickly. Gale’s thumb brushes his cheek, the touch featherlight, and John’s heart swells even more.

“Think you’re the one being good for me,” Gale murmurs, his voice a low, affectionate rumble. And if his touch and words alone didn’t have John flushed, the look in his eyes makes him feel that same warmth spread right through his body again. He blinks up at Gale, equal parts sleepy and wanting more, but Gale makes the responsible decision for him, even as he watches John with darkened eyes.

“We’re going to bed,” he says firmly, sitting back, dragging his hands down John’s body as he goes. “We can talk more when you get back from Curt’s.”

John lets out a soft whine at that, more petulant than serious, and his body betrays him anyway, limp with exhaustion. Gale laughs quietly, leaning down to press one last kiss to John’s cheek before pulling back, his weight shifting just enough to reach over John to the nightstand.

“You’re gonna be so tired tomorrow,” he murmurs, brushing John’s hair back as he leans across him, his fingers hovering over the alarm clock. John watches through sleepy eyes, biting back a yawn as Gale sets the alarm for the morning. “All the other stuff can wait.”

John’s eyelids are already drooping as Gale shuffles them both around, pulling the blankets up and getting the pillows back into place.

“Feel okay now?” Gale asks as he settles down beside him, and John nods tiredly. His eyes hurt, tender from crying, but the nauseous dread is gone, the tightly–wound knot in his stomach unravelled, and everything feels a little less scary now that he’s said it out loud.

“Do you?” John checks, a bit of the guilt returning now that the panicky feelings have left him enough for his brain to sober up, eyes trained on Gale as he gets comfortable. Gale’s hand finds his waist, and he smiles softly, nodding against the pillow. “I do. We’re on the same page, baby.”

Gale moves closer, pulling John into the curve of his body, enveloping him in warmth. He holds him close until they’re both settled, arm wrapped securely around John’s middle, bodies pressed together under the blankets, and John burrows against Gale’s chest, letting the steady rise of it soothe him as sleep tugs at the edges of his consciousness.

Gale shifts one last time, adjusting until he’s comfortable too, his arm tightening around John in a protective hold. And with that, they fall into a peaceful silence, the soft sounds of their breathing filling the room. It doesn’t take long before John’s eyes get heavy, his body sinking deeper into the warmth of Gale’s embrace, his thumb absently stroking over John’s back, and John’s thoughts finally quiet as sleep overtakes him.

Every bone in John’s body protests when he rolls over to turn the eight a.m. alarm off, aiming blindly for the button, eyes still shut against the sun, but worse is when he turns back over to cling to Gale for a little longer, only to find his side of the bed empty. That gets him to drag his eyes open, sleepily sitting up and staring at the closed bedroom door, listening. He can hear muffled sounds coming from the kitchen, and as much as he’d love to laze around in bed for a bit longer before the hectic day ahead, he craves to be near Gale.

So John reluctantly drags himself out of bed, heading for the dresser to steal a pair of Gale’s sweatpants, not wanting to make the walk of shame in his boxers to where he’d dropped his backpack in the hallway last night. When he cracks the bedroom door open, he can hear the radio playing quietly in the kitchen, guiding him to Gale as if his heart doesn’t already feel the tug in his direction anytime they’re apart. His eyes feel puffy when he smiles to himself at the sight of Gale already halfway through making breakfast, chest squeezing at the realization that Gale had gotten up before him to make sure he’d eat before he leaves.

Gale turns just as John shuffles up behind him, winding his arms around his middle and pressing his cheek to his shoulder, still making himself shy every time he initiates closeness like this, no matter how much he’d like to be stuck to Gale’s side every minute.

“Morning,” Gale greets him, sliding the pan off the heat. “How dead are you?”

John breathes out a laugh, closing his eyes and rubbing his cheek against Gale’s shirt, squeezing his arms tight. “So dead.”

He hears Gale click the stove off before he turns and gets his own arms around John, running his hands over John’s bare skin, pressing a kiss to his hair. “You’re a good friend to Curt,” he murmurs, and John makes a quiet noise against his chest.

“Yeah, and he still owes me for the pub,” he gripes, then pauses, thinking about where he is now because of that night. “Maybe I owe him for that, actually.”

Gale hums softly, digging his thumbs into John’s waist before sliding them back up his body, cupping John’s face and pulling him away from his chest to look at him. “Cute,” he mumbles, and John closes his eyes reflexively as his face warms. “Every time, huh?” Gale teases him for his automatic flush, laughing a little as he cradles John’s head against his chest, letting go of him with his other arm so he can go back to plating their food.

Breakfast is so good that John has half the mind to tuck himself under the table and give Gale a more enthusiastic thank you for it, and he might’ve, if he was braver and not required for moving assistance at nine. Instead, he pulls Gale into a long, sweet kiss in the entryway before they head out, Gale having insisted on driving John so he wouldn’t have to rush so quickly through breakfast to catch the bus, and he feels dizzy with the way Gale presses back into the kiss hard.

“Bike?” Gale asks once they step outside, and John nods dazedly, smile staying put in the darkness of his helmet as he climbs on behind Gale, sliding his arms around his waist and curling his fingers into the front of his shirt. John guides him once they get to his neighbourhood, directing him a few streets over until they’re pulling up alongside Curt’s house, and John groans to himself when he sees Curt’s older brother Mark’s car is already there, ready for the ribbing he’s going to get for how he’s showing up.

He hands Gale his helmet with a smile, pushing his hair back out of his face. “Thanks for the ride,” he says shyly, and Gale smiles back as he clips his helmet to the bike.

“Course. Just let me know when you’re done.”

John nods, watching as Gale’s eyes slide past him, a look of amusement settling in. He turns to follow his gaze and finds Curt waving at the both of them with a shit–eating grin from his bedroom window upstairs, Mark stood next to him looking as confused as Curt does delighted when Gale gives an easy wave back. John turns away when Curt makes an exaggerated kissy face at him, flushing as Gale snickers at his mortification.

“Better not keep ‘em waiting,” Gale says. “I’ll see you later, baby.”

“Alright.” John nods, reluctantly stepping away from Gale, waving goodbye before turning and walking up the driveway. His heart does a little flip when he hears Gale start the engine back up, cheeks hurting with the effort it takes to not smile at the sound of the motor as Gale pulls off down the street.

The second John opens the door, he hears Curt thumping his way down the stairs, and he resigns himself to suffering through the incoming interrogation, at least until he hears the voices of Curt’s mom and sisters in the living room. He shakes his head when Curt rounds the corner, gesturing down the hall, and Curt promptly snaps his mouth shut, but he grabs John’s hand and yanks him right back upstairs with him.

“I thought you weren’t staying at Gale’s place tonight,” Curt says as soon as he shoves his bedroom door closed behind John, not even giving John a chance to take in the cardboard box city he’s got going on.

“Who the fuck is Gale?” Mark asks, moving away from the window, and Curt cackles.

“John’s boyfriend,” he teases. John thinks Curt’s lucky he’s so nice, because it’s bold of him to joke about this when John has the ability to spill the beans about Ken, but Curt knows he wouldn’t dare. It’s not that Mark isn’t cool about that stuff– Curt has said he wouldn’t care, and Mark’s always been the most relaxed out of everyone in his family. But it’s still nerve wracking to introduce a new partner, let alone without having to come out in the process, so John doesn’t blame Curt for not rushing into it.

“Not my boyfriend,” John swats at him, though he throws himself for a loop with his own denial, realizing he really has no idea where he and Gale stand after last night’s conversation. For once the thought doesn’t make him anxious, knowing that regardless of what they might call it, they both want the same thing– he just hopes that Gale doesn’t overthink things and come to his senses by the time he picks John up.

“Hope not,” Mark grumbles protectively, and Curt raises his eyebrows at John, knowing very well how much worse what they’ve actually been up to is than simply dating. He ignores Curt, turning to Mark.

“You’re sworn to secrecy anyway,” John insists, not wanting to take the chance of word somehow getting back to his own family, and Mark gives him a salute.

“My lips are sealed about your not–boyfriend,” he assures him as he crouches next to one of the boxes with his roll of masking tape. “He looks like he’s, like, 30 anyway.”

John makes no move to correct him and tack on the extra five years, and mercifully, neither does Curt. He’s sure Mark doesn’t want to hear about his biker escapades any more than John wants to divulge them and be subjected to secondhand big brother energy, so he’s content to keep his mouth shut until he and Curt are alone.

Curt seems eager to make that happen though, shoving a box into John’s arms the first chance he gets, wrestling with one himself as he leads John downstairs. Once they’re out by Mark’s car, fitting the boxes into the back and groaning when they realize they’re going to have to make more than one trip to and from the apartment, Curt presses for more.

“Why’d you end up going over last night? Did he booty call you?” Curt gives him a cheeky smile, and John makes a face.

“Other way around,” he says, and Curt gasps, pretending to be scandalized. “John Egan,” he chides, and John rolls his eyes.

“Didn’t happen anyway,” he says, and Curt leans against the trunk with a questioning noise, waiting patiently. “I kinda– well, a lot of shit happened,” John skips over the part about him crying mid–makeout, not quite ready to reopen that wound yet. “And we ended up having a big talk.”

“The talk?” Curt asks, eyes going wide, and John nods.

“The talk,” he confirms. “I told him that I like him–” Curt snorts, mumbling a “no shit” and getting a shove from John, “–and that I wanted more. And, like, there’s a lot of stuff to talk about still, I guess, but we both feel the same, so.”

Curt nods encouragingly. “Holy shit, you did it,” he says, and John smiles a little.

“I did, yeah.”

“How do you feel now?” Curt asks, and John feels the butterflies return to his stomach as soon as he really thinks about it, running a hand down his face. “Good,” he says honestly, watching Curt’s smile mirror his own. “I don’t really know what’s gonna happen, but I’m just happy that it’s all out there now, y’know?”

Curt nods. “Are you going back over later?”

“Yeah, we’re gonna talk more then,” John says, still a little nervous about it, even though he’s beginning to learn that with Gale, things are always easier than he thinks they’ll be.

“I hope you know that if he fucks this up, I’ll beat his ass,” Curt says solemnly. “Maybe not right away, but I’ll get a gym membership and in, like, three years he won’t even know what hit him.”

John scoffs, laughing at the image of Curt bulking up to enact revenge. “I think he’d beat himself up enough, honestly,” John says, thinking about how careful Gale had been about everything last night.

“Yeah, well, doesn’t hurt to pass the threat on,” Curt shuts the trunk, and John smiles as they head back into the house.

“You’re the most terrifying threat of them all,” he assures Curt as he follows his entirely unthreatening twig of a friend upstairs, heart warm with the knowledge that, physical intimidation aside, Curt will always have his back without missing a stride.

By the time they’re done loading Mark’s car up twice and making the back and forth between Curt’s house and his and Mark’s apartment near campus, fighting for their lives to get Curt’s furniture up three flights of stairs in the muggy summer heat, John feels ready to collapse. As they’re lying sweaty and exhausted on the floor of Curt’s new bedroom, John tells him that he might have to join him in getting this hypothetical gym membership, and Curt shakes his head desolately, declaring that it’s not worth it if this is how it feels after a workout, that “You’re on your own if Gale breaks your heart. I’ll bark at him from across the street or something.” John tells him that witnessing that would probably make the heartbreak worth it.

It’s closer to two when John texts Gale to tell him that they’re done, sending him Curt’s new address, and Curt sits with him outside until Gale’s familiar blue truck pulls up in front of the building.

“See you on Tuesday,” Curt bids him goodbye. “Thanks for all the help.”

“I’d say ‘anytime,’ but maybe just don’t move again for a few years,” John says, body already protesting the movement when he stands.

“Roger that,” Curt nods, then waves at Gale, a little more shy now that he’s not shielded by his bedroom window. John smiles to himself when Gale gives Curt a friendly wave back as John leaves his side and heads for the truck; it still feels weird to have his worlds collide like this.

John climbs up onto the bench, wincing a little as he sits and buckles in. “No bike?” He asks, and Gale shakes his head.

“Thought you’d be tired,” he says, pulling out of the complex. “And you’re gonna be hanging around campus soon, so I didn’t wanna draw attention.”

John smiles, grateful for his unending thoughtfulness. “Thanks,” he says, slumping down in his seat and leaning back, letting himself sink into the worn bench. “What’d you do while I was gone?”

Gale glances at him, a playful smile tugging at his lips. “Stared mournfully at my phone, waiting for your text,” he says, faux–wistful, and John snorts, knocking his knee against Gale’s. “Got some errands done, had lunch with some of the guys– thought we could pick something up for you on the way home?”

John nods, feeling as hungry as he is tired after all the lifting and stair–climbing. “Yes please,” he agrees, closing his eyes against the sun, smiling when Gale’s hand comes to rest on his knee, good as habit by now. The drive through the long forested road back from campus is peaceful, hopefully a good omen for what’s to come, and they both fall quiet for a few minutes before Gale speaks.

“So this is the drive I’ll be making when I take you to class, huh?” John blinks his eyes open to look at Gale as he processes his question, then turns his head to stare out the window under the guise of taking in the view, pressing his mouth against his palm to hide his smile, humming his agreement.

He itches to know whether Gale says stuff like that of his own volition, or because he’s figured out that quiet assurances of the future do a lot for John’s overthinking, or maybe a bit of both. He’s happy either way, so long as he means it and doesn’t feel obligated to reassure him like that, but he doesn’t get that feeling in moments like these; Gale’s sincerity is always so palpable that John can almost taste it.

They stop at a drive–through once they’re back at Gale’s end of town, and Gale pulls out his card once again, turning John down when he tries to argue his way into paying.

“I feel bad,” John frowns when Gale rolls the window up after. It’s true; it makes him squirm a little, having someone pay for his things, or do him any sort of favours. He’s not used to it and while it doesn’t quite make him uncomfortable, he’s not really sure how to feel about it, or how to sit with the feeling without thinking of ways to give back.

“We can talk about that too, if it bothers you that much,” Gale says easily, pocketing his wallet as they wait for the car ahead to receive their order. “But I like taking care of you, alright?”

John still sulks at him, unconvinced. “Especially now that you’re gonna be living off savings for a bit,” Gale continues on, squeezing his knee as they pull up to the next window. “I work full time and I don’t really spend money on much, so let me buy you things sometimes, yeah?”

He rolls down his window again before John can formulate an argument, thanking the worker as they hand him the food, passing it over to John. Gale makes sure he’s settled, drink in the cup holder before he starts driving again.

“Thank you,” John says meekly, deciding not to press the issue today, not when he’s tired and just wants to rest for a bit. He can wrestle with his feelings of guilt another time; for now he’ll trust that if Gale’s offering, it’s okay.

When they get back to Gale’s, John follows him to the living room, where Gale sets his food down on the coffee table. He groans when he flops down onto the couch, muscles definitely starting to ache already, and he rolls onto his side so he can reach for his fries without sitting up, pouting when Gale laughs under his breath.

“I’m tired,” he defends himself, his other arm hanging limply off the couch.

“How about you at least sit up so you don’t choke?” Gale suggests, rounding the couch. John hears a quiet click, and that gets him to sit up, curious about what Gale’s up to, finding him leaning over his desk.

“I just need to get back to a work email Rosie sent earlier,” Gale says, computer powering on. “Why don’t you finish eating, and have a shower? You’ll feel better after, and then you can nap if you wanna.”

John wants to complain about Gale’s enduring voice of reason, but he knows he’s right; he feels gross in his sweaty clothes, and a hot shower will feel nice on his sore body. The promise of an afternoon nap is motivating too, so he finishes his food with the TV playing low while he listens to Gale type away, and then he cleans up his garbage and heads for the bathroom.

He’s half–tempted to sit down of the floor of the shower, calves hurting from the dozens of trips up and down the stairs to Curt and Mark’s apartment, but he’s not sure he’ll be able to convince himself to get up again if he does, so he powers through, thoroughly washing himself and shampooing his sweat–tangled hair as he lets the steam seep into his skin. It’s only when John steps out onto the bathmat after, toweling himself off, that he notices the second toothbrush in the holder by the sink– a toothbrush that isn’t his, that looks fresh out of the package. Not only that, but the holder itself is new too, no longer just a cup on the counter for Gale’s toothbrush, but a proper one with two compartments, one for each brush.

John’s chest tightens, and he’s blinking away dampness in his eyes before he even registers it, burying his face in the towel and smiling so hard it hurts. The simple gesture goes straight to his heart, and as soon as he finishes changing in Gale’s room, he walks over to where Gale still sits at his desk, scrolling through some sort of spreadsheet with his chin leaning in his hand.

John loops his arms around Gale’s neck, draping his hands over his chest and pressing his lips to his shoulder, cheeks warm both from the heat of the shower and from his own actions. Gale brings a hand up to the back of John’s head with a quiet sound, pushing his fingers into his wet curls.

“Good shower?” He asks, and John nods, leaning against him.

“What’s with the toothbrush?” John murmurs. Really, he already knows, but he wants to hear it so he doesn’t have any chance of convincing himself he’s being delusional. His eyes slide closed as Gale pets at his hair, sighing contentedly.

“Just thought it was silly, you having to bring yours back and forth every weekend,” Gale says, and John smiles into the crook of his neck, heart ready to burst.

“Thank you,” he mumbles against the warmth of Gale’s skin. He slumps against the back of Gale’s chair as he drags his fingers through his hair, eyelids heavy, face squished against his neck.

“Wanna nap,” he gets out, muffled, and Gale nods. “But only for a little bit.”

“Okay, baby,” Gale hums. “You want me to wake you up?”

“Please,” John says, reluctantly straightening and pulling away. “An hour, maybe.”

“Alright,” Gale swivels the chair around to look at him. Before John can turn to head toward the bedroom, Gale gently pulls him down for a kiss, soft and slow, lips warm against John's. It’s the kind of kiss that makes John's heart flutter, easing the last bit of tension still clinging to his shoulders. Gale’s hand slips to the back of his neck, thumb brushing over the damp curls there as the two of them part, leaving John feeling lighter, his face flushed with a quiet kind of happiness.

“Go on, get some rest. I’ll be here,” Gale says with a soft smile, and John just nods, too sleepy to form words.

He makes his way back to the bedroom, dragging his feet a little, the fatigue from the day settling deeper into his bones. His limbs feel heavy as he pulls off the shirt he’d just put on, letting it drop to the floor, followed by his sweatpants, still too warm from the shower to be shy about lazing around in his boxers. John barely manages to flop onto the bed, lying on top of the blankets, stomach pressed into the mattress. He lets out a long sigh, sinking into the familiar softness and smell, eyes already fluttering shut.

He curls his arms around a pillow, and sleep comes quickly, pulling him under.

John stirs some time later, half–awake, realizing the comforting weight he feels pressing down on him isn’t a blanket, but Gale straddling the backs of his thighs. His hands are warm as they smooth over his sore back, kneading into the muscles with a steady rhythm, and John's body responds instinctively, relaxing into the pressure, a soft groan escaping him as Gale works out the knots in his shoulders and along his spine.

He feels like he’s floating, every slow glide of his palms unraveling the tiredness in his body. His head turns to the side, eyes closed, his lips parting with a little sigh as he melts into the massage, and Gale hums in response.

“Welcome back,” he murmurs, and John smiles sleepily, pulling the pillow closer. “Sleep well?”

“Mhm,” John nods, sinking beneath the heat of Gale’s body, steady and comforting. His thumbs work at the tight muscles between John’s shoulder blades, digging in just enough to make John’s breath catch before the pressure gives way to relief.

Gale’s hands slide lower, tracing the curve of John’s sides before moving back up to his neck, kneading the base of his skull in a way that makes John’s eyes roll behind his closed lids. He can’t help the little noises slipping from his throat, soft sighs of contentment as Gale works over every sore spot, loosening each one with patient care. John feels heavy with sleep, but the sensations keep him hovering on the edge of consciousness: warm, weighted hands smoothing over his skin, the gentle press of Gale’s hips as he moves.

Gale’s fingers spread wide as they move lower, massaging the small of John’s back with just enough pressure to make him squirm a little, heat pooling low in his stomach. He lets out another quiet sound, this one a little less sleepy, a little more breathless. His body shifts slightly, hips pressing deeper into the mattress without him even realizing it.

Gale leans down a bit, letting more of his weight settle against John’s back as he works his hands lower, the warmth of his body radiating through John's skin. “Feels good?” He teases gently, amusement lacing his words.

John can only nod, his lips parting in a soft, shaky sigh as he feels Gale’s hands trail down over the dip of his back, fingers brushing against the waistband of his boxers. John’s hips roll instinctively, a subtle movement against the bed as the tension inside him shifts into something needier, but Gale’s hands move back up to John’s shoulders, kneading once more. This time the touch feels slower, more intentional, as if Gale knows exactly what he's doing to him, his body so sensitive under Gale's hands that even the lightest touches make him shiver.

And then Gale starts to work his way lower again, but this time his hands don’t stop at John’s back. Instead, they sweep over his hips, the motion firm and steady, until Gale shifts his weight, sliding down to settle over John's calves.

Gale’s big hands press into his thighs, and John can’t help the quiet moan that escapes him as he begins massaging the sore muscles there, kneading with careful pressure. Every touch feels like it’s pulling him apart, and he flushes harder, biting his lip to muffle the sounds threatening to spill from his mouth. Gale’s thumbs dig into the tops of his thighs, fingers skimming so close to the insides of them, near but never quite touching where John wants him.

John’s breaths come a little more shallow as Gale’s hands settle higher, thumbs bracing against the small of his back as he wraps his fingers around his hips and massages over the crease where they meet his thighs. His teasing is unhurried, deliberate, and John squirms, hips twitching involuntarily against the bed. He tries to hold still, tries not to move too much, but when Gale’s thumbs dig into the tops of his thighs, just above the knee, John can’t help but press back a little, chasing Gale’s touch unconsciously.

Gale chuckles, the sound low and pleased. His hands slowly move up over John’s thighs until his fingers trace the edges of John’s boxers, lingering there for a moment before his palms slide over John’s ass, squeezing gently. The pressure is firm, almost possessive, and John’s hips stutter down into the mattress, his breath coming out shaky, the heat in his stomach flaring.

“Look at you,” Gale murmurs, voice soft as he leans down, his breath warm against the back of John’s neck. “Can’t help yourself, can you?”

John makes a sound, something between a whimper and a groan, his body responding to every little thing– Gale’s practiced hands, the weight of his body, the slow, lazy drag of his fingers over John’s skin. He feels flushed all over, his face buried in the pillow as he rocks his hips down, searching for some kind of relief.

Gale shifts again, pressing a kiss to the nape of his neck, then another, slower, trailing down his spine. The feeling of Gale’s lips against his skin makes John shiver, and he can’t stop the way his hips lift slightly to press against Gale’s, offering himself up.

Gale breathes out a groan, groping at him as he continues his slow descent, leaving a burning line of kisses in his wake. Gale finally reaches his lower back, his fingers digging into his hips to help him press down into the bed, and John drags in a choked breath. His body feels like it’s on fire, every nerve buzzing with anticipation, and all he can do is sink deeper into the blanket, helpless under Gale’s touch.

His hands stay firm on John’s hips, guiding him, coaxing him to rock down against the mattress. The steady pressure leaves John dizzy with need, every nerve in his body sparking to life, the ache inside him tightening with each soft noise that escapes him. His skin feels too warm, his breath coming in shallow, shaky pants.

“Gale, please,” he breathes out, the words hushed, shy, half–muffled against the pillow as his cheeks burn hot. The need in his voice betrays him, and his hips push up again, searching for more, desperate for contact with Gale’s body.

“What is it?” Gale murmurs, his voice a low rumble, teasing but gentle. “You need more?”

John nods quickly, swallowing down a whine. “Uh–huh,” he manages, too shy to say it outright, still not used to asking for things like this, but Gale always knows.

“You want my fingers, baby?” Gale asks, his tone dropping lower, a mix of amusement and tenderness.

“Please,” John breathes out, so quiet he’s not sure Gale even hears him at first, his body shuddering at the thought of it. He wants more than that, wants everything Gale has to give, but he’s too shy to ask for more right now, still too scared to push.

Gale hums, a soft sound of approval, and then his hands are back, skimming over John’s sides as he shifts his weight. “Alright, turn over for me.”

John moves sluggishly, rolling onto his back as the last bit of lingering sleepiness melts into the need buzzing under his skin. His eyes flutter open, blinking up at Gale in the warm, golden sun filtering through the curtains. He feels too exposed in the daylight, but the way Gale’s eyes roam over him, soft and adoring, makes the embarrassment fade, and his sleepy, blissed–out state keeps him from overthinking, his body relaxed, trusting.

