Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Golden September light is spilling through the open blinds as John lays in his bed, still half asleep. It’s early in the afternoon and his head is not pounding, and both are good news; he slept like hell last night, couldn’t even concentrate on the movie he started watching and then spent hours tossing and turning until dawn’s rosy fingers finally dragged him under.

He’s been particularly restless in the past few weeks, and he doesn’t want to think about it too hard or he’ll start asking himself why and he knows the answers won’t be pleasant: his father, the company, the way they haven’t had a good idea in months, how fucking scared he is that all he’s been fighting about might just slip from his fingers like a good dream when morning comes. 

He needs to get his shit together, they all do: find a play, find a theatre where they can study and rehearse whenever they want without having to worry about other crews, be successful, make it out of small towns’ theaters, conquer the world one stage at a time like they set out to do when they founded the Hundredth. And this isn’t something he can accomplish while staying lazily in bed like when he was a moody teenager, so he sits up with a groan and starts his day.

Freshly shaved and relatively clean he makes his way out of his bedroom, peeking into the living room to see if his roommates are at home; he finds Curt on the couch with a book of French poetry in hand. “He rises!” Curt calls when he sees him, smirking at him from above his book. “And before 4pm! Are you feeling ok? You need to lie down a bit more?”

John flips him off. “I just couldn’t stand the thought of staying without you any longer,” he says, and snickers when Curt sends him a kiss, unfazed by the rude gesture. “Is Johnny home too?”

“Nah, he’s out teaching rich kids how to play the clarinet. Can you believe that he’s the only one of us with a proper job? Like, he studied that and now it’s what he does. He teaches clarinet. Unbelievable.”

“You sound like my dad,” John deadpans. “M’gonna have breakfast, you want something?”

Curt looks back at him, one brow quirked. “Bucky, it’s three o’clock in the afternoon. I already had lunch. We got pad Thai and left you some, it’s in the fridge. Not the ideal breakfast food, I agree, but that’s what you get with your weird customs.”

John sends him kisses back, walking backwards into the kitchen. “I love you guys, I don’t know how I’d cope without you and your leftovers,” he says. There’s an abandoned book of Shakespeare tragedies on the table, its cover all ruined and awkwardly bent at the corners, and a squished pack of cigarettes right next to it; both things are his, left there when he came back home the night before from their weekly drinks at the bar. He thinks about smoking a cig while he waits for the food to heat up in the microwave — Crosby can’t see him now, and anyways it’s not like he’ll have to be rehearsing for anything anytime soon — but he decides against it, settling for scrolling on his phone. There are texts from Ellie and May that he’ll need to answer before the twin furies decide to blow up his phone with more, and other texts from his mom; nothing from his dad, thankfully.

When he sits down to eat he starts checking his mail too and he finds a message from Alex, one of his oldest theatre friends; he’s touring with his production of Othello, the one John was also part of when it first debuted years ago, before the Hundredth was founded. The renewed production sent Alex straight into stardom while John’s still waiting for his big break, but he can’t really find it in himself to be bitter at his friend about it; it’s actually weirdly comforting to know that making it is possible. 

“Friedkin?” John scoffs eyeing the name of his substitute on the cast list. “Come on, Alex, you can do better than fucking Friedkin.”

At the very end of the mail there’s a line from Alex. We’re gonna be at Thorpe Abbotts Theatre in December, I think it’s quite close to where you live so if you want I can get you a ticket? I’d like for you to see the new production! Let me know if you can make it.

Thorpe Abbotts Theatre. The name doesn’t ring any bell for John so he checks it out online. It looks pretty small, he’d have thought that Alex preferred bigger venues now that he can actually afford them. It was established only in the 60s apparently, before that it was a church and they kept the structure of the old building, setting up a fully functioning theatre inside it; when he sees the pictures, John is left speechless. There’s this huge, fucking gigantic stone apse that stands right behind the stage, in sharp contrast with the modern equipment — spotlights, wings, a deep red velvet curtain, and many rows of blue velvet chairs — but at the same time it makes perfect sense that it’s there, embedded in the theatre like a gemstone. 

Something about it speaks to John, not just the apse but the whole theatre; he feels connected to it, like how it happens to him sometimes with a specific play, or a character. He knows deep in his bones that this place could make a difference, could turn into something special — crucial, even. 
He reads the whole website to figure out what makes Thorpe Abbotts Theatre so special in his mind, maybe the program of the upcoming season or the fact that every year it hosts a puppetry festival, and on the very last page he finally finds something interesting and it’s like a switch in his brain clicks.

“Curt,” John calls, his eyes never leaving the webpage. “I think I’ve found us a theatre.”

—

It’s only two days later, during dinner at the Crosbys, that John can unveil his plan to the rest of the crew. 

“On the website it says that theatre companies can take up residencies at the place for up to a whole season. Isn’t it what we were looking for? A place to focus properly, to work, to create something good?” He asks, showing his friends and coworkers pictures of the theatre. “And look how beautiful it is!”

“Is that a real apse or is like, part of a scenery or something?” Crank asks, squinting at one of the pictures.

“It’s real, the place used to be a church.”

“Never beating the good catholic kid allegations, uh Bucky?” Curt teases him, but he looks fascinated by the place. And Curt is good at rallying people, maybe even better than John: if they both like the place, if they push the others enough, then maybe they can make it.

“The place looks beautiful, but how would that work? We’d all have to move to another city, and I suppose we’d have to pay to rent the theatre, no?” Bubbles, the most cautious among them, points out. He’s sitting at the right hand of Croz, the director of the company and host for the evening, who nods at his partner’s words. “I imagine you’ve already asked, right Bucky?” He says.

John nods, his confidence waning a little but he hopes no one noticed. “Yeah, I sent an email. The director wrote back quickly, here,” he says, turning his laptop towards the rest of the group. He already knows what they’re gonna say before they do, but it doesn’t sting any less.

“That’s a lot of money,” is the first comment, from Hambone. “Do we have enough on our fund?”

“I don’t think so, no,” Crosby says, disappointed. “I figure it’s not negotiable?”

“He didn’t gave me the option to,” John says. It is a lot of money, that’s true, but it’s also a huge fucking opportunity and he can’t believe the guys are willing to miss it because of that. If it pays off, if they go all in and reach the success they deserve, then they’re gonna make so much money that it won’t matter how much they spent — and they’re good, John believes in every single one of the men he chose to tie his life to. They’re good, they’ve already been noticed, they just need an opportunity to break through the surface for good.

“That’s a pity,” Crank says and he sounds really upset. “I was already thinking about how we could use that apse for the scenery.”

The others agree, all of them more or less disappointed in an opportunity that faded so quickly. It makes John’s skin sting like he’s just spent a whole day in the sun.
Like a dog with a bone, he can’t let go. He starts making calculations in his mind, knowing with painstaking precision how much money is in his bank account right now and how much is in their company fund, trying to figure out how much he’d need to take out of his own savings to pay the rest of the residency fee — and the answer is, too much, of course. He’d have to gamble away the majority of what he’s earned in the past four years; but if it’s for something he believes in, he’s willing to.

“I have some money set aside,” he says as nonchalantly as possible. 

“That much money? You sure?” John Brady asks, the only one who’s been sitting silently until this very moment and whose voice sounds a lot like the one of John’s conscience, has been since they were teenagers. He doesn’t turn around to watch him but he already knows that Johnny Boy’s broody eyes are likely boring into him to call his bluff, so he beats around the bush. “I have enough to cover the rest of the fee. I’d only ask to pay a smaller share of the rent wherever we end up living, in return,” he says.

The others are looking at him in silence and for a moment John fears he has everything he’s concealing written straight on his face — but he’s an actor, for fuck’s sake, he knows how to pretend he’s fine even in front of his closest friends. 

Curt is the first to speak, leaning back in the chair until it creaks under his weight and pointing a finger at Crosby. “It’s your call, Croz. You’re the director,” he says. It’s not exactly true, they all weigh the same in the economy of the company, but it’s become custom among them that Crosby gets to have the final say in matters such as this. John holds his breath, his fingers tapping lightly against the surface of the table the only sign betraying how tense and agitated he is.

Crosby combs a hand through the dark locks of hair falling on his forehead, eyes squinting as he ponders. “It might be actually useful,” he says. “We made our best show when we were residing at Gowen, after all. Maybe it’s what we need to focus, to center ourselves and get to work properly. Why don’t we vote on that?”

They vote yes, unanimously — Brady was the only one who hesitated for a beat before raising his hand, his eyes never leaving John, but John can’t bring himself to care too much about it. He’s just too stupidly happy that they’re going, that they’re gonna stay at Thorpe Abbotts Theatre and create something beautiful and unique in a place that John knows, he really knows it, will bring the best out of all of them. It’ll change their lives, he’s absolutely sure of it.

“I’ll email Mr. Harding back tomorrow morning,” he says.

“Yeah, and let us know as soon as he gets back to you. And by the way, I don’t think we’ll have to pay rent at all to find a place in the city,” Crosby says. “I think Jean’s grandparents have a house there, and I hope they won’t make their favorite grandson in law and his theatre company to stay there a few months…”

—

Johnny corners him the second they’re back in their apartment — because John might be a dog with a bone, but Johnny is his rightful puppy. Same stubbornness, same loyalty, same bared teeth.

“What’s the story with that place?” He asks, barging into John’s bedroom with the same disregard for his privacy he had when they were kids.

“This would be my room, Johnny Boy,” John answers, with the same pedantry he used with him when they were kids. “Yours is at the other end of the corridor.”

“Cut the crap, Bucky. What’s with the money, uh? You can really afford to pay what, almost half of the residency fee on your own? How?”

“With the money I made acting, which is my job. And with all the other jobs I’ve done in the past few years. Don’t you worry about me, Johnny Boy: I am an adult, I know what I’m doing.”

“But I do worry, Bucky”, Johnny insists — of course he does, he always has. He was born worrying, John thinks, always looking around and taking in everything he could so he could worry, and he could help. And he knows about John and his family, his dad; he doesn’t have the same issues with him since he’s not their actual son, not his flesh and blood, and he has a fucking side job teaching rich kids how to play an instrument, but he knows. He knows John’s itching to prove himself, to show that his career makes sense and that he’s not just a stupid dreamer.
John loves him for how much he cares, he really does; but right now he doesn’t need it.

“What is it about that place? I’ve rarely seen you so fixated on something like that. Is it because of Othello?” Johnny continues.

“What? No, what do you mean?” John asks, taken aback. 

“I know there’s a date at that theatre, I’ve looked the season program online. Is that the reason why you want to stay there so badly? To feel, I don’t know, closer to that?” Johnny continues. He’d sound completely unaffected, if John didn’t know him better — but since family is something that goes both ways, John knows him well too.

He sits up on the bed, his expression as serious as he can muster. “Johnny Boy, I don’t care about Alex’s Othello. I’ve been in it, yes. It was fun, it was good while it lasted, but it’s over. I’m not in the production anymore, Alex wanted me in but I said no for the Bloody Hundredth. Because that’s what I care about now, and I want us to succeed because I know we can, I know we’re fucking good. Ok? And we need a residency to create our next best thing, I know it, you know it, Crosby knows it. That’s it, I swear,” he says.

“But why that place in particular? I know you Bucky, I know something’s got your curiosity but I can’t understand what.”

“Would you believe me if I told you I don’t know it either? It’s something like a hunch, I felt it the moment I saw the pictures of the theatre online. That place will be something for us, I just know it.”

Johnny keeps staring at him, and John can’t help but think of how much he resembles his mom. “Your hunches, they don’t always convince me Bucky,” Johnny says.

They don’t convince John either, to be fair, not most of the time, but he rarely acts against them. Not when they’re about something that matters to him like the Hundredth does — and there’s nothing that matters more, not after everything he’s had to give up on to have it.

Still, he can’t say that to Johnny — not that he wouldn’t understand, hell, he probably already knows it. But he’s the older brother, in everything except blood, so it’s his job to ease the tension in the younger guy’s shoulders, to straighten the frown on his forehead. He smiles at him, a smile that’s toothy and warm as it’s always been, and shakes his head. “Have a little faith on me, Johnny Boy. I promise you, this residency will change our lives.”

Johnny huffs, as he always does when John leans too much on the dramatics. “Yeah, yeah. Whatever you say, Bucky. Just, please, don’t be careless about your money; don’t turn this into a suicide mission just to prove something.”

“I’m not being careless. I swear I have enough money to invest it in the residency, and I’ll have to find a job in the new town anyway so that’ll even out. Scout’s honor, Johnny Boy.”

“Oh, please, as if you’ve ever been a Boy Scout.”

—

Neil Harding is an imposing man, with a military haircut and a stern mustache that make him seem much older than he probably is. He insists on being called Chick but mentions en passant that his employees at the Abbotts call him Colonel, and for some reason John doesn’t think that’s entirely a compliment. 

He was part of an independent theatre group that got famous in the late eighties for their performances of experimental theatre, visionary pieces with electronic sounds and wild costumes, and sometimes puppets; they got lucky and scored a years long residency in a theatre in Michigan where they constructed their most memorable pieces, and he tells John and Crosby that this is exactly the reason why he offers his theatre to young crews now, to return the favor.

Offer is not quite the right word, John is about to quip thinking at his now dangerously sparse bank account, but he smiles through the pain and keeps nodding politely as the older man tells more stories of his glory days long gone. 

“You’re gonna find yourself at home at the Abbotts, I’m sure,” he concludes after a while. On that, John still feels he can agree; he’s been thrumming with anticipation ever since he set foot in town, dying to visit the place he’s spent all his money for and excited to discover what it has in store for them.

“It’s really a beautiful place,” Crosby says. “Can we take a tour or is it set up for a show?”

“There’s a show tonight but maybe you can ask our ground crew if they can show you around after.”

Crosby and John share a dubious look. “Ground crew?” John repeats.

“Yes, my ushers! Nice kids, they all love the theatre so much. I trust them with my life, the Abbotts wouldn’t function at all without them,” Harding says sounding actually affectionate. “They’re gonna be here soon for their shift, if you want to wait for them.”

John grimaces internally; he doesn’t want to wait for the ground crew, he wants to see the place with his own two eyes. He’s getting restless sitting on that stupid plastic chair, and he swears if Harding starts telling his stories again he’s gonna throw himself out the window; Croz picks up on his antsiness and mercifully suggests that John goes ordering pizza for the whole Bloody Hundredth at a place they spotted coming here. Grateful, he stands and quickly shakes Harding’s hand before slipping out of the office. He meets a guy as he walks down the stairs, one he supposes is part of the famous ground crew; he can’t be more than nineteen, with dark blond curls and a kind, shy face. John smiles at him but doesn’t stop to introduce himself, coming down to the lobby in a few more strides. 

There’s a blue velvet curtain that separates the lobby from what John supposes is the auditorium and he can hear the telltale sounds of someone rehearsing on the stage. He almost caves at the temptation to take a peek of the scene but then desists and walks out of the theatre. There’s a large cobbled driveway to get to the street, lined with trees that look like they’re on fire in the fading sunset light of the early autumn, orange and yellow leaves forming a crunchy patterned quilt underneath. John smiles at the sight, content and excitement in his heart like when he was a kid.

Our Baby, his bike, the apple of his eyes, is waiting for him in the parking lot near the theatre; he drove her all the way here while the others were crammed in Crank’s old truck or in the company car, which is a Jeep Curt got four years ago when they’d just started their business. He hopes it’s not gonna be too cold here in the winter, he’d hate to keep his lady in the sorry excuse for a garage Jean’s grandparents’ house offers. 

Out of the corner of his eyes he sees a blonde girl stepping out of her parked car and walking to the driveway’s entry; she’s dressed in black like the guy on the stairs, so John guesses she’s another usher. Wondering how many people are needed to man the place in the Colonel’s absence, John starts Our Baby and drives away. 

He buys five large pizzas, bartering on the price and earning a few free beers by flirting lightheartedly with the girl at the counter; not bad for his first day in a new city. He almost asks for her phone number, almost tells her that she’s the first interesting person he’s met since he moved, but he relents; if they’ll end up liking the food they’ll probably come back here for more, and he doesn’t want to mess things up. 

He’s already been banned from at least two bars in the town they were before for his period when he couldn’t keep it in his pants — heartbroken and abandoned, and all because he’d been too stupid to actually say how he felt out loud. There’s no need to mess with this nice girl here too, and anyway it’s not like he’d have the time: he’s promised himself he’s gonna focus solely on the company, on whatever work Crosby picks out for them. No flirts, no heartbreaks, nothing. So he gets his food, smiles politely at the girl, and goes back to the only lady he intends to hang out with. 

It’s not easy to balance the pizzas on Our Baby but somehow he manages and he’s back at the house before the food gets cold. Jean’s grandparents’ house is old and it’s clear that no one has lived there in a few years, but it’s big enough to accommodate them all and they’ll only have to pay the bills, no rent, so it’s basically perfect. Crosby and Bubbles have commandeered the master bedroom, having gently removed the weird looking Madonna with Child that was hanging above the bed; thanks to his irritating sleeping habits John has earned the only single room in the house, which was Jean’s mother’s judging by the pictures left behind and had no religious icons on the walls; Crank and Hambone are sharing the attic because they have a passion for ghost stories, and Johnny and Curt sleep in the double room on the first floor, the only one with an annexed bathroom. 

“Kids, dinner’s here!” John calls as he steps into the house, pizza boxes in one hand and beers in the other. He hears the rustling of incoming footsteps as Crank and Brady come out of the living room to help him, looking relieved that there’s gonna be food in their stomachs soon.

“Thank you daddy,” Curt tells him once they all sit down around the too small table in the dining room, and John sends him kisses in response. “So, how was the place? Up to your expectations?”

“Crosby didn’t tell you? We didn’t see shit, just the offices,” John answers through a mouthful of scorching melted cheese. “They’ll probably let us see the rest tonight though. Right Cros?”

Crosby nods from above his beer bottle. “The ushers are gonna show us around. I met them, they seem pretty chill. I think we’re gonna be ok there, it’s the right place for us.”

“You sound like Bucky,” Ham jokes, and laughs when John promptly flips him off.

“You’re all gonna be fucking sorry when I turn out to be right, you assholes,” John says, pointing at his friends with the neck of his bottle. “Fucking sorry. I’ll bet.”

“Come on, don’t piss off dad,” Bubbles intervenes with a sly smile, and John rolls his eyes as the others start snickering. He looks at the rest of the Hundredth and despite everything he’s hit by a warm wave of affection for every single one of them, for his comrades-in-arms with whom he’s already fought many battles, the only people in the world he’d want by his side now that this new, grand feat has begun. At the cost of sounding sentimental, which he knows the boys will endlessly roast him about later, he raises his bottle and says with a clear voice, “To the Bloody Hundredth. May this be the occasion we needed to get to the fucking Olympus and drink with Thalia and Melpomene.”

The guys look back at him, maybe a tad surprised by his impromptu exploit of Greek mythology, but then Crank lifts his own bottle. “To the Bloody Hundredth,” he says. “I know this will be the right time.”
John smiles at him, grateful for not having left him hanging.
One by one all the guys make their own toast, some longer than others. Crosby quotes Shakespeare, Brady just says “To the Hundredth,” Curt adds a sappy “I love you guys” that wins him his right to be roasted instead of John.

Then, when dinner’s over and all the boxes and bottles have been thrown away, they all pile into the two cars to get to the Abbotts; and once again, John can’t shake the tingly feeling that something’s about to happen.

—

There’s a bar in the foyer at the Abbotts, pretty well stacked with bottles of wine and snacks — some chips and nuts, and a lot of healthier options like vegan stuff and little blocks of cheese,. John finds it endearing, and he immediately goes to help the woman behind the counter to put everything away and lock the bar for the night. Her name is Marcia, he learns, and she can’t wait to go home to her husband and kids so she’s extremely grateful that John has decided to help.

“So I’ve heard you guys are gonna be staying here until May? How does it work?” She asks.

“Yeah, it’s a residency. We’re basically renting the theatre and can come in to work on our new project whenever we want, unless there’s already a show scheduled for the day.”

“And what’s this project? Please, tell me you’re normal actors and don’t do any weird stuff,” she pleads with the haunted eyes of a woman who’s seen things she’d rather forget.

John laughs at that, amused. “Well, I don’t think you’ll ever find a normal actor, it doesn’t come with the job. But I promise we don’t do weird stuff, it’s just us staging whatever play Crosby decides. He’s the director, that guy over there with the black hair,” he says pointing at his friend, who’s chatting with Crank in the adjacent room.

“I’ve met him before the show. Oh, are you all waiting for Marge and the guys?” Marcia asks as is she’s only now realized something.

“We’re waiting for the ushers to show us around, is it them?” John asks, then leaning conspiratorially on the counter he adds, “How are they? Harding basically told us they run this place in his stead.”

Marcia smiles and goes to pull down the bar’s shutter. “They’re great. Really, this place stays fully functional only thanks to them.” 
Then she notices something behind John and calls, “They said they’re waiting for you!”

John turns around, smiling his best and warmest smile, and he sees the guy he met earlier on the stairs, the blond girl he’s seen walking out of the parking lot, and a third guy that he’s never seen before. His heart almost skips a beat as he takes him in because he’s comically John’s type: blond hair, blue eyes, a polite smile on his face with something clearly hidden underneath. He’s dressed all in black like his coworkers are, but for some reason he looks better in it.

“Guys, they’re here!” John shouts to gather the others, then walks to the ushers to be the first to introduce himself. “Hey, I’m Bucky! Nice to meet you,” he says, shaking the blond guy’s hand. He’s a little shorter than John, his figure way leaner, and up close John can see that his eyes are a darker shade of blue than his, with thick blond lashes the same color of his hair. He smiles back, albeit a bit shy, and looks at John like he’s trying to grasp something of him; it makes him wanna squirm, but in the right way.

“He’s John, actually. But since we already have one, we call him Bucky. It’s his childhood nickname,” Crosby explains once they’ve made their round of introductions. The girl gives him a smile at that, and John shrugs. Her name is Marge, they learn about a minute later, not Marjorie as she cares to specify; the shorter guy John met on the stairs is Ken, and the handsome one is Gale. He has no specific accent, but John can pick up a southern drawl in the way he speaks, subtle like he’s trying to hide it — on purpose or not, John can’t really tell.

“How do they call you?” John asks him, because he likes the syrupy sound of his voice and because he wants to know this guy better, and he’s always been insistent in his manners of affection.

Gale looks taken aback and says, “Me? Just Gale, nothing special.”

I think the fuck not, John’s inner monologue provides. He needs to get this guy’s attention like he needed to pull the girls’ pigtails when he was just a troublesome kid on the playground; so he takes one more look at him, trying to find something to latch on. “Hey, Curt?” He calls. “Don’t you think he looks just like Buck?”

He doesn’t, John knows it very well. Buck was blond, yeah, but he was also shorter and burly and didn’t have blue eyes like Gale. Still, he hopes Curt will play along — which he doesn’t, of course.

“Not really, no. Why?” He asks, puzzled and intrigued by Bucky’s weird comment. 

Proving his great acting skill, John continues. “No? He’s his spitting image! Hey, does it bother you if I call you Buck? I swear you look just like this friend I had in school.”

Gale — Buck — looks at him like John’s speaking in an alien language, blue eyes wide and brows furrowed as if he’s trying to come up with an answer but can’t find the right one. John takes this moment of weakness to his advantage and seals the deal, bringing Buck one imaginary step closer to him. “Great! Nice to meet you, Buck,” he says.

Buck looks bewildered, maybe more at himself than at John, and tries to rebut but Marge’s quicker than him, and invites the guys for a tour of the theatre. John sees her wink at Buck, as subtly as she can, before walking them into the auditorium. “Buck! You’re not coming?” John asks, seeing that the guy’s still standing in the empty foyer. He hears him saying “My name’s Gale” under his breath, but he still doesn’t complain out loud.

The theatre is beautiful as it was in the pictures, if not even more. The apse is majestic, it really gives the auditorium a sense of solemnity that’s deeper and more somber than in any other theatre where John’s been before. The walls of the auditorium are lined with soft blue velvet up to about John’s height, the same color and fabric the armchairs are upholstered with, same as the small curtain at the back that leads into the lobby; it makes the room look peaceful, like a refuge from the chaotic outside world.

The ushers show them the stage, the changing rooms, the costumes storeroom below the stage, the gallery where Crosby will direct from, and the little ushers’ room. John keeps enquiring on anything he can think of, from the year the theatre was found to what exactly are the ushers’ roles and Buck answers him patiently, he even tells him that he’ll be the one taking most of the night shifts when they’ll be here rehearsing; John is delighted at the idea. 
Buck strikes him as a very interesting person and John finds himself weirdly interested in knowing what the theatre life feels like from someone not on the inside, but not entirely outside of it either; and he’s also a really handsome guy who didn’t exactly back down when John started amicably flirting with him, which is no small thing.

Of course, he could just be very polite, or extremely naïve; but as for everything else, John decides to be an optimist about this.

He almost asks for the guy’s number once they step out of the theatre, way later than he’d expected, but Buck looks pretty tired and John doesn’t want to put him too much on the spot so he desists; he smiles to himself, though, when the other guy doesn’t try to correct him when he tells him, “Goodnight, Buck!”

His overt friendliness didn’t go unnoticed with his friends, naturally.

“What was that?” Crank asks him, amused, as John slots himself in the passenger seat of his old truck. Ham and Johnny, crammed in the back seat, are also looking at him, curious.

John sighs. “What was what?”

“Oh cut the bullshit Bucky,” Hambone tells him. “You zeroed on that guy in like, half a second! And who the fuck is Buck anyway?”

“A blond guy who was in high school with him,” Johnny provides. “That looked absolutely nothing like Gale. I swear, Bucky, I am constantly in awe of your weird flirting techniques.”

John turns to him, glaring in the dim street lamps light. “I was not flirting, and even if I was that certainly wasn’t a weird technique. I was being friendly with a guy we’ll have to see very often in the next few months. I’m familiarizing with the neighborhood, that’s it.”

“He’s your type,” Crank says. John glares at him next. “You think I haven’t noticed that?” He hisses. “Of course he’s my type. That doesn’t mean anything though: I promised myself, no flirting as long as we’re here. We have a job to do and we cannot afford to get distracted by stuff like the hot usher who works at the theatre.”

“Oh, so you admit you think he’s hot?” Hambone teases, accompanied by Johnny’s soft snicker.

“I have eyes, Howard,” John deadpans. “But I mean it: no flirting. Strictly professional stuff, me and Buck are gonna become friends at best.”

“And when has that ever worked for you?” Johnny enquires, almost smug.

To that, John really can’t answer.

Chapter Text

They start going to the Abbotts almost every day, for some reason or another. Crosby needs to see the place, to work his mind around it to decide how to use the space, the apse, the lights, everything. He still hasn’t decided what they’re gonna work on, but they know better than to worry about it for now: it’s a long process, it’s always been, and they all trust Crosby with their lives. He may never set foot on stage again, not after an embarrassing first try when he ended up vomiting all over himself for he was too stressed to cope, but he’s one hell of a director.

They all take their time to familiarize with the place, and John takes his to familiarize with the staff. Ken is silent and prefers to stay with the tech squad more often than not, Marge is a spitfire who mans the entire theatre with the radio on her hip, and Buck is reserved and quiet, still tremendously handsome, with a dry humor that surprises John at first. 
John asks him questions just about anything: why do they call Harding Colonel, what does he think of this season’s program, how is the weather in town during winter, has he ever been to Wisconsin, why is Ken with the ground crew if he’d clearly rather work with the techs, why does Marcia have so much healthy stuff in the bar, is it hard to work at the Abbotts, does he ever get bored, how does the copy machine in the ushers room work and why does it always starts whirring when John steps closer to it?

Buck, for his part, keeps answering him. Harding is the Colonel because of a role he played when he was younger, he used to talk about it so much when they first started working at the Abbotts that it was only a matter of time before it became his official nickname — and he’s also a strict boss, who pays his ushers a penance, but he’s a good man. This season’s program is interesting and there’s a show in particular that he’s eagerly waiting for. It’s very cold in town during the winter months, sometimes it even snows; he’s never been to Wisconsin but from what he’s heard the weather is just as cold so John shouldn’t have any problems. Ken works with the ushers but he’s studying to become a full-time tech, Marcia is kind of a health freak, it’s not hard to work at the Abbotts, you just have to get the ropes and be ready for the switch from hectic times to empty, boring ones. And the copy machine is faulty because the office guys always leave it on so all it takes is someone stepping close to it for its sensors to go off. 

“You know, you don’t have to wait for me,” Buck tells him one night as he locks the stage door behind them. The others have already left, they’re waiting for him at the bar close by. “I can close the theatre alone, it’s not a problem.”

“Oh, I don’t mind,” John answers with a smile. “We were talking, I didn’t want to bail on you.”

Buck offers him a small at that, but to John it’s like he won the lottery. “I’m gonna join the guys at a bar that’s nearby, you wanna come?” He offers, but Buck shakes his head.

“No, sorry. Early start tomorrow,” he says, crouching to unlock his bike, and John realizes he has no idea what the other does during the day when he’s not at the Abbotts. He must have another job, but what is it? Where does he live? Does he have a boyfriend, a girlfriend, a dog? He wants to know everything about Buck Cleven, but he has no idea how to ask — he doesn’t even have his number yet, which is absolutely outrageous in his book. He knows more about the Abbotts, truly, than of its most handsome usher.

“Well then, good night Buck,” he tells him. He wants to go for a hug, at least, but once again he can’t find the courage to move.

“Goodnight, John,” Buck says with another of his small, reserved smiles. He still doesn’t call him Bucky even if John told him it’s something his friends do, but John doesn’t think it’s because he doesn’t want to be his friend; he likes to imagine that he does it because he wants to keep himself separated from others, to shine brighter in John’s eyes. He’s probably just being his usual, stupidly romantic self, and Buck is probably not one for nicknames, it’s all — still, he stopped complaining about being called Buck after less than a week.

Ruminating on these thoughts, John makes his way to the bar they’ve found just a few streets from the Abbotts where his friends are waiting for him.

“You made it! How’s your lovebird?” Crank shouts in his ear the moment John sits down next to him, and shoves a beer bottle in his hand.

“He’s not my lovebird,” John protests, trying to steal the chips bowl from Hambone before he devours its entire contents. “Anyways, Buck’s fine. I kept him company as he was closing, I even invited him to join us but he said he has to work tomorrow morning.”

“Are we sure it wasn’t an excuse?” Curt teases. “Is the theatre even open in the morning? What is that guy doing all day?”

“He has another job. I suppose,” John says. The uncertainty in his tone must have been felt by the others, because they all give him sympathy looks, but John pretends he doesn’t care and goes on with his night. “Do we have Crosby’s verdict yet or not? He’s not here, so I suppose he’s at home working.”

“He is, with Bubbles,” Crank confirms. “Cros said he has it narrowed down to two or three things but he really needs another week to properly think about it before making the final decision. You how he is.”

“A walking, talking panic attack,” Johnny offers, voice tinted with his particular brand of biting fondness. Then he turns to John, as if he’s just remembered something. “I found us a gym,” he tells him.

John stares right back at him, perplexed. “We were looking for one?” He asks, and unsurprisingly Johnny sighs in annoyance. “You said you wanted to go back to training once summer was over and I said I’d come with you but we moved before we found a gym, so I’ve been looking for one here. There’s a special offer, if a new member gets a friend to sign up there we both pay half the fee for the first six months. Are you interested?”

He’s right, John had wanted to go back to the gym in the fall, he needs to maintain some muscle mass or his fucked up knee will just about collapse from under him, and he likes to show off his strength and muscles — he wonders briefly if Buck likes muscular men, or well, if he likes men altogether. Anyways, all of this was before he put all of his money in renting the Abbotts and now he’s not sure how he can weasel himself out of Johnny’s kind offer without giving his secret away.

He leans back on the bench, feigning pondering. “Well, yeah I said that. But that was before we decided to put on a whole play, you know. Maybe I don’t need all that extra workout. It could be bad for my knee.”

“You knee,” Johnny deadpans back. “Isn’t it exactly the reason why you use to train?”

“Not too much though, or it’ll hurt.”

Johnny sighs again — once John had tried to tally how many sighs he was able to wring out of the younger man in just a day but he’d given up after the tenth in less than two hours, and that was when they were still kids and Johnny still was in some kind of awe of him. “I looked for the one that costs less” he says. “There are personal trainers but we’re not required to enlist them, we can do whatever we want and pay very little. Your knee would be grateful to you.”

There’s no way to escape the snare of Johnny’s care — sometimes John fears he’s put too much of himself in him. He sighs, an echo of Johnny’s. “Fine, I’ll join ya. But no one’s allowed to complain when girls and boys start throwing themselves at my feet from every corner of the town because of how fit and handsome I am, ok?”

“Hey Bucky!” Hambone calls through a mouthful of chips. “D’you happen to know if Buck likes his men fit? You should ask him!”

Next to John, Curt laughs. “Please, do. I wanna be present in the moment,” he jokes.