Gale leans down, capturing his mouth in a sweet, unhurried kiss, their lips moving together slowly. John melts into it, the kiss quieting the restlessness building inside him for a moment, his hands clutching weakly at Gale’s wrists when he pulls away. His pulse thrums in his ears as Gale leans over him, reaching into the bedside table, and John watches through half–lidded eyes as Gale pulls out the bottle of lube, setting it on the nightstand before turning his attention back to him.

Gale leans in for another kiss, but he doesn’t linger this time, lowering his head to press his lips to John’s neck, teeth grazing over his pulse point. John whines quietly, and Gale hums, moving down further. He leaves wet kisses along his chest and over his stomach as he works John’s boxers down slowly, dragging the fabric over his hips, his thighs, taking his time.

John lifts his hips slightly, helping Gale as he tugs his underwear the rest of the way down, tossing it aside. He squirms a little, feeling too bare, but Gale’s hands are quick to return, warm and soothing as they slide under his thighs, tucking a pillow beneath him. Gale doesn’t rush, his hands kneading into the tops of John’s thighs, kissing his way lower before gently nudging his legs further apart. The cool air hits John’s skin, but it’s replaced by the heat of Gale’s mouth pressing against his inner thigh, sucking softly, and John’s breath stutters, the brush of Gale’s beard making his heart jump.

“Oh,” he sighs out, head spinning, his hands clutching at the sheets as Gale moves to his other thigh, leaving a matching kiss there. John feels himself slipping, his mind going soft and fuzzy as Gale’s hands skim over his stomach, tracing the lines of his hips, squeezing gently before he leans over him again to reach for the lube.

“Relax for me,” Gale murmurs as he squeezes some out, his voice a low command, and John does his best to obey, his body already so loose, so melted that it feels like second nature. His muscles unwind, sinking deeper into the bed as Gale’s hand slides lower, his fingers slick and cool as they press against him, gentle at first, just teasing.

John’s heart pounds as he feels a finger press in, slow and careful, and he bites his tongue, holding back a gasp. Gale’s so gentle, almost painfully so, and John can feel his pulse picking up now, his body arching just slightly as Gale’s finger slides deeper.

“You doing okay, baby?” Gale asks, his voice soft, but there’s a teasing edge to it, like he already knows the answer.

“Yeah,” John breathes out, his head tipping back against the pillow, eyes fluttering closed. His body tenses for a moment when Gale presses the rest of the way in before the familiar stretch settles into something warmer, more manageable, Gale giving him plenty of time to adjust.

John’s face burns with a deep flush, his mouth falling open with a quiet whimper as Gale curls his finger just slightly, the movement teasing, testing. His hips jerk, thighs twitching as he struggles to stay still, but it’s hard when every touch sends a flood of heat rolling through him.

“Feel okay?” Gale murmurs, low and soothing, and John nods weakly, not trusting his voice. It feels too good; every time Gale’s finger shifts or curls, John feels like he’s sinking deeper into the mattress, his body heavy, gone slack. His breath catches as Gale pulls his finger away, then slowly pushes it back in, his other hand stroking along John’s thigh, keeping him grounded.

“Good,” Gale whispers, leaning down to press a kiss to John’s stomach, his lips warm against his skin. “Tell me if it’s too much.”

John can’t imagine it being too much. The gentle stretch is perfect, and the drag of Gale’s finger has him moaning softly, each sound spilling from his lips without thought, his whole body starting to tremble. Gale keeps the pace slow, torturously so, and John’s hips roll up on their own, instinctively seeking more, but Gale holds him steady, not letting him rush.

“Shh, just breathe,” Gale says when John whines out his impatience, his voice soft with affection. “We’ll get there.”

John shudders, trying to focus on breathing as he watches Gale, trying to remember how to keep himself present when every nerve feels like it’s on fire. Everything feels too good, and yet still not enough, like his body is craving more, begging for more, but his mind can barely keep up with the need building inside him.

Gale crooks his finger again, more intentionally this time, and John’s entire body jerks as that spot inside him is hit, a rush of pure pleasure shooting straight to his spine. His back arches off the bed as a whine rips from his throat, louder this time, uncontrollable. The intensity of it almost startles John, but Gale just hums quietly, clearly pleased with his reaction, the corners of his lips curling into a smile as he keeps his finger right there, pressing, rubbing slowly over that same spot again and again.

John is lost– he can’t think, can’t do anything but feel. His breath comes out in desperate gasps, his hips twitching involuntarily, rocking back into Gale’s hand as if his body knows what it wants better than his mind does. The pleasure is so sharp, so good that it’s almost too much.

“Gale,” John whimpers, his voice broken and breathless.

Gale presses a kiss to John’s hip, his voice rough but patient when he tells him, “Easy, baby. I’ll give you more.”

John barely processes the words before he feels a second finger pressing in, the stretch wider, and his body tenses for just a moment before it relaxes again under the careful pressure, legs falling open with a groan. Gale’s fingers move inside him, slow and steady, the stretch sending a new rush of pleasure through him, and it takes everything in him not to buck up against Gale’s hand, the need for more starting to overpower his brain.

His fingers curl inside him, and again Gale hits that spot, John’s eyes snapping shut. His head tilts back, his lips parting in a choked cry as another jolt of pleasure shoots through him, his whole body tensing. Gale doesn’t stop, pressing up inside John until all he can do is moan and writhe helplessly beneath him. John’s mind spins, his thoughts a blur of heat and want, every slow stroke of Gale’s fingers sending him spiralling closer to that sweet, desperate need that’s building in his stomach.

Gale keeps his hand moving, but he pushes himself up, crawling up John’s body to kiss him. His lips are soft, a contrast to the fire blazing in John's body, steadying him just enough to keep from slipping entirely, and John presses into the kiss, his breathing uneven, desperate as Gale’s fingers continue their unrelenting drag.

The kiss deepens, languid and gentle, Gale's tongue brushing against John's in a way that leaves him lightheaded. Gale’s free hand slides up to cradle John's face, thumb stroking over his cheek as their lips move together, slow and intimate. It's soothing, pulling John back into himself, though his body still shakes from the attention of Gale’s fingers inside him, every movement making him shudder and whine softly into the kiss.

“Tell me, baby. You want more?” Gale murmurs, his voice a quiet rasp, full of warmth. John's chest heaves with every shaky inhale, his fingers curling into the back of Gale’s shirt as he tries to focus on Gale's words, tries to hold onto that sense of safety Gale brings him.

“Please, I– oh.” It’s hard to think when Gale’s fingers crook just right again, drawing a deep moan from John’s throat. His hips lift of their own accord, seeking more, even as his mind struggles to keep up with everything he’s feeling.

Gale chuckles softly, pressing a kiss to the corner of John’s lips before whispering against them, “Sound so sweet, doll. I’ve got you.”

Gale lies back down between John’s legs, and John fists his hands in the blanket as Gale keeps his word, slowly working in a third finger. The stretch aches, leaves John gasping, his hips moving both towards and away from Gale’s hand, wires crossing in his head.

“Breathe, John,” Gale reminds him again, running his hand over his trembling thigh. John listens, inhaling deep and trying to still his tightly wound body, and the burn slowly begins to fade, replaced with the same intense fullness as last time. He whimpers quietly, grabbing at Gale’s hand where it rests on his thigh, urging him on impatiently, but Gale takes his time, completely unhurried.

John’s starting to think Gale’s never going to actually fuck him, and he’s so worked up from how good he feels that he’s a little worried he’ll come the moment Gale’s cock is inside him. The thought has him pushing himself up onto his elbows, groaning at the change of angle, closing his thighs against Gale’s shoulders.

His voice breaks as he tries to ask for what he needs, desperate and breathless, choking out, “Okay, that’s good– I’m ready– please, Gale–”

Gale blinks up at him before he pushes his fingers in deep, and John’s arms give out, his eyes rolling back as he slumps against the mattress. Gale begin moving in earnest, pressing deeper, faster, hitting right where John needs it with every thrust, words of encouragement almost muffled against the rush of blood in his ears. John realizes Gale’s not intending to fuck him at all today, and it’s easy to stop caring when he’s on the verge of tears from the pleasure.

He can’t stop shaking, his cock leaking steadily over his stomach, ignored as Gale focuses entirely on using his fingers. John’s hips roll helplessly against Gale’s hand as he trembles and whimpers, the heat building to something almost unbearable, certain that Gale’s voice is the only thing keeping him from losing his mind.

“You wanna come, baby?” Gale whispers, his breath hot against John’s thigh, his hand never slowing. John nods frantically, stomach flipping, his body teetering on the edge.

“Please,” John whines desperately. He feels like he can’t even move anymore, so wrapped up in the burning heat of it all that he can’t do anything but cling to the blanket and close his eyes against the blur of tears.

He waits for Gale to wrap a hand around his cock, but he just keeps going, his fingers pressing harder, deeper, until John can barely breathe, dizzy and feverish. “Just from this, baby. Come for me, just like this.”

John’s breath gets caught in his throat, his mind reeling. He hadn’t even thought that was doable, but with the way Gale’s working his hand, it feels like it could be. The pressure keeps building, his body tensing with each flex of Gale’s wrist, each curl of his fingers, and John has half the mind to reach down and wrap his own hand around himself, but he feels like he’s going to float away if he lets go of the blanket.

“I don’t think–" John chokes on his own words at a well–aimed drag of Gale’s fingers, hips jerking up. “Gale–”

“You can, baby,” Gale soothes, his fingers pressing firmly, not letting up on the spot that has John’s cock twitching, painfully hard against his stomach. “Gonna feel so good, just let it happen.”

John lets out a ruined noise, his vision blurring as tears slip from the corners of his eyes down his temples, like the sheer overwhelm has to escape him somehow.

“Look at you, my good boy,” Gale murmurs, and that’s all it takes to send John flying over the edge with a strangled cry. He feels like he seizes up, his hips bucking as the sensation hits him full force, everything inside him unravelling at once. His orgasm rips through hard and fast, muscles locking up as he spills over his stomach, his head falling back against the pillow as a high, desperate sob escapes his throat.

Gale keeps moving, working him through it, drawing it out as John’s body convulses with pleasure, his mind completely blank, his breath coming in shallow gasps. He’s shaking uncontrollably, his hands clutching at the sheets as the feeling crashes over him in wave after relentless wave, his whole body on fire. It feels endless, like he’s caught in a loop of too–much–not–enough, unable to do anything but ride it out as Gale coaxes every last whimper and cry out of him.

John feels completely wrecked when he comes back to himself, his body limp and trembling beneath Gale, his chest heaving as he tries to catch his breath. His mind is floating somewhere far away, lost in a haze, and every inch of him feels hot, over–sensitive, the blanket clinging to his damp skin as the aftershocks coil through him.

Gale's fingers finally still inside him, and John lets out a shaky breath, his hands aching in complaint where he’s been white–knuckling the blanket, his whole body humming. Gale moves with the same care, withdrawing his fingers so slowly that it sends another shudder rolling through John, his thighs twitching at the feeling.

He lets out a soft, broken sound, his head turning weakly toward Gale, but his eyelids are too heavy, his body too exhausted to follow through with the movement. He feels he’s floating, thoughts slow and thick like honey, every bit of him tingling with warmth, heart and nerves alight.

“Hey,” Gale’s voice is soft, low, pulling John back. A warm hand smooths over his thigh, grounding him further. “You still with me?”

John hums quietly, barely able to manage anything more, but he opens his eyes just enough to catch the soft smile on Gale’s face. There’s a tenderness in his expression that makes John’s chest ache in the best way, his pulse fluttering as Gale leans down to kiss him again, gentle, their lips brushing in a sweet, slow rhythm.

John sighs into the kiss, his fingers trembling as he reaches up to tangle them in Gale’s hair, pulling him closer. Gale laughs softly, his breath warm against John’s cheek as he presses another kiss there, trailing his lips down the side of John’s face, along his jaw, down the curve of his neck. John shivers at the feeling, and he can’t help the way his skin heats under Gale’s attention, spreading through him like a slow burn.

Gale doesn’t rush, his hands moving in lazy strokes over John’s body as if he’s savouring the moment. He doesn’t push for more, just stays there with John, his touch gentle. The quiet between them feels safe, the room filled with nothing but the soft sound of their breathing, the intimacy of the moment stretching out around them.

When Gale pulls back, John feels a small tug of loss, but it’s quickly dulled as Gale’s hand slides up to cup his face, his thumb brushing gently over John’s flushed cheek. “You’re amazing,” Gale says softly, his voice full of that quiet awe that always makes John’s chest tighten.

John lets out a weak sound, his lips curling into a small, shy smile as he leans into Gale’s touch. “Didn’t know I could– I didn’t know that was a thing,” he gets out, his words a breathless jumble as he tries to find his footing again.

Gale groans, the sound deep and rough, sending another shiver through John. “Christ, John,” Gale breathes out, his expression caught between surprise and pure adoration. “You’re something, doll.”

His tone makes John’s heart jump, a flush spreading across his cheeks anew as Gale’s thumb traces over his jaw, soothing him. John's mind swims in the afterglow, still hovering somewhere between bliss and exhaustion, but there's a pull of awareness that slowly brings him back. He can feel Gale's weight pressing against him, warm and solid, but he feels something more, unmistakable and hard through the soft fabric of Gale’s sweatpants.

John’s breath catches in his throat, a sigh slipping past his lips as he squirms a little beneath Gale. He’s still dazed from the way Gale’s taken him apart, but something in him stirs again, needy and insistent. His fingers twitch against Gale’s chest, seeking more contact, something to anchor him.

"Gale." His voice is barely a whisper, hoarse from everything, but it’s enough to get Gale’s attention. He can feel Gale pull in a breath, can feel the weight of those blue eyes on his flushed face. John tilts his chin up, blinking blearily, shifting a bit. “Come closer.”

Gale doesn’t make him wait. In a smooth motion, Gale lowers himself, his hands bracing on either side of John as he dips down to kiss him. John whimpers into it, his hand sliding up to grip the back of Gale’s neck, pulling him closer still.

It’s becoming instinct now, the way John’s body moves under Gale’s. His hands wander, still trembling slightly as they trail down Gale’s sides, gliding over the taut muscles. He groans quietly, his fingers slipping under the hem of Gale’s shirt, eager to feel more of him, the solid heat of his skin under his hands. The sound that escapes John is reverent, a soft, appreciative hum as his palms skim over the curve of Gale's waist, up his back, feeling the flex of muscle beneath his fingertips.

He breathes out a “fuck” against Gale’s lips as his hands slide back down to the waistband of his sweatpants, brushing against the fabric tenting over Gale’s cock. He palms Gale through the soft material, and the sharp twitch of his hips into his hand makes John’s heart skip a beat, his flush spreading down his neck.

The weight of Gale’s cock presses into his palm, heavy and hot, and John holds his breath as he cups him more firmly, testing, feeling Gale’s body react. A deep, rumbling groan leaves Gale’s throat, and the noise sends fire straight through John, making him shiver, the need to reciprocate burning hot within him. Feeling Gale so responsive, so hard just from getting him off– it’s almost too much, almost unfathomable to John, but he wants to feel it again and again.

He drags his hand back up, fingers hooking into the waistband of Gale’s sweatpants, pausing for just a second, waiting for that soft look in Gale’s eyes to give him the go ahead. When he feels Gale’s hand cover his, helping him push the sweatpants down to his thighs, John’s breath comes out in a shaky exhale, and he can’t hold back the needy sound that follows.

His hand wraps around Gale’s cock, hot and solid in his palm, and he feels Gale’s hips stutter forward into his grip. John moans quietly at the feeling of it, the weight of him in his hand, the heat radiating off Gale, his pulse quickening. Gale leans down to kiss him again, deep and breathless, mouths moving hungrily against each other as John starts working Gale with slow, lazy strokes, just enough to feel the tension build beneath his skin.

The wet head of his cock drags against his fingers, and John’s eyes flutter closed, overwhelmed with the knowledge that he’s the one making Gale feel like this. Gale’s hips jerk forward again, the sound that spills from his lips nothing short of raw, and John feels a thrill zing down his spine, his own body burning up from the feeling of Gale’s fever–hot skin. He pauses for a moment, the slide against his hand feeling too dry, and almost instinctively he lets go of Gale’s cock to drag his hand through the mess on his stomach before wrapping his fingers back around him, the movement slick this time when Gale rolls his hips.

“Fuck, John,” Gale’s voice is hoarse, barely controlled, his eyes heavy–lidded when John blinks his own open again. There’s something wild in his expression, something untamed that makes John’s pulse race even more erratically, and his lips curve into a small, appreciative smile as he moves his hand, a little more confident now. Gale’s cock pulses in his grasp, heavy and thick, and John can't hold back the way his body responds to it, his own breath hitching as Gale lets out another deep groan.

“Just like that, baby,” Gale murmurs, his voice rough as his hips press forward into John’s hand. “You feel so good.”

The praise sends a jolt of electricity through John, making his fingers tighten instinctively as he strokes down Gale’s length again, the slick glide of his hand making Gale suck in a sharp breath. John can feel the way Gale’s body shivers with every movement, the way his cock twitches as John runs his thumb across the tip, spreading the wetness over his skin.

“Gale,” John breathes out, the word barely a whisper as he watches Gale's face, the way his brow furrows in pleasure, the way his lips part as he pants. The sight of him undone like this makes John's stomach roll with a kind of need he’d never known he could feel before Gale, and his hand moves faster now, his fingers tightening just enough to draw out another guttural sound from Gale's throat.

“John– God,” Gale grits out, hips rocking forward into John’s grip. His hand moves to cradle the back of John’s neck, pulling him in closer as he murmurs against his lips, “You’re so good.”

His encouragement goes straight to John’s head, making him dizzy. He can feel his own body responding, heat simmering low in his stomach again, his cock twitching weakly against his thigh just from how good it feels to touch Gale like this, to feel the weight of him in his hand, the way Gale’s hips buck forward, seeking more.

John shudders as his other hand slides up Gale’s side, his palm pressing against the firm muscles of his torso, feeling the heat of his skin, the flex of his abs with every tremor of pleasure that wracks his body. There’s something so intoxicating about the power in his grasp, being the one to make Gale lose control, drawing brain–melting sounds from him.

“Fuck,” John breathes as he watches the way Gale’s face contorts with pleasure, the way his hips jerk forward each time John’s hand tightens just right. “You’re so hard,” he blurts out in awe, flushing the moment the words leave his mouth.

Gale lets out a ragged groan, his eyes squeezing shut as his hips thrust into John’s fist, chasing the pressure. “All you, baby,” he rasps, and John’s head spins. He whines, his body arching up into Gale’s, his hand moving faster, tighter now, wanting to pull every last sound from Gale’s lips. He can feel how close Gale is, the way his cock pulses in his hand, and every noise that escapes Gale is fuel to the fire building inside John, pushing him to keep going, to give Gale what he needs.

Gale’s hands grip John’s waist, his fingers digging into his skin as his hips roll forward into the steady rhythm of John’s hand, chasing the friction, his body trembling. John feels completely lost in it, in the feel of Gale’s cock sliding hot and slick through his fingers, in the way Gale’s body responds to him so eagerly.

“Fuck, John, gonna make me come,” Gale pants, his voice rough, strained, as if he’s holding back. He pulls back just enough to meet John’s gaze, his eyes dark and half–lidded, his expression open with want.

John’s heart leaps, his grip tightening around Gale’s cock, working him over with more intention. He feels a fresh wave of heat wash over him as he locks eyes with Gale and impulsively, breathlessly pleads, “Come on me?”

The effect is immediate. Gale’s whole body tenses, his hips snapping forward as a broken groan tears from his throat. His cock pulses hard in John’s hand, and then there’s wet heat spilling across John’s stomach, hot and thick as Gale’s release paints his skin.

John moans at the feeling, drinking in Gale’s reaction as he works his hand over him, pulling every last drop from him, his fingers gliding with the slick of his come. Gale’s hips stutter, his breath coming in uneven pants as John’s hand keeps moving, drawing out the aftershocks of his release until Gale’s groaning above him, his head dropping to the pillow beside John.

His hand doesn’t still until Gale’s hips are twitching away and his body sags against John’s, spent and trembling. John can’t help but slip his hand between them to drag his fingers through the mess they’ve both made on his stomach, feeling the wet heat of Gale’s come on his skin, a whine slipping from his lips, the sensation making him shiver with satisfaction.

Gale’s breath is hot against John’s neck, his body heavy and warm as he comes down. His hand slides up to cradle the side of John’s face as he murmurs, “You did so good, baby, Jesus Christ.”

The praise makes John’s chest swell with warmth, his heart pounding in his ears as he basks in the glow of it. “You too,” he whispers shyly, face warm, and he smiles into the kiss Gale pulls him in for, trailing his fingers along Gale’s back as he sighs happily.

He feels even more blissed out than he usually does in these moments, because for the first time he’s not thinking about what comes next, about what it means to Gale, if it means as much to him as it does to John. He can lean into the fuzziness in his head, the affection he feels for Gale, and not worry about regretting it.

When Gale sits back a few minutes later, John groans at the sticky feeling as they pull apart, becoming increasingly aware of the drying mess on his stomach and between his legs, of the cooling sweat that’s dampened the blanket beneath his back.

“I just showered,” he whines breathlessly, and Gale laughs.

“Who asked for it, hm?” he teases, and John flushes. “S’okay, we can have a quick one,” Gale says, running his hands along his thighs, squeezing gently before he pulls away. John’s legs feel wobbly when he tries to follow Gale out of bed, like he’s forgotten how to walk, bones melted down to nothing under the insistence of Gale’s hands, but Gale pulls him in after a heated once–over, keeping him steady until they’re stood under the shower.

In the steam of the hot water, John presses his body close to Gale's, his chest almost flush against his, and Gale walks them both under the spray, letting the water run between them, washing away the mess. His muscles feel weak from everything, and he grips at Gale’s shoulders for support, his face tucked shyly against the crook of his neck.

When Gale’s fingers slide between his legs, John lets out a sharp, breathy sound, his body jerking instinctively from the touch. His face burns, his cheek hot against Gale’s skin as he squirms, trying to stay still, trying to push down the embarrassed whimper that escapes his lips.

“Easy, sweetheart,” Gale says softly, his voice a gentle rumble as his fingers work to clean the lube away. “Just cleaning you up.”

John nods, but he shudders against Gale as those same fingers that worked him open so sweetly now press carefully against his tender skin. He’s too sensitive– every brush of Gale’s hand makes his body twitch, his thighs trembling as he presses even closer, burying his face further against Gale’s neck. He whines softly, his fingers digging into Gale’s sides, desperate to hold onto something solid.

“Sorry,” Gale says softly, finally drawing his hand away and letting the shower wash over them both. He wraps his arms around John, holding him close, giving him the stability he needs. “All done.”

John lets out a shaky breath, his body relaxing against Gale’s. He nuzzles into the curve of Gale’s neck, his face still hot, but it’s less embarrassing now when Gale runs a soapy hand over John’s stomach, then his own, keeping his promise of making it a quick shower.

“I should’ve let you sleep longer,” Gale says when John nearly stumbles as he pulls his pants on in Gale’s room, a steadying hand finding his side to stop him from keeling over. John immediately shakes his head, bending down to pick his shirt up from the floor.

“I asked you to wake me up,” he insists, pulling his shirt on. “I’m just… body–tired, anyway, not brain–tired.”

“Not brain–tired?” Gale repeats, dragging his own shirt over his head. “Even with how much you’ve always got goin’ on up there?” He teases, messing his hand through John’s damp curls.

John smiles, going a little shy. “It gets quiet when I’m with you,” he says honestly. It does, when he’s not in the throes of overthinking; being around Gale is one of the rare times when he feels like he can let his walls down without consequence, when he doesn’t feel the need to stay one step ahead to avoid being caught off guard.

Gale softens at his comment, bringing his hand down from John’s hair to cup his jaw. “I’m glad,” he says sincerely, dropping his hand to his side. “Do you… is it quiet enough right now to talk?”

John blinks at him, furrowing his brows. “Well, it’s not quiet anymore,” he whines, unable to hide the mild panic he feels at the vague question, and Gale breathes out a laugh, giving him an apologetic look.

“Sorry, baby, it’s nothing bad,” he assures him. “I just thought– well, it was Marge’s idea, actually,” he says bashfully. “She suggested some no–holds–barred honesty.”

“You talked to Marge about us?” John asks, barely concealing his amusement at the thought, even amidst his trepidation.

“Hang on, save your questions,” Gale slows him down, smiling when John pouts. “You can say no, there’s no pressure,” he continues, taking John’s wrist in his hand, tugging him along as he backs out of the bedroom, and John follows dutifully. “But she suggested that we just sit down, and agree that we can ask each other anything that’s been on our minds, and we gotta answer honestly.”