“You’re a bunch of assholes,” is John’s answer, the slight blush on his cheeks just another reason for his friends to pile on him a little more. 

—

The gym is nice, in terms of how nice a gym can be. It’s small, tidy, not too noisy, and it doesn’t smell of feet like the old gym at his high school did — John still can’t shake the memory of that obnoxious smell from his nostril, it’s been clinging to him for years. Johnny Boy must be thinking the same thing because he looks relieved, in terms of how relieved John Brady can look.

“I can pay your fee too if you want,” Johnny tells him as they approach the desk. Taken aback, John stares at him. “I can pay half the fucking fee of a gym membership, Johnny. Jesus, what the hell is your problem? You sound like my dad.”

“I’m just saying, if you have any problem-”

“Well I don’t. And you’re the one who insisted I joined you at the gym so please, talk to this nice lady and tell her we’re here for two half priced memberships,” John shuts him off, talking through clenched teeth. He gives the lady at the desk a smile and pushes Johnny towards her to force him to do a thing he hates, smalltalk. That’ll teach him to mind too much of John’s business.

“The personal trainer is free for the first lesson, if you want!” The lady tells them once she’s taken all their details. “Then you can decide wether you want to keep training alone or not.”

“Well if it’s free, why not enjoy it?” John says, cheerful, shooting the girl another smile. “Where are the locker rooms?”

“I don’t like personal trainers,” Johnny complains as they change into their gym clothes. “I don’t like being told what to do with my body.”

John snorts. “You know you’re an actor, right? There’s a man in our company whose job is literally to tell you what to do with your body, and he’ll throw water bottles at you if you don’t know exactly what he says.”

“Well, at least I’m not paying him to do so!”

“Ah come on, Johnny Boy. It’ll be fun.”

They’re introduced to two personal trainers in the main room of the gym, a very chatty, dark-haired one with a Chicago accent that introduces himself as Benny, and a pointy-looking one, definitely a few years younger than John, named Murphy. Out of spite, John leaves Brady with the chatty one and proceeds to train with the other; he’s good, but he deserves to be paid for his job and John doesn’t have enough money to do so. He tells him just as much once their session is over, when the other asks him to inform him if he wants to train together the next time as well. 

“No hard feelings, man: once I’ll have a proper job I’ll get back at you!” John says, sweating and panting, going to shake the other’s hand.

“Ah, don’t worry: it happens all the time,” Murphy tells him. “By the way, if you need a job there’s a noticeboard in the lobby with various offers! Maybe you’ll find something interesting there.”

“Thanks! I’ll go check,” John shoots back with a tired smile. He’s been scouring the newspaper and online boards looking for a job to get some money back, but he still hasn’t found anything that would leave him with enough free time to prepare for a whole show; maybe this’ll be the right occasion.

There’s a library nearby that needs a clerk, but it’s not quite John’s thing. 
A coffeeshop needs a barista, and he’s tried that before but it didn’t work very well, not with all that coffee lying around and his fucked up sleep schedule.
There’s a repair shop that needs a mechanic, and that’s something up John’s alley: he likes to work with his hands, he knows about engines and stuff, he’s even made some repairs on Our Baby by himself with only the help of Youtube videos. He jots down the number written on the flyer, that of a certain Jack Kidd, hoping the offer’s still valid; then he goes back to the locker room just in time to catch Johnny stepping out of the shower, still looking pretty flushed.

“How did it go?” John asks him, stripping down and going into the next box.

“It was fine,” is Johnny’s answer. There’d be nothing peculiar about it, Johnny’s not a man of many words; but there’s something in the tone he spoke with that catches John’s attention. It’s like he’s hiding something, or better it’s like he’s pondering intensely over it. 

“Are you gonna keep training with that guy?” John pushes, intrigued.

“No,” Johnny answers. “I mean, he’s good, but I don’t need a personal trainer. I told you, I don’t like being told what to do,” he adds and there’s that weird note again, that something John can’t quite put his finger on. Or maybe…

Suddenly, John feels like a teenager again. It’s like they’re in his home, just back from school, and Johnny’s trying hard to confess his darkest secrets to him when they’re already written all over his face; John wants to tease him, he desperately wants to, but he knows that’s not the right way with him. He has to wait, patiently, for Johnny to come to him — and he will, of course he will.

“He seemed a nice guy,” he still shoots him, and pretends not to see the murderous glare Johnny shoots back from his reflection in the mirror.

“Be quick, Crosby wants us at the Abbotts in half an hour,” he tells John. Then, not without a hint of vindication, “You don’t wanna keep Buck waiting, do you?”

Amicably, John’s reflection gives him the middle finger.

—

It’s John’s turn to be vindicated once they get to the Abbotts and find Buck sitting at the desk in the lobby, looking pretty and pretty bored.

“Hey Buck! How’s it going?” John greets him, passing a hand through his hair to push back a wet curl from his forehead; he misses the way Buck’s eyes follow the movement, but not the weird look that’s left on his face afterwards, focused and wide-eyed.

“Buck? You gook?” John insists, since the other still hasn’t answered. This seems to revive him and he blinks, looking suddenly sheepish. “Yeah, I’m good. Just tired. Did you- did you do something?”

“Uh? What do you mean?”

“I don’t know, you look… different. The hair, your face,” Buck trails off, a faint blush painting the apple of his cheeks like watercolor. Fascinated, like he’s learning a new character, John shakes his head. “No, I didn’t. I went to the gym though, maybe it’s that? Maybe I’m flushed because of that. And I just washed my hair, ain’t put no gel in it.”

“Ah, yes. That must be it,” Buck says, nodding. “Yeah, it’s the hair,” he continues, struggling to sound more convinced. “The curls. They’re wilder than usual.”

John swallows a chuckle, repeats the motion of combing his hair back and this time witnesses in full how Buck stares at him. “Ah, you know: they’re untamable,” he says with a smirk — and he almost adds, just like me, but something tells him it wouldn’t be the right thing to say. “D’you like it like this?” He asks instead, words tumbling out of his mouth before he can stop himself.

Buck smiles then, something akin to fondness in his eyes. “Yeah, it’s good,” he says. Then, “I think Harry’s waiting for you over there? He seemed eager, you shouldn’t make him wait.”

“No, we definitely shouldn’t,” Johnny intervenes from behind John’s back, almost making him jump because maybe, just maybe, he forgot the other guy was also there. “Nice to see you, Buck. Bucky, will you come?” He adds looking pointedly at him, and John nods eagerly. He also shoots Buck another smile before disappearing behind the blue curtain, and even if Crosby scolds him and Johnny for being late — to what, it’s not clear, since he still hasn’t decided what play they’re gonna do — John doesn’t really care, not tonight. Not when Buck looked at him like that — not when his skin tingled and he flushed hot all of a sudden, not when his breath hitched just a little, not when he felt for a moment as if there was no one else in the world but them. 

As Crosby drones on and on about stuff that John should probably listen, he can’t bring himself to do so as only one thought occupies his mind: he has to find a way to be looked like that again.

—

Two days later, Crosby still has to decide what they’re gonna be working on and John’s patience has never been thinner. 

He feels like a beast trapped in a cage too small for him, an animal on the verge of gnawing its own paw off to escape the snare. What does it matter that he gave away his money if Crosby can’t do his fucking job and find a play? Why is everybody not angry, shouting, picking up the smaller guy from the lapels of his jacket and giving him a good shake to see if maybe his brain just needed a little movement to go back to function properly?

He’s silently seething sitting in the backyard, a book abandoned open in his lap and he’s never wanted to smoke a cigarette more but he can’t with Crosby nearby; he can’t risk the other guy to see him and get pissed at him, he feels too out of himself and doesn’t wanna fight with his friend, he just wants him to do his fucking job.

He hears the backdoor open, its hinges creaking loudly in the quiet late afternoon, and for a moment he hopes he’s manifested something good for once, that it’s Crosby with some good news — it’s not, obviously.

“Bucky,” Curt salutes, sitting in the chair next to his. “You good, John?”

“Yeah, why?” John answers through gritted teeth.

“Just asking,” Curt says, raising his hands in surrender. “It’s just that I don’t think you’ve slept at all last night, and now you’ve been here alone and motionless for like half an hour, still awake, so…”

“You worried about me, Curtie?” John asks, more bitter than intended. “There’s no need. As soon as our fucking director chooses what our lives are gonna depend on it’s gonna be much smoother. Don’t you worry about me.”

“Ah,” Curt says, nodding. “So that’s it? You mad because Crosby’s still deciding? You know how he is with this stuff, Bucky. Cut him some slack.”

I can’t, John wants to scream. I can’t cut him some slack because I put myself on the fucking line of fire for us all and I’m gonna be shot to death if he doesn’t come up with something, and quick.

But he can’t say that, no. Because Curt doesn’t deserve John shouting at him, because it’s not his fault Crosby’s an anxious mess until he has to throw water bottles at people when they’re not listening to him. Because it’s not his fault, nor Crosby’s, if John’s a gambling idiot.

So, instead he just rises from the plastic chair he was sitting on, his fucked-up knee stinging a bit as he stretches but he doesn’t flinch, far too used to it. “I’m gonna go for a walk. Familiarize with the neighborhood,” he says. 
He doesn’t ask Curt to go with him, he doesn’t want company. Luckily, Curt knows him pretty well because he just nods, not making to rise from his own chair. “Take note of where the best coffee’s at,” he tells him. “And don’t forget Crosby wants us at the Abbotts at 19:30.”

“Yeah, yeah,” John shrugs. “While you guys are at it, try and drill some ideas in that messy mind of his, ok? I can’t keep going on like that, one more week and I’ll start reciting my own plays in the backyard,” he adds as he walks away. 

He’d promised himself that he would explore the neighborhood to learn its secrets as soon as possible, and this afternoon is good as any other moment to do so. He walks up to the crossroad with the main street and then turns left, following it out of the residential area.

There’s the pizza place he went to on their first night here, where the girl at the counter keeps batting her eyes at him every time he goes inside to grab a bite — sorry, he wants to tell her, you’re not the most interesting person I’ve met since I moved here anymore. No hard feelings.

There’s a coffee shop that looks interesting, its outside walls painted a deep shade of green, some little tables with chairs and striped umbrellas scattered on the sidewalk and a small blackboard in the window, with the daily specials written on it in a twirly, curly calligraphy. John stops there for a coffee, committed to reporting to Curt where the good stuff’s at. He also grabs a danish with strawberries, the first thing he’s had to eat since last night — no wonder his mood was so sour, Johnny Boy and the twins would argue. 

Next to the coffee shop there’s a library with an old style banner that reads in golden letters “West Anglia”. Books about World War II are pretty popular with the shop’s clientele, John surmises browsing the windows as he stuffs his face with the pastry. The bookshop seems pleasant and cozy, there’s even a reading area with leather armchairs and tables; he’ll have to stop by another day and check their theatre section, maybe spend a few hours relaxing on one of the chairs, rehearse there once Crosby decides the play and their roles.

There’s a barbershop, a pet shop that he has to forcibly stop himself from barging into to cuddle the puppies, the small music school where Johnny’s been teaching, and many other places John hopes to visit soon; he likes the city, the neighborhood. He wouldn’t mind settling here after their residency is over — maybe he’d also get to know Buck better, like this. 
They haven’t seen each other since two nights ago when Buck told him he liked his hair — which isn’t the reason why John has decreased the amount of gel he uses to style it, no matter how much shit Johnny Boy has been giving him.

He wonders if he’s gonna be on duty tonight at the Abbotts or if Marge’s gonna be there instead; he likes her, she’s nice but she takes absolutely no shit from anyone, her cutting sense of humor compliments his own, and she’s probably clocked him right and well about his interest in Buck. They look like they’re good friends, John should probably get closer to her and make good use of it; she has a mischievous spark in her eyes whenever she catches them together, maybe she’d be willing to let him in on how to get through Buck’s polite but firm façade. 

He’s on his way to the Abbotts without even realizing it, his steps guiding him in the familiar direction with little to no thoughts. The place’s probably still closed, he realizes when he’s already almost there, since they’re not supposed to be there for another hour or more; but there’s a familiar bike locked at one of the posts right outside the theatre and John smiles to himself when he sees it. He needed a bit of good luck after the day he’s had.

The light’s on in the lobby, a pile of books and journals sitting on the desk. John walks closer to the glass and takes a peak inside but there’s no trace of Buck, even if the bike outside is unmistakably his. He tries to pull the handle but the front door is locked; as he takes a step back, already sighing in defeat, he notices that the metal door that leads to the small courtyard on the side of the theatre is not. His luck still doesn’t fail him because the stage door is also open — an oversight from an usher as precise as Buck, John thinks with a smirk, he’ll surely tease him about that.

The empty auditorium smells of wood and dusty velvet, a scent so familiar to John that it warms his heart in an instant and it softens the smile on his face. “Buck?” He calls making his way to the lobby, shoes squeaking on the polished floor. The other doesn’t answer but as soon as John goes through the blue curtain he sees him standing on a wobbly ladder, with a rolled-up sheet one hand and the other pulling open a glass case.

That can’t be safe, John barely has the time to think before Buck leans toward the case and the ladder shifts with him making him lose his balance. John stares in horror for a split second as Buck falters, trying to grab onto something on the way down; then, faster than he thought himself capable, John rushes to him and blocks the ladder, keeping it steady enough for Buck to regain his footing and grab the handle on top of it. 

The echo of John’s panicked shout is still resonating in the room when Buck, trembling slightly, looks down at John. There’s fear in his eyes, mixed with a bit of resignation, but they light up in relief and content the moment he sees John staring back at him.

“Man, you scared the hell out of me Buck! What are you doing up there?!” John asks him, his hands not letting go of the ladder no matter how much he’d like to grab Buck’s hand and pull him down to safety.

“I have to change the poster. How did you get in?” Buck shoots back, and John doesn’t have the heart to tease him about his lacking efficiency as an usher.

“Stage door’s unlocked,” he simply says. Then, almost mad for how Buck’s put himself in danger with such nonchalance, “And you’re doing it by yourself? Geez, thanks fuck I got here early. Are you ok? Do you want me to do it while you hold the ladder?”

As frightened as he still seems, Buck shakes his head valiantly from where’s holding on for dear life to the top of the ladder. “No, thank you. Just, hold it tight and pass me the things when I ask you, ok?” He says and John nods, tightening his grip on the metal. He’s more than ready to catch Buck in his arms should the rickety thing fail them again, but luckily this arrangement seems to be working and now, from his point of vantage, he can check out Buck with ease. 

He’s wearing a pair of black skinny jeans that make his ass look fire, even more than usual. When Buck glances down and catches him staring John just smiles at him, boldly, and nods at him to keep going; he’s not gonna take his hands off the ladder until Buck’s feet are on the ground again, and if Buck doesn’t want him to look at his ass he just has to say so. And maybe wear less revealing clothes, next time.

As if he’d read his mind, the other guy chooses this exact moment to stretch a bit more until the hem of his shirt rises just below his navel, leaving a silver of skin uncovered that John has the sudden urge to press his teeth into, and maybe his mouth, or his tongue. And his hands, once they’ll be free from the ladder. His breath hitches softly at the thought and he almost startles when Buck lets the old poster fall to the ground.

“Hold still,” John admonishes when Buck gestures for him to pass him the new rolled up sheet. He lets go of the ladder for barely five seconds and still he worries, and right when he’s about to give the poster to Buck he tells him to grab the box of thumbtacks too; John has half a mind to tell him to step down, but somehow he’s sure Buck wouldn’t appreciate his concern so he just grabs everything as quickly as he can and gives it back to him, releasing a breath only when his hands are once again clenched around the metal beams of the ladder. He offers Buck a hand as he’s climbing down, out of instinct, and he smiles, pleased, when the other holds it even for just a second.

Buck guides him to the storage room to put back the ladder, that John’s still holding and looking at with resentment for the harm it might’ve caused Buck. “So, is this something you guys do routinely? Trying to brain yourselves on the lobby’s floor?” He asks him, trying to keep his tone light.

Buck just shrugs. “Usually it’s a two people job, but tonight there’s only me providing for you guys,” he says. Then, as if he’s just realized, he adds, “Where are the others? I thought you had scheduled to be here by 19.30, it’s barely 19.”

“Oh,” John says, quite lamely, his brain running a mile a minute to find a plausible excuse, and failing. “I was taking a walk to familiarize with the neighborhood and I realized I was close, so I checked if anyone else was already there. You’re lucky the door was unlocked,” he adds, hoping to resort to teasing. But Buck, harshly, replies, “I don’t believe in luck. And it was probably me who left it unlocked.”

John’s about to apologize, feeling like a dog who’s been kicked and doesn’t know the reason why, when Buck’s face softens again. “Either way, thank you: it would’ve been a truly ungrateful way to die,” he says and it makes John laugh, and Buck smiles his kind smile at that.

Back to the desk, Buck beckons John to sit down on the spare chair on his right and he gladly obliges, peeling off his leather jacket, definitely too hot for the warm lobby. “So Buck, what do you do when you’re here, apart from being a watchdog for your Colonel?” He asks him.

“School stuff,” Buck answers nonchalantly but John’s heart misses a bit. School stuff? Oh fucking fuck has he been flirting with a college kid? Would that make him a predator?

“What do you mean, school stuff? How old are you?” He can’t help asking, in alarm.

Buck glares at him. “I’m twenty-eight. Well, I’ll be twenty-eight in December,” he says and John’s never felt more relieved in all his life. “Anyway, I’m not still in school if that’s what you’re asking: I’m a teacher,” he adds.

That sparks John’s interest once again. A teacher. He’s never been one for school, but he’s sure that if he had a teacher like Buck he would have been top of the class. “Oh, is that right?” He asks, intrigued. “And what is it that you teach, professor Cleven?”

He doesn’t miss the way Buck’s eyes twitch a little at his words, a flush creeping on his face. “Algebra,” he answers, defiant.

“Never liked it. But maybe I would’ve if I had a teacher like you, professor Cleven,” John keeps going, rolling the nickname on his tongue like he’s savoring liquor and relishing in the way Buck seems affected by it.

“Believe me, my students don’t seem to like it any better just because I’m teaching it,” Buck says and John starts picturing him standing behind an old teacher desk, maybe dressed in plaid or with the same outfit he’s wearing right now, explaining algebra with his serious tone and the spark that illuminates his eyes whenever he’s talking about theatre. There’s a question there, how a math teacher comes working as an usher in a local theatre, and John files it away for later.

“Well, some of them actually told me I’m better at it than their old professor, so maybe they do like it more,” Buck continues.

“I’m sure they do, professor Cleven,” John says and he’s flirting, of course, but he’s also honest.

“Can you not?” Buck yields, looking all hot and bothered, and John’s grin widens watching him squirm, but he relents. “Well, it explains this,” he says instead, picking up an old book on a topic he doesn’t recognize. “For a moment I thought you were reading this for fun.”

“That’s not algebra,” Buck corrects him.

“No, you’re right, it’s something even worse- Wait, you mean you’re actually reading it for fun?” John asks, genuinely surprised.

Buck looks sheepish. “Well, obviously I had to study on it for an exam in college. But I’ve kept it and sometimes I reread parts of it, like my favorite topics or something,” he says, looking like he’s just waiting for the floor boards to open up under him and swallow him whole. 

John, for his part, is utterly fascinated: not only Buck’s extremely handsome, ridiculously his type, and a theatre aficionado just like him. He’s also fucking smart, and that makes something in his belly stir pleasantly. “And still you risked to smash your head on the parquet? You have to be more careful; what a waste of that beautiful, big brain of yours that would’ve been!” He tells him and this time there’s no denying, Buck is outright blushing as he looks at John, his smile the most sincere he’s ever seen on that beautiful face. It softens into something sweet and fond, something new and familiar at the same time and John decides straight away that he’s going to do whatever’s in his power to keep seeing that smile again and again.

“Next time I’ll make sure to call you,” Buck says and John thinks, his heart swelling with tender anticipation, yes, Buck: next time. 

Chapter Text

Crosby chooses The Tempest and for the first time since they moved here John sleeps through a whole night, all the pent-up adrenaline of the past weeks leaving his body in one go. 

He dreams of space, of Buck sitting on a satellite like a modern Little Prince, stargazing. In the dream John sits right next to him, and while a unicorn grazes the grass behind them he keeps quiet as the other guy teaches him about the stars; there are constellations of all shapes, translucent planets that glitter in the darkness of this universe, twirling galaxies and flaming comets that paint the night sky of a thousand colors, but even in the dream the only thing John can focus on is Buck — the way his eyes light up as he’s teaching him just like they did during their real life conversation in the Abbotts’ lobby, with just a small tinge of sadness John had wanted and still wants to wipe away with his thumb; the subtle smile barely curling his lips upward as he explained him the difference between astrology and astronomy lingers in the dream, softening his face into the look John wants.

The dream shifts, the vastness of the cosmos becomes the backdrop of a stage in a theatre John doesn’t recognize but still feels familiar to him, a blend of all the places he’s performed at, warm and velvety and soothing. Buck is laying on his back on the stage now, still pointing at the stars; he says something that doesn’t make sense but to John’s ears it sounds like Shakespeare. John wants to hold him, to lay down next to him and rest the head on his shoulder as he listens to him, and even in the dream the thought makes him hurt something fierce. He tries to tell him, to speak even just a word, but he’s ripped from the dream before he can. 

It’s early morning as he wakes, the time he often falls asleep at, and he feels like he’s been spun around like a sock in the washing machine. His joints are aching, his bad knee worst of all, and he has to blink a few times before the fog in his mind finally dissipates; it’s like he’s hungover, but with the painful clarity that only lucidity can bring.

“What are you doing here already?” Bubbles welcomes him with a surprised voice as he walks into the kitchen. “Did you not sleep at all?”

“Good morning to you too, Bubbles,” John answers, voice rough as if he’s been chewing gravel. “Actually I slept the whole night, I just woke up. I’m sore all over, I don’t understand why.”

“Must’ve been your walk to familiarize with the neighborhood,” the assistant director comments with a knowing smile. “Found anything interesting?”

John takes his time before answering, pours himself a cup of coffee and pops a Pop Tart in the toaster. Then he sits down, his bad leg properly stretched with the foot propped on another chair, and smiles back at Bubbles. “Many things,” he says with a teasing smile.

Bubbles raises his eyebrows, amused. “Oh? Please, do tell. It was getting boring around here without any gossip from you guys,” he says, grabbing a bowl of cereals and sitting down in front of John who chuckles, endeared. “Not everyone can be as good as married to their best friend, Bubbles! But to be fair, I didn’t learn that much actually. Just that he likes space, and theatre. And listen to this: he’s a math teacher. In a high school! Can you believe it?”

Bubbles laughs at that. “A math teacher? Really, Bucky? Stooping so low?”

“Hey, did you take a look at the guy? I’d learn algebra with a teacher like him,” John only half jokes. 

“Is that why you’re up so early for your standards? You gonna learn algebra?” Bubble asks, and he actually sounds a little worried even if he tries to hide it behind his good manners and a kind smile. John shakes his head, retrieving his breakfast from the toaster. “Nah, I wasn’t doing it in high school, I’m not gonna do it. I don’t know, I guess I just crashed down last night because of all the stress and so I’ve run out of sleep. I have to say though, it doesn’t feel any good waking up so early. I feel stretched in all the wrong directions.”

“Yeah, don’t tell me,” Bubbles agrees yawning in his cup. Before he can add anything Johnny joins them in the kitchen, looking surprised to see them. 

“What are you doing here at this hour?”

John raises his hands in defeat, looking affronted. “There’s no need to be so rude about it, Johnny Boy!” He exclaims, but the other guy shakes his head. “I’m not talking to you, I can imagine why you’re already up,” he says.

“Yeah? Try me!”

“You spent the night thinking about Buck and now you’re here telling everything about it to the first person you’ve met in your wake, and then you’re gonna go back to bed to dream about him,” Johnny shoots him on the spot. A murder fair and square, in John’s opinion, and he can’t let Johnny Boy treat him like that — not this early in the day, at least. So he leans back on his chair, chewing obnoxiously on his breakfast snack, and says "You are wrong, Johnny Boy.”

“Really? So it has nothing to do with Buck and the way you two were cozying up last night when we arrived?”

“That’s not what I said, and we weren’t cozying up.”

“No? You, sitting all nice and quiet next to him as he was writing stuff down is not cozying up? When do you ever sit all nice and quiet next to anyone, Bucky?”

“He’s got a point,” Bubbles interjects. “You two seemed really close.”

That warms John’s heart, and he’s dying to know more about how he and Buck look to an outside eye — are they a good couple? Does Buck glance at him when he’s not looking? Does he smile his soft smile when he listens to John? 

“I was familiarizing,” he says instead. “And he was working, so I didn’t want to disturb him.”

“That’s even less believable, Bucky. So, does your earliness this morning have anything to do with that, yes or no?” Johnny insists. A dog with a bone, truly John’s puppy.

“I dreamed of him, but it didn’t affect my sleep. It was a good dream.”

“I bet it was,” Bubble quips sipping on his coffee.

“It was the adrenaline dropping down after a hell of a week,” John retorts. “If our director had taken less time to decide what show to make, then I’d have been less stressed and my fucked up sleep schedule would’ve remained stable. Now I have no idea when I’m gonna fall asleep next: could be tonight, could be tomorrow, who knows! There are no certainties in this grim life of mine.”

“Oh, woe is you,” Johnny shuts him up and then turns his attention back to Bubbles. “And what about you? You don’t have to work this morning, do you?”

“Unfortunately I do. I wasn’t planning on to but Harry kept me up all night and-”

“Whoa! Too much information!” John shrieks and Bubbles blushes crimson, glaring at him as Johnny hides a smile behind his hand. 

“As I was saying, Harry kept me up all night talking about the play and now I have a few errands to run in town. He needs a new annotated edition and sketchbooks for the scenery and stage directions and stuff, and he wants me to call Helen Green and ask her if she can be our Miranda. And I hope she says yes because I don’t even wanna think about the alternative,” Bubbles concludes through gritted teeth. 

John nods, sympathetic. “We can split chores if you want: I can go get the book and you can call Helen, and go back to sleep when you’re done. We need our directors to be rested and ready, after all.”

“And mostly we need you to keep him focused on deciding our roles,” Johnny interjects. He’s aiming to Ferdinand, John knows it even if they haven’t discussed it yet; it’s his kind of role, present but not prevalent, a good looking guy with substance and who gets the girl in the end. It’s probably what he’s gonna get, Crosby knows his actors and their strengths.

John’s wish is so unattainable he doesn’t even dare thinking about it.

Bubbles relaxes on the chair, his eyes a little livelier. “You would do that? Are you sure?”

“Yeah, of course! I saw a nice bookshop in the neighborhood and I had already planned to go there soon. And anyways, what else could I do now that I’m up at this ungodly hour?” John says, leaning on the dramatics as usual.

“You could find a job,” Johnny quips and then he squeezes his eyes, just for a moment, like he always does when he fears he’s pushed too far. It’s one of the few things no one’s ever been able to help him out of, not even John’s mum with all the love and tenderness she put in taking care of her little foster kid.

But John only lightens up at his words, and grabs his shoulder to jostle him a little. “You’re right! There’s that repair shop I saw the ad for at the gym, I’m gonna call as soon as they open and ask if they still need help. In the meantime, I’m gonna go grab that book for you Bubbles. I hope you’ll remember my kindness during the casting process,” he adds with a suggestive wiggle of his eyebrows that makes the other two laugh.

“I’ll be sure to tell Harry about it during our next all nighter,” Bubbles says, offering him the joke on a silver platter. 

“Please, don’t talk about me during that,” he says and Bubbles mumbles, “Oh, shut the fuck up.”

When he’s finished being a menace to his friends, John ruffles Johnny’s hair for good measure and walks out. It’s a crispy fall morning, ripe as an apple with the smell of damp wood and earth in the air; John breathes in deeply, satisfied and more focused now that he has tasks and the fog of sleep has relinquished his brain. It’s actually good, maybe, to wake up at a normal time, to live through the day like any other person does — more direct sunlight, more company, less crippling self-doubt in the middle of the night. He should probably try to get his act together, he’s not a young sapling anymore.

Tempted by the inviting pastries in the window and by smell of roasted coffee that floats through the air, he decides to treat himself to a second breakfast at the same coffee shop he’s discovered the day before. As he munches on his red velvet muffin, still warm from the oven, he wishes not for the first time he had Buck’s number; he looks like a morning person, John would like to invite him to have breakfast together on a day he has no class at first period. He’d wake up however early to spend some time in his company.

West Anglia, right next door, is already operative. John licks the last few crumbs of muffin from his fingers, he doesn’t want to leave sticky prints all over the place, and pushes the door open. A small silver bell over the threshold jingles softly and the guy at the counter looks up from what appears to be a thick manual about something; he has a funny mustache that John would never admit looks better than his own, and even if he’s clearly surprised to see someone here this soon he gives John a friendly smile. “Hello! Welcome to West Anglia, can I help you in any way?”

John smiles back. “Hi! Yeah actually, I need a copy of Shakespeare’s The Tempest. An annotated edition, if possible. Do you have any?”

The guy furrows his brow. “Hm, I have the book but I’m not sure if it’s annotated. Do you need it for school, is it in your list of required readings?”

“No, I need it for work,” John answers, a bit proud that he can still pass for a student. “I actually have the name of a preferred edition, it’s this one,” he adds, showing the guy the note Bubbles gave him. The clerk nods and types something on the big computer that occupies half the counter, and John looks around as he waits; there’s a theatre section on the far left of the place, right next to a math one. For a split second he’s tempted to walk there and check if there’s any introductory book on calculus but the guy speaks, interrupting his thoughts. “Yeah no, we don’t have it here. But I can order it for you if you want? It usually takes a week for the order to get here, or at your home if you prefer it. You can pay in advance in that case, or on delivery if you order it here.”

“I’ll have it sent here, thank you! I also need sketchbooks, do you have any?”

Happy to be useful and for not letting a customer down, the guy frets to show John a wide assortment of sketchbooks of any size and kind and even gives him a first purchase discount that John appreciates more than anything. As he walks out, waving goodbye to his new friend, he gives one last glance to the math section of the bookshop; he’ll have to take a better look, next time. For personal enrichment, of course — no other reason.

—

Jack, the guy who owns the repair shop, looks annoyed by the very fact that he woke up alive this morning. It’s that particular brand of brooding that reminds John of Johnny Boy, and makes him want to bother the guy as much as possible just to steal a smile from him. He doesn’t do it, of course, because Jack with his brooding look and an oil stain on his high forehead might become his boss so he needs to be on his best behavior.

“So you’ve worked as a mechanic before?” Jack asks him, sounding annoyed and unconvinced. “Was it a at a real repair shop or just in your garage?”

John bites his tongue and keeps smiling. “I helped at a repair shop back home when I was in high school, during the summer. And I’ve been doing my own repairing on my bike ever since, and on my friends’ cars if they need it. Nothing’s ever exploded yet.”

Jack still looks unimpressed. “And you said you can’t work full time?”

“Unfortunately no, I can’t. I have another job that takes up a lot of my days, and for which I have to study a lot so I wouldn’t be able to work full time,” John says. He already knows where this is going. A voice in his head, one that sounds unpleasantly like his father’s, is telling him to accept whatever Jack is going to offer him and work around his line-learning hours; but of course he can’t, he needs a job to help sustain his acting, not to find an alternative career path.

Not willing to let go just yet, he says, “Look, I know I’m not the ideal candidate but I really need a job.”

“Thought you already had one, isn’t that the reason why you can’t work here when I need you?” Jack retorts.

“Yeah but it’s not a normal job. Nothing strange, I’m just an actor. I do theatre, I’m in a company and we’re working on a play and I really need to study my lines and everything, and-”

“Wait. D’you know Chuck?” Jack interrupts him, sort of lively for the first time since they started talking. John balks, wondering who the hell Chuck might be and if he can pretend to know him well enough to convince Jack to give him the job — and he surely would, he’s a fucking actor — but before he can say anything Jack adds, “Chuck Cruikshank?”

“Oh, Crank! Of course I know him, we’re in the same company,” John answers, his confident smile back on his face now that he knows who they’re talking about. “How do you know him?”

“Our parents worked for the same company and always brought us both with them to conferences and company dinners across states. I know he’s an actor now, I saw your last show a few years back,” Jack answers, then looks at John as if he’s seeing him just now. “I remember you now. You were good,” he adds with the same, unaffected tone but for John any compliment is a win. 

He watches as a veil of resignation falls over Jack’s features. “Does Chuck need a job too?”

“I think so, yeah!”

Jack sighs. “Ask him if he needs one and I’ll take you both. Tell him it’s a personal favor, and that I expect free tickets for whatever you’re going to do.”

John almost whoops out loud. “I’ll tell him to call you! Thank you Jack, you’ll se you won’t regret this,” he tells the other guy, shaking his hand maybe a bit too roughly; Jack looks like he’s already regretting it, but John is out of his way before he can go back on his word. 