John mulls this over as Gale leads him to the couch, weighing out the pros and cons, though he already knows he’s going to agree. There’s not much at stake for him, because really, he trusts Gale with anything and everything; he knows Gale’s putting a lot more on the line than he is.

“Well… I don’t want you to feel pressured to talk about things you aren’t ready to talk about,” John says carefully, letting Gale pull him down onto the couch. Gale shakes his head.

“I think there are sometimes things where there’s never going to be an ‘I’m ready’ moment,” he says thoughtfully. “And I want to be open about stuff with you, if you’re set on sticking around– but I know there are some things you’ve been dodging too,” Gale says, a little playful, and it eases John’s worries further, lightening the seriousness of it all. He thinks for another moment, tucking his legs up, settling against Gale’s side.

“What if I forget things I wanna ask, and I remember them later?” He asks, and Gale laughs, draping his arm over his shoulders.

“We don’t have to talk about everything all at once,” he says gently, squeezing his arm. “You can always ask, okay? I don’t want you to feel like you can’t.”

John nods, and, unable to think of any other reasons to delay, he leans his head on Gale’s shoulder and exhales. “Okay,” he says. “Starting now?”

Gale makes an amused noise at his keenness, and John feels him nod. “Sure.”

John smiles impishly to himself, having very much saved his question as instructed. “What did you talk to Marge about?”

Gale snorts, tilting his head back a little. “Come on,” he says, exasperated, but John can hear the smile in his voice.

“You said I could ask anything,” John insists, and Gale’s hand finds his hair, winding a curl around his finger.

“I did, yeah,” he relents. “The day after we went to the pub together, I came back alone, and she was on me like a bloodhound,” Gale recounts, and John laughs a little.

“She knew immediately what was going on, and she– well, she talked some sense into me, I guess. She made me realize that I was only going to hurt both of us if I tried to avoid talking about things. So I had planned to sorta feel things out this weekend, but then you brought it up on your own last night, so it’s all kinda worked out, in a way.”

“I’m sorry,” John says quietly, still feeling guilty for the emotional outburst. Gale drags his hand through his hair, and John feels him shake his head. “Don’t apologize, baby. I should’ve trusted my gut when I felt like something was off, even if you’re real good at distracting me.”

John flushes, fidgeting with the front of Gale’s shirt. “You shouldn’t have to trust your gut,” he says. “I should’ve said something right away, I was just,” he pauses, “afraid.”

“I know,” Gale assures him. “But I wouldn’t have expected you to be the one to bring it up, not when I’ve had a lot more time to learn how to talk about stuff like this. Which– I have my first question, if you feel like I answered yours.”

John would love to hear every detail, to know line–for–line how his conversation with Marge had gone, so curious about what Gale might have said, but he has other things he wants to ask about too, so he leaves it, nodding.

“Have you ever been in a relationship?” Gale asks gently. He doesn’t sound judgemental in the slightest, but John still squirms a little, worried to give him another reason to rethink things.

“Not really,” he answers truthfully, and Gale makes a quiet noise.

“What does ‘not really’ mean?” he presses, and John groans, regretting not just outright saying no.

“Well, it wasn’t a real relationship, but there was a summer where Curt and I kind of… I don’t know.” He cuts himself off and covers his face with his hands, mortified. He feels a laugh rumble through Gale’s chest, and he flusters further.

“Why’d you ask that?” John tries to flip the question on him, but Gale answers easily.

“We’ve never really talked about past relationships, and I thought it would be good for me to get some sort of baseline on how to approach things with you,” he says, and John’s torn between wanting to defend his lack of experience with promises that he’s mature enough for this, and resisting the urge to smile and kick his feet like a schoolgirl at the notion of Gale wanting to approach relationship things with him.

“Okay,” John says, and Gale slides his arm down to curl it around his waist instead.

“So other than that…?” Gale prompts, and John exhales, shaking his head. “Just that,” he confirms, embarrassed, and it feels like Gale reads his mind.

“That’s okay, baby,” he says warmly. “It’s nothing to be embarrassed about. I was the same age when I started seeing someone for the first time, aside from Marge.”

“Who?” John asks curiously, and Gale pulls in a breath, shifting a little. He takes a few seconds before he speaks.

“His name was Johnny.”

John waits for a laugh, for a ‘just kidding,’ but he doesn’t get either of those things. “I know it’s– it’s a real weird coincidence,” Gale seems nervous, his hand running up and down along John’s side in that same self–soothing motion he’d done on himself the morning they’d argued. “Took a lot to not flinch when you shared your name with me that first night; shoulda been a sign how things would go, really.”

He sounds both fond and pained, and John frowns, tilting his chin up to look at him. “What was he like?” he asks, trying to imagine a younger Gale in his own shoes.

“The opposite of you in most ways, really,” Gale says after a moment, then looks down at him, smiling in a way that looks a little sad. “That’s a good thing,” he adds, like he doesn’t want to give John time to second guess. “He felt things real strong, like you, but I never knew what he was thinking, and he never offered anything up, so it always felt like there was this distance between us. He wasn’t all in, not with anything but his bikes and his club, and ‘specially not with a man. We were– we had our thing going on for years, when I lived in Chicago, and… I was his, but he was never mine.”

John nods, listening patiently, heart clenching at the barely concealed hurt in Gale’s voice. “He was a lot older than me too,” Gale says wryly, looking away. “S’half the reason I’ve been scared about us, with how much shit is mirrored,” he says, so open that John doesn’t know what to do with it. “I’ve been trying to figure out what… what parts of what we had messed me up, I guess, because I’m scared of accidentally repeating ‘em with you. I don’t wanna mess you up too.”

“Gale,” John says softly, pushing himself up so he can face him properly, leaning his side against the back of the couch. “You’re not gonna. Know why?”

Gale turns back to him, smiling a little as if he’s entertained by John’s unwavering confidence. “Why?” he indulges him anyway.

“Because you care so much,” John says, “and because you’re not like him. You’re not cold like that.” He searches Gale’s face, wanting to see that flicker of belief, to know that Gale knows how much John believes what he’s saying.

Gale holds John’s gaze, his thumb dragging gently over his hip. “Was trying to be, and I was doing just fine at it ‘til I saw some stupidly sweet dork bent over a book in a pub, of all places.”

John’s face warms, and he smiles, heart going all fuzzy. “You scared me so bad that night, you know that?” he says quietly, giggling a little, and Gale’s own lips quirk up.

“I know,” he says apologetically. “Wasn’t intending to, just had me so curious, s’all.” He has the decency to look a bit bashful when he adds, “Didn’t help that you were far too pretty for a place like that. Couldn’t help myself.”

John’s flush deepens at the look in Gale’s eyes, squirming as he remembers all the heightened emotions of that night. He leans in, brushing his lips against Gale's in a quick, sweet kiss, hoping to chase away the shadows that still cling to Gale’s expression, his way of telling Gale that he believes in him, that he trusts him completely. He lingers just long enough to let that message sink in before pulling back, and Gale gives him a small, almost shy smile as he exhales, the tense set of his shoulders easing just a little.

“How’d things end between you?” John can’t help but press, wanting a resolution to the story, but he’s not at all prepared for Gale’s answer.

“He died.” John’s heart plummets, lips parting in shock, immediately wanting to take his question back. Gale clears his throat quietly. “Someone shot him. I left Chicago a little while later, when Marge dragged me up north here after she inherited the pub.”

“Gale,” John murmurs, reeling from the conclusion. He shuffles closer, eyes dancing around Gale’s strained expression before he leans in again, laying his head on Gale’s shoulder and hugging him tightly. “I’m sorry,” he breathes out, and Gale’s own arms wrap around him after a moment, tentative, like he’s not sure what to do with John’s sympathy.

“It’s alright,” he says evenly, pressing his lips to John’s temple. “It’s been seven years, it’s not so fresh.”

John frowns, pulling back to look at him, resting his forearms on Gale’s shoulders. “Still,” he mumbles, his chest feeling tight for a man he never knew, for what Gale had loved and lost. “How do you feel about it now?”

Gale looks at him fondly, fingers tracing lines along his back. “I feel like it’s my turn to ask some questions,” he smiles, but he pauses nonetheless, thinking. “It’s true that time heals,” he says slowly. “Some days it feels a little heavier than others, but the way everything went down… it felt inevitable. Almost like I’d made peace with it before it even happened. I don’t talk about it often, because sometimes it feels harder to talk about it than it does to sit with it.”

John can tell there’s a lot more to this story, and in an ideal world, he’d sit by Gale’s side and listen to him tell it all from start to finish, no stone left unturned, a vivid picture painted both of his past and his inner workings, something John can pick apart in his head so he can learn Gale inside and out. But it’s clear it’s a lot for him to talk about, and he’s so grateful that Gale trusts him with it at all, that he feels safe enough with John to open up like this.

“Thank you for telling me,” John says softly, slipping his fingers beneath the collar of the back of Gale’s shirt, the nape of his neck warm against his palm. “If you ever want to talk about him, or any of it, you can, y’know.”

The corners of Gale’s eyes crease, his expression almost unbearably warm. “You’re sweet,” he murmurs, sliding his own hand beneath the hem of John’s shirt, rubbing his back idly. “Thank you, hun.” He hesitates then, eyeing John cautiously. “I want to ask about your parents,” he says gently, as if asking for permission, as if he hasn’t just cracked his chest open for John, as if John wouldn’t give him anything he wanted in return.

John almost feels silly, following up something so heavy with something that feels comparably less serious, though he knows Gale would shut down that notion so fast if he were to voice it out loud. So he nods slowly, resigning himself to being just as open as Gale had been, even if it makes him uncomfortable to talk about.

“You said your mom came back home yesterday,” Gale says, and John nods again. “How is that going?”

It’s almost reflexive at this point for John to downplay, to cook up some sort of lighthearted response or diversion to avoid talking about it; he has to actively push down the urge, shifting nervously. “It looked like the whole house was torn apart when I got home from work yesterday,” he tells Gale. “She does that a lot when she’s freshly detoxed. It’s– a lot, and my dad picked a fight over it when he got home, so it’s just been… a lot of yelling, and stuff, but that’s always how it goes.”

Gale frowns, pressing his palm firmer as he drags it down to rest against the small of his back. “Will she stay clean?” he asks carefully, and John shakes his head. “No,” he says, half–bitter, half–regretful. “It’s nice to believe she will, and I’ll never doubt her to her face, but she’s done this for long enough that I know how the cycle goes. She just hasn’t had a big relapse like this recent one for a while, so it was really jarring.”

“Of course it was, baby,” Gale says sympathetically, and then he pauses again, clearly choosing his words carefully. “When you said you bruised your arm at work,” he starts, and John’s immediately brought back to that sunny day at the beach, stomach twisting at the memory of lying to Gale’s face. “That wasn’t true,” Gale says, more of a statement than a question, and John hums his confirmation.

“It wasn’t,” he says quietly. “I didn’t wanna lie, ‘m sorry.” Gale shakes his head, wrapping his arms back around his waist, pulling him in. John settles into his lap at his insistence, feeling the tension in his body relax a little at the closeness.

“We barely knew each other, John, it’s okay,” he assures him warmly. “But we do now, and you still don’t tell me what’s going on at home,” he continues softly, no accusation to his words, just gentle care. “And that’s alright, I never want to push you, but… are you scared that something bad’ll happen if you talk to me about it?”

John shrugs. He hasn’t really thought about it; it’s just been second nature all his life to keep it to himself, to deal with it on his own. “I guess sometimes I’m still in the brain of my younger self,” he realizes, “where I feel like they’ll somehow find out if I talk about it, and then I’ll be in trouble.” His face warms a little, feeling childish. “That’s stupid, I know.”

“It’s not,” Gale says firmly, squeezing him gently. “It makes sense, baby. It’s hard to get out of that mindset, especially when you still live in that environment.” John feels his nerves settle a bit more, almost getting teary at the way Gale immediately gets it, a reminder that this is safe and good, that he can say what feels scary, even if it feels like pulling teeth.

“I think– well, I was a problem kid, or whatever,” John echoes his parents’ words, lowering his eyes to where he’s fidgeting with the front of Gale’s shirt, twisting and untwisting the fabric. “I had a hard time in school, and it got me in trouble a lot, and things didn’t really get better as I got older. The discipline just turned to… like, hitting, and stuff, with my dad,” he swallows hard, holding his breath, half expecting the man to materialize out of nowhere the moment he says it out loud, but nothing happens.

When he raises his eyes again, there’s unmistakeable anger simmering behind Gale’s patience, but John knows in his heart it’s not directed at him. “I’ve gotten better at keeping stuff inside, and knowing when to keep my mouth shut. It’s easier that way, so mostly when my dad starts stuff, it’s just about staying quiet while he yells. He doesn’t hit me as much anymore, and it helps that I’ve been away from home with work, and with you.” John smiles a little, and it takes Gale a second to return it, obviously upset by this, even if John suspects he’s already had an idea of what’s been going on.

“I know I’ve already said so, but you can text or call me always,” Gale says softly, almost pleadingly. “Doesn’t matter what time it is or what I’m doing, I’ll come get you, or at least talk to you, okay?”

John nods, his gratitude almost stifling, an overwhelmed whine nearly slipping out from how full his heart feels. “Thank you,” he whispers, and Gale squeezes his waist gently.

“I mean it, John. Even if you just need to get out for a bit, now that you don’t have the hotel to keep you busy– the couch in the shop is there for you while I’m at work, alright?” Gale insists, holding John’s gaze. “I don’t want you dealing with it alone, or worrying about bothering me with it. I want to help you, however you’ll let me.”

John feels his heart swell with the weight of everything Gale’s saying, with the care and support that’s being offered to him without hesitation. It's dizzying, foreign, and the words he wants to say catch in his throat, his chest tightening with emotion. He tries to swallow it down, to keep himself together, but it feels like too much– all John can do is curl his fingers tighter into Gale’s shirt, pulling him closer as he leans in.

His lips press softly against Gale's in a kiss that feels more like a confession, more like a plea for him to understand just how much John appreciates him. He’s not used to any of these feelings, and he doesn’t know how else to show his gratitude, his heart aching in the most tender way.

Gale kisses him back just as softly, a hand moving up to cradle the back of John’s head, keeping him close. It's slow and sweet, and John falls into it, pouring everything he’s feeling into the way their lips move together. He feels Gale’s thumb brush gently over his skin, soothing, tethering, and John’s heart stutters, the warmth in his chest expanding until it feels like it’s going to spill out.

Gale lets out a soft breath when they pull apart, his voice low and gentle when he speaks. “You don’t ever have to thank me for caring about you, John. You know that, right?”

John nods, blinking away the threat of tears as he presses another quick kiss to Gale’s lips, just to feel that connection again. He’s not sure what he’s done to deserve someone like him, but he’s so thankful for it that he feels like he’s going to fall apart under the weight of it all. Gale cups his face in his hands, his smile both bittersweet and affectionate.

“Sweet boy,” he murmurs, sliding a hand up to push his hair out of his face. John flushes, smiling despite himself, pulling away to rest his head on Gale’s shoulder again.

“What about your parents?” John asks after a minute. He hardly knows a thing about Gale’s family, and he’s curious what they’re like, if he’s fine with living far from them.

“What about them?” Gale asks, wrapping his arms back around John’s waist. John slips his hands beneath Gale’s t–shirt sleeves, resting his palms on his shoulders, pressing closer.

“I don’t know anything about them,” John says, “aside from your dad being in the…” he realizes he doesn’t even know where Gale’s dad had been enlisted.

“The Air Force,” Gale supplies, and John nods.

“Tell me about him?” he prompts when Gale doesn’t continue, and Gale hums quietly.

“War made him an angry man,” he says simply. “I still don’t really know him, and I don’t think he wanted a kid with how late he and my mom had me, but I never asked him outright. There’s not much I can say about him, really– we’ve never been close. He drank and smoked a lot, yelled a lot, and racked up a load of debt.”

John squeezes his shoulders, pressing a kiss to the crook of his neck. He feels like he can understand Gale’s dad through his own, even if they turned out bitter for different reasons.

“Is that why you don’t drink?” John recalls Gale’s easy avoidance when John had brought up his drinking habits– or lack of– the night they’d met. Gale makes a quiet noise, and John feels him nod.

“Yeah, mostly. I saw what it did to him, but I also just don’t like the feeling,” he says.

“Same,” John says. “Tastes bad, too.” Gale laughs quietly, humming in agreement.

“What about your mom?” John redirects, hoping to ease the tension he feels in Gale’s shoulders.

“I didn’t know her that well either,” Gale answers patiently. “She left when I was young; I don’t remember much. I’ve never been close with any family, so when Marge moved to Texas for college, I bought a shitty car and got out of Wyoming.”

“Why Chicago?” John asks.

“Opposite of Wyoming, I guess,” Gale says, as if he’s never quite thought about it. “I just kinda drove ‘til it felt right.”

“And then you met Johnny?” John guesses, gentle when he says his name, feeling like he has to handle the subject with care.

“Pretty soon after moving, yeah,” Gale says quietly. “Fell in love with biking because of him and his club, but got wrapped up in the violence of it, and shit just fell apart over the years.”

“Your ankle,” John remembers. “Was that…?”

“Yeah, it was ‘cause of the club,” Gale confirms. “People didn’t take kindly to us wearing our jackets around certain places, and I was stubborn and loyal to a fault. That’s something that I… well, I don’t have a great history, and I’m not proud of it,” he goes a bit quiet. “I want you to know that, because I don’t want you leaning into this and finding out later, and feeling like I hid it.”

Even knowing what he now does about Gale’s past, John still can’t imagine Gale ever being anything but the steady, kind man he’s come to know. He wants to dig, but it feels messed up to outright ask what he’s done, so John tries to soften it a little. “What, you kill someone or something?”

It’s half a joke, half an opportunity for Gale to elaborate without feeling pressured. Maybe John should feel more nervous about his answer, having heard plenty of stories growing up about biker gangs and one percenters, but something in him just knows that Gale is good.

Gale shifts beneath him, shaking his head, breathing out a laugh. “No, nothing like that,” he assures John. “But I’ve seen people do some messed up things, and I’ve hurt people too. Don’t matter that it was usually in retaliation. I regret every bit of it, and it’s taken a lotta years for me to make peace with myself.”

John pulls in a deep breath, nodding to himself, floored by Gale’s honesty. He feels bad for dragging this stuff up, but he tries to remind himself that this had been Gale’s idea, and that things can’t progress if they don’t get through this part; he just hates hearing the sadness in Gale’s voice. He remembers something then, humming softly as he presses a kiss to Gale’s neck.

“You said it’s been seven years?” he prompts gently, and Gale nods. “D’you know about the seven year cell cycle?”

Gale makes a quiet noise that John takes as a no. “Enlighten me, whiz–kid,” he says warmly, and John smiles.

“It’s more nuanced, but the gist is that every seven years or so, most of our cells have regenerated themselves,” he says quietly, trailing his finger over Gale’s collarbone. “So in a way, the body you’re in now has shed all of that.” John slides his hands down to Gale’s, keeping his head on his shoulder, allowing him to be vulnerable without having John’s eyes on him.

He squeezes Gale’s hands gently. “That means your hands don’t know violence anymore.”

Gale goes very still for a few seconds, and abruptly, John does too, realizing that seven years means his body no longer knows Johnny, and he’s horrified at the thought of Gale possibly coming to this realization too. But then Gale squeezes his hands back, lacing their fingers together, and John relaxes at the same moment he feels Gale do the same, reassured that he hasn’t messed up.

“Thank you, John,” Gale says softly, running his thumbs over the backs of his hands. “I didn’t know that, but I’m glad I do now.” The warmth returns to John’s body when Gale presses a kiss to his temple and murmurs, “You’re so sweet to me.”

John’s smile is back then, mumbling, “No, you are,” because he can’t sit with the softness of Gale’s words. He wants to let the silence blanket them, but he has one more question he wants to get out, almost to prove to himself that he really is allowed to bring up anything, that Gale had meant it when he said so. “What about the scar on your thigh?” John asks quietly.

“That was… when Johnny died, it was kind of a wake up call for me,” Gale says slowly. “I still felt stuck, but Marge kicked me into gear over the phone one night when I finally told her everything, and we made the plan to move to Wisconsin together.” John sits silently, letting him work his way through the memories.

“The club had to make an example of me when I left, because the order of things was so shaken with Johnny gone that they couldn’t have members thinkin’ they’d gone all soft,” he says. “We staged a shooting, and there had to be enough blood for it to be believable, so I let ‘em get me in the thigh.”

John’s jaw drops, as much as it can with his cheek pressed to Gale’s shoulder. “You did it on purpose?” He pulls back, staring at Gale in disbelief, glaring when Gale laughs a bit. “S’not funny, you could’ve died.”

“Sorry, baby, I know it’s not,” Gale relents, blue eyes still glinting with amusement.

John huffs a little, but his curiosity still lingers. “So why’d you join another club then?” he asks. Gale shakes his head.

“These guys… they’re not like that,” he says without missing a beat. “I met most of them while working at the pub when I first moved, and I was real hesitant at first ‘cause, y’know, I’d just finished running from that same shit.” There’s no doubt in Gale’s expression, only determination, like he wants to be sure that John doesn’t think badly about any of them.

“But I realized that what they had was what I had craved from a club in the first place– it’s all about the love of riding and the sense of comradery, no rules or strict initiations or power dynamics,” he says, and John can’t help but smile at his passion. “And all of them are good men, truly. Most of them have some sort of messy history too, but it doesn’t matter anymore.”

John nods, pulling his hands away to trail them along Gale’s arms. “I believe you,” he says warmly. “They’re a little scary to me, but I like them.”

Gale breathes out a laugh. “I think most things are a little scary to you,” he teases, “but that’s alright. It’s cute.” John pouts, and Gale’s smile grows more playful. “Like one of those shaky small dogs the rich suburban moms carry around, y’know?”

John can’t help but snort at that, not wounded by the comparison in the slightest because it’s Gale saying it, and because he’s sure he’s not far off. “I feel like them sometimes,” he sighs, faux–exasperated, and Gale hums affectionately. John has to fight the droop of his eyelids when Gale’s thumbs rub gentle circles over his hips, too physically drained to chase the faint stir of heat that flutters beneath his navel at the motions.

“Speaking of being scared,” Gale murmurs, eyes searching his face. “You said last night that you’re scared of being too little, or too much,” he says, waiting for John’s nod of recognition. “Why’s that?”

John furrows his brows. “I don’t… what do you mean?” He’s not sure if Gale’s asking why he’s scared, or why he thinks he might be those things. Gale smiles reassuringly.

“What do you worry about specifically, with that? With us?” If it was anyone else asking, John would feel like it’s some sort of trick question, too much room for interpretation, but he knows Gale is being genuine, that he wants John to think it over.

“Um,” he settles back a little bit, looping his arms around Gale’s neck, looking for the right words. “I think some of it’s maybe… kinda the opposite end of what you might worry about?” he starts, and Gale dips his chin, encouraging him to continue on.

“I’m scared about not being enough for you because of my lack of experience– in relationships, but like, with life in general, too,” John says honestly. It makes him nervous to be the one to bring stuff like that up, as if Gale hasn’t already thought it over on his own, and John saying it will suddenly make him realize that he’s right. “But on the flipside, I know I’m a little all over the place, and I’m more scared of overwhelming you, or being too much to handle. I don’t know how to be less– that, but I’m trying, I just… I feel a lot, I guess.”

Gale listens patiently until he’s done stumbling through his thoughts, never stopping the soothing back and forth of his hands. “There’s nothing wrong with feeling things deeply, John,” he says softly. “Your parents got you believing that?”

John shrugs, though he feels his face warm at the way Gale hits the nail on the head, almost feeling embarrassed to be seen through like that. “You know that’s one of my favourite things about you? The way you feel everything with your whole heart,” Gale says, so genuine it makes John want to squirm. “It’s only too much if it feels like too much for you to handle, but we can figure that out together.” Gale seems to hesitate for a moment before adding, “There’s never anything complicated about being around you.”

John feels something stitch itself together in his heart, a feeling he supposes he should start expecting, with Gale. Almost in some sort of reflexive defense mechanism to dodge his sincerity, John gets out a mumbled “so sappy,” but the taunt falls incredibly flat when his pupils feel like they’re the size of dinner plates as he stares down at Gale, heart thumping a steady rhythm against his sternum.

Whatever he’s felt about anything in his life, it’s nothing compared to this. This is feeling, John thinks, all–consuming and clinging and psyche–altering, something physical threatening to crawl up out of his throat and suck out all the oxygen in the room. He doesn’t even know where to begin with tackling the sensation.

“Maybe a little,” Gale agrees with his comment, low voice melting through the radio fuzz in his head. “But I mean it. And I think, all that aside, this is so new, and it’s okay for us to figure things out as we go, yeah?” He squeezes John’s waist gently, and John nods, more than okay with anything that lets him be by Gale’s side. “As long as we can both agree to talk about things with each other. I don’t ever want you to feel like you have to dull yourself down or hide what you’re feeling. Does that sound okay?”

“Yeah,” John says, hushed, unable to drag his eyes away from Gale’s face, so wholly enraptured and moved with affection. “Same goes for you,” he insists, running his fingers through the curls at the base of Gale’s skull, and Gale nods easily. “Promise,” he assures John.

John presses closer, dragging his fingers up to root them in Gale’s hair. There are so many words lingering just on the edge of his mind, but instead of struggling to wade through them, John leans in, closing the gap between them. His lips brush against Gale’s, a tentative kiss that feels like everything he’s too overwhelmed to express. Gale responds with a quiet hum, guiding John down into the kiss with gentle ease, his hand sliding up to cradle the back of John’s head. The softness of it makes John’s head spin, and he melts into Gale, the kiss deepening, sweet and careful.

Gale’s hand presses lightly at John’s side, and with a gentle nudge, he eases him onto his back. John goes easily, sighing happily into Gale’s mouth as he feels himself sink into the couch, his arms sliding up and around Gale’s shoulders, pulling him down as Gale’s weight settles on top of him. It’s grounding, comforting, and John feels a rush of warmth spread through him, the kind that he’s learning to associate with the way Gale makes him feel so safe.

Gale pulls away, leaving John breathing heavily as he kisses the corner of John’s mouth, then his jaw. Every touch is so soft, so intimate, and John’s heart squeezes, his fingers digging into the fabric of Gale’s shirt, convinced he’ll never get enough of this feeling. There’s a quiet moment where Gale looks down at him, his hand brushing a stray curl away from John’s forehead, eyes full of something tender that makes John’s chest tight with emotion.

They lay there together, limbs tangled, and Gale shifts just enough to rest his weight comfortably against John, arms slipping beneath John’s back to hold him close. John sighs again, feeling complete contentment, letting himself relax fully under Gale’s warmth, his cheek brushing against Gale’s neck. He can feel the steady rise and fall of Gale’s chest against his own, can hear the soft sound of his breathing in the quiet of the room, and everything feels right.

Gale presses a gentle kiss to the top of John’s head, whispering into his hair, “We’ve got all the time in the world, John.”

John holds his breath for a moment, the weight of his words settling over him like a promise. He nods, holding onto Gale a little tighter, and in the silence that follows, John feels something inside him go quiet too– for the first time, he truly believes there’s no need to rush, no need to worry. He’s with Gale, and he’s safe and warm, and that’s all that matters right now.

Chapter Text

August 28, 2005

The moment John steps through the front door of his house on Sunday evening, still smiling from the goodbye kiss he and Gale had shared in his truck, his mom materializes, looking both curious and wary.

“Where’ve you been?” she asks, watching John as he takes off his shoes, shoving them against the wall next to a cardboard box.

“Curt’s house,” John answers without thinking, an automatic response after so many years of it being the truth, and just as convenient an excuse now, when it’s not.

“Really?”

John abruptly feels the atmosphere shift, and he straightens slowly, adjusting the strap of his backpack. “Yes,” he says cautiously, sensing a trap. His mom looks at him for a second, then continues.

“I ran into his ma at the store this morning, and she told me you helped Curt move into his new apartment yesterday,” she says. Her tone of voice isn’t quite accusatory, but it’s not casual either, and John’s pulse quickens a little.

“Oh, that’s what I meant,” he fumbles, finding his footing. “Apartment, not house.”

He waits for understanding to flash across her face, but it doesn’t come. He hears the creak of the old leather couch in the living room over the low volume of the television, and the pressure of his dad listening in on this conversation makes heat prick at the back of his neck. He begins to wrack his brain for anything that he could be missing, but his mom sorts that out for him.

“Well,” she proceeds carefully, like she’s just as aware of their audience. “She said she went over to see the place this morning, and I asked if she’d said hi to you, but she was confused because she didn’t see you at all.”

“Well, I met up with some work friends this morning,” John tries, feeling his composure begin to slip a bit. It’s a perfectly believable explanation on its own, but he can tell he’s made her suspicious, though he’s not sure why he’s expected to detail his whole day for her suddenly.

Guiltily, John thinks that sometimes he likes it better when she’s too unaware of her surroundings to dig into his business. It’s not like he’s some kid who needs supervision — he wants to fire back and ask why she needs to know his every move, but he’d learned the hard way to shove down those impulses in his teen years. It’s easier to just answer her questions to get her off his back, especially with his dad nearby.

“Why not just tell me that right away?” his mom presses, definitely sensing something is amiss, adding, “It feels like you’re hiding something.”

It would almost be funny — the thought of just how much he’s hiding — if not for the icy-hot panic John feels at the statement. There’s no way she could possibly know what he’s really been doing this weekend, but the paranoia is there all the same, and as the fear of being caught creeps up his spine, the couch creaks once again. His dad ambles past the entryway to the kitchen, glancing over, expression unreadable but far too observant for John’s liking, and so John blindly reaches for a last resort.

“Okay. I’m, um— I’m seeing someone,” he blurts out. “A girl. I have a girlfriend.”

John feels like he can’t breathe the moment the words are out. His mom blinks at him, seemingly just as thrown off by the admission as John is.

“Oh!” she finally says after a moment, leaning against the wall, eyebrows raised. John’s not sure if he should be offended by her surprise, but he figures it doesn’t matter anyway. “How… when did this happen?”

John can see the thinly veiled guilt when she asks, clearly wondering if this has been a thing for a while, if she’s just been too deep in her own shit to notice. He takes pity on her, shrugging. “Only a few weeks ago,” he says, and at least there are some details he doesn’t have to lie about.

“What’s her name?” She smiles a little, and John blurts out the name of the only girl that comes to mind.

“Helen,” he says, almost choking on the word. If she understood the circumstances, he knows she’d get it, but it still feels so wrong to say. His dad emerges from the kitchen then, hovering in the door frame as his teeth click around the cap of a beer bottle, a quiet hiss sounding as it snaps open, and John feels sweat beginning to bead on his temples as his mom speaks again.

“Helen… what a sweet name,” she murmurs, nodding to herself. Then her brow furrows. “Why didn’t you tell us about her sooner? There’s no reason to hide this kind of thing.”

It takes some effort for John to not laugh bitterly at the comment, all too aware of the way he’ll never be able to do anything but hide ‘this kind of thing’ from them. “Yeah, I just… I didn’t want to jinx it, I guess,” he says, keeping his voice even. “It’s so new, y’know?”

“Only took 20 years,” his dad says lowly, still eyeing him. John dips his head in sheepish acknowledgement, clearing his throat awkwardly.

“This is so exciting,” his mom attempts to keep the mood from dying. “You have to invite her over for dinner so we can meet her!”

John can’t think of anything he’d rather do less, hoping his face doesn’t show how terrible of an idea he thinks that is. He could point out the state of the house, its guts still spilled out along the hallway and over every free bit of counter space, in no way presentable enough to have guests over — but he just wants this conversation done with, his whole body tense despite his mom’s positive reception to his news, terrified he’s going to trip himself up in his lie.

He stalls. “I don’t know, I mean, she’s pretty shy—”

“You sure she’s real?” his dad interrupts, and John swallows hard when he meets his cold gaze, nodding. His mom laughs politely, clearly not wanting to risk telling him off, though John does catch a flicker of doubt in her eyes, and he scrambles to snuff it out.

“Well, maybe I can just bring her round for a little bit,” he says hesitantly, contemplating how he’s going to worm his way out of this situation, and she brightens.

“Perfect,” she says, then glances around, wringing her hands. “Just… let me know when, so I can get this place into shape.” His dad shuffles back to the living room, seemingly satisfied by John’s compromise, but John feels a pit in his stomach knowing that his lie hasn’t been entirely accepted as truth. The last thing he needs right now is any sort of suspicion placed on him, not when he already has so few excuses for leaving the house until school starts up.

“Sure, ma,” he musters up a smile, gently squeezing her shoulder as he walks past her, fighting the urge to dash the rest of the way to his room. He only relaxes once the door is shut and locked behind him, dropping his bag to the floor and his head into his hands, swearing under his breath.

Helen is going to kill him.

John texts Curt first thing in the morning to find out if Helen is working, and when he receives confirmation that she is, he gets Curt to discreetly figure out what time her lunch break is, preparing himself to ambush her face-to-face with his royal fuck up in an effort to soften the blow of the favour he’s going to ask.

He feels worse when Curt sneaks him into the breakroom that afternoon and he sees the way Helen’s face lights up at the sight of him, jumping up and pulling him into a hug far too tight for only a weekend of being apart.

“Missed us already?” she asks when she pulls away, squeezing his arms.

“Oh, I don’t know about that, Hel,” Curt warns, making a face as he sits down at the table where Helen’s put her things. John kicks his foot when he sits down too, shooting him a glare. He hadn’t made Curt privy to his situation over text, only telling him that he’s messed up gloriously and needs help fixing it, but that’s more than enough for Curt to be apprehensive of what’s going to come out of his mouth.

“I did miss you, very much,” John says pointedly, throwing an arm over the back of Curt’s chair, going for casual, but from the way Helen is now eyeing him warily from the microwave, he knows he’s fighting a losing battle.

“What are you up to, John?” she asks, hitting the stop button just before the timer goes off.

“Well, actually,” John starts, watching her make her way back over to the table. “I was going to ask you… hypothetically, what are you most stressed about in life, right now?”

“The economy,” she answers dryly as she sits, not missing a beat, and John snorts, folding a paper napkin neatly with one hand.

“Smaller picture, please,” he says, and she looks at him from under the curl of her bangs, fork clinking against her bowl as she stirs her food around.

“I don’t like this,” she sighs, and Curt makes a noise of agreement as he snaps the tab of his soda open.

John groans. “Fine. What could I hypothetically do that would make your life easier right now?”

“You could… stop beating ‘round the bush,” she raises her eyebrows, taking a bite of her pasta. John shifts restlessly.

“Okay, listen. If there was a favour I could do for you that would get me one in return, what might that be?” John retracts his arm from the back of Curt’s chair, clasping his hands in front of him like he’s proposing a business deal.

“Are you propositioning me, John Egan?” she asks, sharp as ever. Curt laughs, and John leans back in his chair, stainless steel cold through his t-shirt.

“Helen,” he gasps, faux-scandalized, but when her expectant gaze doesn’t leave him, he relents. “I told my parents that I started seeing a girl to get them off my back about Gale, but my dad didn’t believe for even a minute that she existed—”

“Because she doesn’t, clearly,” Helen interjects. John can feel Curt’s big eyes on him, and he turns to answer his unspoken question.

“My mom ran into yours this morning and found out I wasn’t at your place,” he says, and Curt’s mouth rounds into an ‘oh’ of understanding, concern eating at his boyish features. “Had to scramble for something to cover my tracks.” John turns back to Helen.

“So now I’ve trapped myself into having to bring an imaginary girl over, and I’ve got a lot riding on this, and I don’t know many women to ask for help from, I’ll be honest.” John gives Helen a look that’s both parts apologetic and pleading.

Helen scoffs. “Really making a girl feel wanted here.”

John sits up straight, placing a hand over his heart. “Helen, my dearest, my loveliest, queen of table-setting and pillow-fluffing—”

“God, nevermind,” she winces, cutting off his poetic waxing. “I’ll do it, but you owe me one.”

John brightens, a weight lifting off his shoulders, not that he’d ever truly expected Helen wouldn’t have his back. “Thank fuck,” he breathes out, tilting his head back. “Thought I was gonna have to say a prayer and rope Curt into putting on a dress and makeup.”

He’s almost shoved out of his chair for that one, cackling at the “absolutely not” that Curt grumbles around a bite of food.

“I have one condition, though,” Helen tilts her chin up, eyes gleaming with mischief, and John nods cautiously. “I get to meet Gale soon, so I can make sure all this effort you’re going to is worth it.”

“Seconded,” Curt interjects, and John groans, slumping in his seat.

“What am I s’posed to do, invite him to the mall with us?” he whines, mortified at the thought. Helen rolls her eyes.

“Obviously not,” she says, then sits back, thinking.

“What about your birthday?” Curt suggests. “You told me Gale said you could bring me to the pub, right? What if Ken and Helen come too?”

John kind of wants to die at the thought of any of his friends witnessing him and Gale interact, but he supposes it’s not a terrible idea, and it’s inevitable that they’re all going to have to meet eventually. And it’s his birthday — it would be weird to not have any of his own friends there, surrounded by a bunch of middle-aged guys that he’s barely on a first name basis with.

“I can ask,” he decides, and Helen beams.

“He’ll say yes.” Curt nods to himself. “He likes you way too much to say no.”

John feels his face warm a little, clearing his throat. “Alright, can we get back to the hole I’ve dug myself into?”

The rest of the week is surprisingly busy given how bored John had prepared himself to be before classes start. On Tuesday he meets up with Curt to take the bus down to campus for freshman orientation, and despite his nerves leading up to the day, it ends up being a lot less scary than he anticipates. He likes the vibes right away, and he realizes during the tour that the campus is pretty straightforward to navigate — he’s been anxious about getting lost or being late, so that’s a huge relief to him.

He and Curt grab a late lunch afterwards before heading back to Curt’s apartment, sitting on his bedroom floor with all their papers, swapping schedules so they can know when the other will be busy. They have a couple Gen Ed classes together at least, so neither of them will have to feel too lonely as they adjust to returning to school, and even though Ken’s a year ahead of them, having done a year of college back in Milwaukee, it’ll be nice to have him around campus too.

Curt’s already mourning his free time, and John doesn’t envy how overworked he’s going to be, juggling classes and part time hours at the hotel, but he’s having a hard time dreading his own packed schedule when it means he’ll be out of the house from morning to evening on weekdays. He’s sure he’ll eat his own words when the stress of it all hits him, but for now at least, nerves aside, he’s keen to jump into it all.

John gets a text from Gale as he’s walking home from Curt’s that evening, a simple ‘Can I call you?’

His heart leaps both from excitement and a quiet wave of apprehension that he quickly works to stifle, trying to train himself out of jumping to conclusions. There are a million different reasons Gale might want to call, and not all of them are bad, he reminds himself.

He responds with, ‘of course :)’, and his phone lights up a few seconds later, his ringtone loud on the quiet street.

“Hi,” John answers, smiling before Gale even speaks, shoving his free hand in his pocket.

“Hey,” Gale responds warmly. “How are you?”

“I’m good, how are you?” John asks, hesitantly adding, “Is everything okay?” He’s not used to him calling out of the blue like this, and he can’t help but worry a little bit.

Gale’s breath of a laugh immediately assuages his uncertainty. “I’m fine, baby,” he assures him, and John’s pulse flutters so hard that he gives the curb a long hard look, wondering whether he should sit down for his heart’s sake. “I just wanted to know how orientation went.”

“Oh,” John murmurs, smile returning as he takes in a breath, nodding to himself. “Yeah, it— it was good, thanks.”

“Bus ride was okay?” Gale inquires, and John hums his confirmation. “How about everything else? You find your way around easy enough?”

“Yeah,” John says, heart ready to burst. “It wasn’t as bad as I thought, and everyone seemed really nice. The labs had some cool things, so I’m pretty excited.”

“Yeah? Tell me about it,” Gale prompts, sounding genuinely curious, and John pauses, scuffing the toe of his shoe against the sidewalk as he comes to a stop at the end of his driveway.

“Really?” he says softly, running his hand through his hair. He can picture the exasperatedly fond expression on Gale’s face when he huffs out another laugh and says, “Yes, really, I wanna know about your day, John.”

It’s not that John doesn’t believe him when he says stuff like that, but he still feels like he has to make sure, like he’s unintentionally testing Gale’s patience to prove to himself that he’s being sincere. And he realizes that’s not great, that he needs to sort that issue out with himself, because Gale’s proven time and time again to be exactly the person he presents himself as. John just needs to get used to having someone other than Curt that he can take so entirely at face value, that he doesn’t have to second guess himself with.

“Okay,” John breathes out, face warming. “Only— I just got home, so, I have to be quiet until I get to my room. Is that alright?”

“Of course,” Gale says. “I just got home too, no rush.”

“Okay,” John repeats. “I’ll just be a minute.”

He realizes after he says it that he could just hang up and call back, but he doesn’t want to disconnect, feeling like he’ll lose the warmth that’s enveloped him if he does. And Gale hadn’t suggested otherwise, so he decides to not overthink it, walking down the mercifully truck-less driveway and stepping inside. He’s not sure if the state of the house is better or worse than when he’d left that morning — it’s hard to discern between organized chaos and plain old disarray sometimes when his mom gets like this, but that’s a problem for him to deal with some time later this week.

“That you, John?” he hears his mom call from the living room.

“Yeah, mom,” he calls back, waiting for a moment for any further questions, but to his relief, all that follows is garbled speech from the television. He raises his phone back to his ear as soon as his bedroom door is locked behind him, greeted with the quiet sounds of dishes clinking.

“Gale?” John says, dropping his bag on the floor next to his bed.

“Still here,” Gale responds. John falls back onto his mattress with a sigh, limbs sprawled out in the waning sunlight that filters in through his window.

“What are you doing?” he asks, hearing running water.

“Making dinner,” Gale answers. “Waiting for my evening update on John’s world.”

John smiles, closing his eyes, picturing Gale in his kitchen with his phone pinched between his ear and shoulder. He rolls onto his side, phone squished against his face, swinging his arm over the side of his bed as he begins to tell Gale about his day. It’s comforting, listening to Gale move around the kitchen while he talks, and every time John falters a little, Gale jumps in with a question. John’s face hurts from the way his smile refuses to dim, feeling so listened to, the fear of boring Gale slowly easing out of his system.

“What’s the rest of your week looking like?” Gale asks after John has him talk about his day too, despite Gale’s insistence that really nothing all that interesting had happened. Every bit of it is intriguing to John, a glimpse into Gale’s day-to-day; he realizes maybe that’s the same way Gale feels listening to him talk, which seems a little bit unfathomable.

“Nothing going on,” John says glumly, then makes a face to himself. “Oh God, except Helen’s coming over and…” he pauses, running a hand down his face. “Actually, it’s a long story, I’ll tell you in person.”

Gale makes a quiet noise of amusement. “Now that’s just cruel, leaving me hanging like that,” he drawls out. “But I also don’t want you running your phone bill into the ground. You wanna come by the shop tomorrow, get out of the house, fill me in then?”

Excitement buzzes through John’s veins, caught off guard by the suggestion. “Yeah,” he says, wondering whether Gale can hear how hard he’s smiling. “When?”

Gale laughs quietly. “Whenever you want, bud. If you wanna wait ‘til noon, I’ll take my lunch when you show up, how’s that sound?”

“That sounds good,” John says happily, thankful to have something to look forward to before the weekend.

“Alright. Just let me know when you leave,” Gale says. “And bring a book or something so you don’t get bored, if you wanna hang out for the day.” As if there’s a world where he wouldn’t want an excuse to be around Gale and out of his boring room.

“Okay,” John says. “Do you want me to pick up food on the way?” He’s certain Gale’s going to turn the offer down before he even makes it, not surprised in the slightest when he does just that.

“That’s alright, I’ll bring us something,” Gale says easily, adding an affectionate, “Hey, now,” when John sighs dramatically. “You have to deal with a long bus ride, s’only fair.”

“Fine,” John relents, rolling onto his back. “Thanks, Gale,” he says softly, hoping it’s clear he’s talking about more than just food.

“None of that,” Gale insists gently. “You just bring your pretty self, and I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?”

John blushes, draping his arm over his face despite there being no one in the room to hide from. “Okay,” he gets out, shifting a little, waiting for Gale to say goodnight so that he doesn’t have to be the one to end the call.

“Okay,” Gale echoes back. “Goodnight, baby. Get some rest.”

“You too,” John mumbles shyly. “G’night.”

John’s on the bus by eleven, headphones on and backpack at his feet. The butterflies in his stomach multiply the closer he gets to the open fields and looming warehouses, and he’s grateful for the few minutes he has to try to calm down as he walks the rest of the way to the shop from the bus stop.

The large garage door is open when he turns into the gravel drive, same as last time, but as he approaches, John can see Gale talking with, presumably, a customer. He smiles timidly when Gale glances over, heart squeezing at the way the corner of his mouth twitches upwards before he turns back to the guy, and John takes that as his cue to head on over to the office.

He enters through the shop’s front door instead so he doesn’t interrupt, expecting to see Bubbles at the desk, but all he gets is the quiet jingle of the bell hanging over the frame. There’s no sign of Rosie either as he makes his way to the back, and the office is empty too, so he assumes they’ve both left to take their lunches already, setting his bag on the floor and sitting down on the couch to wait.

He’s so antsy to see Gale that he almost has to stand back up a minute later and start doing laps of the small room, but eventually Gale appears in the window of the door, wiping his hands on a rag as he shoves it open with his hip. John pushes himself up immediately, chest going fuzzy at the way Gale’s vacant expression softens upon seeing him, but when he steps closer, Gale takes a step back, holding his hands up placatingly.

“Hang on, don’t wanna get oil on you,” he says when John makes a noise of impatience. He laughs as he drops the rag on the desk, walking over to the small sink in the kitchenette to wash his hands. John trails after him unthinkingly, unable to stomach the thought of being apart for a second longer, even though it’s only been a few days since he’s seen him.

He leans against the counter, blinking at Gale as he washes and dries his hands, smiling shyly when he finally gets Gale’s full attention. Gale sets down the towel and steps closer, and John’s back meets the edge of the counter, the warmth of Gale’s body filling the space between them.

Gale places his hands on either side of John, his palms flat against the counter, a fondness in his gaze that makes John’s heart skip a beat. He tilts his chin up reflexively, whining quietly when Gale doesn’t immediately lean in, eyes darting around John’s face instead. “Missed me that much?” Gale’s voice is low, almost teasing, but the tenderness in it makes John’s chest tighten.

John blushes, but he doesn’t look away. He nods, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth, his fingers curling around the edge of the counter. “Lots.”

Gale’s smile widens, the corners of his eyes creasing in that way that makes John’s heart flutter. “Missed you too,” he murmurs, so gentle it sends a flush through John’s body.

Gale leans in then, and when their lips finally meet, it’s so soft that John feels like he might float away. His hands move on their own, reaching around to cling to the back of Gale’s tank top. He lets himself melt into the kiss, sighing contentedly. Gale’s lips move slowly against his, and his hand comes up to cup the side of John’s face, his thumb brushing over his cheek. John presses a little closer, wrapping his arms tighter around Gale’s middle.

Gale pulls back for a breath, just enough to look at him. “You doing okay?” he asks, and John nods, blinking up at him, smiling dazedly.

“Yeah,” he breathes out, his hands sliding down to rest on Gale’s sides. “You?”

Gale nods, his eyes softening even more as he leans in for another kiss. When they part again, John feels a lightness in his chest that wasn’t there before, and he hums, his fingers playing absentmindedly with the hem of Gale’s shirt.

“I really did miss you,” he says again, quieter this time, like he can’t quite believe how much.

“You’re cute,” Gale rumbles out an affectionate laugh, his hand still cradling John’s face as he presses a gentle kiss to his forehead. “I missed you too,” he repeats, brushing his hand through John’s hair before he pulls away, leaving John feeling love-drunk as he leans heavily against the counter.

“Sorry for keeping you waiting,” Gale says, opening the fridge. “I swear customers get the chattiest when they can sense I wanna escape.”

John smiles, watching him pull out a container. “I don’t mind,” John assures him. “I’m just happy to be here.”

Gale shoots him a smile back as he retrieves some dishes from the cupboard. “You gonna hang around after lunch?” he asks, filling two plates with homemade pasta salad. John nods.

“If that’s still okay,” he checks, following Gale to the couch.

“Of course,” Gale says, setting their plates on the coffee table. “I told you that you can always come hang out here.”

“The others don’t mind?” John inquires, sitting down a respectable distance from Gale, though he yearns to press up close against his side. He assumes that as far as Gale’s friends know, he’s just a kid Gale’s taken under his wing, nothing more. If Gale spends time with them, John’s sure they’re all good-hearted people, but that doesn’t mean everyone is equally accepting, so he understands wanting to keep the nature of their relationship private.

Gale shakes his head. “Not at all. We’re hardly in the office anyway outside of breaks,” he says, then pauses. “You don’t have to hide away in here though, if you get bored.”

“Okay, thanks,” John says gratefully. He won’t have to worry so much about staying out of the house soon given how much time he’ll be spending on campus, but it’s nice to know the shop is an option if he needs it.