By the time the evening comes he has a part time job secured, a grateful director and assistant director, and he feels like he could get through another full night of sleep. His overall satisfaction must be written all over his face because when he gets to the Abbotts and stops by the desk in the lobby to say hello to Buck, the other guy looks at him curiously. “D’you have a good day?” He asks, like he’s trying to convey that this is just regular small talk, he’s not actually interested — but there’s that usual glint in his eyes that has John hooked and that tells him Buck is, indeed, interested in him and how his day went.

“Even better now that I’m here with you,” he shoots back flirting unabashedly, with his best smile on his face and a wink, rejoicing in the way the blond guy blushes lightly at his words before rolling his eyes in pretend annoyance. 

“Don’t you have work to do?” Buck asks him nodding his head in the direction of the auditorium.

“I’d much rather stay here talking to you, Buck,” John answers, relentless. He’s still on such a high from the good day he’s had he’s sure he can convince Buck to flirt back in earnest for once — and it almost happens, John sees it in the way his lips curl upward in what could be a teasing smile. But it stops there, on Buck’s lips that look so soft and plump it’s a pity no one’s kissing them. He nods one more time. “Come on, don’t let Harry wait,” he tells John and he smirks once more before disappearing behind the curtain.

“Oh, there he is! Have you finished flirting with out poor usher?” Curt tells him.

John grins — there’s no point in denying it anymore. “Don’t count on it.”

—

He spends the rest of the night awake in his bed, the sleeping spell already failing him.
It’s frustrating, but he knew it wasn’t gonna be that easy.

Shrouded in darkness, he thinks about Buck.

—

A few nights later it’s John’s first time at the Abbotts as a spectator, not as an actor of the residing company. They’re doing Agamemnon and the actress who plays Clytemnestra is actually one of John’s all-time favorites, so of course he couldn’t let such an opportunity pass him by. He was actually surprised, pleasantly, by the selection of shows in the Abbotts’ season: for such a small theatre there many important companies and actors that stop by, Alex Jefferson being one of them, and apart from a few weird instances like a puppetry festival the array of proposals the theatre offers to its public is varied and of excellent taste. Maybe John has been too quick to judge the Colonel as someone who’s only after the money. 

The show is as good as John expected, long but not boring, it keeps him on the edge of his seat until the very end and he’s almost moved to tears once or twice during Clytemnestra’s vengeful rampage. 

No one else from the Hundredth came with him tonight, everyone busy with something else or just wanting a night off from the theatre, but John’s filled with the usual adrenaline he feels whenever he’s coming out of a show he really loved and he needs to eviscerate it with someone who can understand him. Sure enough, he spots Buck in the lobby the second he steps out of the auditorium, the evening breeze coming from the glass doors left open a well needed respite from the stuffy hot air inside the theatre. “Fancy seeing you here, Buck!” He calls, and Buck stops in his tracks to turn to him, sighing. “I work here, John. What are you doing here? You haven’t booked the Abbotts, right?”

John is tempted to tell him he came here just to see him, but there are still too many people around and he doesn’t want to put Buck too much on the spot. “Nah. I was here for the show, actually. Amazing, don’t you think?”

At his words, Buck’s eyes light up and John’s sure he’s hit jackpot this time. “It was wonderful!” Buck exclaims with uncharacteristic enthusiasm, and blushing immediately after. John’s heart flutters involuntarily at his reaction; has he truly found someone who loves theatre like he does? 

In all his life, John has never found someone he liked who shared this passion with him; Paulina was supportive and she always came to his shows but she didn’t actually like plays and stuff, she only did it because she loved him — same as how he would do his best to learn Polish to tell her he loved her in her own language, and went seeing black and white, independent movies with her, because he loved her. And of course his friends love theatre, they wouldn’t be doing that job if they didn’t, but someone like Buck? A cute guy he met by chance, who doesn’t seem to be bothered by how John keeps flirting with him, and who loves theatre? It seems too good to be true.

“Help me change the poster?” Buck asks, ripping John from his thoughts which is good, since he was definitely staring at him with who knows what dumb expression on his face.

“Of course! Put me to work, Buck,” he answers with as much charm as he can muster.

As Buck stands on top of the ladder, stretching to push the new thumbtacks in the cork board underneath, John checks him out even more unabashedly than he did last time; he’s wearing those skinny jeans again, the round curve of his ass highlighted by the fabric in such a way John can’t help but think about putting his teeth to it, and his mouth almost waters at the mere thought. Buck’s t-shirt is rising with the movement, displaying once again the tanned skin of his lower back, and John’s hands itch with the desire to hold his narrow waist. He can picture it so well, his broad palms spread on the black cloth or even better on Buck’s skin, fingertips dancing along the ladder of his ribs, pressing into the flesh until it bruises prettily underneath them, lowering his head to kiss the marked skin as an apology-

“Well, well. How did you rope John into this, Gale?”

Marge’s voice, full of mischief, arrives so suddenly it almost makes him jump and topple the ladder. “Oh, he didn’t need to: I like to help out!” John answers, and it sounds lame even to his own ears.

“I’m sure you do,” Marge says, red lips curled into a devilish smile. “It’s nice, isn’t it? One could stare at it all day long,” she adds. John couldn’t agree more, his eyes already back to the spectacle going on up the ladder. 

“Oh yeah, definitely- wait, what are you talking about?” He catches himself, because clearly Marge can’t be talking about Buck’s ass — unless he has misunderstood something, or maybe everything.

“The poster, of course. What are you talking about?” She shoots back and John doesn’t need to turn to her again to know that she has Gotcha written all over her face. She’s a mean one like his sister Ellie, and John likes and respects her a bit more for that.

“The poster, right. Yeah, it’s nice,” he agrees, knowing very well that he has no idea what the poster looks like or even what show it’s promoting. Luckily, Buck seems to have decided John’s suffered enough and climbs back down, one hand resting for balance on John’s shoulder for a much too brief moment that leaves him aching for more. He pictures the same hand on his shoulder, on his arm, as Buck laughs at one of his jokes, glittering eyes and cheeks flushed. Maybe as they’re sitting in one of the booths at the bar, some alcohol in their systems to loosen up a bit, exchanging stories, getting to know each other better — that’s what he craves most of all, to know him, to learn him by heart like a script, a play.

“Hey, I was wondering, do you guys want to go and grab something to drink?”

He’s speaking before he can really think about it, words tumbling out of his mouth by instinct more than anything else. “If it’s not too late for you, of course,” he adds as he realizes that it is late, the show was long and the ushers have likely been here all night, probably wishing to go home as soon as possible.

“I’m in,” Buck says, and John’s heart misses a beat.

“Sorry guys, I have an early start tomorrow and I need my beauty sleep,” Marge says and John is thankful for it because in his mind the invitation wasn’t addressed to her at all and it would’ve been very awkward otherwise. “Ken’s already punched out, I’ve closed all the emergency exits but Marcia’s still closing the bar. Do you mind waiting for her? I really have to go,” she adds, looking at Gale with hopeful eyes.

“Go, don’t worry. I still have to put back the ladder and collect my stuff, we can wait for Marcia,” Buck tells her and in response she plants a kiss on his cheek, leaving behind a teasing print of red lipstick. John’s heart plummets to his stomach because that didn’t look like a coworker’s kiss, at all; it was too familiar, too personal. It was a kiss from someone who knows Buck personally, intimately even. A kiss from a girl to her shy boyfriend who maybe didn’t like to be kissed on the mouth in front of what’s actually a stranger.

Ah, I’m a fucking idiot John thinks, pissed at himself but also at the other two because why didn’t they tell him? Why did they let him make a fool of himself flirting with Buck like that? Why did Marge look like she was enjoying it? He thought her mean in a teasing kind of way, not actually.

“Well, I better put this back. Wait for me in the foyer?” Buck asks him, naturally as if nothing happened, the red mark still on his jaw mocking John. He nods, eyes never leaving the stain, and says, “You have, erm, something there.”

Buck rubs at the stain, smudging it all over his skin, and looks annoyed when he sees the mess on his fingers. “Every time. Every time Marge rewatches Grease, she puts on that damn vintage lipstick and leaves marks on my face. Every time!” He says, annoyed, turning his back on John and his broken heart; it’s something that happens often, then. It wasn’t just a casual kiss but something customary between them, Marge leaving marks on him as if to show exactly who he belongs to.

Dazed and hurt, he wanders into the foyer where Marcia is cleaning the bar’s counter. She waves at him with a tired smile. “Hi John, how are you? Did you enjoy the show?”

“It was very good, did you see it?”

“Unfortunately no, I’m stuck here all the time.”

“Well next time give me a call and I’ll take your place for the night! Don’t worry, I’ll leave you all the tips,” he tells her with a wink and a smile. She laughs quietly at that, rolling her eyes, but John can see that she’s pleased with his innocent flirting and that’s exactly what he needs.

“Come on, I’ll help you tidy up,” he says and gestures for her to pass him a towel to dry the glasses or something like that.

“Thank you, but I’ve already done everything. I just need to close this,” she answers pointing at the metal shutter that covers the bar.

“I’ll pull it down for you,” John valiantly volunteers and makes a silly show of his strength, bending his arms to display his biceps and everything. “Helping a damsel in distress was just what I needed to end my day on the best note possible, thank you Marcia,” he jokes.

She laughs. “Well, stop by more often when you guys aren’t here rehearsing and you’ll be able to do it whenever you want,” she says. 

“I’m at you service, Milady,” John shoots back, pulling down the shutter and stopping it with the padlock. He senses Buck before he actually sees him, and that something vicious inside him that barks and snaps its fangs like a trapped dog gets the better of him; that’ll show Buck that he doesn’t need him, that he can flirt with whoever he wants and it doesn’t have to mean anything.

“I mean it, whatever you need you just call me and I’ll come,” he tells Marcia pulling off his most charming smile, tone just a little bit louder than what would be natural to be sure Buck hears loud and clear, and then picks up her bag and hands it to her. He’s tempted to kiss her hand, for good measure, but Buck speaks before he can make up his mind about it.

“You ready?” He asks, expression as neutral as he can muster but John sees something akin to hurt in his blue eyes.

“Yeah. Are you still up for drinks?” John asks back, the fear that Buck will say no now that he’s seen him flirt with someone else suddenly gripping with ice-cold fingers at his throat. Why does he still need his approval, when it’s clear that Buck was only messing with him, it’s not completely clear to John — but he does, and so when Buck nods and says “Sure. Come on, we’re going out from the stage door,” he feels just a little bit lighter.

—

At the bar John walks straight to the counter, orders a beer and a shot of whiskey for himself. “What are you having?” He asks Buck, the betrayal he still feels unfairly dimming the enthusiasm of being outside the Abbotts with Buck, all the fantasies of sitting shoulder to shoulder with him in one of the booths gone by now.

Buck scans the list on the blackboard above the counter, unsure like he doesn’t usually drink. “I’ll take a Pumpkin Martini,” he says at last and John has to do a double take reading the ingredients because that’s a girly drink if he ever saw one, decisively too sweet for his own taste and deadly strong at the same time — maybe Buck likes to drink, after all. 

He orders, and takes the wallet out of his jacket.

“No, wait,” Buck tries but John shushes him — he shouldn’t be going around offering people drinks, not even now that he’s found a job, but he invited Buck here and he’s going to pay, period. It’s the first and last time they’re gonna hang out together, he wants to do things right.

“I’ve invited you, Buck. We’ll get even next time,” he says, and it feels like he’s mocking himself with such promises. He downs the whiskey in one go, missing the flash of alarm that crosses Buck’s gaze, and then they go sit in one of the corner booths. They sit facing each other, not close together as John liked to imagine, with just their feet touching under the table and in complete silence. 

John nurses his beer, trying to find the right words to ask Buck about Marge without sounding bitter or heartbroken — he wants to maintain some dignity — but he can’t make himself look at him. He’s fidgeting, tapping his fingertips against the table to the rhythm of Blue Skies, his mom’s favorite song that’s always playing somewhere at the back of his mind; one glance at Buck and he sees that his eyes are glassy, probably because he’s drinking his Pumpkin Martini way too quickly. Maybe it’s not his drink of choice, maybe it’s actually Marge’s.

The thought turns the beer sour on John’s tongue and loosens it up enough that he finally says, “So, you and-” just as Buck blurts out, “So, the play-”

They stare at each other for a few seconds then Joh starts laughing, won by Buck’s wide eyes and by the panicked look on his face — he’s so cute right now John has to forcibly stop himself from reaching out and squeezing his cheeks, no matter how pissed at him he is right now.

Buck laughs too, his laughter softer and keenest than John’s, and he thinks he’d like to freeze this moment in time and put it into his pocket, to reopen it and listen back to Buck’s laughter in times of need, like a music card. Anyone who gets to hear him like this all the time is the luckiest motherfucker on Earth, he thinks. “Go on, Buck. You first,” he says once they’ve both stopped laughing but their eyes are still crinkled and their cheeks flushed and hurting.

“So, the play. What did you like most about it?”

And just like he’d planned, John tells him about the show, about the actress who played Clytemnestra and when he saw her once before playing Lady Macbeth in the best production of the Shakespearean tragedy John’s ever seen. “Y’know, it’s stuff like this that makes me want to be an actor. The idea of someone, at some point, watching me on stage and feeling like I did watching her… powerful stuff,” he concludes, following his words with more sips of his beer.

“Such stuff as dreams are made on,” Buck says, nodding seriously. A line from The Tempest, one John’s gonna speak if his dream role comes true — he clinks his beer against Buck’s glass in a toast, for good luck, and for a splitting second he thinks he wouldn’t even need his lucky deuce to perform a great show if Buck was by his side.

“I loved the costumes,” Buck says, oblivious of John’s thoughts. “They felt, I don’t know who else to say it, alive. The way the fabric would follow their movements… it was like watching a dream.”

John nods. “Yes! It was like they were enchanted or something! Fuck, I’d kill for some serious costumes but Cros says it’s not in our budget, so we’ll have to rely on old stuff we find at thrift shops and flea markets,” he says. His suit from Witness for the Prosecution, made with what was probably the itchiest fabric known to man, still haunts him in his nightmares.

“Well, you could ask Marge. She is a costume designer, and I’m sure she’d offer you a fair price.”

Marge. Maaaarge. He wishes he had something to put his teeth to, a toothpick or a cracker to snap in half with all the irritation he’s feeling. “I didn’t know that”, he says with a frozen smile. “I’ll tell Cros, maybe it’ll convince him and we won’t have to perform wearing somebody’s grandpa’s clothes, this time.” 

Then he works up the courage and asks, “So, how long have you two, ah, known each other?”

“Since we were kids.”

Great. Childhood sweethearts versus the guy he’s just met at the place where he works; if John still thought he stood a chance before, he surely does not now.

“We went to high school together, then we went in different colleges but kept contact and now, well, we’re working together. She’s always been my best friend,” Buck continues, his voice sweet and fond. It’s a weird way to speak of his own girlfriend, John thinks, but it probably makes sense for their dynamic — childhood friends turned boyfriend and girlfriend in high school because it felt natural being with someone they’ve known for so long, they’re still friends first and foremost.

“I see. It must be nice, having someone like that in your life,” John comments and for the life of him he can’t be really pissed. He’s happy Buck has someone in his life who loves him and that he loves back — it’s rare and beautiful, and John misses it more than he cares to admit even to himself.

“It is. She’s the one who-”

Buck cuts himself off like he’s afraid of what he was about to say — and if it’s something intimate, something John will have to bleach out of his brain, then it’s better this way. He’s about to change the topic but Buck surprises him once again. “She’s the one who got me into acting in the first place.”

That’s new.

He had no idea Buck acted as well as working at the Abbotts. It makes the joke the Universe’s playing on him even worse, Buck more and more perfect for him and unfairly straight.
But something on Buck’s face forces him to stop the downward spiral of his thoughts; he looks like he’s just admitted to something out loud that he’d never said to anyone before, a secret. And if it’s true, if someone clearly so private as Buck has decided to trust with his secret John of all people, then the best John can do is listen. So he stays quiet, looking at Buck as to tell him go on, I’m here — Buck looks grateful for that.

“We were in high school and she thought I needed some extracurricular activity other than the Mathletes, because I needed to hang out with “normal people”, as she put it. So she signer up both of us for the drama club,” Buck commences. Internally, John smiles at that: a nerd like Buck being part of the Mathletes is not really that surprising, he just wishes he’d seen him back then showcasing his brilliant mind in a suit probably too big for him — he can picture him in front of his eyes, clear as day, cheeks a bit chubbier and hair a bit longer but still a handsome guy and with a brain to match. The idea that Marge believed the drama club people to be normal is weird though, and extremely funny seeing where she ended up working.

“They were doing Grease, and as I already told you she loves that movie. I didn’t want to do it, at first, but a single lesson changed everything. It turned my life upside down. We had a whole theatre in the school and we would rehearse there every week, on stage. It was like the Abbotts, just smaller. I’d never felt like that before. I wasn’t even the lead or anything, I was just a random T-Bird because I’d joined the group late, but it was magical. I felt like that was what I was born to do,” Buck keeps going and oh, doesn’t John know it. Doesn’t he know that exact feeling.

He still remembers his first time onstage, his bad knee still in a brace because it’d been less than a year from his accident, limping in pain and antsy because he was fucking bored and fucking pissed — at himself, at his LCA, at his dad who didn’t seem to love him anymore now that his baseball career got flushed down the drain. He had accepted his English teacher’s suggestion to try out the drama club just because he couldn’t stand to spend one more day going from class to PT and then back home again but he didn’t want to be there either, he thought it was stupid. Dressing up and playing pretend? It’s something kids do, not teenagers who had their whole life planned in front of them and ruined everything with a bad move.

They didn’t even had a real auditorium in his high school, they were usually just sitting in circle in an empty classroom but one day their tutor brought them to the local theatre to show them how it worked, where they were going to perform, and that’s when John got it. When he stood up on the wooden floor of the stage with his script in hand saying his lines from A Christmas Carol, that’s when his whole world tilted on its axis and everything made sense again. A music he didn’t realize had stopped playing filled the silence once more, colors were brighter, smells got sharper. He breathed in and felt calm for maybe the very first time in his life and he knew: that was his. His passion, his lifework, his everything. He’d kneeled at the altar of the great poets and writers and granted them his life.

He wants to ask Buck if that’s how he felt too. If his world started spinning right again, if he was at peace, if he still remembers the adrenaline of going onstage for the very first time, if he got to keep doing the thing they both loved, and if he didn’t, why not — because if there is a way to make the separation hurt less then John wants to know it, because if The Tempes doesn’t work maybe he’ll have to do just so and the mere thought scares him shitless. He says nothing, though, because it’s Buck’s turn on the scene and he doesn’t want to ruin it.

“We signed up against the next year,” Buck continues after another sip of his Pumpkin Martini. “Marge joined the costume department, because acting wasn’t for her, but I wanted a shot to a better part. We were doing Hamlet, and I got to play Horatio.”

John’s heart skips a beat again: Hamlet, the first of Shakespeare’s works he ever read, his favorite, the one he got a tattoo for as soon as he turned eighteen, a human skull on his ribs. He’s in awe of in how many different ways he and Buck are connected, their paths weaved together so curiously right in the pattern of theatre.

“The guy that played Hamlet was great for a high school kid, we all adored him. Acting with him was so easy, he had a gift for making everyone else feel comfortable when we were on stage with him. So comfortable that sometimes I forgot that we were just acting, that we didn’t have that kind of relationship in real life. On opening night, it was like I was dreaming. The play lasted almost two hours but for me it was done in the blink of an eye. I couldn’t wait to go at it again the next night. But then, after the show, when we were getting ready to go out for dinner all together, my father came to the stage door. He waited for me there and when I got out he grabbed me and brought me home, by force. He told me I couldn’t do that shit anymore, that he wouldn’t stand for it. He’d seen the show but for him it hadn’t been magical, it’d been disgusting. He told me that acting, with all the costumes and the makeup, and all those talks of feeling, would make me gay. He forbid me to go back to the theatre, I couldn’t even do the next three performances we’d already planned. They had to find another Horatio, and they probably hated me because I never gave them an explanation, I just quit. Marge was the only one I told the truth, and I did it many months afterwards. I haven’t set foot on stage ever since.”

Rage burns sour in the pit of John’s stomach: he thought his father was bad, not supporting his dream now that he’s an adult, but at least he never even tried to stop him from doing it in high school, never told him what he loved was disgusting. He can’t even imagine the fear and pain he would’ve felt if his father had ripped him from the stage, from what he considered a safe place and he gets even more angry at the idea of Buck having to deal with that. With the rejection, with the loneliness of not telling anyone until it all was over, with the shame of abandoning a crew.

There’s that shame still etched on Buck’s face as he looks up at John, like he’s afraid of his reaction, but his clear eyes light up with a surprise that’s almost painful to watch. I would never hurt you, Buck, John thinks and it should be shocking how easy it is to feel this way. “May I say your father is an asshole?” He says instead, through gritted teeth.

There’s a pale smile on Buck’s face as he nods and answers, “You can say that loud and clear. But the joke’s on him: I was already gay.”

If John was a worse actor than he is he’d probably shout WHAT in the stuffy air of the bar, banging his fist on the table, eyes wide and mouth gaping; but he’s a very good actor, or maybe the whiplash is so great that he’s struck by it where he sits, nailed to his chair as his brain rewinds all it was sure to know.

If Buck is gay then he and Marge are not together. They’re childhood best friends who remained just that, childhood best friends.

If Buck is gay the maybe he knows John has been flirting with him for the past few weeks. And if he knows and didn’t do anything to discourage him, then maybe John has an actual chance with him — a chance with this wonderful guy who seems to have been made just for him. 

“I just didn’t tell him because I knew he would kick me out of the house. I waited until I was about to leave for college to tell him, and I haven’t seen him or talked to him ever since. I’m just sorry because I lost something I really cared about, because of him,” Buck concludes, and stays silent this time.

All of a sudden, something else becomes clear in John’s mind. Why Buck always looks so forlorn and nostalgic when he babysits them at the Abbotts, why he spends his days there, why he speaks of his job with so much love. A smile creeps on John’s face and he says, “Buck. That’s why you work at the Abbotts.”

Buck nods, eyes suddenly wet. “It feels like home,” he croaks out and he looks so distraught that John’s first instinct is to grab him and hold him against his chest, whispering soothing words in his ear and assuring him that he can cry if he wants, that he understands; since he can’t do any of that, he just puts a hand on his shoulder and holds his breath when Buck rests his warm face on it. He ventures to stroke the soft apple of his cheek for a few second, feeling the skin smooth and silky against his thumb, before Buck regains his posture and stands up straight once again.

“You know, you could start again. I’m sure there are like, classes for beginners or amateur courses, and you must have been somewhat good if you got to play Horatio, so…” John says, encouraging and a little selfish because now that he knows Buck used to act he’s dying to watch him do that. He wants to know if he’d feel that oh, he’s real good thrill he felt with the other guys from the Hundredth, the one that makes his skin tingle and urges him to do even better, to match them, to build something together. But Buck is awfully quick in shaking his head. “No. That part of my life is over, it does nothing to dwell on it. And besides, I don’t think I’d have enough money to pay for an acting course, no matter how for beginner it is.”

John almost blurts out I could help you with that — which would be a fucking lie, above all — but Buck must read the insistence on his face because he adds, “Don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I don’t like acting. It’s just not my dream anymore.”

John can’t even begin to fathom what that would be like, but he doesn’t insist; he’s finally getting to know Buck better and he has the feeling that insisting on this would only make the other guy retreat back in his shell. So he just asks, curious and interested, “And what is it, then?”

“To live a peaceful life. Get enough money to buy my own place, hang out with my friends, maybe even get a dog, or a cat. Keep on working at the Abbotts to watch the shows for free. Watch the stars, once in a while. And maybe find someone to share my peaceful life with,” Buck answers and it’s exactly what John wants too. He wants his acting career to get him to a point where he’ll be able to afford everything Buck just said, and someone to share it with — and he can’t help but feel hopeful and intrigued at how Buck sounded on the last sentence, what it could mean that he’s talking about it to him of all people.

He almost says something teasing back but then he watches live as Buck’s mind catches up with his body and he finally realizes how drunk he’s gotten: his eyes unfocus, pupils wide and black, brows furrowed in displeasure, a heavier set to his limbs. He blinks a few time, grimacing, before saying quietly, “I think I need some water.”

John is out of his seat and back before Buck can even try to move a muscle, shooting a quick “Thank you” to the bartender who already had the glass of water ready for him. 

“Don’t drink too fat, it’ll get you sick,” he warns Buck. Then, as the other slowly sips his warm water, he can’t help but add, “Was it so strong, your drink?”

He’s half worried-half amused by Buck’s low tolerance to alcohol — and by the fact that despite that he chose a girly drink for the night. “I don’t know, usually I don’t drink,” Buck mumbles back, confirming all of John’s suspicions. He almost feels bad that Buck had felt the need to drink tonight, to prove himself or something.

“Y’need me to carry you home?” John asks, trying not to sound too hopeful; it wouldn’t be his first rodeo on Our Baby with a drunken passenger and now that the picture has bloomed in his head he really wants to feel Buck’s weight against his back, his breath on his neck, his arms tight around his waist.

“Don’t think so. Let’s wait a few more minutes, though,” Buck says instead, crushing John’s hopes; but he has a goal now, to get Buck on Our Baby and have him feel the thrill of the ride.

He goes back to Agamemnon then; talks about the actor who played Aegisthus and did in his opinion quite an awful job at it, and laments that while the scenery for the play was amazing it was quite a pity to have such a beautiful backdrop as the Abbotts’ apse and not using it. 

“Crobsy has some ideas about it, I’ve seen his sketches and they look really interesting. I just wish he would decide our roles before going over everything else; I can feel it, this time he’s gonna give me an important role,” he says, smugger than he actually feels. There are no insignificant roles when it comes to theatre, he knows it’s true, but there’s really only one he’d like to play in The Tempest and he wouldn’t bet so easily on it.

“Who would you like to play?” Buck asks him, honest curiosity seeping in his tone. He already looks better, more lucid, to John’s relief. 

He’s a bit sheepish about it, like saying it out loud might jinx it; but it’s Buck who’s asking so John relents. “If I have to be honest? I would kill to play Prospero, but I doubt Crosby will choose me. I’m too loud, too lively to play such a serious character. He’ll have me play Antonio, or Alonso,” he says. He knows he’s good at fun, at mischief — he even got a special recognition in the papers when he played Puck in A Midsummer Night’s Dream two years ago; but Crosby will choose Curt to play Ariel, that’s for sure. He can’t be Ferdinand, he’s not refined enough for him, and while he thinks he could pull off a mean Caliban he also knows Crank would be better. So all that’s left for him is either Alonso or Antonio, if Crosby doesn’t pull a stunt and casts him as Miranda.

“You’d make a great Prospero,” Buck says and John honest to good feels his cheeks heat up at the sweet, fond sincerity he hears in his voice — and something else, also warm, stirring in his belly.

“How you doin’?” He asks to dissimulate how affected he is by Buck’s comment. “Ready to go home, or you need another water?”

“I’m ready. And plus, I’m sure the cold outside will wake me up for good.”

John is sad to go already, and the biting cold wind that welcomes them once they step out of the bar only worsens it — the drive home is gonna be a nightmare, since he forgot his bloody gloves. He starts walking Buck back to the Abbotts, envying a little the navy blue scarf that’s shielding the lower half of his face from the wind; it also brings out his eyes, to John’s delight, their amazing shade of blue much darker than his own, still a bit lucid from the alcohol and probably the sharp autumn air. He looks so beautiful John is almost happy he’s decided not to act ever again, so he won’t have to share him with hordes of adoring fans. 

“Did you pay for your ticket tonight?” Buck enquires out of the blue.

“No, I waited until Marge was distracted and slipped inside and managed to find a good seat. Of course I’ve paid for my ticket, Buck! Are you sure you’re not still drunk?”

Buck has the audacity to roll his eyes. “I’m just asking because the next time you want to see a show at the Abbotts I can get you a free ticket, or at least a discount one. It’s the Colonel’s employees policy, and you work there so in some way you are an employee. Just text me and I’ll save you a seat.”

And that’s the hook John has been waiting for ever since he first met Buck. He can’t stop a pleased grin from spreading on his face as he tells him, “Would love to, Buck, but I don’t have your number.”

“Right. Give me your phone.”

He watches as Buck puts his own number in the phone and then calls himself, to have John’s number, and then slides John’s phone back in the front pocket of his leather jacket with a poised expression of confidence. When they reach the Abbotts, he waits patiently for Buck to unlock his bike.

“You know, Marcia is married. With kids,” Buck says once he’s standing up straight again, an air of desperation to him that would make John tease him if it wasn’t entirely his fault he’s feeling like that.

“I know,” he says, embarrassment tickling at the back of his neck.

Bucks looks relieved, but perplexed at the same time. “Then why…”

“I tend to do, ah, silly things when I’m upset,” he cuts short and watches Buck’s eyes widen as he realizes what John had been thinking of him and Marge.

“Well, maybe next time try asking before getting upset and upsetting everyone else around you,” he shoots John, teasing him relentlessly. John laughs at that, rubbing the back of his head. “Will do, Buck. Will do. Goodnight, Buck. See you soon.”

Buck gifts him one of his small, soft smiles before pedaling away. “Goodnight, Bucky.”

—

Later in the night John lays awake in his bed, his laptop open and ignored beside him. 

As soon as he got home he announced to whoever was still awake — namely Brady and Ham, playing FIFA in the living room — that he’d finally gotten Buck’s number. They gave him the rightful standing ovation, to which John bowed, and then went up to his bedroom. 

He sent a text to Buck, Remember to drink some more water, and keep a glass next to u for the morning!

Then, for good measure, It’s Bucky btw — pls tell me u didn’t crash your bike.

And now he’s just sitting there, vibrating with unstoppable energy. He wants to text him some more but there would be no use to it since Buck has probably gone to bed the minute he got home; still, he wants him to wake up to something funny and sweet tomorrow morning, not just these advices like John’s a mother hen. He needs not something generic, but something that will tell Buck that John cares, and listens, and understands him.

That’s why he ends up spending the whole night browsing the world wide web in search of the best math puns he can get; so Buck can wake up to Rise and shine, Buck! And now, a math pun for you: what do you call two friends who love math? Algebros.

Chapter Text

Good morning, John. I got home safe, thank you for your concern. Hope you’re doing fine.

Great pun by the way. I laughed :)

There are few better things than this to wake up to, John thinks as he smiles sleepily at his phone: he has Buck number, and he’s made him laugh. The math pun was a winning move, just like he thought; he might start sending him one every morning so that it can become their thing — like changing the poster at the Abbotts together.

“You might be getting a little ahead of yourself,” Johnny points out as they go to the gym, John having just finished bringing him up to date on this latest development. “He just laughed at one of your jokes, one you didn’t even come up with yourself. There’s no need to be rushing into things.”

“I ain’t rushing into anything,” John grumbles. “And it’s not just the joke: he came out for drinks with me, he told me a lot about himself, he let me know he’s gay, and he pointed out that Marcia is married with kids.”

“What does Marcia have to do with all this?”

John can feel himself blushing at the memory of his own stupidity, but swallows it down and says, “He’d been jealous of me flirting with her.”

“You were flirting with Marcia? The barista?” Johnny asks, voice barely tinted with disbelief as if he couldn’t really be surprised anymore by John’s antics. “Please, tell me more about your seduction techniques.”

“I told you, I was jealous because I thought he was dating Marge and didn’t tell me! But now that I know this isn’t the case, I’m gonna bring out the big guns: Buck better get ready, because he’s gonna receive a John Egan signature wooing and you know there’s no way out of that.”

This time, Johnny actually laughs. “I have to admit, it’s nice to see you like this again,” he says.

John glances at him, sideways from where he’s driving the company car. “What do you mean, like this?”

“Interested in someone enough to properly woo them. The past few years you’ve only been, how can I put it gently…”

“Foolin’ around?”

“Jumping from one bed to another, cluelessly and uncaringly. I think most of the times you didn’t even know the name of the person you were sleeping with, and you know it’s not my intention to judge you but I can admit now that I was a little bit worried.”

“Why doesn’t that surprise me?” John asks, tongue maybe a little too harsh. 

“You had us all banned from at least two bars because you’d been screwing multiple members of the staff, sometimes even in the bars themselves.”

“Ok, I was a little bit of a mess. But I had my reasons and you all knew them very well, and now I’m more mature, more adult. Buck is a really interesting guy, I like him and I think he might be interested in me too so it could actually work. And also he’s like, the hottest guy I’ve ever met?”

“Typical of you to fall for the blond one with that kind of sadness in their eyes you only ever see in Eastern European movies,” Johnny comments, his lips barely curled upward in that sharp smile of his.

“Hey now, you can’t talk about those movies without ever having seen one. You wouldn’t be objective, do you really want to know-”

“And that’s my stop!” Johnny interrupts him, so loud and abruptly that John slams his foot on the brake on instinct like there’s something on the road he’s trying to avoid. Johnny jolts forward with the whiplash but John promptly extends an arm to keep him steady against the seat.

“Jesus, Johnny Boy! Are you crazy? What’s the matter with you?” John exhales, some honest worry in his voice.