“I like having you around,” Gale reminds him gently, as he always does, and John smiles bashfully, doing his best to internalize the sentiment as he takes a bite of his food. They chat easily while they eat lunch, catching each other up on the few days they’ve spent apart. As promised, John fills Gale in on the whole fake girlfriend conversation, pouting at the amusement that follows Gale’s initial concern, clearly entertained by the thought of John trying to make him and Helen believable.

John debates telling Gale about the one condition of Helen’s agreement — that she wants to meet him — but he decides against it, not wanting Gale to feel some sort of pressure to make a good impression on a gaggle of 20-something-year-olds. Instead, he meekly brings up Gale’s offer of going to the pub for his birthday.

“Are we… am I still allowed to go to the pub for my birthday next week?” he asks sheepishly, and Gale smiles.

“Course you’re allowed,” he says. “I was actually gonna ask you about it. Your birthday’s on Thursday, so would you maybe wanna do that the day after instead, so you’re not out late on school night?”

“That’s fine with me,” John says easily. It doesn’t matter to him, since he’s never been big on celebrating his birthday — it’s more for Curt and Helen’s sakes. And while he’s not sure yet if he wants to have anything to drink, after how that had gone last time, he’d rather not risk it when he has a nine a.m. class on Friday.

“I still wanna see you on your actual birthday,” Gale says, then hesitates. “If that’s alright. I don’t know if you have other plans, or…”

John can’t help the smile that takes up residence on his face, cheeks warming, shaking his head as Gale trails off, voice pitching upwards. “I’m not doing anything,” he assures Gale. “I’d like to see you, too.”

“Alright.” Gale smiles back. He drapes his arm over the back of the couch, hand settling just close enough for him to play with the sleeve of John’s shirt. “Was thinkin’ you could stay the night, and I can drive you to class before I go to work on Friday?”

“Yes please,” John says shyly, heart fluttering at the thought of getting to spend so much time together, at the thought of Gale asking to spend so much time with him.

Gale’s smile deepens, the softness in his eyes making John’s heart skip. “Good,” he murmurs, his fingers lightly brushing against the collar of John’s shirt. Gale watches him for a moment longer, then casually turns to glance out the glass pane set in the office door. He’s evidently satisfied with the silence outside because he turns back to John with a look that makes John’s stomach flip, and then Gale’s leaning in and John’s meeting him halfway.

Gale kisses him so sweetly, the familiar taste making John’s chest swell with affection. He sighs into it, his hands moving up to rest on Gale’s shoulders, feeling them relax beneath his palms. Gale’s arm stays draped over the back of the couch, but his other hand comes up to cradle the back of John’s head, tilting it a little, deepening the kiss in a way that sends a shiver down John’s spine.

Slowly, unthinkingly, John leans back, letting Gale follow him down onto the couch, their lips never parting. His fingers curl into Gale’s shirt, holding him close, and he can feel Gale smile against his mouth. There’s a quiet, breathless laugh between them before Gale steals another slow, lingering kiss, this one a little more bold. John’s head feels light, his heart melting in his chest as he loses himself in the warmth of Gale’s lips.

Just as Gale’s hand slides down to rest on John’s waist, the quiet chime of the shop’s bell echoes through the garage, and they both freeze.

Gale sits up, his breathing a little unsteady, turning to the door as the faint murmur of voices drifts in from the shop. John’s cheeks flush with a mix of embarrassment and disappointment, but he can’t help but smile at the way Gale looks a bit flustered too, his lips slightly reddened, hair a little mussed.

“You’re dangerous, baby,” Gale breathes out when he faces John again. He runs a hand through his hair as he stands, the fondness in his eyes still burning bright. John groans, pushing himself upright, willing the heat on his face to dissipate.

“It’s just Rosie and Bubbles,” Gale tells him, backing towards the door. “I’ll go say hi so you can calm down.” He gives John a pointed look, and John flushes all over again, reaching for his water as Gale steps out of the room.

He listens to the three of them talk while he gathers up the empty plates from the coffee table, bringing them over to the sink to wash them, glad he has something to occupy his hands and mind. Rosie and Bubbles don’t seem to notice anything’s up when they enter the office a minute later to say hi and retrieve their gear from their lockers, making small talk with John, easy as ever. John stubbornly avoids Gale’s eyes, knowing he’ll just get flustered again, only letting his guard down and dropping his face into his hands with a quiet whine once the other two have left the room.

Gale laughs affectionately, picking his rag back up and snapping his toolbelt into place, squeezing John’s shoulder gently as he passes by the couch. “I gotta go back, but you know where to find me if you need anything,” he says. “Make yourself at home.”

John does, once he manages to shake the feeling of Gale’s lips and hands from his brain.

Despite the background noise of customer chatter and metallic tinkering and engines sputtering to life, the shop feels so incredibly peaceful. John has such a productive, focused day that he doesn’t get up to bother Gale once, as much as he’d love to sit in a corner of the garage and watch him work for hours. Instead, he spends the afternoon getting ahead on some reading for one of his courses, curling up in the corner of the couch to take notes but gradually getting more comfortable, sprawled on his stomach with his book flattened beneath one hand by the time Gale comes in to check on him.

John looks up when he hears the door open, eyes adjusting slowly after hours spent staring at the small print of his book.

“Hey,” Gale says softly, pausing in the door frame. “All good in here?”

John hums his affirmation, taking the interruption as a cue to stretch, shoulders protesting from staying propped up on his elbows to read. “What time is it?” he asks, too lazy to reach for his phone.

“Just after four,” Gale says. “You’ve been so quiet in here, thought you fell asleep.” He eyes John’s open notebook on the coffee table, amusement on his face. “Class in session already?”

John breathes out a laugh, nodding bashfully. “Just trying to get ahead so I’m not so overwhelmed.”

Gale smiles fondly. “So studious,” he says, only a little bit teasing. “You need anything before I go back?”

“I’m okay,” John says, and Gale nods.

“Alright. I’ll be done at five,” he says. “I’ll take you for dinner after?”

John beams at him, happy to have more time together before he goes home. “Okay,” he says eagerly.

“Okay,” Gale echoes, rapping his knuckles against the door. “Happy studying.”

It’s hard to say goodbye so soon when Gale drives him home after dinner, even if he knows he’ll see him again in two days. John kisses him like he’s trying to permanently etch the feeling of Gale’s lips onto his own, at least to last him until the next time, and Gale presses back with just as much intention, hand resting warm and solid on the back of John’s neck. John goes to bed with his heart feeling light, chest still fuzzy from his time spent with Gale.

In the morning, he makes plans with Helen for her to come over Friday evening around six, so they have the excuse of going out to dinner to save them from needing to stick around. He tentatively starts tidying up around the house, easing into it, holding his breath as he waits for pushback from his mom, knowing how particular she gets about her projects.

She emerges from the living room, coffee in hand, as John works on the piles of clothes in the hallway. “I was going to get to it,” she insists, though she doesn’t seem upset with his efforts, so that’s a start.

“I know,” John assures her, even though he doesn’t fully believe it. “But Helen’s going to drop by tomorrow evening, if that’s alright, so I thought I’d help out.”

“Oh,” she straightens, nodding brightly. “Of course it’s alright. I’ll deal with these clothes then, hun, you won’t know what goes where.”

John’s heart clenches at the ease in the way she talks to him. It physically hurts to know he’s on borrowed time, to know that he has to soak it up while he can. It’s so easy to feel the pull of hope — he wants so badly to ask her to stay. To stay bright-eyed and clear-headed, to be there for him, to be his mom. But he hasn’t gone through twenty years of being dragged through this cycle without learning, and he knows that ultimately, nothing is going to change if she doesn’t want it to. He doesn’t think she cares enough to want it, and at this point, there’s nothing he can say to make it matter more to her.

So John smiles and agrees, and gets started on the mess in the living room instead. He spends most of the day decluttering and deep cleaning while his mom organizes, and he knows Helen is barely going to be in the house if he can help it, hoping for a quick hello-and-goodbye situation, but it’s as good an excuse as any to rein in his mom’s compulsive organizing before it becomes unmanageable. And it’s a lot easier when he has her help, so he’s keen on getting it all done at once, and he’s relieved when he finishes vacuuming the freshly cleared floor space before his dad gets home from work.

The last few little things can wait until tomorrow, he decides, thanking his mom for her help and hiding away in his room for the rest of the evening. Gale texts and offers to pick him up after he leaves the shop tomorrow so he doesn’t have to take the bus, but John tells him that Helen’s going to drop him off at his house, since they have to leave together anyway to keep up the lie of heading to dinner. Gale teases him, asking if he needs any last minute tips on believably courting her. He bids John goodnight by telling him to be safe, his head clearly in the same place that John’s is, worrying about what might happen if he and Helen mess this up somehow.

John busies himself with more cleaning around the house on Friday until there’s nothing left to do, resorting to reading in his room, though he’s too jittery to fully focus as he counts down the hours and waits for Helen’s text. He’d heard his mom telling his dad the previous evening that Helen would be stopping by around dinner, but he hadn’t actually expected him to deviate from his usual Friday post-work drinks, so when John hears his truck pull into the driveway a few minutes after receiving Helen’s ‘leaving in five! :)’ text, his nervousness increases tenfold.

He’s certain his dad doesn’t actually care about who he’s seeing; he thinks this is really only about him making sure that John’s girlfriend actually exists, judging by his reaction to the news of his relationship. And whatever, John doesn’t care either way — it’s not like he’ll ever actually introduce his dad to a real partner.

John leans against the wall in the entryway while he waits for Helen to arrive, wondering what it would be like to have the cliche ‘please don’t embarrass me’ conversation with one’s parents. He’s not concerned about that in the slightest, but he’s sure it would be a hell of a lot nicer to worry about that than the things that are on his mind now.

He’s out the door the moment he hears Helen’s car pull up, hyper-aware of the way his mom is no doubt peeking at the two of them through the window, plastering on a smile as he walks over and opens Helen’s door with a flourish. Helen barely stifles a laugh as she steps out of the car.

“Such a gentleman,” she comments, moving out of the way so John can close the door behind her.

“My mom’s watching,” John defends himself, and Helen hums her understanding.

“Hold my hand then,” she says, reaching for his wrist, and John does as she says, doing his best to keep his face neutral as she slots his fingers through his. It feels weird, holding a hand so much smaller than his, so much softer than what he’s becoming used to with Gale.

“Your hand is sweaty,” Helen whispers as he leads her up the driveway, and John squeezes her hand in retaliation, biting back an apprehensive laugh.

“I’m nervous,” he whispers back as they stop on the doormat, turning to look at her.

“Aw, I make you nervous?” Helen says, her eyes glinting, a playful attempt at calming his nerves, and John rolls his eyes, pushing the door open. His mom rounds the corner as soon as he shuts it behind them, and her smile when her eyes land on Helen is so fond that John feels bad for getting her hopes up like this.

“You must be Helen,” she says, pulling Helen in for a hug. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

It’s far from the truth, his mom’s attempt at overcompensating for her absence, but Helen leans into her role without missing a beat, turning to look at John all fake-bashful when she pulls away from the hug. “You’ve been talking about me, John?” she asks sweetly, the look in her eyes almost making John laugh.

“Only a little,” he matches her energy, running a hand through his hair like he’s actually embarrassed.

“Oh, you two are sweet,” his mom folds her hands over her chest, turning when John’s dad comes up behind her, eyeing Helen critically. John lets himself feel a bit of relief when his stony expression makes way for a flicker of approval when Helen steps forward with an easy smile and a polite “Mr. Egan,” extending her hand, shaking his firmly when he reciprocates.

John feels exceptionally awkward, not knowing what sorts of conversations are meant to be had when introducing new partners, but his mom sweeps Helen into small talk with surprising ease, asking her how work’s been treating her, if she’s had a good summer. His dad watches their interaction silently, and John watches him, stomach in knots, wishing he could read his thoughts, hoping that Helen’s selling this as well as John feels like she is.

It’s not like John’s given him any reason to doubt them, now that he’s shown that Helen is, in fact, a real person, not a figment of his imagination cooked up to excuse whatever nefarious activities his dad thinks he might be getting up to. He just still can’t help the way he craves the old man’s approval, to feel like he’s done something right in his dad’s eyes, even though the older he gets, the more he realizes he shouldn’t value his opinion so much when he wants to avoid ending up like him.

“Well, I’m sure John’s taking you somewhere nice tonight,” his mom says, looking at him, and John nods.

“Trying someplace new downtown,” he lies smoothly, leaning down to pick up his backpack. “We should get going though, before it gets too busy.” He looks at Helen, and she nods, appearing relieved at the suggestion. John tries his best not to seem too hurried when he ushers her out the door after everyone says their goodbyes, cheeks warm from his mom’s, “Have a good weekend, and be safe, you two.”

He exhales heavily when he sinks into the passenger seat of Helen’s car, dropping his bag at his feet and groaning.

“Tough crowd, that one,” Helen lets out a nervous laugh when both car doors are closed, leaning back in her seat. John looks at her, making a sympathetic noise.

“My dad?” he assumes, and she nods. “Yeah, he’s just… kinda like that,” John finishes lamely, shrugging, buckling himself in when Helen starts the car.

“Your mom is so nice,” Helen says as she pulls out of the driveway. John ignores the pang in his chest, smiling a little as he pulls his phone out to let Gale know he’s on his way.

“Yeah, she is,” he says softly. “I could tell she liked you a lot — I kinda feel bad for lying to her.”

Helen glances at him as she turns the corner, shaking her head. “You gotta do what you gotta do, John,” she assures him. “Maybe someday you’ll be able to tell her the truth, you never know.”

John sincerely doubts this, but it’s a nice thought to hold onto, and he thanks Helen for it, flipping his phone shut after sending the text.

“Thanks for doing this for me,” he adds, nerves beginning to settle the further they get from his house. “You’re a lifesaver.”

“It wasn’t that bad,” she waves him off. “But I do hope you’re holding up on your end of the bargain?” she presses with a sly smile, and John grimaces.

“Yeah, actually,” he remembers, and she raises her eyebrows. “If you’re around next Friday, Gale said it would be fine to invite you guys to the pub, like Curt said.”

Helen grins, clapping her hands together before returning them to the wheel. “I can head right over after work,” she says enthusiastically.

John listens to her ramble excitedly about birthday plans, things like, “Do you guys even have any pictures together? I have to bring my camera!” He’s not sure he does a good job at hiding the way he melts at the thought of having physical proof of him and Gale, wondering what Gale would think about it.

The all-too-familiar butterflies return to his chest as he directs Helen down Gale’s street to his house, laughing at her noise of approval. “So he’s, like, normal,” she comments at the sight of the cozy house at the end of the road, and John can’t even make fun of her because he distantly remembers having a similar thought the night Gale had brought him home for the first time.

He thanks Helen again for everything when she comes to a stop at the end of Gale’s driveway, promising to come visit her at work and bring her lunch soon as a thank you, and then he slings his bag over his shoulder and bites back his smile as he makes his way to the front door and knocks gently.

Gale pulls the door open a few seconds later, smiling warmly when John lets out a suddenly-shy, “Hi.”

“Hey,” he returns, beckoning John inside, placing a hand on his waist as he closes the door behind him. “You don’t have to knock, baby.”

“Oh,” John breathes out, blinking at Gale. “Okay.”

Gale makes a quiet noise in the back of his throat. He steps closer, wrapping his arms around John, pulling him in close. He presses a gentle kiss to his lips, warm and tender, like he’s been waiting all day for this the same way John has. The sweet affection in it makes John’s chest ache, a soft sigh slipping out as he leans into his embrace.

His hands find their way up to Gale’s shoulders, then drift to the back of his neck, his fingers threading through the soft waves of Gale’s hair. It’s like his body moves on its own, drawn to the closeness, and he presses into the kiss, clinging to the gentle welcome. John can’t help but smile against Gale’s lips, his heart fluttering at how right it feels every single time.

When they pull back, their noses brush, and John feels a little dazed, a flush colouring his cheeks. He’s still smiling, his fingers playing idly with the hair at the nape of Gale’s neck, not quite ready to let go. Gale’s arms remain around him, holding him steady, and there’s a look of pure contentment in his eyes, flooding John’s stomach with sickly-sweet honey.

“Hi,” John says again, softer this time, feeling light enough to float away.

Gale chuckles, his breath warm against John’s skin as he dips his head to nuzzle against his cheek. “Hey,” he murmurs back, pressing a quick kiss to the corner of John’s mouth. “You look happy.”

“I am,” John says earnestly, finally unwinding his hands from Gale’s hair, settling them on his waist instead.

“Went well tonight, then?” Gale asks hopefully, stepping back to let John slide his sneakers off, taking his bag for him.

“Yeah, I think so,” John says, trailing after Gale to the kitchen. “My mom liked her, and I think my dad bought it.”

“Good,” Gale smiles, not protesting this time when John joins him at the counter to help finish up dinner.

After eating and cleaning up, John unsurprisingly finds himself back on Gale’s couch. He’s stretched out between Gale’s legs, arms wrapped around his middle, cheek pressed to Gale’s stomach as gentle hands play idly with his hair, and he feels like he could stay there forever. The steady rise and fall beneath him lulls John into a deep sense of comfort as he watches the TV, only half-paying attention to the sitcom they’ve settled on, content to lose himself in his thoughts.

“Gale,” he says quietly when a commercial break comes on, feeling Gale’s responding hum beneath his cheek. “Did you think we’d end up like this?”

Gale shifts a little, making a questioning noise. “You overthinkin’ something?” he asks, running his hand through John’s hair.

“No, I’m… I’m good-thinking,” John assures him, and Gale laughs softly. “Was just wondering what you thought, after the night we met.”

Gale hums again, and John lets him think, trailing his fingers along his side beneath the fabric of his shirt. “Well, I dropped you off and I thought I might never see you again, ‘til I realized you left your book behind,” he says, then huffs out another laugh. “You know I almost slipped my number in it?”

John turns his head then, digging his chin into Gale’s stomach, looking up at him with wide eyes. “No you didn’t.” Gale smiles down at him, chin resting on his own chest with the way he’s propped up slightly against the arm of the couch.

“I thought about it,” he says. “Felt weird though, so I didn’t, but I kicked myself when I missed you coming back in to get the book. Thought that was for sure it.”

“You should’ve done it,” John mumbles.

“Worked out just fine anyway,” Gale says. “Soon as I saw you on the sidewalk outside the diner, I knew there was a reason I couldn’t shake you.”

John smiles at the memory. “Knight in shining armour,” he says, and Gale shakes his head fondly. “What about…” John pauses, thinking. “Would you have kissed me, if I didn’t make the first move?”

Gale watches him, contemplating. “I don’t think so,” he decides. “Wanted to, ‘course, but I promised myself I’d let you come to me, if you wanted it. I would’ve been just as happy to show you a good summer and take care of you, as much as you’d let me.”

John’s face warms, chest squeezing with affection at Gale’s big heart. He looks away shyly before folding his arms over Gale’s stomach, resting his chin on them instead. “Did you think about kissing me lots?” He giggles a little at the incredulous face Gale makes.

“You seen yourself?” Gale says, hand sliding from his hair to his cheek, as if he’s appraising him. “Couldn’t help it if I tried, doll.”

John flushes further, leaning into Gale’s hand, heart thumping. “I thought about it every time I looked at you,” John whispers, watching Gale’s face soften, his eyelids looking a little heavy.

“Yeah?” he murmurs, and John nods. “Why don’t you come here, baby?” Gale says lowly, and John’s stomach flips. He eagerly pushes himself up onto his elbows, then to his hands, shifting until he’s crawling up Gale’s body. He can feel Gale’s hands sliding down his sides, steadying him as he moves, settling down to straddle Gale’s hips.

Gale’s hands move up, one settling at the curve of John’s waist, the other drifting to cradle the back of his neck. John feels the gentle tug, urging him down, and he lets himself sink into the kiss, lips brushing tentatively against Gale’s. There’s a slow exhale from Gale, and he tilts his head just slightly, deepening the kiss.

He parts his lips, and Gale responds with a low, approving hum, guiding John with the hand on his neck. John’s heart flutters, a thrill sparking through him as he feels the tender drag of Gale’s lips, the way their mouths move together, unhurried and soft. Gale’s lips are warm, his mouth sliding over John’s in a way that’s both patient and insistent, coaxing a small, breathy sound from John’s throat. John can’t help but lean into it, his hands splaying over Gale’s chest, feeling the solid muscle beneath the fabric of his shirt, the way Gale’s heart beats steady and calm under his fingertips.

He feels like Gale is mapping out every inch of him, savouring the taste, and John’s heart stutters as he presses back just as hard, matching the rhythm, the intimacy making his skin prickle with heat as his head spins from the lack of oxygen. Gale pulls back just enough to let them both breathe, their lips still brushing, a whisper of a touch that makes John’s stomach clench with need.

“So sweet,” Gale murmurs, his voice gravelly, the sound making John shudder. Gale smiles at his reaction, a slow, lazy curve of his lips that John feels more than sees, and John leans back in, pressing their mouths together again, a little more urgently this time. He wants more, craves the way Gale’s lips feel so sure against his.

Gale’s hand tightens on his waist and John melts into him, letting Gale take control. Every glide of their tongues makes the heat in his stomach simmer, every slight shift of their heads creating new sparks of sensation. John’s lips start to tingle from the slow, intoxicating rhythm, and he’s barely aware of how he’s started to move, his hips pressing down unconsciously.

The friction pulls a soft gasp from John’s lips, and he breaks the kiss, eyes heavy and hazy. Gale’s watching him with a hooded, knowing gaze when John looks down at him. “Alright?” Gale asks sweetly, but there’s a hint of something teasing in his eyes, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to John.

John can only nod, feeling a blush creep up his neck, and he rocks his hips down again, testing. The pressure is perfect, sending a rush of heat straight to his stomach, and he can’t stop the quiet, breathy moan that escapes him. Gale’s hands slide down to his hips, fingers pressing in just enough to guide him, and John’s breath catches when Gale rolls his own hips up, the slow grind making his mouth fall open.

“Keep goin’, sweetheart,” Gale murmurs, his voice a little rougher now, and John’s heart skips at the endearment and the way Gale moves against him. Their movements are maddeningly slow, every roll of their bodies dragging out the feeling, making John’s head swim. He starts to lose himself in it, each kiss growing messier, wetter, as Gale tilts his head up to capture John’s mouth again, swallowing the small, needy noises that slip out.

Gale’s lips claim his, hot and insistent, and John can barely keep up, hips stuttering in rhythm with his. Gale’s hands flex, shifting his hips to angle them just right, and John whimpers when the pressure rolls up his spine, his back arching.

Everything narrows down to just the heat of their mouths, the slow, agonizing grind of their hips, and the weight of Gale’s hands steering him. Gale pulls back just slightly, breathing heavily, and when John meets his eyes, they’re dark, half-lidded, filled with a desire that makes John’s mouth go dry.

Gale's hands tighten on John's hips, and with a shift of his weight, he sits up, letting John settle into his lap. John’s legs straddle Gale’s thighs, and for a moment, all he can do is breathe. Their mouths find each other’s again, lips parting, and Gale’s hands start to roam, one hand slipping under John’s shirt, fingers skimming over his skin.

Without breaking the kiss, Gale slowly shifts again, nudging John to lean back as he follows, guiding him until he’s lying down on the couch, Gale hovering above him. John’s back sinks into the cushions, and Gale pulls away to trail his lips down the line of his jaw, leaving warm, open-mouthed kisses as he goes.

He moves down his neck, his lips pressing into every sensitive spot he finds, and John’s breath catches when Gale sucks at a tender place just above his collarbone, teeth grazing his skin softly. John can’t stop the small, high whine that slips out, his fingers curling into the fabric of Gale’s shirt, trying to hold on to something as he dissolves under the attention.

Gale’s hands slip under his shirt, rucking it up slowly until it’s bunched up around his chest, John’s breath stuttering as Gale dips his head down, lips brushing over his chest, pressing kisses along the curve of his ribs. He sucks in a breath when Gale’s mouth finds his nipple, lips closing around it, sucking gently, unexpected hot pleasure rolling through him. Gale’s tongue flicks over the sensitive skin, and John tenses, a sharp, breathy noise escaping him as his hands grab at Gale’s back.

Gale hums against his skin, low and pleased. John’s barely conscious of the way he’s squirming, hips shifting, seeking some kind of friction as Gale moves to his other nipple, giving it the same slow, teasing attention. Every graze of his teeth has John panting, his head tipping back, eyes squeezed shut as he loses himself in the feeling.

Gale’s mouth trails lower, kissing down the flat plane of his stomach, each press of his lips leaving a burning imprint on his skin. John’s breaths come in a mix of soft gasps and quiet moans, and he can’t form a single clear thought, his mind fuzzy, overtaken by the feeling of Gale’s mouth moving closer to where he needs him. Gale’s hands are firm, holding John’s hips in place, and the slow drag of his lips, the way he nips and sucks at the skin just above his waistband, has John’s sanity slipping.

By the time Gale reaches the line of his shorts, John is trembling, his breath coming in shallow, shaky bursts, heart pounding. When Gale pauses, fingers toying with his waistband, John can’t help but let out a desperate, breathless, “Gale, please.”

Gale glances up, eyes dark, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Can I?” he asks, low and gentle. John nods frantically, his hands curling into the cushion beneath his head. “Please,” he repeats, barely more than a whisper.

Gale’s fingers slide slower, carefully working John’s shorts and boxers down, peeling them away until they’re bunched around his thighs. John feels a rush of cool air against his skin, a sharp contrast to the heat blooming in his body, and when Gale settles between his legs, hands sliding up to his hips again, he feels a wave of want so strong it makes his head spin.

Gale’s mouth finds his hip bone, kissing and mouthing at the skin there, and John’s breath catches, his thighs twitching on either side of Gale’s shoulders. It’s teasing, just enough to make him squirm again, the gentle brush of Gale’s lips over his skin, the way he nips lightly, leaving little red marks. He’s so hard, cock resting against his stomach, and he can’t help the way he pushes into Gale’s touch, trying to get more, desperate for Gale’s mouth, for anything.

When Gale shifts, lips trailing up to press a kiss just above the base of his cock, John’s whole body clenches, a choked moan escaping him. Gale's lips hover, barely brushing against the tip, and for a moment, he just breathes, the warmth of it making John shiver.

Slowly, Gale drags his tongue along the underside, teasing, and John whines, hands flying to Gale’s hair, his hips twitching up involuntarily. But Gale’s hands are steady on his hips, holding him down, stopping him from jumping the gun, and John feels like he’s going to lose his mind.

“Look at you,” Gale murmurs, lips brushing against him with every word, and John’s vision blurs, his heart skipping a beat at the raw, reverent tone. Gale’s lips are soft and wet, pressing little kisses along his cock, tongue coming out to taste him, playful in the way he’s drawing it out. The barely there touches have John whimpering, his hands clutching desperately at Gale’s hair, trying to guide him, but Gale doesn’t give in, mouth dragging up and down, slow and light until John’s panting beneath him.

When Gale finally takes him into his mouth, John feels like he’s dying, a strangled cry tearing from his throat as he arches up, only for Gale’s hands to press him back down, keeping him in place. The heat is overwhelming, the slick slide of Gale’s lips around him making his head swim, and he can feel the way Gale’s tongue curls around him, stoking the fire in his gut. John writhes, his body caught between wanting to push up, to chase the heat, and the pressure of Gale’s hands keeping him pinned down, forcing him to stay still and take what he gives him.

“Gale,” John whimpers. “Please, please…”

Gale’s eyes flick up to meet his, and there’s something dark, almost amused in them, like he’s enjoying how desperate John is, how easily he’s falling apart for him. Gale works him over, letting his tongue slick the way, teasing just enough to keep John on the edge. John’s fingers curl tighter in Gale’s hair, hips bucking up, but Gale’s hands keep him even, a firm press that drives him wild.

Gale’s mouth sinks lower, and John’s head tips back on the cushion again, eyes squeezing shut as he feels the wet heat take him deeper, inch by inch. He feels his stomach clench, a sharp gasp tearing from his throat, and when Gale swallows around him, tight and warm, stars burst against the backs of his eyelids.

“Oh god, Gale—” The words come out as a choked cry, and he can’t stop the way his legs twitch, thighs clamping around Gale’s shoulders, trying to pull him closer.

Gale hums, and the vibration makes John’s hips jerk, another broken moan escaping him as he clings to Gale’s hair, his hands trembling. It’s almost too much, the way Gale’s mouth works around him, the velvety slide, the way his tongue presses and flattens. He’s relentless, keeping pace as the heat beneath John’s skin grows feverish.

John can feel it tightening in his stomach, static loud in his head, his breaths coming faster, uneven. “Gale, I’m—” He can barely get the words out, his voice breaking. “I’m gonna— I’m close.”

Gale sinks down, taking John deeper, and when he swallows, the tight, wet heat around him finally is too much. John seizes up, a strangled, desperate whimper tearing from his throat as he comes hard, spilling down Gale’s throat. Everything blurs, enveloped by the heat and slick and squeeze, Gale’s hands big and warm on his hips.

Gale draws repeated shudders out of John as he keeps working his mouth around him, slow and gentle now. John trembles, oversensitive, every little motion sending sparks of sensation crackling through him. He feels like he’s melting; he can’t catch his breath, and he reaches down, pushing weakly at Gale’s head, a silent plea.

Gale eases up, his mouth slipping off with a wet sound, and John shivers at the feeling of the cool air on his spit-slick skin. His muscles go slack as Gale leaves kisses along the insides of his thighs, bringing him back down from the ceiling. He blinks blearily, trying to focus, and when he glances down, he catches Gale’s eyes, dark and heavy, looking right back at him. The intensity of the eye contact makes his stomach flip, and he feels another wave of heat wash over him, his pulse quickening.

Gale pauses, his lips brushing over the sensitive skin of John’s inner thigh, and he smiles, slow and lazy. “You taste so good, baby,” he murmurs, smooth like honey, and John flushes so hard he can feel the heat prickling all the way to the tips of his ears. A choked-out whine slips from his mouth before he can stop it, and he instinctively throws his hands up, covering his face.

Gale chuckles, a low, rumbling sound that makes John’s skin tingle. “What’s that for, huh?” he asks, playful, but there’s a warmth there that makes John’s breath hitch. Gale kisses the skin just above John’s knee, a gentle press of his lips, before slowly starting to work his way up again.

John feels the couch dip as Gale shifts, and then his hands are there, gently tugging at John’s wrists, easing them away from his face. John resists for a moment, his embarrassment still burning hot, but when Gale’s fingers curl around his wrists, firm but not forceful, he relents, letting him pull his hands away. Gale pins them down on either side of his head, and the way he leans over him, looking down with that soft, knowing smile, makes John’s heart race, a thrill shooting through him at the sensation of being held there, vulnerable and open.

His breath stutters, eyelids drooping, body arching up a little, lips parting. Gale leans down, and when their mouths meet, John’s mind turns hazy. Gale’s lips move over his, slow and gentle, but there’s a hunger there too, a desire that makes John’s head spin. He can taste himself on Gale’s tongue, salty and warm, and it makes him squirm, his cheeks burning with a renewed blush, even as he lets out a needy sound, his hips twitching up of their own accord.

“Gale,” he whispers when they break apart for a breath, the name slipping out like a plea, and Gale smiles, his thumbs rubbing gentle circles into the skin of John’s wrists, settling him. Gale dips down again, capturing John’s lips, kissing him deeper now, more insistent, and John feels himself sinking into it.

He can’t resist tugging against Gale’s hold, not to escape, but to feel the strength of it, to feel how easily Gale keeps him in place, his hands clenching and unclenching in Gale’s grip. When John rolls his hips up, he feels the press of Gale’s cock against him, solid and heavy through his pants; it makes him dizzy, the sudden reminder of how much Gale wants him too, how much he affects him.

Gale lets go of his wrists this time when John tries to pull his hands away, and he moves tentatively at first, pressing against Gale’s chest, trying to nudge him back, too flustered to voice what he wants.

“Gale,” he gets out, breathless, cheeks burning as he stumbles over the words. “I want— can you…” He trails off, caught somewhere between a plea and a question, and he bites his lip, frustrated by his own inability to ask for what he needs. But Gale just smiles, gives him the same patience that always makes John’s heart ache, and he coos softly, almost teasingly, like he finds his shyness endearing.

“I’ve got you, doll,” Gale murmurs, pushing himself up and letting John guide him onto his back. John feels a nervous flutter in his stomach as he moves, crawling over to straddle Gale’s thighs, his knees sinking into the couch cushions on either side of him. Everything still feels awkward and exciting, stumbling his way through something he’s desperate to learn, and he can’t help but feel exposed under Gale’s steady, affectionate gaze. But when Gale’s hands settle reassuringly on his thighs, it gives him the courage to keep going.

John reaches for Gale’s shirt, pushing it up slowly, revealing the spattering of ink and firm lines of his stomach, the muscles shifting beneath his skin. He exhales slowly, a low groan escaping him as he traces the contours with his fingertips, his touch close to worship.

“You’re so…” John doesn’t finish, but he hopes the way his hands move, the way he leans down to press open-mouthed kisses to Gale’s stomach, lets Gale know exactly what he means. His cheeks burn, embarrassed by how much he needs this, by how good it feels just to touch and taste, mouthing along the ridges of muscle, leaving wet, heated trails with his tongue.

Gale’s breathing deepens, a low, appreciative sound humming in his chest as he watches John, his eyes half-lidded, and his praise comes in soft, murmured words that make John’s pulse jump. “There you go, sweetheart, so pretty.”

The encouragement makes John’s heart swell, a mix of pride and shyness, and he glances up briefly, catching the way Gale’s eyes follow his movements, a smile playing at his lips. Emboldened, John’s hands move lower, fingers dipping under the waistband of Gale’s pants. His mouth waters at the thought of what he’s about to get to do, and there’s a heady thrill in it, knowing he can make Gale feel good, knowing he can have this kind of effect on him.

He fumbles a little as he works Gale’s pants and boxers down, and his hand trembles as he wraps his fingers around his cock, feeling the weight and heat of it. A rush of arousal surges through him, and he hesitates for a moment, staring, but then he leans in, pressing his lips to the head of Gale’s cock, tasting his skin, his tongue coming out to swipe at the wetness that’s gathered there. He takes Gale’s sharp inhale and the way his hips shift just slightly as encouragement, opening his mouth to take Gale in, slowly, inch by inch, trying to get used to the feel of him. He’s still messy, a little unpracticed, working his hand around what he can’t fit in his mouth.

“Good boy,” Gale breathes, voice rough already, and John whines at the praise. “So good, John.” Gale’s hand moves to his hair, fingers threading gently through it, and John shivers at the light tug. It’s tethering, something for him to focus on as he tries to work his way through the motions, his mouth moving wetly over Gale’s cock, but something in him longs for a little more.

John pulls off for a second, breathless, and he looks up, cheeks flushed, lips slick and shiny. “You can pull more,” he says, the words coming out meekly, barely above a whisper, and he hates how mortified he feels saying it, but the noise Gale lets out makes him glad he did. Gale’s fingers tighten slightly in his hair, and John’s heart leaps at the feeling, a lightheaded rush running through him as Gale starts to guide him a little more, setting a pace, gentle but sure.

The control makes it easier somehow, the way Gale’s hand moves him, and John closes his eyes, letting himself get lost in the feeling. The slow, steady slide, the warmth, the taste of him — he feels like he’s floating, dizzy with it. Gale’s praise keeps coming, soft and encouraging, filling his head until it’s all he can think about, making him want to do better, to make Gale feel as good as he can.

“Just like that, so perfect, baby,” Gale murmurs, and John can hear the strain in his voice, the effort it takes to stay in control, and it makes him groan. He wants to push Gale over the edge, to see him lose that control, and when he feels Gale’s cock twitch, John tries to take more, forcing himself to relax, to let Gale slip deeper into his mouth.

It’s too much, his eyes watering, throat tightening, but he doesn’t stop, even as he chokes a little, determined to see it through. The strain makes his jaw ache, but when he hears the low, broken groan that escapes Gale, it’s worth it, so worth it. He can feel Gale’s restraint, the way he’s trying so hard not to rock up into his mouth, and it makes John’s heart soar, the care Gale takes even in moments like this.

Gale’s hand tightens in his hair, and John knows he’s close before he even grits out the, “Gonna come, baby,” knows by the way Gale’s breath catches, by the way his hips jerk slightly despite his best efforts. John takes a breath through his nose, trying to brace himself, and then Gale’s coming, hot and thick on his tongue, the taste of it flooding his mouth. He doesn’t pull back, doesn’t flinch, just keeps breathing, swallowing around Gale’s cock as good he can, letting Gale ride out the pleasure as his own heart thuds.

“Fuck, so good, John. Your mouth, baby,” Gale gets out, breathless. Every part of John goes fuzzy, and when Gale gently pulls him off, John’s panting, a string of spit still connecting his lips to Gale’s cock. He looks up, dazed, wiping the back of his hand over his mouth.

Gale’s hand stays in his hair, running through his curls, and John leans into his touch, feeling a deep satisfaction. Gale lets out a fond hum, his voice gentle as he murmurs, “Come here.” It’s almost a command, but there’s a warmth to it, a tender plea that makes John’s chest tighten.

John pushes himself up and crawls over, unsteady but eager, and when Gale pulls him up, their lips find each other’s again, the kiss soft and messy. It’s slow, almost lazy, but there’s a desperation beneath it, a need to stay close, to keep feeling each other. John can taste remnants of the both of them, but he doesn’t shy away from it, sinking deeper into the kiss, letting it pull him under.

They’re both struggling to catch their breath, gasping between the press of their mouths, the heat of Gale’s movements melting John’s further. When Gale breaks the kiss, he doesn’t pull back far. He slides his hand down to cradle the back of John’s head, guiding him to settle against his chest, and John goes willingly, letting himself collapse against Gale’s body.

Gale’s arms wrap around him, holding him close, and John can hear the way Gale’s heart is still racing, can feel the rise and fall of his chest as his breathing evens out. John presses his face into the curve of Gale’s neck, his own breathing still unsteady, but there’s a comfort in the way they’re tangled together, like they’re sharing the same rhythm, the same pulse.

Everything else goes quiet when they lie close like this, the embarrassment, nervousness, uncertainty — all of it fades away to make room for the easy intimacy of their bodies pressed together, the warmth of Gale’s hand in his hair, the lingering taste of their kisses on his lips. John sighs happily, letting his breath fan out against Gale’s neck, feeling him exhale heavily beneath him in response.

The rest of the weekend passes similarly, the two of them fusing themselves together on the couch or in bed or in the shower. It feels like something has shifted between them since their talk the previous weekend, like some invisible barrier has fallen away, and John feels even less capable of keeping his hands off Gale now that he knows Gale shares the sentiment.

They drag themselves away from Gale’s bedroom long enough on Sunday to take a ride to a quiet spot further up the bank of Lake Michigan, spending the afternoon in a sunny alcove, swimming in the cold water and draping themselves over each other in the privacy of their hideaway. It’s exhilarating, being able to lay his cheek on Gale’s stomach out in the open, being able to show each other any physical affection outside of the house, even if there’s not a high chance of anyone seeing them. It’s nice to pretend for a few hours that it’s something they don’t have to worry about.

John doesn’t leave Gale’s until Monday evening, since Labour Day means neither of them have anywhere they need to be. Gale eases his nerves about his first day of classes with a little pep talk in the truck on the way home, reminding John that he can always text or call him if he needs anything, and it really does help to keep that in mind when he’s trying to suppress the jitters that night and get some sleep before his early wake-up.

He’s so anxious that he ends up waking on his own an hour before his alarm is meant to go off, and he accepts his fate, taking the extra time to triple check that he has everything he needs in his bag, pushing down the urge to nervous-puke as he showers and gets dressed. His phone buzzes when he’s waiting at the bus stop, and seeing Gale’s contact when he flips it open settles his racing heart a little. He can almost hear Gale telling him to take some deep breaths as he shifts his weight from one foot to the other, too restless to sit on the bench.

‘Morning baby. How are you feeling?’

John knows there’s absolutely zero point in lying to him; he’s sure Gale’s expecting as much anyway when he replies with, ‘i might step in front of the bus :D’.

‘At least wait til the end of the day, bud.’

John snorts, glad Gale’s given up on admonishing him for his bleak jokes.

‘I promise it won’t be as scary as you think. I’m sure everyone else is just as nervous.’

He smiles at his phone as he gets on the bus. He knows Gale is right, and even though it doesn’t particularly make him less nervous to be reminded of that, the fact that it’s Gale reassuring him does help. John values his input, especially knowing the stuff he’s gone through and come out the other end of; he believes Gale when he tells him something is going to be okay.

And it does end up being okay. Tuesdays are the most packed day of his schedule, so John winds up so busy jumping from one place to another that his first day goes by far quicker than he expects. Aside from an hour for lunch, which he’s grateful syncs up with Curt’s own break between classes, John’s in lectures and labs until six p.m. He’s exhausted when his bus drops him back in his neighbourhood, dragging his feet home, but Gale asks if he wants to call to fill him in on the day as soon as he texts to let him know he made it back. He’s pretty sure he’d have to be six feet under before he turns down the chance to talk to Gale, so he locks his bedroom door and tucks his phone against his ear as he undresses and winds down for the evening, smiling so much at Gale’s questions and quips that he feels like he’s shed half his stress by the time he crawls into bed.

His Wednesday classes start an hour earlier, but things aren’t nearly as scary now that he knows what to expect. His first class of the day is the Gen Ed course he shares with Curt, which makes for a much less anxiety-inducing start, getting to sit himself down next to his best friend rather than a stranger, and he’s back home and pouring over assignments before dinner. The workload piles on quick enough to make him nervous, but he stubbornly keeps his head down, determined to stay ahead of schedule, all too familiar with falling into the cycle of putting things off and ending up in over his head.

And then it’s his birthday, and John’s the most excited he’s been for it for as long as he can remember, but only because he’s more than ready to be back in the comfort of Gale’s presence after a week spent in such a foreign environment. His time with Gale is his time to recharge, and he tells Gale as much when he gets in his truck after his last class, almost reflexively crawling across the bench to kiss him in greeting before he remembers they’re in the campus parking lot.

He pouts at Gale when he realizes this, reluctantly buckling himself in, and Gale smiles affectionately, squeezing his knee in apology. The warm, “Happy birthday, baby,” he gets instead almost makes his heart flip as hard as a kiss would have.

“You already said it this morning,” John protests, but he can’t help the sheepish smile that surfaces. Gale moves his hand from his knee to the nape of his neck, resting his arm on the back of the seat, and John’s smile grows as he gently scruffs him like an unruly cat, leaning into Gale’s palm.

“I’m only allowed to wish you happy birthday once?” Gale asks, eyes teasing when John turns to meet his gaze. “Not sure I’ve heard of this rule before.”

John scoffs, rolling his eyes playfully. “It’s not a big deal—”

“Let me make it one,” Gale says without missing a beat, so sincere John completely forgets what he was going to say. “I planned something small,” Gale continues, and John blinks at him, lips parted in surprise. “I’ve got dinner in a cooler in the back. I wanna take you somewhere nice, if you’re not too tired.”

John shakes his head. “I’m not too tired,” he insists, chest warm, almost feeling a little weepy at Gale taking the time to plan this. Gale smiles, dragging his hand through John’s hair before reaching to turn his key, the truck rumbling to life beneath them.

“It’s not too far,” Gale assures him as he pulls out of the lot, as if John cares, as if he wouldn’t happily sit through a day of driving so long as he’s by Gale’s side.

“I don’t mind,” John tells him, playing with the frayed rope of one of his bracelets, smiling out the window at the passing trees, heart still fluttering. It’s a short drive, as promised, following the farmlands south past campus to an area of the lake lined by forest, secluded by way of the small dirt road Gale turns down to get them there. He reverses between a gap in the trees before cutting the engine, rounding the front of the truck to join John on his side once he steps out. Gale takes his hand, leading him through the trees to where the bed of the truck juts out onto the beach, giving them a clear view of the lake, the sun still shining brightly on the water as it makes its descent past the treeline.

“How do you find all these places?” John questions, stepping out to the edge of the lake as Gale puts the tailgate of the truck down, turning when Gale breathes out a laugh.

“Spent a lot of time exploring when I first moved,” he says. “Wasn’t a whole lot else to do around here.” John definitely understands that all too well.

“You’re, like, a local tour guide, but you’re not even a local,” John comments, coming closer when Gale beckons him over with an amused smile. Gale wraps his arms around his waist, lifting him easily into the truck bed, pushing himself up after him. Beneath the cooler in the back corner is a thick folded blanket, and John helps Gale spread it out, feeling all sorts of gooey inside at the thought of this being like a real, proper date — a first for him, barring the disastrous blind date at the diner, or his and Gale’s hikes and swims. It feels more monumental than turning 21, anyway, and a lot more exciting, too.

John stops Gale once they’ve settled against the back panel of the truck, pressed against each other’s sides, placing a hand on his arm when he goes to open the cooler. Gale turns to look at him, and John tilts his chin up expectantly, heart leaping when Gale’s face softens. His eyes linger on John’s lips for a moment before he leans in, his touch gentle as he cups the side of John’s face. He kisses him slowly, and John leans into it, letting out a quiet, happy sigh, his hand reaching up to tangle in the back of Gale's hair.

It feels just as sweet as it always does, and John can’t help but smile against Gale’s lips. The heat of the late summer sun is still there, the air humid, but it’s Gale’s warmth that wraps around him, all-encompassing, a feeling he wishes he could make permanent. When they pull back, John’s cheeks are flushed, feeling a little dazed, fingers still threaded in Gale’s hair. Gale chuckles, a low, affectionate sound, pressing another quick kiss to the corner of John’s mouth, and John reluctantly drops his hand, grinning foolishly down at his lap as Gale pulls away to get the food out.

John drapes an ankle over Gale’s as they eat dinner, watching the sun dip low over the lake, painting the wispy clouds in the sky shades of pale pink and orange. Gale looks like he’s glowing in the golden light, the blue in his eyes brighter than usual, and John’s torn between staring at the glimmering water and staring at the reflection of it in Gale’s eyes.

It’s almost dark out when Gale reaches into his pocket, concealing something in his palm, looking at John pointedly. “Turn around.”

“Why?” John asks, and Gale laughs.

“Because I said so. Go on.”

John frowns, but he does as he’s told, leaning his back against Gale’s side as he listens keenly, trying to pick up on what he’s doing without cheating and looking over. He hears the cooler open again, but he can’t figure out what the rest of the noise is attributed to until he hears the flick of a lighter, an orange glow of light bouncing off the metal of the truck a second later. He turns at Gale’s quiet, “Okay,” and finds him holding a plate with a small cake on it, a candle flickering in the center of confetti-like sprinkles.

“I’m not gonna sing,” Gale promises with a laugh, the two of them having just finished lamenting about the awkward nature of birthday rituals over the weekend. “Pretty sure you’re gonna have to deal with enough of that tomorrow night.”

John groans, but it doesn’t have much bite when he looks up from the cake with already watery eyes, giving Gale a wobbly smile. Gale mercifully doesn’t comment on it, giving him a soft smile back, tilting his head towards the cake.

“Gotta make a wish, birthday boy,” he murmurs. John looks at him for a moment longer before nodding, turning back to the cake, not trusting himself to speak. He watches the flame, thinking, and Gale sits in patient silence, letting John take this as seriously as he wants.

John squeezes his eyes closed and crosses his fingers in his lap and wishes: Stay.

He hopes for the warmth of this moment to linger, for the golden summer to stay with him long after the edges of the lake freeze over, for the fuzzy feeling in his chest to follow him through the next year, but most of all he hopes to be lucky enough to have all of it — any of it — with Gale by his side.

John opens his eyes and pulls in a breath before blowing out the candle, and the truck bed is plunged into near darkness as it goes out with a quiet crackle.

“I made it a good one,” he assures Gale when he asks, not about to risk ruining it by speaking it out loud.

“Good,” Gale says gently, stealing another soft kiss, like he’s sealing John’s wish with it.

They don’t bother cutting the cake, dragging the cooler between them as a makeshift table and eating straight from the plate with their forks until they’ve had their fill, chatting away as the sun sinks fully. Gale seems a little antsy once the cooler is packed and pushed back into the corner of the trunk, shifting to get comfortable, arm draped over John’s shoulders.

“I got you something,” Gale finally says. “I know you said not to,” he cuts John off as soon as he opens his mouth. “It’s just something small, I promise.”

The gesture alone is enough to have John swallowing hard, chewing on the inside of his cheek as Gale procures an envelope and a folded piece of paper from his hoodie pocket. He hands them over bashfully, and John takes them as gently as though he’s just been handed glass, blinking at the neat cursive of his name written on the back of the envelope.

“You didn’t have to,” he murmurs, slowly unfolding the paper first.

“I know,” Gale says easily, tracing circles on his shoulder. “It’s kinda silly, but…”

With the paper completely laid out, John realizes it’s a map of Manitowoc, only it’s not blank. Different locations are circled in black ink, and there are little bits of writing scattered around the margins of the map. He has to bring it closer to his face to see it properly in the waning light, but he realizes each chunk of writing has a short description of a location and a corresponding number to one of the circles on the map.