“Sorry. I didn’t want to listen to your rant about European cinema. And we have arrived, so you had to stop anyway,” the other guy says, unlocking his seatbelt and pointing at the neon sign of the gym on the other side of the street. “You’re not coming, right?” He adds, brow comically furrowed.

“You sound like a kid who doesn’t want to be seen with his mom in front of the school,” John tells him with a sly smile. “What’s the hurry, Johnny Boy? Since when are you so eager to exercise?”

“A healthy body means a healthy mind — not that you know anything about that, of course. So, you’re not coming?”

John sighs. “No, I’m not. I might have overstrained my knee last time, better to lay off the gym for at least a week. And I also have to show my face at the repair shop before Kidd decides he doesn’t need me, he can do well with only Crank.”

“Good. I mean, not about your knee of course. Put some ice on it, and a heat pad. I’ll text you when I’m done. Bye.”

Johnny is out of the car and inside the gym before John can say as much as goodbye; stunned into silence for a few seconds, he then starts laughing, shaking his head in amused disbelief as he drives away.

Once he’s parked the Jeep in front of the repair shop, he fishes the phone out of his jacket and sends a new text to Buck.

I knew u’d love it ;)
I’m fine thx, just dropped Brady at the gym
Wyd?

He waits in the car for a bit, hoping for an answer, but the screen of his phone stays dead silent. Buck is probably teaching, he tries to reason with himself as he drags his tired body to the shop.

Crank is already there, in overalls and everything, chatting with Kidd who’s almost smiling like a real human being. “Bucky! Good morning, princess,” Crank calls as he sees him entering the shop — and if Kidd’s smile falters at that, John decides not to take it too personally. 

“Good morning everyone! What did I miss?” John shoots back with a smile.

“Almost two hours of work in an already messed up schedule,” Kidd points out. “Why don’t you join Chuck there, before you get me a headache?”

John gives him a military salute. “Yessir, at your command!”

By the look on Kidd’s face, the headache has already hit.

—

Buck texts back after a while, and John uses his bathroom break as an excuse to read his message.

Teaching.
Almost lunch break.

John smiles at the screen, worrying his lower lip between his teeth. He likes to imagine Buck teaching, he has the kind of voice John would spend hours listening to and he’s heard him talk plenty about things he’s passionate about, he knows how captivating he sounds. He can picture him clear as day dressed as an academic in corduroy pants, maybe a design that would enhance his narrow waist and those long legs he has, and a light blue blouse that would bring out his beautiful eyes. And glasses, maybe, round ones and a bit thick, that he would pull down to look at him and say something like “It’s professor Cleven to you, John.”

As he chuckles to himself at the idea, a hot feeling radiating from the back of his neck and down his spine, he realizes he can’t be thinking about that at work.

Oh sorry to bother u, professor Cleven ;) he sends him, remembering how he’d blushed the one time John called him that — he won’t be the only one feeling hot and bothered at work, Buck will have to suffer with him.

You’re not. I texted you first.

What’s with this guy and punctuation? The only people John knows who put so much punctuation in their texts are his parents, and even they sometimes don’t put a period at the end of every sentence. If Buck is hoping to seduce him with his correct grammar — well, it could be working.

John doubles his efforts to make him break his demeanor. Ur so smart professor Cleven ;) he texts, and stares for a while at the three dots popping up and disappearing as Buck tries to come up with an answer. He grins at the thought of the other guy using his cellphone in class, probably under the desk like he tells his own students not to, and he straight up bursts up laughing when finally Buck settles on an answer and that's Duty calls. Bye.

Happy algebra professor Cleven ;) John texts back, too smug not to have the last word.

“What was so funny back there?” Crank asks him with an amused glint in his eyes as John walks back on the floor of the repair shop.

“I don't know what you're talking about,” John deflects with a grin. “Just exchanging thoughts with a friend.”

“Oh? You've finally convinced him?” Crank enquires and John is just about to jump right into the conversation with his friend when Kidd clears his voice, loudly, from where he's sitting at his desk on the other side of the room.

“Bathroom breaks should be shorter, Egan,” he tells him with a pointed look. “And no gossiping during business hours, Chuck.”

“Sorry!” The two young actors say in unison, and then start snickering under their breath as Kidd rolls his eyes – he'll end up suffering from migraines, if this continues. 

–

When they go out for lunch, John sends Buck a picture of his cheeseburger – with a side of salad, not because it's healthier as he tells him but simply because it costs less. 

“Is this your new strategy to impress Buck?” Crank asks him between mouthfuls of burger.

“I don't need a salad to impress him,” John says, a tad annoyed. “We're simply exchanging pleasantries like a couple of friends. Look, he sent me his lunch!” He adds, showing him the blurry picture of a plate of Mac and cheese Buck just sent. 

Cranks looks at it attentively, nodding. “Looks good, but yours is certainly better,” he concludes.

“That's just what I'm gonna say,” John grins, tapping away at his screen.

Looks good Buck :)
But I bet my mum's recipe is better! I'll cook it 4 u one day, he writes and almost adds, like a date, but manages to restrain himself in time. He doesn't want to put pressure on Buck and besides, he's not gonna cook him Mac and cheese on their first date; he's gonna take him out for dinner somewhere nice – not too nice since he’s still in the process of solving his money problem – and they're gonna talk about theatre, and stars, and math, and whatever else they love, and then-

“Bucky? You ok?”

Crank's voice rips him harshly from his daydream. John blinks a few times. “Uh?”

“You had that look on your face you always have when you fantasize about your acceptance speech for the Oscar,” Crank says, amused.

“Ah, never the Oscar, Crank!” John exclaims just as another text from Buck arrives, signaled by a ping! “I'm too handsome for the big screen, I'd create too much damage. No, I'll win a Tony one day – and I'll thank you all in the speech, of course. Just theatre for me, nothing else.”

And like he's able to read his mind from miles away, Buck is asking Any news about the casting? Did Harry finally deliberate?

Harry, John scoffs. Not even Bubbles call him that! Buck's formality is endearing only when he uses it with him, still refusing to call him Bucky even if they're friends now; what’s the meaning of it, after all, if he does it with anyone? Not that John’s jealous of Crosby: he’s not the one Buck confided in, last night.

No :( he's a real sonofabitch when he wants
But I've been doin some studying
Dress for the part u want I guess :)

Fingers crossed for Prospero, is Buck's response and John feels his cheeks heating up as he reads it because Buck remembered. Yeah, they talked about it just last night but still – he was pretty out of it, and yet he remembered the part John's wants. He told him he'd make a good Prospero, and something in his tone had made John think he didn't just say it per say, to be kind, but that he actually meant it; and just as well it means something to him that Buck cares enough to remember, to encourage him. It's probably not gonna happen, no matter how much Buck crosses his fingers, but still – it feels good to be supported by someone outside the company. John had almost forgotten what it was like.

There's a million things he'd like to tell him now, prompted by his text, but they're all too much. So he just sends back a Thx Buck, with a daring little blue heart at the end of it – blue like Buck's eyes and he hopes he'll get it, however corny it might be.

As they pay for their lunch John’s phone pings again and he quickly fishes it out of his pocket, hoping it’s another text from Buck. It’s not, it’s from Brady.

Don’t need a ride home, thx

John stares at the screen, perplexed: he was waiting for the younger guy to tell him when to go back and retrieve him from the gym, he certainly did not expected to be so randomly dismissed from his chaperone duties. Also, he has absolutely no idea how Johnny intends to get back to their place if not driven by him: the gym, despite being in the neighborhood, is far enough from the house that John would never consider walking to and from it — and he’s an avid walker, when his knee allows it.

??? wdym???
How r u coming back????

I’ll figure it out dw

R u ok? Blink if u need help

I’m ok I’m gonna walk! Stop sounding like ur mom!

Oh, there’s definitely something else behind Johnny’s reluctance if he pulls out the mom card. And John doesn’t have to rack his brain for too long before a solution, the only plausible one really, comes to him. Snickering at his screen, he sends Johnny a Ok ok no need to be mean and then, for good measure, adds Be careful ;)

By the row of middle fingers emojis Johnny sends back, John knows he’s hit the bullseye on his younger friend’s secret — good for him, he’s always so tense and worried, he needs this kind of distraction.

“I can drive us home,” he tells Crank as they step out of the restaurant; they’re both working part-time for Kidd and he’s given them the afternoon off, which John is extremely grateful for because he feels the lack of sleep tightening its grip around his temples, his eyes burning a little with it. Eating something has helped, as it always does, but he could use a nap and then maybe some more play study with Curt before going to the Abbotts for their scheduled rehearsal.

“You want me to drive?” Crank proposes. “You look a little worn-out, have you been sleeping?”

“The usual,” John says noncommittally throwing him the keys. “You know, with the play and all.”

“It’s gonna work out, Bucky. There’s no need for you to be so stressed out about it.”

“I know,” John sighs and presses the heels of his hands against his eyes until multicolor dots spark behind the closed eyelids, canceling for at least a moment the picture of his latest bank statement. “It’ll get better once we know our roles.”

“Oh come on, it’s basically perfunctory at this stage: we all know what we’re gonna get. Don’t you?”

Another sigh leaves John’s parted lips. “Yeah, I know. Wouldn’t hurt if he just, you know, ripped the bandaid clean off,” he mumbles, distantly aware that he’s acting like a child about to throw a tantrum. Of course he knows what he’s gonna get, he’s already been reading Antonio’s lines — and Prospero’s on the side, because he wouldn’t be John if he didn’t at least try.

“That’s Harry Crosby for you,” Crank comments with a wise smile, and drives them off to Jean’s grandparents’ house. 

“Hey, where’s Brady?” Is how Curt welcomes them as they slip out of the car. He’s on the driveway, all dressed up in his fitness attire and ready for a workout — he won’t pay for a gym membership, he’s always preferred working out by himself and running, sometimes. “Didn’t he leave with you this morning?”

Crank glances at John, perplexed, but he just shrugs. “Yeah but he didn’t need a ride home. He’s probably scouting the city for record shops or other possible children to teach music to, you know how he is,” he says, the lie rolling off his tongue with little to no effort. He doesn’t like lying to Curt, he’s his best friend after all, but Johnny’s always been so closed up regarding his private stuff — hookups, relationships, his own sexuality — it’s a miracle he even drops hints of it to John, who prides himself to be the person Johnny Boy trusts most in the world. When — if — he decides to disclose whatever he’s doing with the good-looking personal trainer, that’s entirely up to Johnny. 

Unconvinced, Curt raises his brow at him but doesn’t push forward. “I’m gonna go for a run, alone wanna join?” He asks instead.

Crank declines, and John shakes his head too. “Nah Curtie I’m crashing, I gotta take a nap. Read some lines together later when we’re done?” He suggests; Curt is gonna play Ariel, for sure, and they’ve already been reading his lines in their free time. He nods at John with a smile and jogs away sending him kisses, and John sends some right back; then he pats Crank on the shoulder, mumbles something about his mattress waiting for him, and once he’s in his bedroom he just throws himself on the bed. 

The curtains fall instantly. 

—

It’s way into the afternoon when John comes back to himself, parched and bleary eyed. A part of him wants to stay in bed, rot there as the corpse he feels like but he forces himself to sit up. Yawning and rubbing his eyes with a fist he checks his phone; nothing from Buck, sadly, just a couple texts from the evil twins, both asking him for suggestions of what to get for their mom’s birthday. 

Don’t say a scarf, we already did that last year! May writes. And her sister, with whom she’s shared their mother’s womb for nine months, reiterates adding Not a scarf, but maybe a coat? I’ll ask dad if she needs one.

Mom deserves a cool coat, he writes them both. Lmk what u decide and I’ll send u money.

Useless, they both text him at the same time. Smirking, he sends them both red hearts and then swipes back until he reaches his chat with Buck. He’s offline now but he was last online a few hours after the last text he sent John, probably chatting with someone else; John has no clue about his schedule at school so he might still be inflicting algebra on those poor kids, for all he knows, but he decides to try his luck anyway — after all, the etiquette wants him to send the next text.

Wyd Buck? Still algebra? He sends, and then he goes for a shower. The warm spray actually helps him feel less dead on his feet, and the smell of his honeycomb shampoo reminds him of home in a way that doesn’t pierce his heart quite like it usually does — it’s probably the texts from the girls, the way they always manage to not make him feel like an outsider to their symbiotic relationship. He used to be so jealous of them, born together with already a soulmate by their side, before his parents started fostering other children; now he knows he’s lucky, because he hasn’t loved all the kids he’s shared his childhood home with like he loves Ellie and May, and Johnny Boy of course. They might not be his soulmates, he’s not even sure if he believes those exist anymore now that he’s grown up, but the bond he shares with all of them is stronger and grander than anything.

He steps out of the shower, shaking his wet curls like a dog and singing Blue Skies under his breath, and checks the phone to see if Buck has texted him back; his heart skips a beat when he sees that he did. 

No. Abbotts.

John towels his hair dry and squints at the phone, confused: what the hell is Buck already doing at the Abbotts? Ok, he’s supposed to be there already when they arrive for the rehearsals but it’s not even six p.m., how early is Harding asking him to get there? He hopes he’s at least paying his ushers enough, given how much money he has invested in the theatre himself.

Already? Wyd there? He asks Buck as he puts on one of his old baseball t-shirts. He’s up for some good old boss slander if that’s what Buck needs, but the answer surprises and steals a laugh from him. 

Roommate needed the apartment.

Need company? John almost writes back but he stops himself, lacking confidence all of a sudden. Buck is most likely working and yeah, it wouldn’t be the first time John has interrupted him while he was at it but last time it was by accident, he just happened to find himself walking to the theatre by instinct — and then he saved Buck’s life, sure, but that doesn’t mean he can invite himself to his workplace whenever he wants. Buck probably doesn’t even want to be talking to him, he’s just being polite when John has been doing nothing but disturb him as he worked, all day. 

He should really keep himself in check, he thinks worrying his lower lips between his teeth. He’s always so pushy, so insistent, maybe he is getting ahead of himself like Johnny said; he should keep quiet, don’t be too much of a nuisance with someone he likes, for once. 

But that’s what I liked the most about you, a velvety voice in his brain says, melodious with that accent he used to love so much and for a moment the blue eyes in his mind are not Buck’s anymore, they’re longer, a hint of sarcasm and vodka into them. Well, it sounds like you didn’t like it enough he shoots back, getting angry at himself like the loony he definitely is. He knows all the mistakes he’s made in the past, he has a list of them printed in flames on his brain; he won’t make the same ones again.

He’s just about spiraling, a sickly bitter taste spreading on his tongue, when the phone chimes again from another text from Buck. Are you busy, or do you wanna come here and chat?

Heart somersaulting in his chest, John pumps his fist in the air a few times; he’s grinning like an idiot, all his previous worrying already forgotten. Omw :) he answers hastily finishing to get dressed, then he grabs Our Baby’s keys from the bedside table and all but runs downstairs.

“Whoa! Where’s the fire?” Bubbles asks, stepping out of John’s way a mere second before he could slam right into him. 

“Sorry! I’m going to the theatre, see y’all there later!” John answers as he makes his way to the door but Curt steps in front of him, bewildered and covered in sweat. 

“I thought we were gonna run some lines together?” He says and he almost sounds offended, but John right now doesn’t have it in his heart to care — they’ll have countless other times to run their lines together, and besides they don’t even know if they’re reading for the right parts or if Crosby is gonna surprise everyone with his casting.

Barely slowing down, he plants a kiss to the damp cheek of his best friend. “Sorry! Tomorrow?” He asks, then he’s out before Curt can actually answer and misses the look on his face getting darker, his brow furrowing in worry and affront. 

He drives Our Baby as fast as he can, October wind hitting his face and playing with his hair that’s still a little bit damp from the shower — he’s lucky he’s used to driving in worst weathers than this, or a cold would be the only next possible stop for him, and still he wouldn’t care. He’s too happy Buck asked him to go, effectively pulling him out of his self-deprecating spiral, he doesn’t even care if driving to him at breakneck speed would make him look too eager.

His curls must be wild by the time he steps off Our Baby in the parking lot, helmet removed and safely put aside. He tries to run a hand through it a couple times, giving it what he hopes will be a messy but carefully crafted look instead of the hair of someone who just got out of the shower and rushed through traffic to get here. He forces himself to walk slowly to the theatre, to look suave and confident, but his heart starts hammering away inside his chest the moment he catches the smallest glimpse of Buck through the glass doors of the Abbotts; he’s sitting at the desk, looking awfully bored and beautiful at the same time, a pile of untouched books by his side.

I’m more interesting than calculus, John thinks as something warm and sweet spreads in his belly like the first sip of hot chocolate after playing in the snow. He takes a few seconds to stare at Buck, at how the light plays on the tuft of blond hair hanging on his forehead, then he raps his fingers against the glass and grins when Buck immediately turns to him with a blush and a smile.

“Good evening, Buck,” he says as the other lets him in. “What’s a handsome guy like you doing here all by himself?”

Buck rolls his eyes a that, blushing a little more. “Giving my damned roommate some privacy, I guess. But it’s ok: he promised to buy me lunch for this. Sushi.”

John whistles in appreciation. “A smart fella, your roommate. So, what do we do? Do you need me to help you change the poster, or something else?” He asks. He doesn’t think Buck has asked him to join him at the Abbotts to put him to work, actually, but he’d never refuse to make himself useful. Buck looks taken aback by his words, though, and quickly answers, “No, I already did everything by myself. I just- I just wanted company. Yours.”

Buck’s adorable when he looks so dumbfound, John finds himself thinking. His smile widens, and he puts a hand on Buck’s shoulder. “Just what I hoped to hear,” he says honestly and sees Buck relax immediately before his eyes. “Tell me more about your day, professor?” He offers and walks with him to desk, sitting beside him with a satisfied expression as Buck starts recounting the morning he’s had.

—

They start developing a sort of routine. 

John keeps a list of all the best math puns he collected scouring the world wide web and sends one to Buck every day as a good morning, just before crashing asleep until it’s time to go to the repair shop. He sends him texts throughout the day — like, a lot of texts: momentary thoughts that always feel deeper than what they are, pictures of his lunch, of the house’s back garden, selfies, notes on the book he’s been reading, about the dream he’s had the night before, funny things his friends have said or done. 

At first he fears he’s being annoying, too much as a voice inside his brain — one that sounds suspiciously like his father’s — is always telling him. But Buck doesn’t seem to be bothered by him, indeed he seems to like his attentions: he rates John’s math puns every morning and answers his texts whenever he’s not at school, and he doesn’t text him generic shit in response, no, he actually takes time out of his busy days to send John proper answers to whatever silly thing he’s sent him. John is pretty sure this means Buck’s flirting back and so are the guys whenever he mentions it — which is, to be fair, pretty often.

Johnny tells him to make the first move because Buck seems pretty shy but he absolutely is flirting back; Curt says he should wait for Buck to actually do something because he’s been doing everything since the beginning and he shouldn’t come off so eager; Crank suggests him to take advantage of one of the numerous moments they’ve been spending together at the Abbotts to properly talk about it before either of them can make a misstep; Ham is worried about him but still thinks Buck is a good guy so he approves of whatever John decides to do next; Bubbles and Crosby remind him to thread carefully because he’ll need to stay focused on the play, to which John responds that he’s not gonna focus on anything until they tell him what he’s actually gonna do in said play. 

Even Marge, a blonde menace if John’s ever seen one, seems to be on his side given all the teasing comments he makes whenever she arrives at the Abbotts to find him and Buck chilling in the lobby, or changing the poster, or tidying up the bookshelves, or talking about the new shows coming to the theatre — and Buck obviously thinks pretty highly of Marge so maybe a positive opinion from her may play to John’s advantage.

One late afternoon when John arrives at the Abbotts, summoned as usual by a text from Buck, the other guy meets him with a weird shaped carton box in his hands. “I have to change the printer’s toner,” he says, resigned. “Do you have any idea how it’s done?”

“Well, no. But if you tell me the model I can try to look it up on YouTube?” John offers with an optimistic smile. Buck sighs in response and beckons John to follow him into the ushers room which is small and cluttered as usual, so much that to find a place to stay comfortable John has to lean against a dangerously high pile of books and boxes. 

“Here, it should be this,” he says offering his phone to Buck when he finds the right video. “D’you want me to try?”

“No, thank you. It’s not that I don’t trust you, it’s just that you don’t actually work here and the Colonel might rip me a new asshole if something goes wrong and it was you doing it. Better safe than sorry, don’tcha think?” Buck answers, holding John’s phone and kneeling to open the ink drawer of the printer. Staring at him from above while Buck is on his knees, tongue poking out of his plump lips in concentration, sparks a series of unwarranted thoughts in John’s mind and he has to look hastily away, clearing his throat as something warm spreads all over his chest and the back of his head.

“Definitely,” he answers, throat still somewhat tight. Then, to move his focus without really changing the subject, “This means my homepage will be full of printer videos to entertain me with tonight.”

Buck looks up at him from under his long lashes, doing absolutely nothing to still the turmoil in John’s guts. “That’s what you do at night? You watch YouTube videos to fall asleep?”

“Oh no, I watch them to pass the time. Not every night, of course: sometimes I read, or I watch a movie, or a tv show — entire seasons, if I’m particularly caught up in the plot,” John explains.

Buck is still looking at him, more and more perplexed with very word that comes out of John’s mouth. “How can you already be awake by the time I get up? I always find your math puns waiting for me, I figured you went to bed and rise early, but…”

“It’s not that I’m already awake: most of the times I send you the puns as I’m about to fall asleep!”

The printer and the video entirely forgotten, Buck straightens up and stares at him. “What?” He asks, a hint of worry in his voice and John tries to deflect. 

“Oh, my sleep schedule is all kinds of fucked, it’s been like this since high school. One wild night too many, I suppose. I sleep a few hours in the morning, a few moron the afternoon after lunch, rarely at night. I haven’t had a full night sleep since I was sixteen, now that I think about it,” he says, shrugging as if to show Buck that it’s not a big deal, it truly isn’t. “That’s why I go radio silence on you after lunch break,” he adds, half worried that Buck might think he’s been ignoring him. He still hasn’t told him about his job at Kidd’s, he’s too proud to have Buck asking him questions about money.

Buck’s brow is furrowed with more than just a hint of worry. “John, that’s not, ah, healthy. Are you sure you’re ok?” He asks and John might be melting if he wasn’t so used at downplaying his issues.

“Nah, don’t worry Buck! I’m still healthy as a horse, I guess you know something about that,” he says with a grin and a wink that falls a little short. Buck stares intently at him for a few more seconds, like he’s pondering his words, then shakes his head with his lips curled in a hint of a smile. “Yeah, I know sumthin’ bout that,” he says, and returns to kneel beside the printer — and fuck, the Bard would’ve written some really good verses about those skinny jeans of his.

“Ah, I forgot to tell you: I’ve got you a free ticket for tonight’s show if you wanna hang around,” Buck tells him once he’s done fixing the printer. He’s nonchalant in his tone, speaking of it like a mere transaction, but John wants to believe that the way he does anything to avoid his gaze means that he actually wants him there, he’s just too shy to tell him.

“Well of course I’m hanging around, Buck! I can’t leave you all alone tonight, can I?” John answers gleefully, squeezing Buck’s shoulder and jostling him a little with the force of his movement.

“I wouldn’t be alone, Marge and Ken will be there,” Buck answers, pedant as he always is when John says stuff like that. “But I’d like it if you stayed as well. Although, there’s no certainty about tonight’s show,” he adds with a little grimace that makes him all the more adorable to John’s eyes.

“Why? What is it?”

Buck huffs. “The company, the Stalag Theatre, are what we call a loaded Russian roulette. Half their shows are boring as hell, the other half are downright terrible,” he says and John can’t help but start laughing loudly at the disdain clearly palpable in his tone. “They have European origins, at least that’s the excuse the Colonel gave us the first time we hosted them. I personally think they’re simply bad and should close their venture but alas, it’s not my place to tell them. They even tried to get a residency here a few times but Harding always managed to twist the price and the conditions so that it wasn’t worth it for them. So, yeah, stay at your own risk,” Buck concludes. 

The answer’s quick on the tip of John’s tongue, sweet as candy: I’d go through hell and back with you, Buck. But it’s too much, clearly — they’re gonna sit through a bad show, they’re not going to war. So he just grins and says, with much more optimism than he actually feels, “Come on, it can’t be that bad.”

And yet, it turns out it can. 

John has been sitting in the crammed seat in the front row of the second half of the auditorium for barely ten minutes and already he’s considering walking into traffic as a way to free himself from the nightmare of a show the European company has put together. It’s a mix of monologues and sketches from famous movies, all acted out in the corniest way possible, and John is gritting his teeth like he used to do in high school whenever the lessons were unbearable. He doesn’t even know if there’s gonna be an intermission, he didn’t ask, but he surely regrets having told Buck that he’d stay there all night because there’s no way he’s gonna survive this.

He glances around, subtly as he can, but the rest of the audience seems to be liking the show. Hopefully our public will be different than this, he thinks, craning his head to see where the hell is Buck. He’s seen him seating other patrons and then closing the curtain when the show started but now he’s lost him in the darkness of the auditorium; but since the only reason he’s here is for Buck, he’s not gonna sit idly through this potpourri of bad acting, banal writing, and too loud music, so he excuses himself and walks swiftly out of the room.

“That bad, mh?” Marcia greets him from where she’s washing the glasses behind the bar’s counter.

“Nightmare,” John answers. “Have you seen Buck? Is he in the lobby?”

“No, I think Marge’s the one that got a free pass from the show tonight. Go ask her.”

Marge is indeed sitting at the desk, a strange sight when John’s so used to seeing Buck there.

“Leaving already, John?” She asks him, half teasing and half genuinely disappointed. “The Stalags were too much even for you?”

“They’re awful, Marge. I’m almost ashamed of being considered part of their same category,” John answers with a hint of melodrama that makes her smile. “Buck told me it was gonna be terrible but I tried to be optimistic. By the way, where is he? Don’t tell me he bailed and left me to suffer through that,” he adds, pointing to the auditorium with his head. “That I might never forgive.”

Marge chuckles at that, that knowing look of hers back in her eyes. “No, he would never leave his post like this. He’s inside, right behind the curtain; that’s where we sit when we’re inside the room, so we won’t disturb the viewers. You can join him if you want, there’s a spare chair there. But mind you, don’t make too much noise or I’m gonna feed you to the sharks when they come here and complain,” she tells him and John has no doubt that she’d deliver, so he shakes his head and gives her a military salute. “I’ll be quiet as a mouse, promise! Thanks Marge,” he says, making a show of whispering already; then, with the chair in his hands, he walks through the curtain.

His eyes take a few seconds to get used to the dark, and before he can clearly make out his surroundings he hears Buck’s voice like a siren calling at him in the night. “John? What are you doing here?” He whispers, worried or maybe annoyed. 

“Came to suffer here with you, Buck,” John says. Now he can see him, a barely noticeable silhouette in the velvety darkness of the theater, his eyes shiny as ever. “Can’t let you go through this alone,” he adds, placing his chair right next to Buck’s and sitting down.

Buck stares at him for a few seconds, then the glint of a smile shines in the shadows. “What took you so long?” He asks, settling back in his chair with more ease.
John chuckles softly, not to disturb anyone. “That’s what you get for being sentimental!” He comments, faking outrage. 

They slip into a comfortable silence — however comfortable it may be with all the dreadful, loud noises the crew keep making. After a while Buck leans closer, tilting his head to the side just enough to speak in John’s ear without his eyes leaving the stage. “They’re worse than usual, I’m sorry,” he says but there’s no actual sorrow in his voice, just amusement.

Mimicking him John also leans closer, pressing their bodies together from shoulder to thigh. “Believe me, I’ve seen worse. Although, this will surely land a place in my top three,” he says, staying still and waiting for Buck to shuffle to the side and leave some space between them — but he doesn’t. Instead, he presses even closer to murmur an answer in John’s ear that he doesn’t even hear, drowned by the suddenly thunderous beating of his own heart.

Then, a thought dashes through his brain so fast and so fiercely that it makes his breath hitch: I could kiss him right now.

It’s dark, no one would see. And they’re sitting so close, already in each other’s space, really, all it would take is for him to gently grab Buck’s jaw and press their mouths together for a second, maybe two if he’s feeling brave. He’s pretty sure Buck wouldn’t pull back, maybe he’d be surprised at first but then he’d probably let John kiss him and the show would become a lot more bearable like that — but something stops him. It may be nerves, or insecurity, but mostly is that he doesn’t want to share his first kiss with Buck shrouded by the darkness at the back of the auditorium like it’s something to be scared, ashamed of. He wants to kiss him, yeah, but in the light — in the park after a date, or in the theatre while they’re chatting and laughing. He wants to look into his eyes as he leans closer, wants him to know what’s coming and see him blushing in trepidation, blue eyes widening, soft lips waiting just for him.

So he stays still, uncharacteristically so for someone like him, and wills his traitorous heart to go back to normal before Buck can hear it — it’s surprising enough he still hasn’t, given how loudly it is echoing in John’s ears — until a song comes on that saves him, a familiar piano riff that bursts through his veins and lights up his face. “Buck!” He whispers, excited. “It’s I Will Survive!”

Buck raises his brow at him. “I know, and so?”

“I’m gonna sing,” John says in response and goes to stand up but Buck pushes him back against the chair, with surprising strength. “You’re not,” he simply says.

John raises his hands in surrender. “Ok, ok. You’re right, I shouldn’t give them any satisfaction,” he agrees but the electricity running through him from the song and the realization that he wants, no, he needs to kiss Buck as soon as possible make it impossible for him to stay still; he taps away at his leg as the song builds up into a crescendo and then he can’t make it anymore. He jumps up, ignoring Buck’s bewildered hiss, and starts serenading him in playback. He adds some good old dance moves, for good measure, winking and flailing his arms with all the charm he’s capable off.

Buck stares at him too surprised to react at first, but then a smile threatens to split his face and he hides it behind the palm of his hand, shaking his head but continuing to look at John and is it fondness, that thing John sees in his eyes? Oh, it is, and it just makes the desire to grab him by the hand and kiss him a thousand times stronger. 

And yet he still holds himself back, resisting the temptation. He just mouths the song for him to watch that smile grow over the confines of the hand covering it and thinks, I can’t wait to taste that smile.

—

He can’t stop thinking about it. 

He’s still thinking about it after the show, when they remove the poster with a little more satisfaction than usual because they really don’t want any signs of the dreadful show they’ve just seen left in the theatre. 

He’s still thinking about it later, when they say goodbye by Buck’s bike and he just looks so sweet and kissable with his blue scarf around his neck and his eyes a little droopy with sleep. 

He’s still thinking about it the day after, at dawn when he sends Buck another good morning pun, in the morning as he works at Kidd’s, in the afternoon when he goes to pick up Brady from the gym — he’s thinking about it so intensely that he forgets to tease his younger friend about his rendezvous with the hot personal trainer.

He thinks and thinks and thinks so much that when two nights later they’re at the Abbotts and Crosby asks for a moment of silence after having rounded them up in a circle on the stage, he doesn’t realize the roles are about to get assigned until he sees their director pulling out a printed sheet from his beloved folder. “Since Helen Green has basically confirmed that she’s gonna be our Miranda, I figured it was time to tell you all your roles,” he says with a wicked grin.

John straightens up immediately from where he was slouching, his bad knee a tad better today but still not completely ok. The excitement filling the room is palpable all of a sudden, the guys all exchanging curious looks; Curt winks at John and he grins back, trying to keep his emotions at bay — he’s not gonna look disappointed, he’s gonna congratulate whoever gets Prospero, he’s gonna do his best at whatever part his director decided to give him.

“Wanna do the honors, Bubbles?” Crosby asks, passing the sheet to his partner.

“Don’t mind if I do! So, let’s start with the Island cast: as we just said Helen is most likely gonna be Miranda, she just needs to sort some stuff out with her fiancé. You all know her, she’s very good and fun, it’s gonna be a blast to work with her. Then we have Curt, who is gonna play Ariel,” Bubbles announces, then makes a small pause so the group can give Curt their felicitations. 

“Then Crank, who’s gonna be Caliban,” another small round of applause, some whistling.

“And Bucky, who’s gonna play Prospero.”

For a second, John’s half convinced he heard wrong. “I’m sorry, what?” He blurts out, words sounding immediately stupid to his own ears — but really, he must have gotten it wrong. The others are all applauding him, and hollering, and Johnny is slapping him on his back with the same juvenile enthusiasm of their shared youth, and everyone’s looking at him like they’re proud of him and-

“I’m… Prospero?” He asks, incredulous.

“Of course you are! Who did you think was gonna play him?” Bubbles tells him, face lit up by that gentle smile of his. 

“Really, we couldn’t have found better,” Crosby confirms. “Prospero is a monumental character in the play, the pillar of the whole story. He needs to be imposing, to strike fear in characters like Ferdinand or Caliban, and who else could we choose but you, with your physicality? And anyways, you need to get out of your comfort zone of playing comic roles and we figured this was the best opportunity,” he says. 

Something hot bursts in John’s chest: they’ve given him the role because Crosby knows he can take it, he believes in him enough to open the door wider for him. He starts laughing, eyes still wide with disbelief, and wraps both director and assistant director in a strong, tight hug. “Thank you,” he exclaims in their ears. “Thank you! I’m gonna be the best Prospero you both have ever seen, I promise!”

“We know, Bucky. We know,” Bubbles says once John releases him.

He can barely pay attention as the rest of the roles get announced, he claps and says congratulations to everyone but he’s just thinking about Prospero. He did it, he actually did it. Oh, he can’t wait to text his mom and the evil twins to tell them — May had told him she could sense the role would be his, something about the power of manifesting which he didn’t actually believe in before but now? Oh, now he’s willing to believe in anything, tarots and crystals and whatever his sisters can think about.

His smile gets even wider when another idea blossoms in his mind: he can’t wait to tell Buck about it.

By the time the meeting’s over John is actually vibrating out of his own skin with excitement, he feels like he could run a whole marathon back and forth; all his kinetic energy needs to go somewhere and he has a few ideas on how to lose some of it, if Buck will allow. 

Buck is at the desk as usual but looks at them all more intrigued than usual like he’s sensed something; John meets his eyes instantly as he walks out of the blue curtain and into the lobby, and he feels like he could burst into fireworks here and now.

“Don’t make me regret it,” Crosby tells him with a wink that doesn’t fully cover the fondness on his face, in his voice; if this really ends up going somewhere big as John hopes, he’ll owe Crosby for the rest of his life and he can’t wait to be in such a debt. He shakes his head, like a child promising he’s not gonna break the new toy he’s just gotten, and then watches as the rest of the Bloody Hundredth walks out of the theatre bidding goodnight to him and Buck.

“What was he talking about?” Buck asks him, sounding genuinely interested and excited. John could kiss him right now.

He tries to put on a smug facade, like he was sure this was gonna happen and he doesn’t really need anyone’s congratulations. “He’s given us the roles,” he says but he can already feel he’s failing, the corners of his mouth are twitching up towards his eyes turning them into half-moons, and he’s flushed under his shirt, heart still hammering against his ribs. He watches as realization dawns on Buck’s face, a surprised look turning into something akin to a proud smile. “You’re Prospero?” He asks, a smile on his face that mirrors John’s.

“Yes!”

“Congratulations, John!” Buck says and John can’t hold himself back anymore, he lets the energy get the best of him and closes the distance between them in barely two steps. He doesn’t kiss him though, he just pulls him into his arms and holds him tight, so tight he almost sweeps him off his feet. Buck takes a moment before reciprocating the hug, probably taken aback by John’s enthusiasm, but when he does John feels himself melt into his hold. I wish I could stay here forever, a part of him thinks as he buries his face in the soft, slender curve of Buck’s neck, inhaling his smell of leather, spearmint, and dusty velvet — a smell that somehow, in John’s heart, already feels like home.

Reluctantly he steps back, still hovering close enough to Buck to keep smelling him. “He said he’s always pictured Prospero as an imposing man, and I’m obviously the tallest one in the company. But he also said it’s time for me to take on a more serious role, and that’s why he chose me. Now we only need to find a girl to play Miranda and then we can finally get to some serious work!”

Buck nods, still smiling wide and soft at him, then he steps away to retrieve his jacket and the blue scarf John loves so much, the one that pairs so perfectly with his eyes. “I’m really happy for you, John. You deserve it, and I’m sure you will be great,” he tells him. John knows he’s blushing and he almost asks how, how can you be so sure of me Buck? But he doesn’t really need to know: knowing that Buck believes in him is enough, for now.

“Thanks, Buck,” he says, still grinning.

They go outside. John walks Buck to his bike, as usual, and asks him if he wants a ride home — having Buck clinging to him while they ride Our Baby would be the perfect ending for an already extremely good night, but as always the other guy refuses. 

John looks at him, at the red flush on his cheeks from the warmth of the theatre and the cool autumn air, at the way his eyes are sparkling in the lamplight, at his lips pursed in concentration as he unlocks the bike and secures the lock around the handlebar. He looks so inviting, John can’t help but stop in the middle of a sentence to tell him, “I really like that scarf, Buck.”

Buck glances down at it, perplexed. He takes the soft fabric between his fingers and John stares, mesmerized — it’s perfectly normal to want those fingers anywhere on his body, or so the excitement still running high in his veins tells him. 

“Thanks, it was a present,” Buck answers with a smile, and a part of John wants to know who was it from but it doesn’t matter, not really.

“It looks very warm, and it really brings out your eyes,” he adds and Buck’s eyes snap back to his like he’s felt something in his voice, something that drew him in. “You have beautiful eyes, Buck,” John continues, staring at him, taking in all the details of that beautiful face he’s been dreaming of since the day he met him. He looks at Buck and sees an empty stage, the roar of thunderous applauses, a heart beating alongside his, then his gaze drops to Buck’s mouth and — fuck it, I’m gonna kiss him.

He leans in slowly, to give Buck time to pull back if he wants, but with intent. He’s not gonna stop if Buck doesn’t give him a reason too, he’s too inebriated by the satisfaction of his new role to listen to his fears — maybe this isn’t the right time, or the right place, they should’ve gone on a date and then kissed, maybe this isn’t what Buck wants. None of it matters, not tonight.

Buck stares at him, eyes wide with something halfway through fear and excitement. His gaze also shifts to John’s lips, breath hitching, and John knows he’s got it.

Until he doesn’t, because just as he’s about to tuck a hand under Buck’s chin to tilt his head and finally kiss him, the other straight up dodges him. He throws his arms around John’s neck and holds him tight, even tighter than earlier in the lobby.

Bewildered, John needs a few moments to recalibrate but then he holds Buck back, and he’s so tense in his arms he’s almost scaring him. He doesn’t understand what just happened, why Buck didn’t simply push him away or tell him he wasn’t interested if that was his intention, and why he hasn’t let John kiss him if that’s what he wanted, but he understands a thing: this is what Buck needs right now, to be held and maybe comforted, so that’s what John does, albeit a bit awkwardly. 

He rubs circles on his back with one hand and swears he can almost feel Buck shudder in the hug, like he’s trying not to cry. John wants to ask him what happened, what’s wrong, is it something he did? Is it something he said? Is it something that has nothing to do with him, and then can he fix it somehow? Can Buck trust him enough to allow him to?

He checks his face for tears or other signs of distress when they part, but Buck just looks so small and afraid John would only want to press him back against his chest and tell him it’s gonna be ok, whatever is troubling him. 

“Text me when you get home?” Buck asks, tone almost pleading and it pinches John’s heart to leave him alone, but maybe it’s what Buck needs.

He nods, and tries to smile to him. “Of course. Goodnight, Buck.”

“Goodnight, Bucky.”

The nickname sounds so strange coming from Buck’s lips, almost wrong. John hopes it’s not a sign that whatever had started to form between them has come to an end.

—

The next morning, when Buck rates his math pun with a 5 out of 5 and congratulates him again for getting Prospero, John can feel the frozen hold on his heart melting away.

It’s still them, still on. 

Chapter Text

Curt calls out his bullshit in less than 24 hours, quick and precise like a bloodhound.

He joins John in the backyard where he’s trying to learn his lines — Prospero’s lines, even if part of him still can’t believe it. By the look on his face and by the way he keeps glancing behind his shoulders John is pretty sure Curt is the one who’s come out there because he’s lost a bet or something to Johnny Boy, who is probably staring at them from behind the kitchen’s window like the overbearing mother hen he is; still, he says hello to his friend with a smile and gently kicks the chair next to his own to invite Curt to sit with him, letting him know he’s ok — mostly.

“I figured you would’ve been happier after Crosby gave us the roles,” Curt starts with no preamble, blunt as he always is. “Didn’t think you’d be moping like this with Prospero in your pocket.”

“First, I’m extremely happy that Crosby has given me this role, you know it, he knows it, everyone knows it. Indeed, last night it seemed like everyone but me already knew that I was going to get it, it was quite unnerving,” John answers, flipping through the pages of his copy of the play. 

“Of course we all knew it,” Curt scoffs. “It’s made for you, Bucky, I’m sincerely worried that you thought you were gonna get anything else.”

John is not one who fishes for compliments, but he can’t deny it’s pleasant for his ego to hear his friend singing his praises — even more after last night’s debacle. So he shoots Curt another smile, adding a wink for good measure, and says, “Thanks, man.”

Curt rolls his eyes at him, kicking John’s chair. “And second?”

“Second what?”

“Ah, I don’t know: you’re the one who started the phrase with first, so I guessed there was gonna be a second following suit.”

John sighs. “Second, I’m absolutely not moping. Not about the play, at least.”

“It will surprise you, Bucky, but that I had figured it out. And I’m guessing here, but I think the problem might be a certain blond you’re awfully fond of. The usual, in short.”

The jab stings, but John lets it pass; he’s more than aware he has a type, there’s no need for everyone else to continuously point it out. 

“Buck didn’t do anything,” he says. “It was probably me reading the room wrong.”

“Somehow, I doubt it. Either that, or we’ve all become illiterate in the meantime. Come on, what happened? I promise I won’t be mean, to either of you.”

“Nothing huge, really. I tried to kiss him and he didn’t want to. Easy.”

Easy, yeah. As if John hasn’t been thinking about it since it happened, wondering what went wrong — what he got wrong. The was Buck had looked just before John leant in to kiss him, excited and glancing at John’s lips, he’d been sure he wanted it too. And even before that, all the time they’d spent together getting to know each other better, chatting, laughing, sitting side by side in the dark of the auditorium and working around the theatre, there had been something between them. Something that for John had been clear for a while and he’d thought Buck was on the same page; but what if he just wanted a friend? John could’ve misinterpreted it, so caught up in his own flirting that he didn’t notice the other guy wasn’t in it like him. It was weird, since he was usually so good at reading other people, but not impossible.

“Did he say why?” Curt asks, snapping John out of his own mind. “Maybe he just felt it wasn’t the right moment, or he’d eaten something nasty for dinner and his breath stank.”

John huffs a chuckle. “We shared a bag of chips before y’all arrived, his breath was the same as mine and didn’t stink. No, he didn’t say anything: I went for a kiss, sure that he was gonna kiss me back, and he hugged me instead. Quite humbling, I might say.”

“Did you ask?” Curt prods.

“Of course I did not ask! What was I supposed to say? Sorry Buck, quick question: why did you so clearly dodged my kiss? Is it me, or is it you?”

Curt kicks John’s chair again. “Bucky, cmon. You have the right to ask such things, it would solve you so many problems!”

“And Buck has the right to not want to kiss me without telling me why,” John retorts.

“Oh please, he clearly wants it! It’s written all over his face whenever you’re nearby, he lets you stay with him the whole time at the Abbotts even when he’s supposed to be working, he laughs at your fucking math puns every morning!”

“Hey now, my math puns are not stupid!”

“Not the point! The point is, we know you like Buck and we all think he likes you back. So there’s probably a normal, simple reason why he didn’t let you kiss him.”

“He probably doesn’t like me like that.”

This time the kick is so quick and harsh it almost topples the plastic chair John’s sitting on and he squeals, appalled, dropping his book on the grass. “What the fuck!” He exclaims.

“Look, if you want some gentle parenting then you can go inside and ask Brady,” Curt says. “But since I’m the one out here with you that’s what you get, so listen to me: either Buck had a reason, however sensible it might be, or he’s just a fucking tease. And I’m gonna give him the benefit of the doubt on this one because he looks like a nice guy, but I think you should ask him what’s the problem, if there is one. Ok?”

“Yes, mom,” John scoffs.

“Or at least stop moping around the house like that when we have a job to do,” Curt adds, unfazed by John’s attitude. Then, after a beat, he sighs. “You’re not gonna do it, are ya?”

“I’m not gonna put it on the spot like that. I’ll wait for him to tell me, it’ll be easier like that.”

“Oh yeah, because that’s worked out perfectly for you in the past,” Curt snaps, frustration coming off of him in waves. This time the jab doesn’t just sting, it outright hurts, but John just sits there and takes it, his pursed lips the only sign of anger he allows himself to show. 

“Sorry, I didn’t mean like-”

“Oh I understand exactly what you meant, Curt. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have quite a big role to prepare for,” he says, harsh, and picks back up his book. He feels Curt lingering beside him and he knows he wants to say more so he just stares intently at the book, even if it’s clearly upside down, until his friend relents and stands up, leaving him there stewing in his thoughts, alone.

—

Buck looks perfectly normal the next day when they see each other at the Abbotts. They're moving chairs around the little room next to the foyer for the lecture the theatre’s gonna host in the evening before the Hundredth’s time slot and John is feeling a itch, like a real, physical one for how much he wants to just drop the chairs he’s holding and confront Buck about the kiss-that-didn’t-happen but they way the other acts so naturally holds him back: he doesn’t seem tense around John, so he’s probably not offended or mad about what almost happened, but he also doesn’t seem interested in addressing the topic. He’s probably forgotten all about it already and wishes for John to forget it too, so he doesn’t ask. He moves the chairs, adjusts the table’s position, checks the microphones, does everything Buck asks him to without ever complaining, just smiling at him as sincerely as he can; he completely misses the way Buck stares at him as he grabs multiple chairs at the time, with eyes wide and full of want wandering all over his body, his face, his lips — every time he turns around to look at him he just looks exactly the same as always, if only a bit rosier on the cheeks. 

“How’s algebra?” John asks, lamely, once they find their way back to their usual place in the lobby. Buck offers him a resigned sigh in response then adds, “They’re killing her, slowly, and I’m getting caught in the crossfire.”

John snickers at that, happy that Buck’s humor hasn’t forsaken them. “I must say, Buck, I’m kinda taking their side on this one. I mean, algebra… she’s a real bitch,” he says, whistling through his teeth to underline his point.

“She’s not!” Buck complains. “She’s just misunderstood, most of the time. She expects everyone to hate her, to find her difficult, and so she doesn’t do anything to make herself easier, more reachable. But if one would just take some time to learn, to really understand her, they’d find out how beautiful and fun she actually is. Complicated, sometimes, but easy to read once one finds the right key,” he adds. 

There must be a metaphor in there somewhere, Buck’s words hitting surprisingly close to home, but John doesn’t have the strength to think about it now. He just leans closer, staying on Buck’s side as not to scare him off with the threat of a kiss, and bumps their shoulders together missing the spark of hope and that of subsequent disappointment that flashes across Buck’s eyes. 

“I would’ve liked to have a teacher like you, Buck,” John says. Then, before he can surmise if it’s a good idea or not, he adds, “At least I would’ve payed attention to something in math class, just maybe not the actual topic of the lessons.”

Buck rolls his eyes, his cheeks pleasantly flushed at John’s words, and bumps him right back. “I sincerely hope those who actually listen are doing it because they like the subject and not, ah, anything else,” he says, shuddering at the mere thought of a student having a crush on him — an extremely probable scenario, in John’s mind. A recurring fantasy of his, indeed.

Steering himself away from those dangerous thoughts — getting all worked up about Buck teaching him stuff and praising him when he gets an answer right is the last thing he needs right now, not if he wants to maintain at least a civil relationship with him — John clears his throat and changes the subject. 

“Don’t we have a poster to change, or something?” He asks and Buck, caught off guard, looks at the one already set up in its little glass case. “Not now, that’s the one for tonight’s lecture. But maybe later I can get the one for tomorrow’s show and we can put it up? If you don’t have to rush back home after rehearsals, of course,” he says and maybe it’s just John’s impression but he sounds sheepish? Just a little, like he’s worried John doesn’t want to spend more time with him.

“Of course I’ll help you, Buck! I could never sleep well knowing I left you here to fend for yourself on that damned thing,” he says as if sleeping well is a concept familiar to him. But Buck immediately looks more relaxed, relieved even, and he grants John one of his rare, sharp smiles, so it’s ok. 

“I thought maybe you had to learn your lines,” he says.

“Not at night, my brain doesn’t work well in those late hours. When does it ever, some could point out, but still, surely not at night,” John says and misses the way Buck grimaces at his so blatant bout of self deprecation. “I’ve already been learning some though, I was going through them with Curt just before I got here,” John adds.

Buck looks at him with apprehension, so much that for a moment he reminds John of his sisters. “You didn’t have to come here if you were working,” Buck says. “It’s more important, I wouldn’t have felt offended.”

A part of John wants to answer, let me decide what’s more important — a part of him that still feels the ghost of familiar fingers carding through his hair and lips kissing his forehead sometimes, that still remembers the melody of an unknown language rolling on his tongue and echoing in his ears. A part of him that still misses all of that, even if just a little, and sometimes wonders if what he chose was actually more important. He shakes the thought off his head, like a dog shrugging droplets off his wet fur. “I can multitask, Buck,” he says, trying not to sound too annoyed. “And anyways we’re all gonna go through our lines from the first act together later, I needed a break from Shakespeare.”

“Oh, you like me more than him?” Buck asks like he’s actually, honest to God flirting with him. It scrambles John’s head even more, the urge to cave and ask him about the failed kiss pressing on his tongue, but he somehow manages to keep it together. He looks at Buck, takes in the spark in his eyes with just a smidge of insecurity making his gaze deeper, more stern, and the way he’s pursing his lips like he’s trying not to worry them between his teeth; he’s so beautiful and so right for John, placed on his path at the perfect time, that for how much he loves Shakespeare John’s sure he wants Buck more. More than anyone he’s ever wanted — more than anything he’s ever wanted.

It’s unfair, really, that he can’t have him like he needs.

“Of course, Buck,” he says — not flirting at all, merely sincere. And then he looks away towards the empty cobbled road, unable to hold his gaze any longer without showing him too much; he doesn’t see Buck’s expression morphing into one of painful desire, torn between remaining on the safe side of the precipice and plunging himself down in the abyss, not knowing what he’ll find. 

If John turned his gaze back to him right now, even for just a second, he’d catch him in the act. He’d catch him debating wether to give in or not, he’d read on his face the same things he’s been feeling since their failed kiss and he wouldn’t hesitate, no. He’d kiss him this time, for real, and Buck would kiss him back right here behind the desk he’s working at, waiting for scholars and onlookers to arrive, and they wouldn’t care at all: it would be just them, kissing, and all would be right.

But John doesn’t turn until it’s already too late, Buck’s expression schooled into a placid one once again. “Tell me more about the play,” he says, and John acquiesces.

—

“So you tried to kiss Buck but he wouldn’t let you?”

John startles and almost drops on his foot the weight he was lifting, catching himself at the very last seconds. He glares at Johnny who’s laying flat on the mat, panting between push-ups repetitions. 

“You guys have nothing better to do than discussing the failure of my love life?” He asks through gritted teeth restarting the exercise — he lost count of how many repetitions he’s already done, thank you so much Johnny Boy.

“Are you kidding? You’ve always been our major source of entertainment in that field,” Johnny says, not at all impressed by the pissed off glare or the hint of irritation in John’s tone. “So, did something change? You seem pretty much the same as always when we get to the Abbotts, sitting close together, giggling and gazing into each other’s eyes.”

“We don’t gaze into each other’s eyes! And no, nothing changed, we still haven’t kissed.”

“Did you try again?”

“How long are the breaks between your repetitions supposed to be? D’you need me to call you a personal trainer to tell you exactly what to do?” John shoots, annoyed but also ready to throw the game back in Johnny’s face. The younger guy glares at him, just like John predicted, and stays quiet for a while as he does some more push-ups; John sighs and tries to finish his lifts, since he knows the break is only momentary. 

“So, did you?”

“Did I what?”

“Try again. Did you try to kiss him again?”

“Of course I did not, Johnny Boy. It’s the 21st century, men are supposed to know how boundaries work.”

Johnny rolls his eyes, panting and flushed but still no less effective than usual. “Men are also supposed to pull their heads out of their asses and have perfectly normal, reasonable conversations with the people they tried to kiss but didn’t get to, maybe about why exactly the kiss failed to happen.”

“As I already told Curt, I am not gonna ask him why he didn’t want to kiss me. It’s not my business and I don’t want to pass for desperate. I hoped he’d be the one to address the problem since it was him who acted weird but he didn’t, he doesn’t seem to have noticed that something happened either, so that’s it.”

“What do you mean he acted weird?” Johnny asks, rolling on his back and staring up at John. “I don’t know this detail.”

“Probably because it’s none of your business,” John says because it feels the right thing to say, but then he adds, “He was looking at me like he wanted me to kiss him, like he wanted to kiss me back. I don’t know how to explain it, exactly, but I said something to get his attention and when he turned to me he knew I was gonna kiss him and he didn’t pull back. He could’ve just changed the subject, looked away instantly and I would’ve gotten, no problem. But…”

“But?” Johnny nudges him.

“But he kept staring at me all wide eyed and blushing, and when I looked at his lips he looked at mine. And he stayed there, still and compliant, until the very last moment when he simply dodged me. No, it wasn’t even like that: he hugged me. He was so tense, almost like he was scared I might react badly, so I held him back to try and comfort him but I’m not really sure I managed to, he still looked quite nervous when we separated. But the next day he was perfectly at ease once again, like nothing happened, so yeah, I don’t really know what to do anymore,” John concludes and puts back the weight with a relieved sigh. 

Johnny’s brow is so deeply furrowed John fears he’s gonna have wrinkles soon, at such a young age. “That’s weird,” he concedes. “What do you know about his past relationships?”

“Absolutely nothing, he just told me he’s gay and never mentioned ex boyfriends or such. Why? You think it has something to do with what he did?” John asks, suddenly worried.

“I’m not sure, I don’t know him. But you know, feeling unloved or at least not loved the right way when you’re younger can leave scars, especially in the field of intimacy. If something happened to him with an ex boyfriend or even with his parents, it might partially be connected to his weird behavior of that night,” Johnny says. His tone is somber as it always is when he talks about families and human connections and you don’t have to think about it too hard to understand why: as a foster kid who spent his early childhood moving from one foster family to another, with a mother that tried and failed multiple times to reconnect with him and a father he’s never even met, Johnny had been literally saved by John’s family. They taught him how to love and be loved and he recovered almost completely, but John knows it’s still hard for him to trust and connect with others sometimes.

“He told me he’s had issues with his dad about the whole being gay thing, d’you think it might be it?” John asks, sitting down next to his friend to stretch his legs thoroughly.

“Maybe. I still think you should ask him, though, instead of conjecturing here with me,” Johnny says with one of those soft, genuine smiles he only reserves for the people he cares about — and there’s a whole lot of them even if he acts all aloof and grumpy all the time, his Johnny Boy has a heart of gold and loves so deeply, John knows it perfectly well. 

Leaning in to ruffle his hair, so that Johnny’s smile will turn upside down into his more familiar frown, John says, “Enough about me and Buck, now you tell me something interesting.”

“There’s absolutely nothing to be told,” Johnny responds. 

Not so subtly, John points his head towards the opposite corner of the room where Johnny’s hot personal trainer from their first time at the gym is currently demonstrating an exercise to a client, showing off his legs and ass. “Nothing at all?” John insists, a teasing smile tugging the corners of his lips upward. 

“I don’t know what you mean,” Johnny deadpans. “And besides, even if something had happened between me and someone else-”

“That we’re not going to name?”

“That we’re absolutely not going to name, it would’ve happened once and then never again. So there’s truly nothing to talk about.”

“Why only once? Was it bad?”

“Nothing happened so it wasn’t either good or bad,” Johnny grits out. “If it had happened it would’ve been nice, and fun, and pleasant, all that. Even repeatable, should the occasion present itself once again.”

“But it didn’t happen?”

“Nothing happened.”

“And it won’t happen again?”

“I wouldn’t know, many things can happen. The future is unknown.”

John outright laughs at this response, enjoying the deepening blush on Johnny’s cheeks when the hot personal trainer turns toward them at the noise and smiles at him, waving. John watches his friend wave weakly back and shakes his head, still laughing. “You talk a lot about others’ relationships, Johnny Boy, for a guy who blushes like that from just a wave.”

“Shut up,” Johnny hisses threateningly. “At least I got somewhere, or well, I would’ve if anything happened.”

“Which it didn’t,” John completes the sentence along with him. “Yeah, yeah, I got it. Do you wanna go there and chat with your new friend or can we go?”

“I don’t chat,” Johnny says, almost outraged. “When have you ever seen me chat?”

“Let’s go then,” John decides and stands back up, offering Johnny a hand to help him to his feet. “How you doing with your lines? They’re not hard, uh?”

“It’s more than what I’m used to but I’m doing ok, I’m glad we have Helen now so I can go through them with her. How’s Prospero? Are you focused enough?” Johnny shoots him as they head for the showers. It’s John’s turn to be outraged, one hand on his heart like Johnny’s just hurt him physically. 

“What?! You really think I’d neglect the role of a lifetime just to pine over some guy?” He asks and sighs and Johnny’s consequential snicker. “You should really know me better than this, I’m appalled.”

He lets Johnny take the warm cubicle first and sends a text to Buck to figure what’s their plan for the evening — there’s an intriguing show at the Abbotts that he mentioned in passing he was curious to watch but he doesn’t know if Buck remembered it or even if he’s on duty.

R u at the Abbotts tonight? He texts him, stripping off his sweaty gym clothes and massaging his knee. It’s keeping up well with all the strain he’s putting onto it but in all these years John has learnt one thing, and that’s that when his abused joint decides to forsake him it usually does it point blank, and with a vengeance. So he’s trying to take better care of it, when he remembers to; the idea of waking up on opening day with a stiff leg, unable to stand or even worse forced to go to the ER thus marking the end of yet another career because of it makes his skin feel like it’s retracting from his bones. 

Yes but I’ll be late. Marge opens, I’ll be there around 8:30, Buck answers and John wonders briefly what’s he doing that’s keeping him busy this afternoon. Probably some kind of extracurricular teaching activity, John guesses, like talking to the parents or such.

Ask her for your ticket, I already set it aside, Buck adds in a second text and John smiles, pleasantly warm inside because Buck remembered he was interested in the show. There’s no use getting him his own ticket since he’s just gonna sit in the back next to his favorite usher thinking about how much he wants to kiss him under the cover of darkness but still, he appreciates the thought. 

Txh Buck! See u later :) he texts back just as Johnny steps out of the shower.

—

West Anglia is one of John’s favorite shops in the neighborhood. The guy at the counter, the one with the mustache, is good at customer service and very kind, always helping the bookstore’s patrons deciding which book they’re gonna buy or telling fun anecdotes to those who are paying at the register; last week when John went to him very much embarrassed about what he was looking for and couldn’t find in the shop he searched all over the bookstore’s service to order him a copy. 

It wasn’t actually embarrassing, he’s aware of that, and the mustached guy surely didn’t find it weird when John went up to the counter to ask for the easiest, most comprehensible algebra manual on the market. Still he felt a little silly, and definitely out of character when the last time he even thought about algebra before meeting Buck had been during his last year of high school more than ten years before; but the guy simply asked if Calculus for Dummies was something John could be interested in since it was recommended for students at a beginner’s lever and John had simply said yes and payed for it to be delivered at the bookstore — he even tried to tip the guy but he insisted John put the banknote in the money box for all the cashiers.

The book arrived this morning, according to the text John’s got; and since he’s got time to kill before the show starts tonight, he’s picking it up now.

The door jingles as usual when John pushes it open and he’s welcomed with the familiar scent of ink and paper, comfy sofas and just a hint of cinnamon drafting in from the coffee shop nearby. The shop is mostly empty, there’s just an old lady browsing the historical section; there’s no one at the counter either so as John walks towards it he calls, “Hello?”

“Just a second!” A voice shoots back from beneath the counter, a voice that rings surprisingly familiar to John’s ears. The reason why becomes immediately clear when a figure springs up from where it was crouching on the floor and John meets a handsome face with dark blue eyes, blond hair, and a polite smile he’d recognize among a thousand. 

“Here I am, sorry. What can I help you-” Buck says, probably one of his routine phrases, but stops abruptly when he recognizes John. He looks surprised, almost mortified like John has just discovered his darkest secret, while John is absolutely delighted that their paths have crossed like this, purely by chance, just when they weren’t supposed to meet — it must mean something, a chirpy, tedious voice inside John’s brain says.

“Buck? Whatcha doin’ here?” He asks. He’s been in the store multiple times, he’s been speaking with Buck every day, and still he didn’t know he worked here too; it must be something recent, or maybe something Buck wanted to keep private.

“I work here,” Buck answers, not much at ease.

“You didn’t tell me! How long? Because you weren’t here last time I came.”

“I do some shifts, sometimes,” Buck admits like John’s been pulling out his teeth one by one. Then, as if to change the focus of the conversation, he asks, “Why are you here? You need a book?”

And suddenly John realizes the kind of mess he’s put himself into. He ordered a book about calculus because he wanted to impress Buck by learning a few things about the stuff he teaches, but he certainly didn’t want Buck to know he’s doing it. Buck knows he has no interest in anything math related, he knows John isn’t a beginner student like the other guy suggested — John misses him, suddenly, even with that mustache that’s groomed almost better than his own — and he’ll know exactly why John wants that book. 

“I am, yes,” he answers, hesitant. He needs to think about another book, anything else but Calculus for Dummies so that Buck won’t know how pathetic and lame he is learning stuff just to impress a guy — he can already feel himself blushing, fuck, and now Buck looks preoccupied by his weird silence. God, why can’t he think about anything else? Thousands of books on the planet and he can’t even bring to mind the title of the one he was reading until last week, only Calculus for Dummies.

“What kind of book? Because by the look on your face I’d say you’re here to get your weekly fill of erotic literature,” Buck jokes and John feels awfully hot at that, at the idea of asking Buck what kind of erotica he’d suggest John to read. He’s sure his face is the same color of the wall behind Buck by now, a deep burgundy, and he’s starting to sweat like he’s just come off the treadmill at the gym.

“Not that there’s anything wrong with that,” Buck adds, clearly in distress, and John finally snaps out of it.

“I’m not here for porn!” He all but shouts, startling the old lady in the history section who turns their way, disgruntled. Buck is biting his lip trying not to laugh but John knows that spark in his eyes pretty well — at least one of them is not so embarrassed anymore, John can count this as a half win.

“I ordered a book last week and today someone sent a text that it was ready to be collected,” he explains, trying his best to appear as normal as possible — and failing. All his actor confidence flies straight out the window when Buck is involved, apparently.

“It must have been in this morning’s bunch, let me check,” Buck says, rifling through a pile of wrapped books on the counter. “Yes, there it is. Book for one John Egan,” he says, picking up a volume. Barely holding back a sigh of relief John grabs it, mustering a smile on his face. “Thank you, Buck!” He says.

Buck doesn’t let go.

“I have to check if it’s the right book,” he says. 

No, you don’t! John almost shouts again. No one checked if the edition of The Tempest he got was the right one he ordered or not, last time, and something mischievous in Buck’s eyes tells him he’s doing it on purpose. He enjoys being in control, John notes, watching him squirm before his eyes; awfully interesting, he thinks, even if it means Buck is gonna find him out in a second. He lets go of the book with a high pitched sigh and watches as Buck carefully rips the white paper, his face a nonchalant mask that lights up in surprise when he reads the book’s title.

“Calculus for Dummies?” He asks. He’s surprised, yes, but he doesn’t sound like he’s mocking John. He squares up, still blushing, and says, “I wanted to know what all the fuss is about.”

It’s not the truest answer he could give Buck but it’s effective, somehow, because the other guy outright blushes at that. Both red in the cheeks, they look at each other for a few more seconds; Buck is so beautiful like this, his emotions written so plainly on his face, that John has to physically restrain himself from leaning across the counter, grabbing his soft cheeks and kiss him. 

“I can’t wait to hear you opinion on it,” Buck tells him with disarming honesty handing him the book, and John can’t help but smile at that — does he really care about what John thinks of a subject he loves? If it’s really true, John would enroll in the first introductory course to algebra he could find.

Having regained some sort of confidence, he leans on the counter and asks, “So, you work here too? You like playin Tetris with your schedule or something?”
He’s half worried Buck might be spreading himself too thin on too many jobs, half worried that his shifts at West Anglia might shorten their time spent together at the Abbotts.

Buck huffs. “One of the teachers I was substituting for has come back, so I lost a class. Thanks to you lot the Abbotts is paying more than usual this year, but a little extra cash always comes in handy,” he says. 

“Damn straight,” John nods — he couldn’t agree more, especially now that Kidd has payed him the first two weeks at the repair shop and his bank account is finally coming back from the grave, but Buck makes a strange face like he can’t believe John might know what it feels like to have little money. Surely he doesn’t think the Bloody Hundredth actors are swimming in gold, he must have some idea on how hard it is.

“What’s with that face?” John asks, trying to surmise what’s the problem with Buck.

“I didn’t know you had money problems,” Buck says. He’s harsher than John expected — maybe he does think they’re all rich kids, and now John is gonna ruin it for him.

“Are they really problems if I ignore them and pretend they don’t exist?” He asks, half a joke, and sighs. It’s the root of all his problems — with his dad, with himself, with the company. He’s not actually at ease, telling Buck about it, but he needs him to know he’s not some snob, uptight kid who’s living on his parents’ money as he tries to break out as an actor. 