‘4 mile hike to lake lookout’, one note reads. ‘The rock pool we went to at the start of August’, another says. John can’t stop smiling, his heart feeling ready to burst as his eyes scan over the map, taking in all the care Gale clearly put into making this for him. The thought of him sitting at his desk, circling his favourite places, writing out little notes and thinking it’s ‘silly’ but doing it anyway — John feels like he’s about to turn to liquid and slide right down the sandy bank into the water.

“This is so nice,” John breathes out, pouring over every detail, leaning his head on Gale’s shoulder. He thinks that this — that tonight — really might be the nicest thing someone’s done for him, and he feels so full of gratitude that he doesn’t know what to do with it all.

“Can we— can we go to all of them?” he asks, lifting his head off of Gale’s shoulder to look at him.

“Of course,” Gale says, and John beams at him.

“Thank you, Gale,” he murmurs, leaning in and kissing his cheek. “I love it,” he says when he pulls away. “I wanna hang it up in my room.”

Gale chuckles quietly, but John means it, and he’s sure Gale knows that. Having something from Gale in his room to look at will make his heart happy, a little bit of sunshine amidst everything else. If his mom happens to notice it, he has the girlfriend excuse now, so he’s not too worried.

John folds the map neatly back up, taking care to follow the preexisting creases, setting it down in his lap and picking the envelope back up. He hesitates before carefully opening it, pulling out the card inside, laughing a little when a cheery golden retriever greets him on the cover.

“All the other cards were stupid,” Gale says around his own laugh. “This one reminded me of you.”

John elbows him gently for the comparison, but Gale just leans in to press a kiss to his temple while John opens the card. He hadn’t known it was possible to get butterflies from someone’s writing, but seeing the same loops and sprawling lines on the card as he’d seen on the map, John feels the stirring of wings, pulling it close to his face to read.

John,

I know you don’t think your 21st is a big deal, but I feel lucky to be around to see you hit it.

It’s only been a few months since we met, but I’ve already seen you surprise yourself more than once, and I’m proud of the way you handle everything life throws at you, even when it’s not easy. The way you make room for others when you have every reason to close yourself off is admirable, and you’ve got a lot more strength than you probably realize.

I don’t know where this year will take you, but I hope it’s somewhere good, and I hope you remember that I’m here to walk that road with you, wherever it goes.

Happy birthday.

— Gale

The pen lines are beginning to blur a little by the time John makes it to the end, heart clenching, inhaling shakily as he stares blankly at the cardstock. He blinks rapidly, willing himself to keep it together, but then Gale makes a quiet noise of realization and his hand comes up to John’s face. John lets his head be tilted to face him, and even through his bleary vision he can see Gale’s understanding, and John smiles despite the brewing tears, feeling almost unbearably full of adoration.

“Thank you,” he gets out, blinking again when Gale’s thumb swipes under his eye, so incredibly tender that John can’t handle it anymore, emotions spilling over. He sets the map and card down to his other side, and then he pushes himself up, crawling unsteadily into Gale’s lap and leaning down, meeting him in a kiss.

Gale's lips are intoxicatingly warm, and John's hands slide up his chest, tentative at first, but when Gale tilts his head slightly, deepening the kiss, John lets himself sink into it. He loops his arms around Gale's neck, fingers curling into his hair. The movement is instinctive, a way to draw Gale even closer, and he’s rewarded with the gentle brush of Gale’s tongue, coaxing him to relax, to open up. John lets out a small, breathless sound, and Gale pulls him closer, his grip firm and yet still gentle, guiding without overwhelming.

The lake is calm around them, the occasional wave lapping quietly at the shore, the last bit of light now faded into deep, dusky blue. The world feels still, like it’s holding its breath, and John shifts in Gale’s lap, knees digging into the blanket beneath them, the fabric bunching up, but he hardly notices. All he can think about is how soft Gale’s lips are, how careful he is, like he’s memorizing the shape of John’s mouth and how he moves against him.

John’s thumb rubs lightly over the back of Gale’s neck, and he angles his head, letting the kiss grow slower. It’s not desperate, but it’s intense; he’s trying to pour every unspoken feeling into it, everything he can’t find the words for. He feels Gale’s hand cup the side of his face, the roughness of his palm contrasting with the softness of his touch, and John’s heart aches at the way it feels to be held like this, time and time again.

When they break apart, John stays close, his eyes half-lidded as he looks down at Gale, heart feeling ten times too big for his chest.

“Happy birthday, John,” Gale murmurs, and John’s chest tightens at the sound, at the way Gale says it like he’s something worth celebrating. He makes John want to believe him.

John can’t keep the smile off his face, even if it’s a bit wobbly. Still, he dips forward to kiss Gale again, a little more insistent this time, his hands threading further into Gale’s hair. Gale’s hands trail down, resting on John’s waist, and he lets John lead, lets him take whatever he needs. John’s heart pounds so hard it’s almost distracting, and he doesn’t know how long they stay like that, trading slow, sweet kisses, but it feels endless, and yet not nearly long enough.

Eventually, John shifts again, and without really thinking, he lets himself fall back onto the blanket, pulling Gale down with him. Gale goes willingly, catching himself on his forearms so he doesn’t crush John beneath him, but his comforting weight is still there, and John’s legs wrap around his waist almost automatically, locking him in place.

They’re pressed so close now, chest to chest, Gale’s presence blocking out the rest of the world, and John feels cocooned and safe. He runs his hands down Gale’s back, feeling muscles shift beneath his shirt, taking in the warmth of his skin through the fabric, and when Gale’s mouth finds his again, John sighs into it, his lips parting, welcoming him home.

Gale kisses him slowly, almost lazily. John can feel his pulse in his throat, in his fingertips, in every part of him that’s touching Gale; the way Gale’s hand slides up his side makes his skin tingle, makes him arch up to meet him.

John’s lips are slick, kiss-swollen, and when they break apart to catch their breath, he doesn’t pull away. He nudges Gale’s nose with his own, feeling a little giddy, a little lightheaded, and he grins, brushing his mouth against Gale’s in a teasing, fleeting kiss. It earns him a quiet, pleased noise from Gale, and John’s heart skips a beat at the sound.

“John,” Gale says softly. The way he says it makes John swallow hard, makes him feel seen in a way he’s still not used to. John’s hands slide up, cupping Gale’s face, his thumbs brushing over his rough beard, and he pulls him down into another kiss, slow and sweet and full of everything he’s not sure how to say. Gale’s hand slips under the hem of John’s shirt, just enough to drag over the skin there, and John hums happily, his legs tightening around Gale’s waist.

They pull back, and John’s breathing is shallow, his cheeks flushed, but his lips curl up into a love-drunk smile. He’s not sure if it’s the kiss or the way Gale’s looking at him that’s making his head swim. Gale’s hand moves up, his thumb brushing over John’s bottom lip, and John playfully catches it between his teeth for just a moment before he lets it go, giggling when Gale squeezes his side in retaliation.

“Thank you,” John whispers again, but he’s thanking Gale for more than just the card, more than just the gift. He’s thanking him for everything, for the way he’s been gentle with him, for the way he’s stayed, for the way he’s made this day feel so special.

Gale’s smile is soft, almost shy, and he leans down to kiss John’s forehead, lingering there for a moment before murmuring, “Always.” Gale rolls off him and pulls him close, letting John rest his head on his arm, both of them lying on their backs on the blanket with a clear view of the dark sky.

They don’t stay for much longer after that, too aware of the early start they both have tomorrow, too many pesky mosquitos beginning to hover around the lake’s edge. There’s a quiet hum running just beneath the surface of John’s skin while they pack up, and his smile doesn’t leave his face as he climbs back in the truck, keeping his gifts safe on top of the dash. Gale’s hand finds his own, heat settling in John’s stomach as he laces their fingers together, bringing John’s hand up to his face and pressing his lips to his knuckles before rearranging their hands so that Gale’s covers John’s on top of the gearshift.

John shuffles as close as his seatbelt allows, tucking his knees away from the shifter, laying his head on Gale’s shoulder. His stomach flips every time Gale’s hand flexes on top of his just before he shifts gears, and John lets his eyes slide closed, feeling the warmth of Gale’s palm against the back of his hand, breathing in Gale’s aftershave, one radio song after another blending together until they pull into Gale’s driveway.

He helps Gale carry everything inside, and Gale shoos him away to go start the shower while he puts the leftovers in the fridge. John diligently heads off to the bathroom, heart fluttering as he undresses, slipping under the hot water while he waits for Gale to join him.

His pulse races as he stands beneath the spray, the heat welcome on his skin as he leans back against the shower wall, anticipation twisting through him with every passing second. There’s a quiet click as the bathroom door closes, and John’s stomach flips, a shy smile tugging at his lips as he imagines Gale undressing on the other side of the shower curtain. It still feels surreal, the two of them here together. John has to take a slow breath to steady himself, excitement and nerves fizzing in his chest.

When the curtain slides open, John’s gaze follows the movement, eyes tracing Gale’s form as he steps in. He can’t help but let his eyes drift over Gale’s shoulders, his inked arms, his chest, the strong lines of his torso, down and down, taking in the sight of him. His cheeks burn when he looks up again and finds Gale’s gaze steady on him, and he realizes Gale’s been looking at him the same way. There’s something knowing in Gale’s eyes, and it makes John’s heart skip, heat creeping up his neck as he presses back against the wall, unable to keep the bashful smile off his face.

Gale steps closer, hands gentle on his waist as he pulls him forward under the water, and John lets himself press into the softness of Gale’s kiss. He hums into it, closing his eyes as his hands come up to rest on Gale’s shoulders, tuning out everything save for the sound of the water, the feel of Gale’s lips on his, the warmth of his touch. They stay like that for a long moment, holding each other beneath the steady stream, the anticipation between them quiet yet electric.

Gale pulls back, reaching for the shampoo, and John smiles when Gale’s hands find his hair, fingers working gently through his curls. He tilts his head, letting Gale rinse out the suds, leaning forward to press a light kiss to Gale’s shoulder when he’s done. They barely speak, the tender exchanges of touches and looks saying enough, and they trade places, John’s turn to carefully wash Gale’s hair, fingers gliding through the strands. Every touch as they wash up sets John’s skin alight, his heart so full he can hardly keep it together.

When they step out and Gale brings a towel to John’s hair, there’s a smile in his eyes, warm and soft, as if he’s soaking up every part of this. John’s breath catches, and he finds himself blinking slowly up at Gale, heart in his throat as he decides what he wants tonight — how much he wants it, how ready he is, even if that means he finally has to get brave enough to ask for it.

“Tired?” Gale murmurs as he ruffles the towel over John’s damp hair.

John shakes his head, his throat tight with nerves as he breathes in, eyes lifting to meet Gale’s gaze. “Don’t wanna go to sleep yet.”

“No?” A faint smile tugs at Gale’s lips, his gaze holding steady.

John shakes his head again. “I wanna go to bed, though,” he says shyly, heart thudding as he lets his eyes linger on Gale’s, hoping Gale can see what he can’t quite say out loud yet. Gale studies his face for a moment, and he hums quietly, pressing a kiss to John’s cheek.

“Alright,” he says softly, and then John’s feet leave the ground as Gale gently throws him over his shoulder.

John’s laughter bubbles up, chest going fuzzy with the sound of Gale’s chuckle. The easy strength of Gale’s hold settles something inside him, and the nerves humming beneath his skin ease, melting into excitement. Gale’s hand rests firm and warm on the back of his thigh as he carries him, and John relaxes, letting himself go limp in his hold, grinning as Gale strides out of the bathroom.

When they reach the bedroom, Gale carefully drops John down onto the bed, John’s head landing on the pillows. The towel slips down just a bit around his hips, and his heart thumps as Gale’s gaze follows, lingering at the edge of the fabric, lips quirked into a smile. He watches as Gale crawls onto the bed, moving with a calculated slowness that makes John’s pulse jump, eyes never leaving his.

Gale leans down, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to John’s stomach, right above where his towel sits, and John can’t help the soft noise that slips out. His beard scratches gently over John’s skin as he trails kisses up his stomach, one after another, and John shivers at the feeling, his fingers curling around Gale’s arms.

Gale kisses his way up John’s chest, pausing at his collarbone, his nose nuzzling against his skin before he tilts his head, pressing a kiss there, and then another, moving up toward his neck. John’s breath catches when Gale finds his pulse point, the light suction on his skin sending a rush of heat through him. He squirms under Gale’s attention, his giggles turning into breathy whimpers, and Gale hums in response, tracing his fingers along his sides soothingly.

Gale lifts his head then and dips down to kiss him, and John loops his arms around his neck, holding him close. He sighs into the kiss, a quiet, contented sound, the warmth of Gale’s body blanketing him. He can feel Gale smiling against his mouth, and it brings a fresh cluster of butterflies to his stomach. John’s fingers tangle in Gale’s hair, tilting his chin up as Gale deepens the kiss and savouring the press of his lips, the way his hand cradles the back of John’s head, the way Gale kisses him with a patience that settles into his bones.

Gale pulls back a little, his eyes soft, searching, and John feels his cheeks flush under his gentle gaze. “Still not tired?” Gale murmurs, a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth again.

John shakes his head, a shy smile breaking through as he meets Gale’s eyes, his heart in his throat. He knows what he wants, feels like he’s known for so long, but the words are caught somewhere between his heart and his lips. It feels easier to let his hands talk, sliding down over Gale’s shoulders, skimming over his back, feeling the heat of his skin under his palms.

Gale’s hand comes up, his thumb tracing along his jaw. He leans down, capturing John’s mouth again in a kiss that’s softer this time, more tender, and in that gentle moment, John feels it — a sureness that feels as natural as breathing, filling every corner of his chest.

“Gale,” he whispers against his lips, tracing his finger along Gale’s spine, up and down and then back up again. Gale pulls away to look at him, and John gets nervous again, his breath coming out in a whine.

Gale smiles fondly. “What do you want, baby?” he murmurs, and John squirms when he feels Gale’s hand smooth up his thigh, slipping beneath his towel.

“More,” John breathes out, face heating up. It’s his turn to search Gale’s expression now, eyes pleading, looking for a flicker of understanding — and he finds it, Gale’s pretty face flaying itself open for him by way of parted lips and heavy eyelids. The hand on his thigh stops moving for a moment, and John presses up against it, receiving a soft squeeze in return.

“Tell me,” Gale says gently, breaking the silence. If John didn’t know better, he’d think he’s just teasing him, intentionally flustering him, but he knows that Gale’s not going to go further without ample assurance, same as every other first he’s indulged John in. Gale does everything to make him feel comfortable, so John knows it’s the least he can give him back, even if it does make him want to hide under the covers.

He swallows hard, sliding his hands up Gale’s back to settle on the nape of his neck. “I want,” he trails off, his gaze darting around Gale’s face, his tongue coming out to wet his suddenly dry lips. “I wanna have sex,” John gets out, feeling a flush creep up his neck. It takes everything in him to not close his eyes, to not roll over and hide in the pillow, and it’s worth it for the look on Gale’s face. He looks as winded as John feels reaching for the words, and it makes John’s chest tighten with a jumbled mess of nerves and affection and certainty.

Gale’s gaze softens when John inhales shakily, his thumb making slow circles on John’s thigh. He pinches John’s chin between his other thumb and forefinger, tilting his head back up into a deep kiss. Gale pulls away just enough to murmur against John’s lips, “You sure?” His voice is low, careful, and John can feel the way Gale’s eyes scan his, rolling over every inch of his face.

A breathless whine escapes John, and he nods quickly, fingers clutching a little tighter at Gale’s neck. “I’m so sure,” he whispers adamantly, and he feels the way Gale laughs softly into the kiss, a chuckle that melts into John.

Gale lets his hand slide higher, tracing gentle patterns along the inside of John’s thigh beneath the towel. His thumb works teasing circles against the sensitive skin there, and he hums quietly. “Yeah? You been thinkin’ about it?”

John’s face flushes, eyes squeezing shut as he squirms, unable to keep still with Gale’s hands on him. He feels a wave of heat from the tips of his ears to his stomach, and his mumble of Gale’s name comes out as half-complaint, half-whimper. He shifts his legs in an instinctive attempt to let Gale in, and he receives a quiet noise of amusement.

Gale dips his head down, pressing a kiss to the corner of John’s mouth. “Sweet boy,” he murmurs against his cheek. His hand continues its slow journey, nudging the towel further up with each inch until his fingers find crease between John’s inner thigh and hip, and the fabric shifts with Gale’s movement, loosening until it finally untucks itself, sliding down around John’s waist. The cool air contrasts sharply with the warmth of Gale’s hand, and he feels himself twitch under the curl of Gale’s fingers.

John reaches down, fingers brushing along the edge of Gale’s towel, giving it a light, insistent tug, a silent ask for Gale to close the last bit of distance between them. Gale presses a kiss to his jaw as he reaches down and lets the towel fall away, dropping it to the floor. The bed shifts as Gale settles his weight over him, pressing close, pulling at his towel too. John lifts his hips, letting Gale slide it free and toss it aside, leaving them both bare in the dark.

When Gale leans down again, his skin brushes against John’s, his body radiating comfort and heat, enveloping John completely. John feels himself tense with anticipation, then melts beneath the weight of Gale, a deep sigh escaping him as he feels the press of Gale’s cock resting heavy against his hip. His own cock twitches in response, a quiet, needy sound slipping from his lips as he tilts his head back against the pillow.

Gale’s hand trails slowly up his side, fingers spreading out over his ribs, his palm warm and solid. He presses close, their bodies fitting together like it’s all they’re made for, and he captures John’s mouth in another kiss, drawing him in until all John can feel is Gale.

John’s arms loop around Gale’s neck, his fingers sliding into his hair, pulling him impossibly closer. Their legs tangle together, the sound of their shared breaths filling the quiet room. John’s hips press up, brushing their cocks together, and the friction sends a rush of heat through him, his whimper spilling out against Gale’s mouth.

Gale’s breath catches, and he pulls John against him, rolling his own hips down with intention this time. He groans, low and rough, grinding slowly against John, and John’s back arches, pressing up against Gale, each slow drag making his head spin. “Gale,” he breathes out, his name leaving his lips like a prayer, filled with all the longing he’s been holding onto.

Gale pulls back to look at him for a heartbeat, his eyes softened again by something that looks a lot like devotion, before he leans down, kissing him once more. And then he shifts, reaching into the bedside drawer, his absence brief but almost unbearable until he’s back, holding a small bottle of lube. John exhales slowly, anticipation pooling in his stomach as Gale presses his lips to his collarbone, then kisses his way down, leaving a warm trail along John’s chest and ribs, his tongue preceding each press of his lips, dragging hot over his skin.

John’s eyes flutter closed for a moment, but he forces himself to open them again, pushing up onto his elbows, shy despite his eagerness, unwilling to look away, not wanting to miss a single thing tonight. Gale’s mouth leaves faint damp patches on his skin, and John’s breath stutters as he watches him. Gale’s journey over his stomach is unhurried, and when he reaches John’s cock, he presses a gentle kiss to the head. John’s breath leaves him in a quiet whine, his eyelids drooping.

Gale moves lower, trailing wet kisses down to John’s thighs. As he settles between his legs, Gale pops open the cap of the lube, the click loud in the quiet of the room, John’s gaze staying fixed to him. His fingers twitch with the urge to reach for him, and without fully realizing he’s said it aloud, he whispers, “Mark me.”

The quiet request makes Gale groan, a sound that blows fire into John’s body, and without hesitation, Gale dips his head to John’s inner thigh, his lips parting to bite down gently. The sensation is sharp, just enough to send a burn through him, and when Gale attaches his mouth to the spot, sucking until the skin is flushed and sensitive, John can’t stop his hand from finding its way into Gale’s hair, his fingers threading through and holding him there.

Just as John begins to lose himself to the warmth of Gale’s mouth, he feels the cool press of a lubed finger tracing over his entrance. The touch is light, teasing, just enough to make him squirm, and he presses his hips down instinctively, seeking more.

Gale pulls back slightly, looking up at him with a hint of a smirk, his lips pink and slick from the attention he’s given John’s thigh. “Easy, baby,” he murmurs, but he doesn’t let up on the teasing, letting his finger graze over John’s hole, drawing soft, agonized whimpers from him. Gale’s patience seems endless, but John can feel his own slipping, every nerve alight as he rocks down, a silent plea for Gale to go further, to let him feel more.

Gale’s finger presses slowly against him, and John holds his breath as the gentle pressure finally gives way to a slow, steady push, Gale’s movements careful and tender. As his finger eases all the way in, John’s head falls back, his hand slipping from Gale’s hair to rest on the mattress, a shuddering sigh leaving his lips. The stretch is familiar now, a dull ache that fades into something sweeter as he adjusts, but it feels more intense this time with the knowledge of what’s to come.

Gale doesn’t rush, working his finger in and out with a patience that’s both comforting and agonizing, letting John’s body relax and soften to the touch. When he presses a second finger alongside the first, John groans, his body instinctively tightening around it, the slight burn giving way to a slow wave of pleasure that spreads deeper with every movement. He forces himself to lift his head, still propped up on his elbows, watching through barely open eyes as Gale leans down, pressing his mouth to his other thigh.

The sharp nip of Gale’s teeth is a surprise, pulling a gasp from John, and then Gale’s lips follow, warm and soothing, latching onto the mark and sucking another bruised patch onto his skin until John’s thigh begins to tremble. Gale doesn’t let up, his fingers moving slowly, purposefully, and each gentle stroke sets off new sparks under John’s skin, winding him tighter as he clings to the blanket beneath him, letting out broken breaths.

Gale’s fingers crook just right, brushing against that spot that sends a jolt through him, and John’s elbows give, his body collapsing against the bed with a weak whimper as his eyes squeeze shut, every nerve alive with the sensation. He feels like he’s pinned there by Gale’s touch, unable to move, sinking deeper into the mattress as Gale stays focused on the press and pull of his fingers, drawing John toward the edge in a way that’s so painfully slow, it feels like it might undo him.

The soft brush of Gale’s lips returns when he moves to mark his other thigh again, and John folds under the joint pressure and wet heat. He lets out a shaky exhale, his hips rocking down as he chases the feeling, desperation making his voice come out as a hoarse, needy, “More, please.”

Gale’s mouth curves into a smile against his skin. “So polite,” he murmurs, and a flush races through John, though it barely registers with the heat pooling from Gale’s touch. His thoughts scatter completely when Gale finally relents, pressing a third finger carefully into him. John tenses at the stretch, thighs flexing, a deep ache spreading as he takes the fullness of all three, his hands curling into the blanket, the feeling of being so open sending a needy pulse through him.

Gale’s fingers move in slow circles, taking his time as he stretches him further, easing him open until the burn begins to fade, and John melts into the bed as he relaxes completely around the pressure. He can barely manage his next words, getting out, “Gale, that’s good— I’m ready— I want you.”

Gale continues to work his fingers slowly inside him as he pushes himself up with his other hand, crawling back up his body. Gale’s mouth is warm and insistent when it meets his, and John’s lips part automatically, panting into the kiss as his hips roll involuntarily against Gale’s hand. He gasps sharply when Gale’s fingers curl again, pressing right against that sweet spot, his cock jerking as precome pools wet against his stomach.

A gentle squeeze at his waist soothes him as Gale carefully pulls his fingers out, and John keens at the empty ache he leaves behind. He watches with hazy vision as Gale reaches over him to pull open the drawer again, and his heart stutters when Gale settles back down, a small shiny wrapper in hand. It hits John all at once that this is really happening, need flaring hot inside him as Gale holds his gaze, tearing the wrapper open with his teeth and tossing it aside.

Gale’s mouth finds his again, the kiss deep and possessive, and John leans into it, letting the weight of Gale’s desire sink into him. He’s breathing hard when he pushes up onto his elbows, pressing into the kiss, fingertips brushing against the back of Gale’s hand. “Can I?” he murmurs shyly against Gale’s lips.

Gale groans low, stealing another kiss before pulling back. “Fuck. Yeah, baby, you can.”

A thrill runs through John, and he pushes himself up fully, his heart racing as Gale pulls him closer, watching him with a look that’s all heat and dark affection. Gale passes him the condom, and John tilts his chin up, taking in another kiss, his body alive with want as his other hand wraps around Gale’s cock, feeling the solid weight of him in his hand, fever-hot against his palm. John’s sure he feels Gale’s heartbeat, pulsing with need, his own heart racing double-time.

He pulls away from the kiss, eyes drifting down to Gale’s cock, flushed and curved hard against his stomach, a sheen of precome smudged across one of his tattoos, the sight making John’s face burn even hotter. He pulls his bottom lip between his teeth, glancing up, breath stuttering when he catches the look on Gale’s face — eyes heavy-lidded, mouth parted as he watches John intently. Gale’s chest rises and falls slowly, as though he’s trying to keep himself steady, to hold back just a little for John’s sake. The patience in Gale’s eyes only fuels John’s resolve, and he feels a flush climb up his neck as he focuses on the task in front of him.