“I know it seems glamorous, us being actors and everything, but it truly isn’t. None of us really have much money, and whatever we make from our performances we invest it right back into the company. We’ve all had multiple jobs during the years, apart from acting, and that’s how we keep ourselves afloat. We hope one day we’ll be able to sustain ourselves with acting alone but alas, that day is far away in the future, if it’ll ever come,” he explains trying to sound as objective as possible.

Buck still looks perplexed, one brow raised up to his hairline. “So you’re telling me you have another job? How? What hours do you work?” He asks and John surely doesn’t like to be put under the spotlight, not this time.

“It’s never anything stable, because we need time to rehearse. Crank has a friend in town, Jack, who owns a repair shop and sometimes I help there,” he says. “The others all do casual stuff like that, but this year we’re taking it easier because we really need to focus on The Tempest. It’s, ah, our chance to make it right once and for all.”

“What about your parents?” Buck asks, like he’s sticking his fingers in an open wound on John’s chest. “They don’t support you?”

Despite himself John laughs — too loud, the same old lady from before shoots him another annoyed glance. “I’ll tell you what, Buck: my father might not have physically dragged me away from the theatre, but he sure as hell doesn’t approve of my current career,” he says and feels the misty, coppery tang of anger burning on his tongue. “My parents have money, not a lot but he’d have enough to support me through the trials and errors of the beginning. And he says he will, once I go for something less stupid than this. He tells me so every time he calls me to check if I’ve given up or not, but he should know how fucking stubborn I am; I get it from him.”

Buck looks appalled and genuinely sad for him but there’s no trace of pity in his voice when he tells him, “I had no idea, John.” There’s just bitter, deep understanding and belatedly, John realizes in the blink of an eye that Buck is the first person he’s ever told any of this apart from those he’s considered his family.

“How could you?” He says, offering Buck a smile that feels wrong on his lips. “It’s not exactly something I go bragging about. But yeah, should your bike ever need fixing I’m your guy.”

“So your dad is, ah, not great either,” Buck comments and John wants to answer Oh, I hate the fucking guy but for some reason it feels wrong to think something like that, let alone say it out loud; the man is his father, he raised him, supported him, made sure he lacked for nothing, he probably even loved him before John tore his ACL and screwed up his father’s fantasy of becoming the agents of a famous baseball player. Still, bitterness is seeping in his tone as he answers, “That’s a euphemism if I ever saw one, Buck. I have to keep in touch with him because of my sisters, and my mom, but I hate that every time we talk he tries to make me feel ashamed of what I do.”

He’s not looking for comfort from Buck, he’s not telling him all these hurting, too sincere things to make Buck feel sorry for him; he’s surprised, so, when the other guy reaches out to him, puts a hand on his arm and squeezes as if he’s trying to give him solace — it’s also the second time ever Buck has initiated some kind of contact between them, and the first one since the failed kiss, so he remains very still as if Buck’s a wild animal he’s afraid to scare away.

“Hey, don’t even think about it,” Buck says, his voice soft and sweet as John has never heard it before, a balm on his aching heart. “You should be proud of what you’re doing, of what you’re building with the Hundredths. You’re doing something you love, despite the pressure from the outside. It’s remarkable, truly,” he continues and something lodges in John’s throat. He doesn’t need to be reassured, he doesn’t need anyone else believing in him and in what he’s doing but God, it does feel good to share the burden on his shoulders, to be encouraged, to know Buck thinks he can do it. 

Only when he’s sure he’s not gonna break down crying in the middle of the bookshop John lifts his eyes from where Buck’s hand is still holding him and looks back to that beautiful face, and watches the worry on his feature dissipate into another one of his smiles, the soft ones John especially likes.

“Thanks, Buck,” he says and he’s about to add something along the lines of, We could use our respective daddy issues to bond some more, but the door opens once again and Buck turns to it to welcome the new customer. A blink, and John can see Buck stiffening in front of his very eyes like he’s turning into ice, and his grip on John’s arm tightens so much it almost hurts but he doesn’t dare shake him off. 

Worried, almost scared, John moves his arm to catch Buck’s attention as he asks him, “Buck, are you ok? What’s going on?”
Buck doesn’t answer, his eyes still fixated on the guy who just entered the shop — a short haired blond guy, not very tall, all dressed in grey. If it wasn’t for the sudden paleness on Buck’s face and the barely contained rage he can see in his eyes, John would almost think he’s witnessing a weird episode of love at first sight. Who the fuck is this guy? John thinks, mad at him for Buck’s sake.

The unwelcome patron looks up and when he sees Buck his eyebrows rise in surprise and recognition; so they know each other, but the other guy doesn’t seem to notice the hatred that’s seeping out of Buck’s pores like steam in the winter, nor the murderous glare in his eyes. He’s an ex, maybe? Buck’s never told him about anyone from his past but to be fair, John didn’t tell him about Paulina — although, he doubts he’d stare at his ex girlfriend with so much hate and rage, not even after she’s put half the world and six time zones between them. Hurt, yeah, but Buck almost looks afraid of the guy or of what he himself might do to him.

“Gale! It’s so nice to see you, I didn’t know you still worked here!” The guy says, so bad at reading the room John halfheartedly wonders what he’s doing in a bookshop since he must surely be illiterate. 

“George. What can I do for you?” Buck asks him, voice so cold John almost shivers. George, he thinks, filing the information away for later.

“I’m looking for a book on Cekhov’s short stories, do you have one?”

“No, I don’t think so. I’ve restocked the Russian literature just this morning and we have no Cekhov,” Buck answers, his grip on John’s arm tightening more and more each passing minute. He’s blatantly lying, John doesn’t need to know the bookstore’s inventory to notice, but George still doesn’t seem to get it. “Ah, pity”, he says. “I’ll check the library, maybe they’ll have something. How are you, Gale? Everything’s ok? And who’s your friend over there?” He keeps going, glancing at John.

“I’m John, I’m Gale’s friend,” he answers, shaking his hand with the fakest smile he can conjure and feels a hint of satisfaction when the other guy’s nonchalant expression cracks a little. Good. Whatever it is you’ve done to Buck, you’re not welcome here, I’m not your friend, we don’t wanna hang out with you. Go away, John thinks.

“I’m George. I knew Gale in college,” George says and a minuscule spasm makes Buck’s eyelid twitch; it’s almost imperceptible but John notices it, of course he does, and his rage towards George only grows. He’s never seen Buck less at ease and his instinctive response would be to punch George in the face, no questions asked, but he keeps his temper at bay and just looks at the guy with contempt. Finally sensing they don’t want him there George steps away from the counter, clearing his throat with awkwardness. “Well, I better get going. Nice to meet you, John. Gale.”

When the guy is safely out the door John turns to Buck again, awfully worried about him. “Are you ok?” He tries. He’s not expecting Buck to spill everything about whatever happened between him and George right here and now, that wouldn’t be likely for him. He’s still surprised, though, when Buck lets go of his arm like it’s suddenly burning him and turns away murmuring a strained “Peachy.” 

I can help, John wants to say. Please let me help, but it’s like an impenetrable wall is now surrounding Buck, his face is devoid of any emotion and he keeps his distance, not even looking at John. “Did you pay upfront for it or is it still pending?” He asks, pointing at the book John’s almost forgotten about.

“What? Oh right. I paid upfront to the guy with the mustache,” John answers — maybe if he keeps staring at Buck he’ll relent and turn to him, even just to tell him he’s ok, John can leave him alone here and he won’t start crying or screaming or whatever. But Buck’s eyes remain fixated on the counter as if he’s looking for invisible specks of dirt to clean up. “Good,” he says. “I’ll see you tonight at the Abbotts, then.”

Defeated once more, John feels his shoulders droop. “Oh,” he says, lamely. “Ok. See ya later, Buck”, he says and walks out. Buck doesn’t even say goodbye.

—

“Marge? Can I talk to you real quick?”

The only lady usher at Thorpe Abbotts theatre looks up from the program she’s reading and smiles at John. “Sure! If you’re looking for Gale he’s gonna be a bit late tonight, he’s working at the bookstore,” she says.

“No I’m not looking for him, but it’s him I wanna talk about,” John admits. Something teasing flashes in Marge’s smile for a second before she fully takes in John’s worried expression; then, a mirroring one appears on her face. “What happened? Is he ok?” She asks.

“I honestly don’t know. I saw him this afternoon at the bookstore, but something weird happened and he didn’t look like he was fine. I’m not asking you to investigate and tell me, I just- I just want to make sure if he’s ok. So could you please check on him when he gets here? Just to ease both our worries.”

Marge’s worry doesn’t seem eased, at all. “What happened?” She asks once again.

“I really can’t tell,” John says and some of it is true because he still doesn’t know the details of what transpired between Buck and George. “But he didn’t look fine. It’s probably nothing, he’s gonna be ok when he gets here but could you please check on him?”

Maybe he sounds desperate — he probably does — but it must work because Marge nods, sternly. “I’ll ask, but if it’s his private business and he doesn’t want me to tell you I’m not gonna,” she says and John admires her unwavering loyalty.

“Of course,” he responds shaking his head. “I just need to know there’s someone that can make sure he’s ok.”

Despite her worry, Marge smiles to him. “You’re a very kind man, John”, she tells him and John’s heart aches at the resonance of those words — she’s not the first to tell him that, the memory haunting as always. 

“I’ll check on him. Why don’t you go inside and find your seat now? Or do you prefer your usual spot at the back?”

John offers her a small smile too. “I’ll take the seat in the back, thank you.”

He sits at the back, next to an empty chair that never gets filled tonight. At one point, about ten minutes after the start of the show, Marge slips inside from the blue curtain and tells him Buck’s arrived and he’s ok, or at least that’s what he told her. “He’s not gonna sit in tonight, but he’ll be waiting for you outside once the show is over. He recommends you stay here and watch it and I agree with him: the company’s good, we’ve seen many of their shows.”

John, already halfway standing, stops. “But-” he tries, but Marge pushes him back down, gently but firm.

“There’s no use in worrying like this, John. I promise you he’s ok,” she tells him and John has to convince himself she’s being honest, not just repeating Buck’s instructions. For some reason, he doesn’t find it hard at all. He nods and settles back in his chair, and tries to enjoy the show as best as he can but he feels like he’s only getting air in his lungs again when he steps out at the end of it and sees Buck in the lobby. He still looks like shit, but beautiful as ever.

“Hey Buck,” he says stepping closer. “You didn’t want to see the show? You left me all alone there,” he says, trying a normal approach but his words fall flat even to his own ears.

“I know, sorry. Just didn’t feel like entering the auditorium tonight. Was it good?”

“Yeah, it was. Was this the only date they’re doing at the Abbotts or can you catch them tomorrow, or the day after?”

“It was the only one. But I’ve seen more of their shows, I can live without this one,” Buck says like he’s trying to reassure him. John nods, then a glimmer of hope sparks in his chest when he notices the rolled-up poster behind the desk. “You need help changing it?” He asks, trying not to sound too desperate.

“Not tonight, no,” Buck says. “But I’ll sure need help tomorrow. I’d say, 5:00 in the afternoon? I have another shift at the bookstore but then I’m free. Does it work for you?”

John offers him an hesitant smile. “5:00, works perfectly. It’s a date, then,” he says and immediately grimaces — god, why can’t he think before he speaks for once?

Buck’s genuine smile at his words is a soothing balm for his awkwardness, and so is the hint of laughter in his voice when he responds, “It’s a date. See you tomorrow, John. And- thank you.” 

The unsureness in his voice and the tired look in his eyes both break John’s heart and squeeze it back together; he wants nothing more than to hold him and keep him safe from whatever might hurt him this way, promising him that nothing bad will happen to him as long as John is by his side. Outright he simply shrugs and says, “Whatever you need, Buck. See you tomorrow.”

Chapter Text

The first thing John does as soon as he gets home is, of course, trying to get some more information on George. 

He didn’t get much about him, just his name and approximately his age and the fact that he must live nearby if he was shopping at West Anglia so he tries to look for him on various social medias, but with no results. He even tries a local Facebook group of Russian literature lovers since the guy came looking for something Cekhov’s but still the mysterious George eludes him. So, he turns to the only person he knows who’s capable to find anything and anyone on the world wide web: his sister Ellie.

Need u to find someone 4 me
Guy named George, 28-30 yo
Lives around here, maybe likes Russian literature? Idk 
Thx 

He sends the texts, knowing that is sister is definitely not awake at such a bleak hour, then sends Buck a math pun and turns off the phone and tries to get some sleep. It eludes him tonight more than ever, he keeps thinking about Buck’s hurt, almost terrified expression when the guy had come into the bookshop. They’d probably been involved some way, that’s the only rational explanation John can give himself, but the breakup must’ve been nasty. Maybe George had been abusive, in some way? Maybe he’d hit Buck, he thinks and feels anger rising hot and prickly in his chest; if that was the case, the guy had a black eye waiting for him the next time his way crossed John’s. 

The rosy fingers of dawn are beginning to tease at his bedroom’s window when sleeps finally comes to him, fitful and agitated as his mind keeps reliving the coldness of the confrontation in West Anglia, Buck’s face contorted with fear and hatred cause something bad is happening to him and John doesn’t know how to stop it. “Why can’t you protect me?” Dream Buck asks him, spewing venom at every word. When he wakes, a headache splitting his head in two right through the middle, he’s absurdly grateful that Kidd had told him not to come into work that day even if it means earning less money this week.

With a groan John turns on his back, blinking blearily at the mid-morning light reflecting on the pastel painted walls of the room. He reaches blindly for his phone, finds a text from Buck where he’s rating today’s pun a solid 3 out of 5 and a second one where he’s confirming their rendezvous at the Abbotts at five if John is still up for it. He sounds awfully sheepish even through text and worry squeezes John’s heart even more as he texts him back, Sure Buck, I’ll be there! Text me if u need anything else.

There’s another text waiting for him, this one’s from Ellie and it’s the screenshot of an Instagram profile with attached the correspondent link. This ur guy? The text reads and yeah, the pictures on the profile are in fact George’s. George Niethammer, as the profile states, 30 years old, professional actor. 

Where? John wonders as he’s pretty sure he’s never heard of him, but before he can do a more in depth search Ellie texts him again. It’s him or not? I have 2 more profiles.

It’s him thx John texts back.

Ellie’s answer arrives in a second and John almost snorts at it. U can do better than that.

I know, he shoots back. Not interested, Buck knows him.

He knows he’s made a mistake the moment he sends the text but he cannot delete it fast enough before his sister sees it — and in fact, the phone starts buzzing in his hands immediately. John sighs, and answers the videocall.

“Who’s Buck?” The shrill voice of his sister asks in lieu of hello. Her face is pixelated on the screen, a blur of dark hair and pale skin, and still John can make out how curious and excited she is.

“Good morning to you too, angel,” John says. “Shouldn’t you be in class?”

“No lessons on Friday. You look like shit by the way, have you been sleeping?”

“Another question?”

“Back to my first one: who’s Buck?”

“A friend,” John lies, blatantly.

“Bullshit,” another voice calls and another face identical to Ellie’s joins her on the screen making John sigh even deeper — he understands Johnny Boy on a deeper level in moments like this, he really does. “Why are you two together? Aren’t you studying wildly different things?”

“I had the weekend off and decided to come visit,” May answers and John brings a hand to his heart, feigning hurt. “And you didn’t come to see me? Margaret, Elizabeth, I’m utterly devastated.”

“We weren’t sure you’d be free to stay with us, John Clarence,” May pushes back. “Now can you tell us who’s Buck or do we have to look for him too? You know Ellie’s very good at that, she’d find him in two minutes.”

“Buck’s a friend,” John repeats. “He’s a math teacher and also works at the theatre, we’ve met there.”

“A math teacher? That’s practically rock bottom, Bucky,” Ellie says with a grimace. “What’s he doing at the theatre? Giving you lessons?”

“He’s an usher. Apparently being a teacher doesn’t pay enough, and he loves theatre.”

“That’s good!” Ellie says. “Finally someone you have something in common! C’mon Bucky tell us more about him, please!”

“Are we going to meet him?” May interjects. “Because if it’s another temporary crush of his then I can live without it.”

“I don’t have a crush on him,” John lies, feeling warmth coming up to his cheeks and betray him. “We’ve been hanging out, talking about theatre and stuff. Getting to know each other better. Nothing has happened between us, I know it was your next question.”

“It was,” May confirms sounding more interested all of a sudden. “So you met a guy you like and you have been just getting to know him better? You haven’t slept together yet?”

“No,” John answers through gritted teeth. “And I don’t really want to talk about it with you two, of all people. You’re too young to be discussing my sex life with such ease.”

“Oh please, we’ve been there since the beginning,” Ellie says and John watches the blush spread on his cheeks on the screen. “Nothing new under the sun. But I agree with May here, it’s weird that you haven’t slept with him yet. Usually it means that the thing has a certain importance for you, like with-”

She cuts herself off abruptly, looking embarrassed like John might start crying just by hearing Paulina’s name. “I mean, is it something serious? Could it become something serious?”

“I hope it will,” John answers. “He’s a really cool guy, you’d like him. Yes, even if he likes math. He’s smart, and curious, and he wanted to become an astronomer when he was a kid, he loves space. He knows a lot about theatre, it’s a pleasure to talk with him about it, but it’s not just that. There’s something about him that’s magnetic, he speaks and you can’t help but listen like you’re physically drawn to him. He’s funny, and kind. And he’s hot,” he concludes making his sisters laugh.

“It sounds like you’re really into this guy,” May says with softness in her voice. “Can we see him? Do you have a picture?”

“I don’t, unfortunately. But I can assure you, he’s hot. Blond, blue eyes, a little shorter than me with a discreet physique. Looks and talks like a cowboy, to be fair,” he adds with a smirk.

“Blond with blue eyes? Jeez Bucky, who’s to say you’re not a man of habit?” Ellie jokes. “What’s his real name? I can’t believe you went and found the only guy in all fifty states with a nickname like yours.”

“It’s Gale. And Buck wasn’t his nickname, actually, I gave it to him,” John admits. “He kinda looks like Buck Johnson, my friend from high school, do you remember him?”

The two girls exchange a glance. “Bucky, make up your mind: either he’s hot, or he looks like Buck Johnson,” Ellie says and May snickers.

John rolls his eyes. “Ok, fine, he’s just blond like him. I don’t know why I gave him a nickname so similar to mine, I just saw him on my first day here and knew I had to get to know him better and calling him like me seemed like the smartest solution.”

“Oh, am I sensing love at first sight?” May teases. Then, with a gasp, “Does mom know about this? Are you bringing him home for Thanksgiving?”

“She doesn’t know!” John almost screeches. “And no I’m not bringing Buck home for Thanksgiving, I’m not even sure if I’m gonna be there,” he says — he definitely won’t be, unless plane tickets start costing less by some miracle, or the Colonel decides to give him back his money and give the company the theatre for free. He forces himself to ignore the disappointment on his sisters’ faces, knowing it’ll be the same for his mother once he’ll tell her the news, and tries to get them back in a good mood talking about Buck some more. 

“One time I saved Buck’s life, he was about to fall off a ladder and I came to his rescue,” he blurts out.

“The knight in shiny armor card? Smooth, Bucky,” May tells him.

“So, who’s George Niethammer and why did you need me to find him? Is he another beau of Buck?” Ellie asks.

“I don’t exactly know who he is but him and Buck know each other, and they’re not on good terms. He’s probably his ex, so I guess I’m trying to understand exactly what happened between them to know if George’s an obstacle or something.”

“Well you’re better looking than him, or at least you’d be if you slept some more,” Ellie chimes in. “But I’ve seen you’re both actors so if he’s Buck’s ex then maybe he has a type too and you just happen to be each other’s. That’s cute,” she adds with a smile. 

John can’t help but smile back. “Yeah, well, I’ll let you girls know how it goes,” he says. “Gotta go investigate now, you two try to behave.”

“Wait!” May exclaims. Then, much quieter, “So you’re not coming home for Thanksgiving? Is it because of dad?”

John pauses for a second. For how similar the two girls look, and often behave as well, it’s in moments like this he remembers they’re actually very different people: Ellie’s the one he’s always felt more close and akin to, rambunctious and loud with her emotions just like him, but May’s the one who’s never afraid to speak up and ask the difficult questions. 

“It’s not just because of him,” John concedes. “I’ve been working a lot to save some money but plane tickets during Thanksgiving are criminally expensive, and there’d be too much traffic on the road for me to drive home for just a few days. I’ll try my best to come by for Christmas, but I’m not promising anything.”

“Mom won’t be happy,” May points out. “You know how much she loves to celebrate with the whole family.”

“Well it’s not the first time I’ve skipped Thanksgiving, come on! Don’t be so dramatic, that’s my role in the family,” John tells her putting on his best reassuring smile. He’s sad too, he misses his mom and the girls more than he actually admits even to himself; but the only way for him to be home for Thanksgiving would be asking his parents money for the plane tickets and he’s not gonna do that. He can’t ask just his mom for it, his dad would find out, and as much as he loves the twins he’s not gonna suffer through the man’s passive aggressive comments on how John had to ask his parents for money at thirty years old — because he doesn’t have a real job, because he dares to have dreams, because he’s an idiot.

May still looks at him like she wants to add something and John is suddenly afraid it’s gonna sound like their dad, the last thing he needs right now. Ellie, sensing the growing tension between her siblings, is quick as usual to change the subject. “Is Johnny gonna come?” She asks, all excitement and batting eyelashes and John rolls his eyes with a groan at her words — she’s always had this silly crush on Brady, which John finds kinda disturbing if he’s being honest because Johnny is like a brother to him but she insists it makes sense, he’s a cute guy she has no blood relations to, and by the way it’s not John’s business so he should shut up, thanks.

“I don’t know, I’m not his keeper. You can ask him, but he’s probably gonna stay here with me,” he says and Ellie groans back. He almost tells her about Johnny’s personal trainer to really rub it in but relents. Instead he says, “Can I go back to my investigations now or do you still need to interrogate me?”

“You’re off the hook for now,” May says deflating just like her brother. “But keep us updated, and please call mom before Thanksgiving to tell her you’re not gonna be there. Do it in advance, John, not the day before like some unforeseeable circumstances are keeping you, ok?”

“Promise. And you two keep study hard, uh? I want to be able to brag about my genius sisters and their wonderful careers when someone asks me what I’m doing with my life,” he half jokes.

“Good luck with Buck!” Ellie shouts before the screen goes black and John flashes her a smile but it fades quickly as he goes back to George’s profile looking for clues, teeth worrying at his lower lip. They have a few things in common, George also likes baseball apparently even if he’s more focused on football, and they both act — though George isn’t part of any company, as far as John can tell, he’s an independent actor who’s worked with some minor, local groups. The reviews never cite him as the highlight of a show either, John notes with no little satisfaction.

They don’t look much alike, though. They both have light eyes but George’s blond, like Buck, and much shorter than John is; if that’s Buck’s type, then John definitely doesn’t fit in.

Still, he can’t turn his mind away from the anger and the pain that were written plainly on Buck’s face in the bookstore. Whatever may have happened between the two hurt him, a lot, and maybe it’s hurting him still; so maybe he’ll want someone else to help him heal the wound, someone different from George. Someone like John, maybe. 

—

Buck doesn’t look any better when they meet at five o’clock outside the Abbotts; in fact he looks even worse, pale and wrung out. John wants to hug him, at least, give him his warmth to bring some color back to those ashen cheeks; he doesn’t, of course, he just lands a hand on Buck’s shoulder and squeezes him gently. It’s enough to steal a small smile from the other guy, who seems to relax however imperceptibly under his touch. 
Stepping inside the theatre soothes John’s nerves a little but Buck still looks like he’s about to hurl. John almost tells him that there’s no hurry, he doesn’t have to talk to him about George today if he doesn’t feel like it, when Buck finally takes a leap and starts speaking. He looks like he’s facing a firing squad, shoulders squared and brow set, standing in the middle of the lobby with his back straight as ramrod. 

“It was my first year at college,” he says. “It was going pretty well, classes were interesting and I loved what I was studying. I’d stopped talking to my parents but I’d made some new friends like my roommate Benny who’s still my best friend even after all these years. For some struck of luck they’d paired us together and since he’s also gay and had much more experience than me he took me under his wing and showed me what life could look like for a gay guy in college. And it was nice, you know; kissing guys, having sex without attached feelings, going to parties, meeting new people. It was all fun and light, especially after my last few years in high school I’d spent with the constant fear of my dad discovering I was gay, using Marge as a cover, mourning the loss of acting. I was almost considering going back to it, actually, with the local theatre group,” he adds, lips strained in a smile that’s all bitterness. 

John stays quiet, just looking at him and listening. He tries to imagine what a younger Buck looked like, maybe he had fuller cheeks and longer hair, or shorter; however he looked, John’s sure he would’ve liked him anyway if they’d met back then.

“I met George in the spring, just at the end of finals week,” Buck continues. He’s looking everywhere but at John, anger twisting into shame on his beautiful face, and like he can’t stand to stay still any longer he abruptly starts towards the ushers’ room; he hangs his coat and stashes his backpack in the corner, and picks up his name tag as John follows him, hovering just outside the door like a faithful dog. “I was at the park with Benny, he was planning a night out to celebrate the end of exams and I was studying for my last final. Well, I was trying to study but it was hot and sunny and I got distracted, there were so many people in the park making good use of the sun. There were a bunch of guys playing with a frisbee, they looked like they were having so much fun it was impossible not to observe them, it was contagious. One guy threw the frisbee at one of his friends, clearly trying to make him miss it, but the guy caught it by the tip of his fingers and exulted with such joy, I felt happy for him. I even smiled at him, and he saw me staring at him; it was so embarrassing I wanted the grass to swallow me whole.”

He’s grimacing at his own words as he picks up a set of keys and heads for the emergency exits leading to the small garden the theatre shares with the nursing home next door. John wonders if he realizes he’s doing it, still embarrassed of his younger self after so many years, and finds it heartbreakingly endearing. He holds the rattling frame of one of the doors as Buck sticks the key in the hole and jiggles it a little to get it to turn and opens the door, nodding an unspoken thank you to John and stepping into the garden. In the dying light of the late afternoon the autumn leaves on the tree look like a bunch of pretty little fires and the wind carries with it the heavy smell of damp earth and distant smoke. More leaves are littering the ground and crunch under their feet as they make their way to the other doors. 

“After a while the frisbee got pretty close to where we were sitting, almost hitting us. He came up to us and apologized, and I told him he’d been impressive in how he’d caught the frisbee earlier; it was a stupid thing to say and I thought I’d made a fool of myself but he didn’t seem to mind, and Benny told me he was probably flirting with me. Anyway I didn’t even know his name and I still had my algebra final to study for, so I put the thought of him away as much as I could and went on with my life,” Buck says opening the shutters of one of the doors. John steps closer, still quiet, and locks it in place without even stretching, shaking them gently to make sure they’re steady. They go on like that, Buck opening the shutters and John locking them in place, Buck talking and John listening.

“I met him again at the bar a few nights later and this time he introduced himself. His name was George, he bought me a drink, and we started talking. We talked a lot through the whole night, at the bar first and then walking around town. We stayed out until morning came and though nothing happened between us, nothing at all, I already felt like I was falling in love. When I told Benny he laughed and told me I didn’t even know him, and he was right of course but I was so taken with him I thought the things I knew were enough for me to trust him. Like the fact that he was studying at the Drama Academy to become an actor, for example, which was the thing that actually won me over. He was going to live my dream, you know? It just felt so right, like we were kindred spirits, so much that I didn’t even feel offended when I told him about my past with acting and he responded by saying that it was for the better that I had quit it because there were so many aspiring actors around and only a very small percentage of them actually succeeded, and I probably wouldn’t have made the cut. He, on the other hand, was so sure he was going to be the next great hit,” Buck says and John feels even more please, pettily, that the guy didn’t make it. What kind of person belittles someone else’s dreams, especially when they know they've already been crushed before, just to feel better about themselves? 

It’s clear to him that the guy’s an asshole but he can’t blame Buck for his naivety; he’s been young as well, and fell in love with many an asshole guys and girls alike. So he doesn’t say anything, follows Buck back inside and helps him restock the flyers for the various showcases the theatre’s hosting this season trying to hide the way his hands are shaking lightly for the agitation he feels emanating from Buck as he tells his story.

“We kept hanging out at my place, just the two of us. We would just talk, a lot, but there was nothing else to it. We were just friends, it was clear, but I still stopped looking for other guys because his company was enough for me. Even if he wouldn’t introduce me to his friends, I thought it was fine, that it would’ve happened in time, you know? Even if we were just gonna remain friends, and after a while I convinced myself that was all that could happen between us. I was settling on it, you know, that he wasn’t interested in me like that and my crush would’ve faded in time,” Buck continues, his voice thick with bitter resignation. “And then one night he kissed me. And it was like I’d always dreamed it, or maybe even better.”

It stings, admittedly, to hear Buck gushing about some other guy he actually kissed, especially when he flat out refused to let John kiss him — but the story clearly didn’t end well, no matter how good the kiss was, so John keeps the stinging feeling to himself and lets Buck talk. 

“We never discussed it but for me it was clear, we were together. And when we started having sex, well, I had no doubts. I knew he still had talk to his friends, but when he left in August to meet them in Florida I was sure he was gonna tell them about me and once classes started again in September we could’ve hang out all together, me, George, his friends, and Benny. So yeah, he went to Florida,” Buck says, then stays quiet for a while like speaking is costing him more and more as the story goes on. They check the little notes the Colonel left him, one that says to change the poster for tomorrow’s show and another to remind him that tickets for the annual Halloween show are going on sale on Monday. 

Then Buck speaks again. “He never returned.”

Freezing cold anger fills John’s stomach and he has to clench his jaw real tight before he risks interrupting Buck — thoughts of hatred still swirl around in his brain, how dared he, how dared he throw away something like that, someone like Buck, fucking asshole he has no idea what he’s lost, fucking idiot.

“I met him again by chance a few weeks later, when summer was almost over. I’d seen an ad for a bike on sale and decided to buy it with the money I made at my summer job at the movie theater. And apparently George was this guy’s neighbor because I ran into him right there on the pavement — you know, he’d never brought me to his house. I had no idea where he lived and still I was convinced we were together, that it was normal, that it was something that could actually work,” Buck continues. His voice sounds smaller now, self-deprecating, and there’s a sneer marring his face as he pities his younger self whose only fault had been falling in love with the wrong person. 

“I tried to face him. I was so fucking angry I just wanted him to listen to me, to apologize, to say he’d been an asshole for leaving me high and dry. I didn’t want us to get back together, I only wanted… closure, I guess. Respect, maybe, even if he had no reason to give me that. But he said it wasn’t that serious and I nearly lost it, asked him if it was a habit for him to kiss and fuck all the guys he threw his fucking frisbee at and he got aggressive. He didn’t hit me, though maybe it would’ve been better,” Buck says and once again John has to stop himself from speaking when it’s not his turn and say it’s good for him he didn’t do it, or I’d have to wring his fucking neck.

“He told me it wasn’t real. That he’d never been into me, or guys in general. That he’d done it all just to practice for when he’d become an actor, because it was something that might have come useful in the future.”

Maybe I’m still gonna wring his fucking neck, John thinks as the icy rage gets to his heart, to his brain. What a stupid fucking excuse, was the guy really such a fucking coward on top of everything? Not just a stupid asshole, no; he had to go and use his internalized fucking fear of liking guys to hurt Buck — and right after all that had happened to him with his own homosexuality, his father, and everything. Fucking unbelievable, John wants to say, but he bites his tongue to stay quiet a little longer; he watches as Buck picks up the rolled-up poster and grabs the box of thumbtacks without needing to be told. Then he helps him to carry out the ladder, and Buck keeps talking.

“I was a mess when Benny came back a few days later. I told him everything, I think I had a panic attack at some point, I couldn’t stop crying,” he says and John longs to hold him so much it physically hurts him. “We even thought about telling his friends about it but that would’ve been too much, no matter how hurt I was. I was convinced it hadn’t been just an act, that he was actually attracted to me but couldn’t face it and staying with his friends had convinced him that he needed to stop seeing me before it got out of hand. I still think that was the actual reason behind his behavior, it’s the only one that makes sense and you know, I think I would’ve accepted that. If he’d told me he was afraid of what his friends might think, that he wasn’t sure of his own sexuality and needed time to process everything, I would’ve understood that. It would’ve made sense. But he didn’t. And him breaking my trust like that, it caused some serious damage.”

Buck opens the ladder, plants it firm on the ground with he help of John’s steady hands and keeps talking without meeting his eyes. “Benny tried to get me back into dating but I couldn’t get myself to sleep with anyone else, after George. I didn’t want anything serious but the idea that I could fall for someone and they could lead me along and then betray me like he had done kept creeping in the back of my mind. So I let six months pass, thinking it would’ve been enough. Then it became one year, then two, because I was about to graduate and I needed more time to study. I kept telling myself that once I’d finish college I could meet new people, fall in love again. But the truth is I was too scared, and two years became three, then four. I just need more time, I kept thinking, soon I’ll be ready. But I never was, and now it’s been seven years.”

Seven years, John thinks. Seven years without falling in love with anyone, without letting anyone close enough to. He knows the feeling, or at least he thinks he does; Paulina left him four years ago and not once he’s felt anything deeper than a physical attraction for anyone he’s slept with in the meantime — not since he met Buck, at least. But she didn’t mess him up like George did with Buck, she simply made her choice and he’s been too dumb, or maybe too coward, to tell her what he actually wanted. She broke his heart, sure, but it was mutual. And mostly all John’s own fault. 

Buck remains quiet, his face once again set in stone; the only perceivable sign of his distress is his breathing, heavy like he’s just run a marathon. It’s probably the longest he’s been without saying a word in his whole life, but only when he’s sure the story’s over and Buck has nothing more to add does John talk. “If I ever meet that guy again, I’m going to fucking bash his face in.”

It’s like his words have broken a silent spell that had been casted on the Abbotts, all sounds coming back to his ears like normal: the creaking of the polished wood under his unbalanced gait, the humming of the heating system, the soft thud of his own heart. Buck’s shaky laughter, with a note of hysteria in it. “Can I stay there and watch?” He asks, closing the poster’s glass case.

“I’ll even make you popcorns,” John says and offers Buck a hand to help him down the ladder. Buck’s palm is cold and sweaty where it meets his and John instinctively keeps holding it even when both Buck’s feet are back on the ground. He rubs his thumb over Buck’s knuckles in small circles, trying to soothe his nerves and lend him some warmth; he wants to bring that hand to his mouth and press a kiss to it, but he doesn’t.

“I really don’t know what to say, Buck,” he admits after a few seconds. It’s a shame, really, for he’s always talking and talking but can never find the right words when it’s needed of him. “I’m so, so sorry that happened to you, and right when you were finally at ease with who you are.”

“Thank you, John,” Buck answers and his voice is still too small, too thick with hurt not to strike John right in the heart. “You know, I often feel like I completely got over it and then something like yesterday happens and I am back hurting again. Not like I did seven years ago, of course, but still… It’s not nice, let’s put it like this.”

John nods, knows the dull kind of pain Buck’s talking about. He realizes he’s still holding his hand and maybe he shouldn’t, their touches have never been more than casual, one calculated step away from plausible deniability; but he finds it’s grounding him, the feeling of Buck’s smooth skin under the pads of his fingers, and since Buck hasn’t pulled away he figures it means it’s helping him too. 

It’s probably gonna be the only thing he’ll have with Buck, given all he’s just told him; he hates George Niethammer a little bit more, knowing he’s the cause behind the insurmountable obstacle between him and Buck. Still, he tries. “I guess, ah, you’re not very fond of actors now,” he says trying not to sound bitter, just understanding. A little sad, maybe, he can allow himself to show that; Buck will know it’s not his fault.

Surprising him, Buck grants him a shy smile in response. “They’re not my favorite, erm, group of people,” he says and despite everything, John’s heart skips a hopeful beat. “And I have trust issues in general. But I must tell you, this is the first time I’ve told this story to anyone in seven years.”

John’s eyes snap up to meet Buck’s, too surprise and honored to care about his own eagerness. “Really? The first time? What about, ah, the other people you’ve met in these years? The other guys?” He asks hoping for a precise answer, one that would feed his ego, yes, but would also mean all is not lost. 

And Buck, sweet, beautiful Buck, blushes. “When I told you I haven’t dated anyone since George, I was including casual flings too. There haven’t been other guys to tell this story to.”

The sweet taste of vindication mixes with that of anticipation on John’s tongue — he was not mistaken, all of this means something for Buck as much as for him. This is not hopeless, it’s not another dream destined to fail: this is real, and it could start tonight.

Head tilted to the side like a curious dog, he steps closer into Buck’s space slow enough to give him plenty of time to retreat or push him away if that’s what he wants — John knows it’s not, he’s sure of it this time and indeed Buck doesn’t move, he just blushes a bit more and keeps staring behind John’s shoulders like he’s too shy to meet his eye. “No one in seven years?” John asks hoping he won’t sound too smug, but not really caring that much about it.

Buck shakes his head. “No one,” he says and John can hear his own blood singing, roaring into his ears. He moves even closer until he’s fully in front of Buck, crowding him a little thanks to the few inches he has on him. He’s careful like a thief in front of an armored safe, for right now even the smallest misstep could steal his precious treasure from him forever. So he doesn’t dive right in, mindful of the last time he tried; he swallows around the excitement building in his throat and asks, “And don’t you ever miss it?”

He doesn’t add anything else, he doesn’t need to. He follows the movement of Buck’s Adam apple bobbing up and down as he swallows, almost salivating at the sight, and waits — one beat, two. Then finally Buck raises his eyes, full of desperate need, and his gaze meets John’s. Such beautiful eyes, John thinks mesmerized by their blue, deeper than the water of Lake Michigan in the middle of summer, warmer than the velvet of the curtain behind them, shinier than gemstones.

“Sometimes,” Buck answers and it’s barely a whisper but still John’s breath hitches. He forces his gaze to stay put on Buck’s eyes and not on his inviting, plump lips because he needs him to be sure of what’s about to happen. Only when he reads in those beautiful eyes please, I won’t back down this time, he dares to move. He leans in, nudging the tip of Buck’s nose with his own, and then he kisses him.

Finally, he thinks grazing those pillowy lips with his own, tender and light as a feather. Buck trembles in the kiss and presses back, squeezing his hand still holding John’s and moving his other one to the nape of John’s neck as if to hold him in place. John goes willingly, tilting his head to the side and snaking his other arm around Buck’s trim waist to pull him closer until their bodies are flushed together in all the right spots — and Buck reacts accordingly just as John had pictured, his lips parting with a surprised gasp at the sudden closeness. With a smile John slides his tongue in the open warmth, tracing Buck’s lower lip before delving into his mouth and fuck, he cannot hold himself back anymore, not now that he knows Buck’s taste and it’s going to his head. 

He kisses Buck like he’s dying of thirst and Buck’s an oasis in the middle of the desert, tongue licking into his mouth in deep, slow strokes, teeth clacking against his, grazing his lips, swallowing breathy whimpers off his mouth and Buck kisses him back with the same, desperate passion, holding him close and plucking his lower lip between his teeth, making him groan low in his throat. He’s gentle enough to soothe the sting of the bite with a teasing caress of his tongue afterwards, before tugging at John’s curls enough to have him pull back a little so he can gain the upper hand in the kiss.

John had no idea this Buck existed, one who’s not afraid to demand exactly what he wants and to take it with a vengeance; his head spins wilder and he finds that whatever feelings he’s been harboring for the blond guy in his arms become even deeper at this discovery — Buck wants, wants him and John’s all in, all fucking in for him. His hands keep roaming across Buck’s body, palms flat against the lean muscles of his back and down the ladder of his ribs, and when they meet the soft, heated skin exposed just above the line of his pants Buck all but moans agains his mouth, trembling like John’s just touched his very soul. It takes John by surprise, the sound goes straight to his cock that twitches interested inside his jeans and steals a mirroring moan from his mouth; lightheaded with arousal, he parts from Buck’s lips and starts pressing kisses along the long line of his throat, bared like that of a prey. He puts his teeth in the kisses, grazes them against the point where he can feel Buck’s heartbeat skyrocketing, and the hand still in his hair tightens its grip to hold him there; he sucks at the skin until he knows that red is blooming beneath his mouth then releases it with a groan. 

The sting in his scalp is doing nothing to distract him from the hardness between his legs; indeed, it’s only making him all the more horny. And he knows Buck’s feeling it just as much as him if the hard line of his cock against John’s thigh means anything. Mind all fogged up by desire, it’s because of it that he instinctively rolls his hips against Buck to find a fraction of release; but Buck gasps and stiffens in his arms, and with horrifying clarity John knows he’s pushed it too far.

He steps back immediately, furiously hoping his lapse of judgement didn’t ruin everything — fucking hormones — but keeps holding Buck in the cradle of his arms where he wants him to feel safe and Buck doesn’t push him away, he just gapes at him breathing heavily.

“I’m sorry!” John exclaims. “I got carried away, I shouldn’t have, not after what you just told me,” he adds, trying to catch his breath and making sure Buck’s not gonna break down here and there.

“No, it’s not that,” Buck says shaking his head. “It was good, just- too much, too soon. But I did like it,” he continues. Then, blushing lovingly, he adds, “A lot.”

Now this, this is something John can work with. Learn what Buck likes, make him feel at ease, shower him in all the adoration he deserves so that he’ll like it — and John — even more. John looks at him, attentively. There’s a wild look in his eyes, wide pupils swallowing the blue of his irises like a solar eclipse, his cheeks are flushed pink, and there’s a trail of reddened marks in the shape of John’s mouth going down his throat, the skin glistening with sweat and saliva. His lips are swollen, looking even plumper than usual, sinfully inviting. He’s still shaking, more for the adrenaline than with fear, his body hot and solid in John’s arms, one hand gripping his forearm and the other overing at the nape of his neck; John mourns the absence of those long, nimble fingers in his hair, his scalp still tingling where Buck had been pulling at it.

“Tell me what do you want,” he says, effectively relinquishing all the power to Buck in setting the rules of the game — something John’s not entirely used to nor actually new at, and it feels like he’s trying on a costume that used to fit him well years ago but has been left at the back of the closet, forgotten, discarded. Buck appears to be thinking about it for a handful of seconds, his eyes set on John’s lips as he unconsciously licks his own.

“I want you to kiss me again,” he says, and John does it.

It’s slower this time, but no less intense. John takes his time moving his lips against Buck’s, learning the shape of his mouth with his tongue. He cups Buck’s face with one hand, careful and gentle, stroking with his thumb the heated peach fuzz on his cheek and Buck sighs in the kiss, his defenses lowering once again. John’s other hand stays put on Buck’s lower back, fingers grazing lightly at the exposed skin there until he can feel goosebumps spreading under his touch.

Buck lets himself be kissed and John studies him in every minute detail, from the way he scrunches his nose whenever they part for air to how he slides his tongue in the warmth of John’s mouth, timid but resolved, licking him thoroughly like he’s also learning something. As gently as he can, John nudges him backwards to invite him to walk toward the desk that’s sitting empty and abandoned at the end of the lobby; Buck parts from the kiss, but this time with something of a soft chuckle. 

“We can’t leave the ladder here,” he says nodding at the wretched, wobbly trap and John scoffs.

“We’ll take care of it later,” he says before taking possession of his lips once again, and the muffled sound halfway through a laughter and a sigh that escapes Buck as he melts back into the kiss is worth a thousand suns — it’s worth all the money John’s invested in this theatre to be here, with him, kissing him like there’s no one else in the whole entire world. 

He walks them to the desk until Buck can sit on it, thighs spread wide so John can settle comfortably between them, careful to keep a safe distance between their groins. He plants a kiss to the apple of Buck’s cheek, barely resisting the temptation to bite him, and then keeps trailing down to his jaw, his chin, and back to his pale, tempting neck. 

“You smell so good, Buck,” he mumbles, nibbling gently at his skin. “So fucking good.”

Buck laughs, the vibrations of it echoing in the hollow of his throat. “You’re not that bad yourself,” he says and there’s fondness in his voice, the kind that has John weak in the knees. Buck’s fingers are back in his hair, not pulling anymore but carding through the messed up curls at the back of his head and pressing not so gently to keep him in place so John obliges, plucking the skin between his lips and sucking hard. He only lets go when Buck’s breath itches into something akin to a moan, and watches with profound satisfaction the angry red mark he’s left behind.

“So, what’s the Halloween show?” He asks, diving for another kiss on the other side of Buck’s throat.

Buck hums. “It’s the Rocky Horror. The B-17s, the local theatre group, always book the Abbotts on Halloween night for their rendition. It’s always one of the busiest nights of the year.”

“They act out the movie?”

“They project it and act it out in front of the screen. The audience’s almost completely drunk the whole time, they sing and scream the lines back to the actors. It seems funny, Marge hates it.”

John grins, placing a kiss on Buck’s jaw. “Why?”

“She hates messy shows, and messy audiences. To cope with it she always makes us all dress up for Halloween like we’re fucking kids.”

Something in Buck’s annoyed tone goes straight to where John’s trying to make his cock behave — fuck, he truly is in well over his head. He straightens up, his face back at Buck’s level. “Oh yeah? What are you going to dress as, a sexy usher? You already have the costume,” he says with a grin and Buck kisses him to shut him up, a little mean like John wants it, with some teeth and little room to breath.

“You’re an idiot,” Buck scolds him before kissing him again. “I’m not gonna tell you what’s my costume but you better dress up too if you don’t want Marge’s rage thrown at you.”

“Oh, is this a formal invitation? Are you asking me to come watch the Rocky Horror with you?” John all but purrs and this time Buck pulls his hair properly, making him hiss.

“You’re always there anyway,” Buck comments, licking a stripe along John’s Adam’s apple and making him shiver. “Didn’t think you’d need an invitation,” he adds but there’s still sincere fondness in his voice, and maybe just a hint of doubt like he’s fearing things are gonna change between the two of them from now on — they are, if John’ll have any saying in that, but not in a way that Buck should be afraid of. He’s not gonna walk away from this theatre tonight and disappear from the face of the Earth; if anything, he’d like to bring Buck home with him to show him exactly what he’s been missing for the past seven years, but since he knows it’s not gonna go like that he will settle for this. For Buck’s lips marking his skin, for the warmth of their thighs pressed together, for thick blond hair tickling his face, for the blush on Buck’s cheeks.

“Don’t worry Buck: I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” he says, teasing and sincere. As a reward, Buck kisses him again.

They keep going like this for what seems to be hundreds of hours, kissing and talking without a care in the world. Buck keeps getting more and more relaxed in John’s arms but still he doesn’t try anything more than a kiss yet, not wanting to scare him off again.

The arrival of the rest of the Hundredth catches him by surprise, he almost forgot they were supposed to be rehearsing tonight. He tries something of a nonchalant expression, but from his position standing between Buck’s legs he knows there’s not a chance in hell they haven’t caught up with what exactly happened between them; the looks on their faces, varying from surprise to ill-concealed excitement, are nothing if not a confirmation.

“Will you be able to read Prospero’s first scene, Bucky?” Crosby asks him once they’re set on stage, his tone falsely innocent. The others snicker all around him but John straightens his shoulders — he’s a professional, he certainly won’t let the memory of Buck’s kisses wipe his character’s lines from his brain.

“Of course, director Crosby. From the beginning?” He asks, smugly, and Curt downright whistles at his audacity as the others clap and goad him, rowdily — even Helen, who must’ve been updated on the situation between coming into the theatre and stepping on stage. Crosby just smirks, and gestures for him to take his place upfront on stage.

He ends up messing up the majority of his lines, amidst general laughter, and it earns him a teasing threat from Crosby that he’s gonna take the role from him if he doesn’t focus on it properly. But all the laughing and the teasing is worth it, because when rehearsal ends he can fall back into Buck’s arms and kiss him until they both forget about the outside world for a while.

Chapter Text

Right after high school Johnny got accepted into a music school in Manitowoc. He didn’t have plans to go to a normal college, he was a good student but nothing really interested him as much as playing the clarinet and acting did; and since there was no option to get into an acting academy, not after the uproar John had unleashed when he’d merely tried to suggest it once he finished school, the conservatory was the second best choice. He did not make many friends there, being his usual antisocial self, but he was still liked enough to be invited to parties at his classmates’ homes — and of course John, being John, would always tag along.

It was at one of these parties that John met Paulina.

Johnny was at the final year of his bachelor of music degree so he actually didn’t go out with John that night because he had to practice but John knew most of his friends, and those he didn’t know he was sure he would’ve been pals with by the end of the night. 

It was still warm, early fall with some lingering taste of summer, and John was in somebody’s kitchen talking with some guy about the latest Yankees’ game, a plastic cup full of beer sweating in his hand just like the back of his neck was. He was fake arguing that the season wasn’t lost yet, there was still hope, when a cacophony of loud voices from the living room got his attention. Craning his neck to see what was the commotion about he noticed a group of people sitting in a corner of the room, spread out over cushions and chairs, all caught up in what looked like an intense debate of some kind. Wondering what those music school kids could have to be so passionate about he excuses himself and wandered towards the group, keeping quiet not to disturb them.

It got immediately clear that they weren’t discussing which Romantic composer was the best — John didn’t have an opinion on that but he knew Johnny’s passionate one, and for him it was Beethoven — or if Mozart was a classical or a Romantic composer but something weirder in the context the argument was taking place: English literature.

“No, you see: she’s fucking stupid. Her life at home sucks, she has no actual reason to stay. Her future could be brighter in America but what does she do? She has a fucking, what’s it called, and stays there! Fucking idiot,” a guy was saying, so clearly proud of himself John decided to disagree with him a priori.

“It’s called an epiphany,” the girl he was arguing with exclaimed, pissed off. “It’s the theme of the whole story! She realizes that she cannot move forward with her life, that she won’t find true happiness so it’s best if she stays there keeping the promise she made to her mother.”

“Again, fucking stupid,” the guy argued. “Her mother is dead, what’s the fucking use of the promise she made her? What could the mother do, come back from the grave and haunt her stupid daughter just because she chose to have a better life for herself? It’s fucking stupid, that’s what it is.”

“You sure speak a lot about things you don’t know shit about,” quipped another girl sitting on the sofa, and John’s attention focused entirely on her in a second. She had a low voice, tinted with a melodious accent he couldn’t place properly — European, probably. She was wearing an orange skirt that really showed off her long, muscular legs and a black low-cut shirt that complimented other parts of her body but to be honest, John was almost more attracted by the way she was staring contemptuous daggers into the guy in front of her.

He straightened up from where we was sitting splayed on a bean bag, looking at her with a mean twinkle in her eyes. “What do you mean, darling?” He asked her and John could see the annoyance rippling under her skin from the way she rolled her pale shoulders.

“I mean, what do you know about that? About whether it’s easy or not to leave a whole life behind just for the hope of a better future? Because from the way you’ve been talking it seems like you know a whole lot about it but I’m sure you’re just some pure American breed kid who never set foot outside the States, let alone uproot his life to start again somewhere else,” she shot back and later John would tell anyone who was willing to listen that that was the moment he fell in love with her. 
The other guy looked impressed as well, despite himself. “Oh, and I’m sure you know a lot about that, uh? Where are you from, Connecticut?” He said and John almost laughed: was the guy deaf as well as fucking stupid? Couldn’t he pick up a different accent when he heard one?

The girl just quirked her lips at him, something mean in her smile that made John snicker softly, and then she said something in a language none of them was able to pick up. The girl’s friends laughed at the confused, almost offended look that appeared on the guy’s face when he realized he’d made a fool of himself and John smiled to himself as well, feeling oddly proud about the girl who had shut the idiot up. A plan taking shape in his mind, he went back to the kitchen and he got the information he wanted from the baseball fan guy from before.

The girl was standing in the small balcony when he found her again, her back to the city as she smoked a thin cigarette. Her blond hair was almost white in the moonlight and she raised an equally pale eyebrow at John when he approached her with a cup in each hand. He offered her one. “Vodka soda,” he said in lieu of a greeting. He brow got even higher and she let her gaze run from the cup to John’s face a few times.

“Why?” She simply asked in that melodious voice of her.

“Thought you’d be pretty thirsty after you gave that guy what he deserved,” John said. “I asked the guy in the kitchen what you had when you got there and he told me vodka soda, so here’s a vodka soda for you. I promise it’s not spiked.”

Finally the girl granted him a smile. “That’s exactly what someone who spiked my drink would say,” she told him but she accepted the cup and drank a few sips from it, closing her eyes in delight at the refreshing taste of the drink. John couldn’t hold back a smile at that, and hid it behind his cup’s rim.

“So, what’s your name? I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you here before,” he said.

“I rarely come to this kind of parties, and you can easily see why: there’s always some idiot guy who tries to explain me things I know better than him just to try to impress me. I believe you have a name for that, but it eludes me right now.”

“Mansplaining,” John offered and the girl tilted her cup towards him in acknowledgment. She was still smiling at him and without contempt, so John considered it a win.

“I’m John, but everyone calls me Bucky,” he said.

“Why?”

“You know, I’m not really sure. It started when I was a kid, someone called me that and it stuck, all my friends call me Bucky now. You can call me Bucky too, if you want.”

“Are we friends, Bucky?” She asked and John was sure there was a hint of teasing in her voice now, so he smiled and shrugged. “I always like making friends. But it’s gonna be hard if you don’t even tell me your name, so…”

“Paulina,” she finally conceded offering him her hand — there were tiny freckles on her skin, the kind that appeared all over John’s body under the unforgiving summer sunlight. “But I still have to rule out if we’re gonna be friends or not, Bucky.”

“Wanna be sure I’m not gonna mansplain anything to you?” He joked, leaning against the railing next to her while trying his best not to crowd her. She had beautiful eyes, seen from up close, cornflower blue and swirling with emotions. “Because I can promise you I’m not gonna do it, I’m not the type. Unless of course we’re gonna talk about something I’m passionate about, then you’ll have to forgive me if I’m a little, erm, nagging.”

“Yeah? And what is it you’re passionate about, Bucky?” She asked and from her tone he knew that a wrong answer right now would’ve meant missing his shot completely. He surely wasn’t about to tell her about the Yankees, he could see she had already sized him up as a jock or something of the sort. So he smiled and said, in all honestly, “Theatre, for example.”

From the surprised, intrigued look that flashed in her eyes, John knew he’d make the right impression. “I didn’t know they also taught drama at the music school,” she conceded.

“They don’t. I’m not a student there, never been to college actually. It’s Johnny, my foster brother, who plays the clarinet and lets me come to his classmates’ parties even when he’s at home studying. He’s the smart one.”

“So what is it exactly that you do?” Paulina questioned him, eyes fixated on him as she sipped slowly her vodka soda.

“Odd jobs, right now I’ve been helping at a repair shop to save some money for my actual job which is being a theatre actor. And before you ask, no it’s not just a dream, I’ve already done some interesting stuff with other local artists and companies and I have another project coming up soon. So yeah, I am an actor,” John said with more conviction and one of his signature grins. “What about you? You playin’ any instrument or d’you just come to parties to put assholes in their right place?”

“I’m finishing my Master’s Degree in engineering,” Paulina answered and John whistled softly with his teeth, a subtle blush appearing on the girl’s cheeks. “My roommate, Christine, she plays the viola. She’s the one who was fighting with that stupid guy, I only gave him the fatal blow.”

“Feisty and smart!” John exclaimed and Paulina rolled her eyes at him but with little conviction, a smile still tugging at her lips. “Now I’m sure this is not a wasted night out, not at all.”

“You say that to all the feisty girls you meet at parties?” She shot back and he bumped his plastic cup to hers. “Only the interesting ones,” he said. Then, “Can I ask you what did you say to that asshole before? I’m afraid I’m not very good at foreign languages but it seemed like something very effective.”

“Jesteś głuchy, czy po prostu głupi, Amerykaninie?” She repeated and John, still not understanding a single sound, thought she really had a wonderful voice and he could’ve spent the rest of his night just listening to her spewing insults in her own language.

“And what does it mean?”

“Something along the lines of are you deaf or just stupid, American guy? He deserved worse, to be fair: calling me a stupid American, fucking idiot,” Paulina spoke full of disdain and John laughed.

“Where exactly are you from?”

“Guess,” she told him and he knew then he had won her over.

He still thrived on compliments though, and cared about continuing to make a good impression so he turned around so that his chest was pressed against the railing, moving closer to her without taking up too much of her space. “Let me see…” he said, fingers tapping against the plastic cup. “European, for sure. There aren’t feisty, pretty girls like you here in the motherland.” 

“Go on,” she scolded him with a gentle slap on his shoulder. Her hands were small, perfectly manicured but with fading ink smudges on her fingertips like she’d come to the party straight from a study session in her room — John tried not to imagine her sitting at the desk, pale blond hair pinned up with a pencil and brow furrowed with focus, but it was a too pretty picture to ignore it. 

“Eastern Europe, I’d say. And I’m not the best at geography but that didn’t sound like German, so I’ll eliminate Germany from the list. And probably Austria, if they speak German there as well.”

“They do,” Paulina smiled.

“Great, so no Germany or Austria. This leaves me with absolutely fucking nothing,” he admitted. “Wait, don’t tell me, I can do this. Romania? No, wait. Poland?”

She stared at him, unimpressed. “You just fucking guessed it,” she said and John whooped with enthusiasm.

“I knew it!”

“No you did not! You were just ready to name every country in eastern Europe and got lucky enough to guess it on your second try. I can’t believe it!” She protested, but she was laughing.

“What can I say,” John told her with a shrug. “I’m a really lucky guy.”

She sized him up, like she was still figuring out something, and John let himself be taken all into consideration — he even thought about flexing his muscled arms or something, it would’ve played right in the character but tonight he didn’t want to play as anyone else, he just wanted Paulina to like him for himself. “Szczęściarz,” Paulina resolved after a while and downed the rest of her drink. She placed the empty cup in one of the flower vases hanging on the railings, then she cocked her brow at John. “Do you want to go somewhere else, szczęściarz?”

—

Szczęściarz. Lucky guy, as she would tell him much later, when he thought she was all the luck he needed to get where he wanted.

He brought her home that first night — home back then was just a small studio apartment with a stove, a sofa, a table and an old, used IKEA Kallax separating the living area from John’s bed. He’d never felt self conscious of his spartan alcove before but when they stepped inside he feared for a second that she would laugh in his face and leave; but she must have seen worse in the rooms of other college students because she didn’t bat an eye, she pushed him on the bed and kissed him like she meant it. Her mouth tasted of vodka, exhilarating on John’s tongue, and her skin was soft as velvet under his hands, a little tacky with sweat but he didn’t mind — surely not when there was so much of it to unveil inch by inch, to kiss and lick and bite, as gently as he could.

She kissed a little mean, pressing him against the mattress and climbing on top of him to have him fuck her better. And he fucked her good that first night, gentle but relentless, filled with desire — his mouth between her legs until she started shaking, his cock pushing inside of her until she  was scratching him with her long nails, spilling breathy words in his ear that John couldn’t understand. He left bruises on her neck, blooming purple against her pale skin, and got lipstick stains all over his chest in retaliation accompanied here and there by teeth marks — she was, indeed, feisty. 

He was afraid she’d leave once it was over, it wouldn’t have been a first but it would’ve stung nonetheless; but she just curled up by his side, blond hair sprawled on the dark fabric of his pillowcase that he kept petting until she fell asleep. He stayed awake a while longer, his insomnia already plaguing him, looking at her figure bathed in the moonlight and thinking he wouldn’t have minded going to sleep like this every night — it would have made him a very lucky guy.

Instead his luck ran out the following morning, when he woke up and rolled to the other side of the mattress only to find it empty and cold. Peeling one eye open he saw her sitting on the edge of the bed, her clothes already back on; mourning the loss of that wonderful body he reached out placing a palm on her hip, his thumb gently grazing at the exposed skin between the hem of the shirt and the skirt. “You have to go to class?” He asked, voice all roughed up by sleep.

“Not until this afternoon,” she answered without turning to look at him.

“What’s the hurry, then?” John asked again, sitting up until he was hovering over her shoulder. “We could have some more fun,” he murmured in her ear, lips featherlike on the bruised skin of her neck. He felt her resolution quiver for a second, then she valiantly pushed herself up leaving him alone on the bed. 

“It was fun but now I have to go,” she repeated and finally turned towards him. “We don’t have to make this more than it is.”

“Well what if I think we should?” John protested. “Look, I know how I look like: a guy who goes to parties only to meet someone to bring back home for the night, have some fun, and then everyone goes their separate ways in the morning. I won’t deny that’s what I’ve done multiple times, yeah, but that’s not what I wanted last night. I like you, and I feel like there’s something here that we could explore some more.”

“I don’t think we should,” Paulina sternly answered. Then she softened somehow, probably because of something she’d seen flashing in John’s eyes. “You’re a good man, szczęściarz, and you’re right when you say last night was fun, and good. But I don’t have enough time or energy to have it mean something more than just that: I have my Master to finish and it requires a lot of study, a lot of time that I cannot allow myself to waste in a relationship more meaningful than what we’ve done.”

“We could just keep having fun, no strings attached,” John tried but she raised her brow at him, already reading him like an open book. 

“I don’t believe that’s what you want,” she said. “You shouldn’t be so willing to get hurt, szczęściarz: people might actually take you up on that if you’re not careful.”

She spoke with a finality that made John understand that it was a lost battle, so he just scoffed in response. She leaned in, and pressed the softest kiss on his sweaty forehead. “Thank you, szczęściarz. Maybe we’ll meet again,” she told him and walked towards the door.

“That’s a promise!” John exclaimed at her back, and heard her laughing as she left him alone in his small apartment that still smelled of sex, cheap alcohol, and something sweeter that kept lingering in John’s nostrils like a sign that all was not lost, after all. And maybe he already had a plan.

He took a shower then went to the student residence, barging into Johnny’s room right as he was in the middle of practicing a piece. A dissonant, annoyed note welcomed him in the small bedroom accompanied by the angriest look in Johnny’s eyes but John didn’t care, he threw himself on the bed and said, “You have a classmate called Viola, or something, right?”

Still glaring at him Johnny pulled the clarinet away from his lips. “I most certainly do not,” he said. “I have a classmate called Christine who plays the viola, if that’s who you meant.”

“That’s her!”

“Jesus, Bucky, you could at least remember the names of the people you sleep with!” Johnny exclaimed, outraged. “Especially if they’re someone I have to spend my days in class with!”

“What? No, I didn’t sleep with her. She’s cute but not really my type. No, you see, she has a roommate. And her roommate is the woman of my fucking dreams, and I need her number.”

“Which one? Martha who plays the oboe or the other one, the European girl who studies engineering?”

“That’s her! Paulina, you know her? D’you have her number?”

“No I don’t. Can you explain me what the fuck is going on? You look like you’re on drugs, are you on drugs? Are you still on drugs from last night or did you take some before you came here?”

“I’m on the most powerful drug in the world: love,” John proclaimed. Then at Johnny’s unimpressed look he backtracked, “Ok, I’m not exactly in love but I feel like I could be if I get my hands on Paulina’s number. She left this morning saying she doesn’t have time for a relationship but maybe I can convince her. Hence why I need her number, so can you get it for me? Ask Christine, maybe?”

“Whoa! Calm down: since when do you want a relationship?” Johnny asked and John found it offensive that he’d be so appalled. 

“I’m not the harlot you paint me to be, Johnny Boy,” he said. “I have a heart and it’s now beating for this beautiful girl and I would really like if you help me find my way back to her. So what’s it gonna be, uh? You’re gonna ask Christine for Paulina’s number or shall I go and ask her myself?”

Johnny sighed, putting down his instrument. “I’m gonna ask her if Paulina’s interested in giving you her number, and then we’ll see. Don’t you dare going see anyone before I find out if this poor girl wishes to get away from you as fast as she can or not, ok?”

John crossed his heart with a grin. “I’m sure she won’t mind,” he said with a convincing tone even if inside, he wasn’t that sure about it. Perhaps Paulina would’ve found him annoying in his quest for her attention, as if he were one of those little dogs that bark and whine all the time for a scrap of food or affection; he often felt that way about himself, after all.

—

He got lucky again. Two days later, as he was reading his lines for the play he was gonna do after Thanksgiving, Johnny sent him a phone number. Christine says you have a good shot, the text said, and John made a mental note to send Christine flowers, or chocolate, or whatever a viola player might need. He texted Paulina straight away, asking her how her studying was going.

Szczęściarz, she texted back much quicker than John would’ve hoped. It’s going well, thank you. How did you get my number?

I have my ways ;)
I just wanted 2 check in, see how u doin
If u need a break u know where 2 find me!

I have to study for a midterm next week
But we can grab a coffee after that

Sure! Lmk when ur free
And good luck with the midterm!!

Lend me some, szczęściarz
:)

—

They stayed just friends for a while longer. 

They went out for coffees, and study dates that weren’t officially dates when Paulina would spend hours pouring over her manuals and notebooks and John would work on learning his lines in silence, repeating them in his mind, occasionally leaving the table to refill their coffee orders — he tried to remember Paulina’s as a way to impress her but she would just change her mind every time, trying all kinds of new stuff even is she kept on saying it all tasted the same. 

They didn’t sleep together, didn’t kiss, didn’t do anything that wasn’t strictly platonic. They went to the movie theatre pretty often and alternated who was going to choose the movie every time — thrillers or old restored films when it was Paulina’s turn, action movies or comedies when it was John’s, one time a scary movie that had them clinging to each other the whole time, hiding their faces into the other’s neck in the most platonic way of all. A romantic movie once, that made John tear up pretty loudly but Paulina was merciful enough to pretend she didn’t hear him.

John even downloaded Duolingo to learn some Polish and even if it wasn’t his forte, he still managed to send her a good luck text in her own language before one of her midterms; and though he wasn’t there to see it, she blushed fiercely when she got the message.