Gale’s fingers brush softly through his hair, a reassuring touch, and John’s heart squeezes at the care behind the gesture. Taking a steady breath, he presses the condom to the head of Gale’s cock, sliding it slowly down, his hand following the curve as he works it down to the base. The stretch of the latex reveals the thickness beneath it, and John’s fingers trail down his length, feeling every ridge, every shift as Gale’s hips tense beneath his touch.

John looks up again, unable to resist seeing Gale’s reaction. Gale’s face is a little flushed, his jaw tight as he holds himself still, but his eyes are gentle as he meets John’s gaze, encouraging and warm. One of his hands drops to John’s hip as he finishes rolling the condom into place, and Gale’s thumb sweeps over John’s waist when he leans in, capturing John’s mouth in a searing kiss. John lets himself sink back into the mattress, and Gale follows him, their cocks brushing together as Gale settles against him. The feeling has John whimpering into the kiss, hands curling tight into the blanket beside him.

Gale eases back after a long moment, his hands gentle on John’s thighs, coaxing his knees up. He leans over John to grab a pillow, helping him lift his hips as he positions it beneath him. John’s heart races as Gale adjusts him, watching the way Gale’s hands seem to work to catalogue every part of his skin, pressing soothing circles over his thighs, up to his chest, then back down to rest on his hips. There’s a reverence in Gale’s gaze, his eyes tracing over John’s body with such open appreciation that it brings a flush to John’s cheeks.

“God, you’re a sight, baby,” Gale murmurs, and it carries a weight that hits John right in the chest. His face burns, his heart fluttering, and he can’t bring himself to look away.

Gale picks up the lube from where it’s resting beside them, squeezes some into his hand and slicks himself up, his hand moving slowly over his cock. John follows every movement with his eyes, his breath catching when Gale rests one hand on the back of his thigh, the other dragging over the tip of his cock, pressing it to John’s entrance. He clenches reflexively, nerves and excitement coiling together, and Gale’s hand squeezes his thigh, settling him.

“Still sure?” Gale asks softly, eyes meeting John’s.

“Gale,” John whines impatiently, huffing when Gale smiles. “I’ve been sure,” he mumbles, a little sheepish now.

A warm chuckle rumbles through Gale, and he nods. “Okay, doll,” he soothes, his voice as steady as his hand. “We’ll go slow.”

Gale teases him a moment longer, dragging the head of his cock over him until John’s hips twitch, rocking down, a plea caught in his throat. Gale’s hand leaves his thigh, coming up to wrap firmly around John’s cock, and the sensation pulls John’s focus, the warmth and pressure distracting him just as he feels the first careful nudge of Gale’s cock pushing against him. Gale’s hand moves slow and steady, and John melts beneath him, feeling as if his entire body is centered on the points where Gale touches him, everything else dissolving in the haze of anticipation.

And then Gale presses forward, the stretch of him sinking in deep and slow. John’s mouth falls open, a shudder rolling down his spine as he grips the blanket beneath him, thighs tensing, nerves sparking with the first careful inch Gale works into him. Pleasure thrums hot and intense, rivalling the burn of the stretch, and he can’t hold back the whimper that escapes when Gale pushes just a little deeper.

“Doing so good, sweetheart,” Gale murmurs, soft and reassuring, watching John intently. “Just relax for me, take your time.”

The encouragement has John’s chest clenching tight again, the words sending heat spiraling low in his stomach. He nods weakly, the motion shaky as he tries to breathe through the intensity, letting the drag of Gale’s hand on his cock distract him from the burn. Quiet, helpless little noises slip out with each inch Gale pushes in, and John feels his thighs start to shake, a satisfying ache building as Gale fills him.

The slow stretch feels never-ending, so much more than he’s used to, and yet he wants to feel more of it, craves the way Gale fits inside him. John lets his head fall back, breathing out another whine, his hands twisting tighter in the blanket. Gale pauses, looking down at him with awe-filled eyes, his hand leaving his own cock to settle firm on John’s hip as he lets him adjust.

“Alright, honey?” Gale asks, low and patient, sliding his hand down to brush comfortingly over John’s thigh. “Still feel okay?”

John’s nodding almost before Gale finishes asking, and he gets out a breathless, “Uh-huh,” his body strung tight, but the need to feel all of Gale is more pressing than anything else. “More.”

Gale’s lips twitch up into a smile. “Such a good boy for me,” he murmurs, slowly rocking his hips forward, filling John inch by inch, steady as ever. “Almost there, baby. Just breathe.”

John’s thighs tremble as he feels Gale push in even further, the weight and heat of him overwhelming, the stretch so intense it makes it hard to remember to breathe, even with Gale’s reminder. His hands flex in the blanket, a choked whimper leaving him as he squeezes his eyes shut, every nerve on fire, every touch magnified as Gale’s thumb brushes over the head of his cock, giving him a fleeting moment of sharp pleasure.

When Gale’s hips finally press against him, cock filling him completely, John feels his whole body reacting to the deep, relentless fullness. A moan bubbles up as he tries to take it all in, anchoring himself in the press of Gale’s palm against his hip, his hand a solid, comforting weight as John adjusts to all of the new feelings. He can’t stop trembling around Gale, can barely keep his eyes open, but he’s transfixed by the way Gale looks at him.

A quiet noise escapes Gale when John’s eyes flutter closed, and his hand squeezes gently at John’s hip, coaxing his eyes back open, warm gaze meeting John’s. “Oh, you’re shaking, honey. S’it too much?” he murmurs.

John takes a stuttered breath, feeling like he’s barely holding himself together, but the way Gale’s watching him, the reassurance of his hands on him, makes it bearable. He manages a small shake of his head, voice coming out soft and wrecked when he mumbles, “It’s so good.”

Gale’s thumb presses just beneath the head of his cock, and John gasps, jerking at the touch as Gale leans closer. “Yeah?”

John whines, nodding against the pillow as he clenches around Gale, fighting to pull coherent words out of himself. “Feel… feel so full,” he breathes out.

Gale groans quietly, his hand soothing over John’s hip again. “That’s it, baby,” Gale says, breathless, eyes full of pride as he watches John’s every reaction. “Just let yourself feel it.”

John listens, letting himself sink into it, and he feels a quiet sense of awe settle over him, the realization hitting that Gale is fully, deeply a part of his body in this moment, holding him steady, guiding him through every bit of this. He lets out a contented sigh, feeling safe, complete, entirely wrapped up in Gale. John shivers, giving in fully to the feeling of it all, the stretch and the unrelenting heat of Gale deep inside him.

Gale’s hands move slowly, tracing tender patterns along John’s skin, sweeping up his sides with comforting pressure, over his chest and down to his stomach. His fingers splay wide, palms pressing just enough to ease the intensity without letting it wane. Gale gives his hips a gentle squeeze, the silent reassurance flooding John with warmth, and Gale shifts slightly, leaning down to brace himself on his forearms.

John makes a quiet noise as Gale dips down to kiss him, the careful weight of him pressing John into the bed. He whimpers into the kiss, feeling Gale sink impossibly deeper with the shift, and his thighs instinctively tense around Gale’s hips, wanting him even closer. As he reaches up to loop his arms back around Gale’s neck, pulling him down, he feels Gale take a breath, feels the slight tremor in Gale’s body as he responds to John’s soft, needy noises.

When Gale flattens himself further against him, John curls his legs up, wrapping around Gale’s waist, his ankles locking over the small of Gale’s back. The position shifts him deeper inside, and John’s eyes fall shut, a quiet whine slipping past his lips. The fullness is all-consuming; it feels like Gale is reaching parts of him he didn’t even know he could feel, a dizzying rush rolling through his body.

The sudden, faint twitch of Gale’s cock deep inside him sends liquid heat down John’s spine, and without meaning to, John clenches around him, pulling him in. Gale groans, and the rough sound vibrates through John, enveloping him. John takes a shaky breath, his chest rising and falling against Gale’s, and then, tentatively, he rocks his hips down in a tiny, experimental motion, testing out the sensation. His mouth falls open as a high, keening noise slips past his lips, needy and wrecked. “Gale,” he gets out, more of a desperate sound than anything, his lips brushing against Gale’s as they breathe heavily, hardly kissing now, just keeping close.

Gale’s hips press into him in a slow grind, and John’s breath leaves him in a rush, hot molten lava pooling in his gut. His hands move down from Gale’s neck, scrabbling over his back as he clings, fingers pressing hard into Gale’s skin, needing something solid to hold on to. Gale repeats the slow, deep grind, and another breathless, broken sound spills from John’s throat. “Oh— God,” John chokes out, trembling so hard he’s sure he can feel his lungs rattling inside his ribcage, little bursts of light playing out against the backs of his eyelids.

Gale leans in, brushing his lips along John’s cheek with the softest touch. The gesture is calming and welcome, given the way John’s whole body feels stretched thin, nerves on edge, every cell attuned to the slow, overwhelming sensation of Gale’s careful movements. With a small shift, Gale’s hips pull away, cock sliding back just enough to leave John aching, only to press back in, filling him completely until John’s head tips back, an almost pained sound spilling from his lips.

“Gale,” he gasps, voice breaking, hands clutching desperately at Gale’s back as he digs blunt nails into his skin. “Gale—” His voice is lost again in the motion, his mind drowning in the burn and the pleasure that pools heavy and hot in his core, flooding him with need.

“Yeah, I’ve got you, baby,” Gale murmurs, rough but sure, hands coming up to cradle John’s face. “I’ve got you.” He rocks his hips again, slow and measured, dragging over that perfect, pulsing spot inside John, and John’s whole body goes taut, shuddering so hard he feels like he might break apart.

His mouth falls open, but no sound escapes, just a faint exhale, and John feels his eyes sting as tears build beneath his closed lids. It’s nearly too much, but he doesn’t want it to stop — the tenderness, the steady pressure, the stretch and fullness, it all makes his heart pound as if it’s struggling to keep up with what he’s feeling.

A gentle brush of Gale’s thumb over his cheek pulls him back, settling him just enough to hear Gale’s voice. “Hey, look at me, John,” Gale says, imploring him to open his eyes. Blinking back the tears that have somehow started trickling hot and damp from the corners of his eyes, John manages to meet Gale’s gaze, heart hammering with the tenderness he sees there.

Gale’s expression shifts, a hint of concern creasing his brow. “Good tears or bad tears, baby? Do you wanna stop?” he asks gently, going still.

John’s throat tightens, and he shakes his head almost frantically, his hands pressing against Gale’s back. “No, s’good, so good, Gale, fuck, please—” His words tumble out, shaky and desperate, and Gale’s eyes darken, his control seeming to bend just slightly as he lets out a rough, helpless groan.

“Fuck,” Gale mutters as he shifts back, only to push into John again, deeper, smoother, and John’s words die in his throat, replaced by a strangled moan. The pleasure swells, dulling the lingering burn, filling every bit of him with a sweetness that has his skin heating up, every sensation heightened.

A shiver runs down John’s spine, and Gale pauses, watching him. John squirms beneath his gaze, his fingers digging into Gale’s back, urging him closer, needing him to fill every aching inch. His hips roll up, a soft whimper escaping him, and Gale’s breath comes out in a slow whoosh as he drags his gaze over John’s flushed body.

“Jesus, baby,” Gale breathes out, and he lets himself be drawn back down, his hands still framing John’s face as he captures John’s mouth in another kiss, deep and desperate. He rocks his hips forward in that same slow grind, swallowing John’s gasp as he sinks in even further, pressing right into that aching, sensitive spot that gets John shaking, mouth parting as he melts into Gale’s touch.

Gale’s pace is unhurried, each thrust slow and measured, like he’s reveling in every second, every tiny reaction he draws from John. Each movement feels like it’s carving into John, a deep, all-consuming pressure that has him clinging tighter to Gale, his body pliant even as his legs stay locked around his waist. There’s a dizzy, feverish sort of pleasure in each slide of Gale’s cock that has John feeling like he’s being unraveled piece by piece, utterly open and vulnerable beneath Gale.

Their kisses grow hungrier, like they’re attempting to devour each other. John tries to keep up, his mouth pressing desperately to Gale’s, but the rhythm of his hips steals his breath, leaves him gasping. Gale catches his lower lip, sucking gently on it. John groans as Gale lets his lip snap free, trailing soft, open-mouthed kisses from his chin to his jaw, pressing in close as he nuzzles down to John’s throat. John’s head tips back instinctively, baring his neck as Gale’s mouth ghosts along his skin, finding the sensitive spot just beneath his jaw, sucking gently.

“Gale,” he whines, the sound a shaky plea as he dissolves under Gale’s mouth. The combination of Gale’s teeth and tongue tracing his throat, the gentle nips and tugs as he works his way down, sends a fresh wave of pleasure through John, drawing his body tight around Gale with pure want. The heat burns, sharp and addictive, reducing his thoughts down to static. When Gale’s lips drag over his shoulder, just above his collarbone, he sinks his teeth in lightly before properly working his mouth over him, clearly intent on following through on John’s request to be marked.

The feeling makes John arch up, clutching at the backs of Gale’s shoulders, breath catching in his throat at the thought of bearing physical proof of Gale so near to where anyone can see. John’s chest rises and falls with uneven breaths, his mouth open, only faint, choked sounds escaping.

Gale’s mouth trails over his chest, his kisses lazy, slow, and he finds the same place on John’s other shoulder. He pauses there, and John feels the warmth of Gale’s breath fanning out over his skin, goosebumps rising up on his arms. Gale’s lips press softly at first before he opens his mouth, working his lips and teeth together until a matching mark blooms beneath his attention. The pull of Gale’s mouth is a tease of pleasure-pain that makes John’s body respond of its own accord, moving restlessly beneath Gale’s weight.

Gale hums a low, satisfied sound as John writhes beneath him, hips rocking in search of more friction. He pulls almost all the way out, leaving John feeling empty and desperate, and then he sinks back in with a slow, careful slide that has John’s eyes rolling back, the drag against every inch of his insides quieting everything else.

“Again,” John gasps out, breathless. Gale swears and pulls back to press his hips forward again, and John’s moan spills out without restraint, the sound pushed up his throat from the motion. Gale sits up a little, shifting his hands to John’s waist for leverage, holding John close as he finds a rhythm that’s achingly slow, each retreat a deliberate tease before sliding in again with an intent that has John’s heart pounding wildly.

John’s lashes flutter as he opens his eyes, vision still blurred, but he watches Gale’s head tilt back, a moan spilling from his lips, blond hair falling messy over his forehead, and the sight steals the breath from John’s lungs. He reaches out, feeling a desperate need to hold on to Gale in some way. Gale seems to understand, and he catches John’s hands in his own, lacing their fingers together as he presses John’s hands down on either side of his head, pinning them to the pillow, settling the itch beneath his skin.

Gale’s hands are warm, his movements gentle, and it’s a sweet kind of torture, everything intensified by the unrelenting slowness, the way Gale’s body presses into him with purpose. Every drag of Gale’s cock inside him feels like it’s leaving a permanent mark, something that goes deeper than skin, a feeling that roots itself in John’s bones.

John tightens his grip around Gale’s hands, his body winding tighter. Gale’s hips press forward, a little harder this time, and the pressure makes John’s cock twitch against his stomach, leaving a fresh streak of wetness there. He lets out a shaky whine, thighs clenching around Gale’s waist as he squeezes down around his cock, and Gale groans at the feeling, the sound rumbling through John.

“Fuck, John, y’feel so good,” Gale pants, and John’s heart skips. “So tight, holding on to me like that.” His grip on John’s hands tightens just slightly as he begins to pick up his pace, each thrust a little more insistent, a little more purposeful. “Look at you… taking me so well. You’re beautiful, you know that? So damn pretty under me.”

Gale’s voice wraps around John, bringing a deep flush to his cheeks and down his neck. It’s dizzying, every word adding fuel to the fire burning low in his stomach. The drive of Gale’s hips quickens, and John gasps, his head knocking back. He can feel the slick mess he’s leaving against his stomach, his cock leaking with every snap of Gale’s hips, and he’s grateful Gale’s hands are holding his steady, sure his own would be trembling otherwise.

John can feel himself being pushed closer to the edge, and he can hardly keep up, his body responding on instinct as he rocks up into Gale’s movements, chasing every bit of pleasure he can get. Gale’s moans grow ragged, and John lets himself get lost in the sound, each broken gasp and hitch of Gale’s breath filling the air between them. He feels unaware of anything but the heat pooling tighter and hotter inside him, winding up, coiling dangerously close to snapping.

He pushes one hand up against Gale’s, needing friction on his cock, chest heaving as he manages to gasp, “Gale, ‘m close, I’m so—”

The words barely make it out before Gale leans down, capturing John’s mouth in a kiss, hot and messy, teeth clicking together as Gale lets go of one of John’s hands to slip his own between them. Gale’s fingers wrap around John’s cock, and John chokes out a moan into the kiss, hips rolling into the firm grip around him, bringing his free hand up to grab at Gale’s back.

“Baby,” Gale groans against his lips, rough and breathless, and he tightens his grip just enough, stroking John in time with his thrusts, coaxing him closer to the edge. The relentless pace, Gale’s hand on him, the warmth of Gale’s body covering him; it has John keening, his senses overwhelmed. He holds onto Gale’s hand like it’s his lifeline as he feels the heat in his gut uncoil, his stomach tensing, hips jerking up.

A desperate cry tears from his throat as he tips over the edge, come streaking thick and hot over Gale’s fist and his own stomach. He clenches down around Gale’s cock, his whole body shaking apart, nails scrabbling at Gale’s back, fingers curling tightly around Gale’s other hand. It feels like he’s coming apart at the seams, a helpless noise spilling from his lips as he pulses in Gale’s grip, shuddering through the endless pleasure.

Gale’s hand works him through it as his hips press in deep, his movements growing erratic as his own orgasm builds. It has John whimpering, still shaking through his climax, and Gale groans low and rough as he finally lets himself go. He drives himself into John in a series of stuttering thrusts, and John can feel every twitch, every pulse as Gale spills hot into the condom. Gale drops his forehead onto the pillow next to John, his hand tightening around John’s as he grinds into him, his motions slowing, voice hoarse with every moan he releases into the space between them.

They stay locked together like that through the final twitches of pleasure, Gale’s mouth pressed to John’s shoulder as they both fight to catch their breath. John’s chest rises and falls heavily, his body spent yet buzzing, every part of him alive with Gale's touch. Gale’s hand loosens its grip slightly, his other one leaving John’s cock to rest on his waist, thumb brushing over his stomach in soothing sweeps.

Gale’s lips find the crook of John’s neck, pressing a gentle kiss there that sends another shiver through John, his body instinctively tensing around Gale’s softening length. Gale hisses at the feeling, breath hot against John’s neck, his fingers stroking over John’s side. He draws back just enough to meet John’s eyes, his gaze soft and full of unabashed adoration, and John’s heart thumps in his chest. Gale leans in, brushing their lips together in a kiss that’s achingly tender as they cling to each other, still breathless, skin on skin. John whines quietly when Gale starts to pull back, his legs tightening to keep him close, reluctant to feel the ache he knows will follow when he comes back into his body.

Gale’s free hand trails down to John’s thigh, running gently along the tense muscle, coaxing him to relax. “Wanna hold you properly, baby, c’mon,” he murmurs, and John makes a soft sound of protest, but he slowly untangles his legs, wincing as his muscles object to moving from the long-held position. Gale’s hand never leaves him, rubbing gentle circles into his thigh, and when John finally lets go of Gale’s other hand, Gale leans back, carefully pulling out of him.

The sudden emptiness leaves him feeling too bare, too vulnerable, and he lets out a quiet whimper that Gale hushes with a reassuring hum, leaning down to kiss him. “I know, doll,” he sympathizes as he pulls back, moving away only briefly to tie off the condom, leaning over the bed to toss it in the trash. And then he’s back, gathering John close and rolling them both onto their sides. Gale’s leg slots between John’s, pulling him flush against him, uncaring of the mess between them.

John melts into him, pressing his cheek to Gale’s chest, still trembling slightly as he clings to him, heart racing as he breathes in the familiar, comforting scent. He feels Gale shift once more, rolling onto his back and pulling John with him until John’s draped over his body, both of Gale’s arms wrapping tightly around him as though he can squeeze every last tremor away. John sighs contentedly, nuzzling into the space beneath Gale’s jaw, pressing a soft, grateful kiss there as he feels his heart slowly settle.

He tucks his face against Gale’s neck, listening to the solid rhythm of his heartbeat beneath his cheek, fingers curling around Gale’s shoulders. Gale only pulls him closer, his hands rubbing slow circles over John’s back. John smiles, his own heart still thumping away, unable to fully comprehend what’s just happened. He squirms a little, pressing his face further into the warmth of Gale’s skin, inhaling deeply and letting out a happy hum.

He feels Gale laugh quietly, one of his hands sliding up from John’s back to tangle in his hair, running his fingers through his curls. “Feeling good, sweetheart?” he murmurs, though John suspects he already knows the answer. He nods anyway, goosebumps rising on his skin at the drag of Gale’s hand in his hair. He feels like he can’t get close enough to Gale, like nothing short of crawling inside his skin will satisfy the craving to attach himself to him, but from the way Gale’s holding him, it doesn’t seem like he feels much different, fingers splayed wide over John’s lower back, ankle hooked around John’s.

Gale’s hand slows its movements in his hair after a few minutes of silence, his breathing evening out beneath John, but John can tell he’s still awake, can tell he’s about to say something before he even hears him open his mouth.

“I don’t wanna move… I think we should just clean up in the morning,” Gale whispers conspiratorially, and John giggles, warmth bursting in his chest.

“I agree,” he whispers back, and he can hear the smile in Gale’s voice when he replies with a hushed, “Okay.”

Gale trails his fingers up John’s spine, stopping at the base of his neck before dragging them back down to the dip in the small of his back, repeating the motion, breathing out a chuckle when John shivers involuntarily. He can almost feel their heartbeats syncing, and his eyelids begin to grow heavy with sleep.

His heart still feels too full though, fuzzy with affection and appreciation and so many things he can’t find the words for, but he wants to.

“Gale,” he mumbles against the crook of his neck, and he gets a questioning hum back. John hesitates, feeling shy again, but Gale’s hand settles on the back of his neck, patient and encouraging.

“I’m really happy,” he finally whispers, tilting his head up to nudge his nose against the underside of Gale’s jaw. Gale makes a quiet sound, something soft and fond, and John presses his lips to his neck again in another gentle kiss. “Are you?” John asks, hushed, and Gale immediately tightens the arm around his back.

“Of course,” Gale replies. John smiles, pressing his knee into the side of Gale’s thigh, the buzz in his heart feeling a little eased now.

“This was a really good birthday,” John murmurs. Thank you, he wants to add, but it doesn’t quite feel adequate.

“Yeah?” Gale prompts, and John can hear the gentle amusement in his voice.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “Best one, probably.” He’s not just talking about the sex, and he’s sure Gale knows that.

“I’m glad,” Gale says sincerely, pressing a kiss to his hair. They fall into another silence as John melts, sinking back into that drowsy, blissful haze. He lets out a long breath, feeling so held and safe, muscles gone limp against Gale’s body.

Just as he’s teetering on the edge of sleep, Gale suddenly mumbles out a “Fuck,” and John’s body tenses involuntarily, startled from his peaceful half-sleep.

He lifts his head slightly, peering at Gale in confusion. “What?”

Gale sighs, a little sheepish, a little exasperated with himself. “Didn’t set an alarm.”

John groans at that, burrowing his face back into Gale’s neck, making no effort to move. “Don’t wanna,” he mumbles, muffled and petulant, the thought of untangling himself from Gale too painful.

But Gale nudges him gently, squeezing his waist. “C’mon, not risking you missing class during your first week,” he murmurs.

John whines in protest, but he knows Gale’s right, and he slowly shifts off him, giving Gale just enough room to stretch over him and reach for the alarm clock. As soon as he flops back down, John reattaches himself with urgency, tangling their legs together and resting his head on Gale’s chest like he’s reclaiming his rightful place. Gale’s arms wrap around him just as firmly, pulling him close, hooking a leg over one of John’s.

“There we go,” Gale says softly, voice light. “Like we never even moved.”

John hums happily, letting his eyes drift shut again, relaxing under Gale’s touch. Gale’s hand comes up to rest between his shoulder blades, pressing him close, and John places his palm over Gale’s heart.

He thinks he’d be happy to spend many more birthdays right here, cocooned in Gale’s warmth, and he falls asleep with a smile on his face and hope in his heart that his birthday wish will come true.