Johnny was positively astonished by John’s resilience in not giving up. “When was the last time you put that kind of effort on anything that wasn’t acting?” He asked him one night as they were having dinner in John’s flat. 

John stared at him, brow furrowed. “You know how I am with things and people I really care about, Johnny Boy. Or should I have left you alone the first, the second, the umpteenth time you looked at me all brooding telling me to go fuck myself?”

Johnny scoffed. “I’m just saying if you actually succeed in getting together with her, either you’ll marry this girl or she’ll break your heart in the worst possible way,” he said — he didn’t know it yet but he would end up being practically right, she was going to break John’s heart but the worst actual pain wouldn’t come until years later, and not by her hand.

“Fuck Johnny, remind me not to come to you for a good peep talk,” John grimaced.

“I’m just trying to keep you level-headed, God knows you need help with that. What does she think about you acting? Is she coming to see Two Funerals next month?” Johnny enquired, and John was suddenly so grateful he had not said anything to the twins because he certainly didn’t need that kind of interrogation from anyone else. 

“She doesn’t like theatre very much,” he said. “I told her about the show but I don’t think she’s coming: it’s a comedy, she’d find it boring and predictable. But she thinks I’m doing the right thing pursuing something I love so yeah, that has to count for something, doesn’t it?”

“Supportive but in her own lane,” Johnny summarized, his mouth still tilted into a slight frown. “You should ask her to come to the show, like, explicitly. Let her know you’d care if she came, even if she doesn’t like theatre. You watch those boring movies with her after all, it’s only fair.”

John pondered the thought for a while, thoughtfully eating his sushi rolls. “You know what, Johnny Boy? I think you might be right this time, I’m gonna formally invite her.”

Johnny just mumbled something akin to “I’m always right” but John wasn’t listening anymore, he was already fishing for his phone to text Paulina about the upcoming show.

Two Funerals And A Spy was an original play written by some guy named Veal, a promising screenwriter John had met through the network of young people wanting to break through in the theatre industry. It was lighthearted and fun but with great lines and characters that were easy to slip into and John enjoyed rehearsing for it a lot; he was the spy, a guy who decided to kill the husband of the woman he’d been fooling around so they could be together, only to end up killing his lover as well when she didn’t react well to the killing done in her name. The actor playing the husband was Charles Cruickshank, also known as Crank, and the policeman who tried his best to catch John redhanded was Howard Hambone. They didn’t know it yet, but they were gonna become great friends.

The day of the show John was pretty nervous and absolutely certain Paulina wasn’t gonna come. She was having a test that same afternoon and they would never hang out the night after one of her exams because she’d be tired and often nursing a headache. Don’t worry, just think about acing that test, he texted her right before shutting down his phone for the final rehearsal — which went horribly, thank goodness, so the actual show went as smooth as possible.

High on the adrenaline only standing on stage could give him John sauntered out of the community theatre with a smile on his face so big his cheeks were aching, his curls all sweaty and ruffled. He saw his mom with Johnny and May waiting for him out front and walked straight to them, taking all the hugs and compliments they could give him. “Ellie’s sorry but she got sick, and dad had to stay with her,” May told him and John didn’t even complain for the half lie his sister had prepared; he was sure Ellie had to be bedridden for she wouldn’t miss any of his shows, but he was just as sure that his dad had used her sickness as a lame excuse to stay at home.

John’s best friend from high school, Curt, was also there. The two ran to each other and John almost slammed the shorter guy straight into the pavement with the force of his hug; it’d been too long since the last time they’d seen each other since Curt was studying theatre at a drama academy in another town. “You knocked it out of the park, Bucky,” he told him, playfully punching him. “I know raw talent when I see it and you my friend are full of it.”

“Yeah and you know what you’re full of? Shit, my friend,” John shot back pulling him in a headlock. He was so caught up in the joy of a great show and of seeing his best friend he didn’t notice someone else had approached them until he turned around and found himself face to face with Paulina herself.

He almost dropped Curt to the ground in the haste to recompose himself. “Paulina, hi!” He said, clearing his voice and running a hand through his messed up hair. “You came!”

“You got me a ticket,” she simply answered but in her eyes there was something John could’t miss. She smiled at him, that curled up smile of hers John had grown so fond of. The one she only gave him when he would do something to impress her, and it would work. John’s heart lost a beat seeing that smile on her face because it could mean a lot of things, many of them he dared not think about. “You were pretty good,” she added. “I didn’t know you were.”

“Well you know I’m not the bragging type,” he tried but Curt took it as his cue to intervene.

“Oh this guy? This guy is the greatest actor you’ll ever meet,” he said elbowing John in the ribs. “He’s so good he can convince you he’s coy, modest, but don’t let him fool you: he knows he’s good and he likes to be told.”

“Thank you, Curtis,” John said through gritted teeth.

Paulina looked amused by the whole exchange. “You must know him so well, but I believe I’ve never seen you before?” She said, offering Curt her hand.

He shook it with a grin. “Name’s Curtis Biddick, milady. Bucky’s best friend since we were just stupid kids and used to rule the school’s drama club. I’m also an actor, almost as good as him!”

“Really?” Paulina asked. “From what I’ve seen tonight, he’s pretty hard to beat,” she added and John would’ve proposed in that exact moment, gotten down on one knee on the dusty sidewalk and asked, no begged her to marry him for the way pride was lighting up her beautiful smile. He made the rest of the introductions, watching closely as him mom shook Paulina’s hand giving her a not so quick, not so subtle once-over to assess if the girl was worthy of her beloved son — and she was, apparently, because the polite smile on Rebecca Egan’s face softened into something more natural and sincere, and John didn’t miss the hint of relief flashing in Paulina’s eyes.

They all went to dinner after, burgers and fries in a nearby diner. Crank and Ham went with them and John introduced them to Curt and Johnny so they could spend the rest of the evening talking about theatre, music and stuff while he could give his full attention to Paulina. “I’m really glad you came to see the show,” he told her, one arm slung across the back of her chair, almost resting against her shoulders. “It was… unexpected.”

“I wanted it to be a surprise,” Paulina admitted as she sipped her Coke, eyes never leaving John. “I couldn’t very well tell you I was going to come when you first invited me, you would’ve been insufferable.”

John brought a hand to his heart in faux affront. “How dare you? I would’ve simply acted my ass off just to impress you!”

“You did pretty good either way,” she said. Then, “You look different when you’re on stage, you know? It’s not just the fact that you’re playing someone else, you really look… different. And sound different, too. You’re very appreciable when you act.”

John laughed, knowing a pink blush was blooming on his cheeks. “Appreciable, uh? More or less than when I’m bringing you vodka sodas after you’ve teared some asshole apart?” He asked, the still lingering adrenaline making him braver, more daring.

And this time the bet succeeded: Paulina scooted even closer to him and laid back on her chair, her shoulders finally resting against John’s arm. She looked at him like she had some sort of secret and said, voice low and a little raspy, “More.”

They said goodbye quickly after that, John hugging and kissing everyone, promising he’d call them the day after getting some rest, Paulina standing by his side and politely waving goodbye. She didn’t notice the exaggerated looks Curt and Johnny were throwing their way or more likely, she didn’t mind them. She walked John back at his place, nodded when he suggested going upstairs for one last nightcap, and pressed against him standing in his small kitchenette, John’s back against the fridge as she snaked a hand to the back of his neck to pull him closer and brush their mouths together. 

“I’ve been dreaming about this for a while,” John murmured against her parted lips, tongue itching to dart out and dive into her inviting mouth. He felt her breath hitch, her lips curving into a smile. 

“Me too,” she said and she finally kissed him, without any more restraint.

—

They spent two years together, give or take.

Four birthdays, two Christmases, two summer breaks spent traveling around the States, camping under the stars, sleeping and fucking in their tent. Endless nights in John’s studio apartment, a few in Paulina’s room with constant music in the background, almost a year in a shared apartment  where the living room and the bedroom where two, clearly divided spaces.

John was with her when Paulina graduated with honors, hollering and cheering for her like he was at a Yankees game. He met her family, briefly and mostly through the screen of her phone, trying his hand at what little Polish he’d learned. Paulina was with him when Johnny graduated and the entire Egan family came to celebrate, she met John’s father and learnt quickly to steer clear of him before he could rope her — “an engineer, John, someone with a normal job!” — into trying to change John’s mind about his life. 

He was with her when she got an interview for her first job and when she failed it, holding her tight to comfort her and offering to go and beat the interviewer up and other silly stuff until he made her laugh, albeit still a bit wetly. She was with him through endless auditions, some that went well and others that went really bad. She helped him learn his lines, reading opposite him and thickening her accent as much as she could so that he would laugh, and remember them better.

He was with her when she finally got a job, one she liked less than the first one but that was still a cause for celebration with cheap sparkling wine — and vodka. He would make her lunch to bring to the office and send her stupid texts and pictures to keep her company throughout the day, and when she got back he was always ready to listen to her ranting and bitching about her coworkers so that he would know who to avoid and who was safe to chat with at her office’s Christmas party.

She was with him when he met Bubbles at an improv night, and when Bubbles introduced him to his best friend Harry who was a director and screenwriter with a soft spot for the classics; they even speculated for weeks about the whole Bubbles-Harry-Jean situation wondering who was having an affair with whom, until they found out there was no affair, just three people madly in love with each other. She was with him when the Bloody Hundredth was officially founded, and that was probably the last, truly happy moment they spent together.

To this day, John still wonders when exactly it all went wrong. Their relationship wasn’t all sweetness and light — sometimes they would fight because Paulina would call John immature for something he did, or John would complain that she was always at work with no time to spare to stay with him. They would fight, shout at each other, and even sleep separately those nights when they couldn’t make peace before bedtime. But they would always make up, apologize, try to do better.

That’s why it caught him completely by surprise when Paulina came home from work one night, looking all tense and worried, fidgeting with the strap of her bag in a way that was so unlike her it set off all of John’s alarms, and said, “I got a job offer.”

John put down the pan he was using, still puzzled. He knew Paulina didn’t like her job that much so a new offer would’ve been a good thing, but why was she looking so worried about it? “That’s good, more people recognizing your worth,” he tried. “Is it at another study, or another role where you’re working?”

“It’s somewhere else,” she said, still not looking at him. 

“Is it far from here?” He tried again — leaving town now that the Bloody Hundredth was a living thing wasn’t possible, but they could give a try to a long-distance relationship and figure the details as they went — how far was too far for a relationship to work? Alaska? California?

She finally raised her eyes, a mix of sadness and resolution in them that stung John’s heart. “It’s in Poland.”

That was too far.

Fear clung, cold and slimy, at the back of John’s neck. He didn’t want Paulina to move to Poland, of course he fucking didn’t: she was not just a girl he’d been screwing in his spare time, she was his girlfriend, the first one he’d ever actually cared about. They weren’t even thirty yet but it was something huge, something important that they were building into a future together — they were even sharing a flat, for fuck’s sake, and none of it could continue, let alone work if they had to live in different continents. 

It would’ve been so easy to tell her that. To say he loved her too much to think about letting her go, that she should’ve just kept looking for a better job where they were, a state or two over maximum. He even opened his mouth to speak those words, but something inside him pulled him into a stop.

Because he knew Paulina missed her family, her language, her homeland. He knew she hated always having to speak English because no one could understand her, not even her own boyfriend no matter how hard he tried. And he knew she didn’t like her job here in America, and probably wouldn’t have liked any other job in any other state because she didn’t like to work with American, not that he could blame her. 

But most importantly he knew he couldn’t force her to stay with him because if she’d asked him to go to Poland with her, he would’ve said no. Not with the company, not without a job, not without even knowing the language.

So he closed his mouth, clenching his teeth, and turned around. “Is it an interesting opportunity?” He asked, hoping with all his heart it wasn’t.

“It is, yes. More similar to the job I wanted before I got this one, you know, much closer to what I wrote my dissertation on,” she answered and John knew in that moment that he’d already lost her.

He nodded, focusing on the stoves in front of him and hoping he’d be a good enough actor not to let her know how much it hurt him to say, “You should look into it. It sounds like something that could really change your life, you know? It would be silly to let it pass.”

He did not see the look on her face, he didn’t want to see it. “Are you sure?” She asked, and his cowardice must’ve been contagious because she didn’t ask and what about you, will you come with me? As if she, as well, already knew. 

—

It didn’t last long after that. Paulina got an interview, then a second one, then another one, then a test. She passed everything with flying colors and John celebrated with her every step of the way that was taking her far from him. At every new interview she asked him if he was sure she should continue, a hint of begging in her eyes John couldn’t understand if it was because she wanted him to say yes or no so he just said yes, he was sure, it’s what was best for her. 

When she finally got the job he threw her the biggest celebration of all and when she started crying, overwhelmed by all of that, he promised he’d be with her the whole time for whatever she needed. And when all the bureaucracy was taken care off, her stuff all sorted and sold or packed for the one way trip, they spent one last night holding each other in their bed in the small flat they’d called home for a while. “I’m going to miss this,” she said, speaking softly enough that John could have missed the raw pain in his voice if he didn’t know her so well. “This being at home.”

“You’ll feel at home there soon enough”, he tried to comfort her, placing a kiss on her hair.

She sighed in response and stayed quiet for a long while before murmuring, “Not like this.”

John couldn’t find anything else to say.

He drove her to the airport the following morning, helped her check in her huge suitcases and walked her as far as he could before the airport security started looking at him the wrong way. They didn’t say they were parting for good, they didn’t try to lie about making an effort, keeping in touch with video calls at odd hours for a few months before officially giving up — it’s not you, it’s me, it’s no one’s fault, life got in the way, I’m gonna miss you, I still love you.

They hugged, and then Paulina simply pressed a kiss to his forehead like he’d done all those long months ago. “You’re gonna do great things, szczęściarz. I know it,” she said.

“You too, szczęściara,” he answered with a trembling grin. “Now go and rock their fucking world.”

—

There have been others, after Paulina. 

Girls and boys alike, no strings attached, easy things — too easy, Johnny and the guys might say — to empty John’s mind for a little as he focused on the thing that mattered most, theatre. No one ever mattered, no one’s ever taken up space in John’s head for more than the hours spent together; no one until Buck. 

Buck, who John hasn’t stop thinking about for even a second since they kissed two nights ago at the Abbotts, whose mouth has left bruises all over John’s neck, whose legs have been pressed against John’s thighs in the most delicious way, whose shy smile is now permanently printed on the insides of John’s eyelids. 

He’s ok with taking it as slow as Buck needs to, now that he knows his story and how important it is that Buck shared it with him. It’s too early to declare to the world he’s fallen in love with the blond guy, no matter how much a hopeless romantic John is, but it’s fair to say he firmly believes that something good and great can blossom between them with time and patience — and John can be an extremely patient man, when he sets his mind to it.

He sees him now, waiting for him on the sidewalk outside the Abbotts, lost in his thoughts until he notices John waving at him his eyes light up. The lower half of his face is covered by that blue scarf that looks so ridiculously good on him, but John likes to imagine that he’s smiling underneath it.

He wants to kiss him but the scarf’s in the way, so when he finally gets close enough to touch him he envelops him in his arms, rejoicing at the feeling of his warm, lean body against his, and kisses him on the cheek before letting go and settling for an arm across his shoulders.

“How did the planning go, professor Cleven?” He asks and smiles to himself when Buck’s cheeks flush even more, and not for the brisk autumn air. 

“Good. I have a geometry pop quiz on Wednesday, some more algebra, maybe some trigonometry if there’s enough time.”

John’s very own nightmare if he was still in high school. “Your poor students, I do not envy them. A geometry pop quiz? Such a good way to ruin one’s week”, he says and grins when Buck rolls his eyes at him.

“Most of them would surely agree with you, but they’re starting to like me so I don’t think they’ll complain too much,” he argues and this is something John can be sure about. He follows Buck inside, relieved when they step into the familiar warmth of the theatre, and walks with him to the ushers’ room.

“How are they? Any good?” He asks, but any other quip he had in mind gets wiped away by the sight of Buck taking off his jacket in front of him: he’s wearing a blue sweater, the same exact hue of the scarf, and when he turns around John can see it compliments his eyes just as well. It’s a bit too large on him, the neckline exposing a silver of Buck’s collarbones and John finds himself fantasizing about Buck wearing his clothes — he can picture him perfectly in his mind, the hem of John’s shirts reaching his mid thighs, maybe as he’s wearing nothing else underneath it-

“What?”

Shit, John thinks, ripped from his daydream. Buck was speaking and he hasn’t heard a single word, but he can’t ask him to repeat because if Buck asks him why he wasn’t listening John is gonna bury himself under the floor boards of the theatre; and now he’s caught him staring, of all things, like John’s a lovestruck teenager or something.

“Nothing, Buck,” he tries with his best relaxed smile. “It’s just, I think it’s the first time I’ve ever seen you not dressed all in black,” he adds, hanging his leather jacket next to Buck’s coat.

“I’m not on duty today, I told you,” Buck shoots back, looking awfully pleased by the way John noticed the slight change in him. He gestures for John to follow him to the foyer, which is way warmer than the lobby and John is grateful he’s only wearing a t-shirt now, especially when they sit down at the table near the bar and the closeness to Buck’s body makes his skin tingle. He wonders, not at all for the first time, how their bodies would feel like pressed together without any clothes in the way; if Buck’s skin would be much colder than his, if they’d slot together perfectly like puzzle pieces, how good would those legs and that ass look free of barriers.

“Well, I do like your usual skinny jeans,” he says. “But blue suits you better, if I may say.”

“You may,” Buck says with a smile. “I like your t-shirt. I don’t know how you’re not freezing to death wearing just that and your jacket, but it’s nice. It, erm, it looks good on you,” he adds and John feels suddenly even hotter, overly conscious of every inch of his skin in a delightful way. He stretches on the chair, the white shirt following the movement and emphasizing his chest and shoulders, and has to look away when Buck’s eyes don’t leave his body for even a second as he takes him in,

“So, there’s no show tonight and we’re not rehearsing. Are you sure we’re allowed to be here?” He asks, suddenly worried: he doesn’t need to cause problems with Harding, no matter how hot Buck is in that sweater and looking at him with hungry eyes, and being caught making out with one of his ushers when neither of them are supposed to be there constitutes as a problem. 

“I’m sure. I basically run the place,” Buck says and his confidence sounds so fake John has to bite his tongue not to chuckle. “And I’ve also locked the stage door from the inside, so no one can disturb us.”

Now, that’s interesting, John thinks with a sly grin, cocking his head to the side in focus. “Oh, did you?” He asks and the grin Buck grants him in response is even wider than his, pink lips all lovingly curled up. John reaches for his face, squeezes his jaw as gently as he can even if all he wants to do is devour him. “Well, if that’s the case, Buck.”

The kiss is slower, soft, sweet. Buck’s lips are still unfairly soft and silk smooth against John’s chapped ones and he responds to John’s movement with more ease than last time, opening his mouth for him when John moves one hand to the back of his head and threads his fingers through the fluffy blond locks there. It lasts an eternity and yet is over too soon, Buck catching his breath with a loopy look on his face. 

I could spend days kissing you like this, John thinks and goes to start again, but Buck plants one hand against his chest and ruins his day with just four words.

“We need to talk.”

Chapter Text

During his thirty years of life John has learnt more than a few lessons: the hair of the dog is the only real cure for an hangover, reading your lines with another voice is the best way to memorize them properly, if you have younger siblings the fault of anything that happens in the house is always gonna be yours, tearing one’s ACL hurts like fucking hell. 

Nothing good ever comes following the words we need to talk.

Dozens of girls and a few boys have said those words to him before dumping him for one reason or another. His parents as well, before telling him they wouldn’t let him enroll in the Drama Academy after high school. Paulina before fucking off halfway across the world — no, to be fair she never actually spoke those words because that would’ve meant fucking talking about it and they weren’t doing it. 

And now, Buck.

“What happened? Did I do something wrong?” He asks, trying not to sound too desperate. He’s racking his brain trying to pinpoint a moment when things went wrong, when he made a faux pas, anything, but he can’t. Buck asked him to kiss him two nights ago, didn’t complain when John did it, no hesitation from either of them. He’s also the one who suggested they meet at the Abbotts tonight, after rating John’s daily pun a solid 3.5/5, and again didn’t pull away when John kissed him — he locked the theatre’s door from the inside so they could have privacy, for fuck’s sake. What the hell happened in the last thirty second that changed Buck’s mind?

“No, of course not. Why would you think that?” Buck indeed asks him, and he even has the nerve to look perplexed at John’s question — it’s bad, isn’t it, that John finds him so endearingly handsome even now?

John leans back in his chair, arms crossed on his chest in what his mother would call his typical defense stance. “Usually when people say that it doesn’t bring anything good, in my experience,” he huffs out. “So tell me Buck, did I do something wrong? Is it irreparable?”

You’re so dramatic, a voice inside his head tells him; it might be May’s, or Curt’s, or his dad’s. Either way John knows it, and he’s not ashamed of it.

“You didn’t do anything wrong, John. I’m not trying to stop this thing,” Buck says gesturing frantically between the two of them and maybe the fact that he’s calling it a thing and not a relationship of any kind should be enough for John to storm out in a fit of rage but he doesn’t, and Buck continues, “I’m trying to, I don’t know, understand it.”

What the fuck is there to understand? John thinks. He almost says it as well but Buck looks so tense, so preoccupied with the whole situation that John doesn’t find it in his heart to be so aggressive. So he nods at him to keep talking, arms still crossed over his chest, still ready to fight as well as to fly. He watches attentively as a kaleidoscope of emotions swirl across Buck’s face, desire and then doubt, fear and then hope, trepidation and then resolution. “I don’t want anything serious right now,” he says eventually, sounding like a child who’s thrown a firecracker in a crowd and is now hiding behind the corner waiting for it to cause ruckus. 

John feels it, the bitter taste of resignation at the back of his tongue. So that’s how it goes, Buck let him kiss him to scare away the curse of all those years without someone else’s body close to his and now he’s dismissing him — thank you so much, but your services are no longer required.

Except, why is he still looking at John like that? Like he wants something from him?

“And what do you want?” He asks.

“I want this, and even something more. But casual.”

They must have two wildly different ideas of what casual means because for the life of him John can’t think of a way to make what they have into something more, which for him could only mean progressing into a physical relationship and settling together, while at the same time keeping it casual. “Something more, but casual?” He asks, still confused. Then it dawns on him. 

Oh. 

“Something more in a, ah, physical way, you mean? Like, what, a friends with benefits situation?” John tries, hoping in his heart the answer will be no.

“Yes!” Buck exclaims, excited. “That’s it. You know my story now, you can understand why it’s hard for me to settle into a serious relationship. But I like you, John, and I like the way you make me feel so I though maybe we could limit ourselves to that. What do you think?”

I think it’s a stupid fucking idea because I like you and you like me so why are we even discussing it? John wants to say, but he doesn’t. His ears are starting to ring in a way that feels dreadfully familiar, words are pressing against his teeth to come out but he still swallows them and says something else. “And what would be the limits? I suppose you’ve thought about it.”

Buck nods thoughtfully, as if he’s trying to get things in order inside his head. “Sex, but not all the way,” he starts — which is good, in John’s book, because it means Buck’s been thinking about it too, that it wasn’t just him fantasizing about getting his hands on that beautiful body of his.

“Maybe not telling it to everybody,” Buck continues. This is gonna be a little harder for John, because he knows he truly is an open book for the people who love him and the guys are gonna catch up so quickly that something fishy’s going on, they’re gonna be all over him in two days tops. Especially if he and Buck will continue using the Abbotts as the primary location for their tryst — great, now he sounds like one of those romance novels Ellie and May used to devour when they were younger. 
But if Buck wants to swear him to secrecy then John’s not gonna admit anything to anyone, he’ll be like a soldier interrogated by the enemy, name and rank and nothing else.

“Exclusivity, if you’re ok with that,” Buck adds sounding almost sheepish and John would start laughing outright if he wasn’t so unsettled by the surreality of the whole situation. If he’s ok with that, Buck says, like John’s had space in his mind to think about anyone else but him since the very first moment he met him; like he would survive the idea of sharing him with anyone else.

“And no kissing.”

Now, that’s too much.

“Why?! I thought you liked it!” John protests, not caring a lick about how petulant or desperate he sounds like — fuck that, he’s not gonna agree to this. This is where he draws the line, he has to because now that he’s learnt how kissing Buck feels like he’s sure he’s not ready to give it up. It’s a subject he’s still learning, a script he’s still committing to memory; he’s yet to know all the noises he could steal from Buck as he kisses him, or how Buck kisses when he’s angry, sad, out of his mind with arousal, excited, sleepy. He’s yet to discover if Buck’s lips are always so soft, what his mouth tastes like first thing in the morning, how would it be to kiss him after he’s had one of his girly drink, the heady mixture of sugar and alcohol on his tongue. He cannot give that up, he’s stubborn, he won’t.

“I do, but I think it would complicate things,” Buck admits and John heats up with vindication. He takes the little leverage Buck gave him, grabs it and pushes. “What if we kissed only during our rendezvous? You can’t have decent sex without making out a little,” he says as if he’s bartering, pressing down onto the word sex just to see Buck’s cheeks flush with a tease, to remind him what they’re talking about — and judging by how Buck’s been looking forlornly at his mouth as John speaks, he figures he’s already won at least this battle.

“Ok, it’s a good compromise,” Buck yields and it gives John hope for a feeble moment that he’ll be able to turn his mind around on all the things he’s just said. It’s brief, blink and you miss it, then Buck tilts once again the scale in his favor by asking again, “So, what do you think?”

The fact is, John’s had friends with benefits before. He knows how it works.

He knows it always starts with all the best intentions, we like each other physically but it’s not deep enough to create a meaningful connection in any other way so why not fool around a little? It’s not like anyone’s getting hurt, no one cares enough about the whole thing to get hurt. Right?

He knows it actually works out for a while. The no strings attached, the secrecy of the whole thing makes it actually hotter somehow, and the sex is usually great the first few times because it’s just that, it’s just sex. You take care of your partner while you’re in bed together, make sure you’re not the only one enjoying the sex you have fun together and then you’re back to your own lives. No obligations, no fidelity required: just unadulterated, consensual fun.

Until one of you catches feelings. Or you get bored and try to move on only to find out that the other person has been harboring feelings since the very beginning and was just hoping for you to magically develop some as well. 

In John’s experience it never ends well, there’s always someone suffering — most times it’s been the other person but sometimes it’s been him. This time? It’s gonna be him for sure.

He should say no. He should be honest about his feelings, telling Buck this is not what he wants because he likes him more than just for sex and that they should at least give it a try, go on a few dates, kiss some more, figure out if this could work. They can have sex, in whatever manner Buck decides, but it doesn’t have to be just that.

Except this must be all Buck wants. It would make no sense for him to suggest they keep things strictly physical if he wanted something more meaningful, especially not after what he told John about his own past relationships. So what if he asks for more and Buck says no? What if this is the only chance he gets at being with the guy, somehow?

He’s not gonna throw it away like this.

Instinctively he rolls his shoulders, squares up like he does when he’s tackling a hard scene, and offers Buck his hand. “Sounds good,” he says. “I’m in if you are, Buck.”

A shadow crosses over Buck’s face, dulls the sky blue of his eyes like clouds running fast and wild over open fields in the middle of summer. It’s just for a moment though and when it passes the sky is clear again, the brows set, and he shakes John’s hand. His palm is cold, the skin smooth, and the touch lingers.

John can’t help but feel like this is an ever bigger, ever worse bet than the one he’s made to stay at the Abbotts.

He grants Buck a smile even if his insides are churning in a not so pleasant way. Buck keeps worrying his lower lip between his teeth as he looks at him and John wishes he would stop, let that soft, pink pillow go, kiss him if he really doesn’t know what to do with it. He sees himself grabbing Buck’s jaw, rubbing his thumb across his abused lip and bring his mouth to his once more to silence the buzzing noise inside his brain; but he won’t, because Buck said no kissing. They’re in Buck’s game now and it’s only fair he’s the one to take initiative.

So John just leans back in his chair, arms still crossed over his chest, and looks at him. Come on, he thinks. Get what you want.

Buck moves ever so slowly, every gesture he makes holds the weight of an uneven rhythm he’s still trying to learn. He leans closer into John’s space but doesn’t aim for his face like John would’ve thought, he lays a hand upon his arm and rubs his thumb over the hem of the t-shirt’s sleeve, pressing gently into the warmth of John’s bicep. He flexes it almost instinctively, as if to give Buck proof that he’s alive and present right here, right now, that he’s not abandoning him in any way.

Nothing changes on Buck’s face, the mask the guy wears still in place, but John still senses him relax. There’s still caution in the way he drags his palm up John’s forearm to his shoulder but he does it with more ease — he’s learning his steps, the blocking, his lines.

John almost starts trembling when Buck’s hand slides up to his face, cupping his cheek and stroking his cheekbone with a tenderness he’s not used to and that fills his stomach with hiccuping butterflies. He leans into the touch, almost trapping Buck’s hand between his face and his shoulder before Buck moves it to the back of his head, caressing the longer hair there. He didn’t bother combing his hair before leaving the house, there should be knots there from the ride on Our Baby and the helmet and yet Buck doesn’t catch on any, doesn’t pull, doesn’t hurt him; his hand is firm but delicate against the nape of John’s neck, his fingers run through John’s curls like they’re made of silk and John can’t keep himself from smiling any longer for his heart is overflowing with something he doesn’t dare name yet that pushes to get out, in some way.

He’s still smiling when Buck finally kisses him, lips pressed desperately against John’s as if he’s afraid he will draw back any second. John welcomes him, lips and teeth parting for Buck’s tongue to lick deeply into his mouth with such desperate passion it steals the air from his lungs; he gasps, heart jackrabbiting so loud in his ribcage he’s surprised Buck isn’t feeling it drumming against his own chest where it’s pressed against John’s. 

Buck seems determined to learn as much as he can about John’s body and about what makes him sound this or that way and John is glad someone else’s taking control for once, for he rarely gets to relinquish the yoke but Buck likes it, he moves slowly and with intention. The fingers he still has in John’s hair tighten their grip a little, just enough to send a pleasant thrill of excitement down John’s spine and right to his crotch, a shaky breath leaving his mouth cut off by a surprised moan when Buck downright pulls John’s hair to tilt his head back and kiss him deeper, better.

He shifts on the chair, sliding closer to John without ever leaving his lips and thus ending up in an awkward half kneeling position in John’s lap — such determination would be amusing, if it wasn’t just more than a bit heartbreaking. John spreads his legs to accommodate him and hums satisfied when Buck sits on one of his thighs, puts one hand on Buck’s hip to keep him close and basks in the solid warmth of his body against his own; the subtle shift of his legs to keep himself balanced, the light tapping of one foot against the polished floor, his tongue exploring John’s mouth as if he’s trying to commit to memory the sharp line of his teeth, soft hair falling down on his forehead and brushing against John’s, one hand against his throat with his thumb pressed against John’s pulse point, the fingers of the other toying with the ringlets of his hair. 

Buck breaks the kiss but doesn’t pull away, starts trailing his lips in featherlike touches up John’s cheekbone, down his jaw. He’s so tender now it’s overwhelming, conflicting emotions fogging up John’s brain cause it’s almost unfair that Buck’s treating him like this, with kisses so gentle like John’s made of precious crystal, like he deserves to be loved. The hand he has on Buck’s hip keeps twitching, fingers gripping and releasing the coarse denim of his pants and oh how he needs him, needs him now, he wants to sink his teeth into him like a ripened fruit, lick up the juice until there’s nothing left like when he was a kid, always getting stomachaches because when he liked something he just couldn’t control himself.

And he loses control even now, for he’s never learnt a damn thing in his life that wasn’t Shakespeare’s lines. He presses his fingers into the taut muscle of Buck’s hip and a surprised gasp falls from his lips right into John’s mouth before Buck kisses him again, with force as if in retaliation — and John responds in kind, sucking Buck’s tongue into the warm depth of his mouth, biting, chasing, pulling and catching until the room is filled with shaky breaths and keening moans. He keeps touching Buck everywhere he can, stroking his thigh as to soothe him like a spooked horse because he feels too tense against him and John is worried about him, despite the heat going to his brain as all blood runs south.

“Jesus, Buck,” he says trying to catch his breath. “You’re too tense, you feel like haywire. Why don’t you relax a little?” He adds against the soft skin of Buck’s throat, lips skimming and teeth barely scratching even if he wants to leave a mark so badly.

“I’m trying”, is Buck’s strained response, the rumble of his voice in his throat tickling John’s mouth in the most pleasant way. He should slow down, give Buck time to adjust to the physical and emotional kaleidoscope he’s put him through before he panics or worse, change his mind entirely about what he wants from him, but he doesn’t want to. He just needs to give him something that’ll ground him enough to be fully in the moment, make him the focus of his attention so he won’t feel lost.

John racks his brain for a while, though it’s difficult to concentrate on anything else given the way Buck’s mouth is attacking every uncovered inch of skin he can find with increasing desperation; then, a glance around the room gives him the answer. He nudges Buck to make him stand up and feels him tremble in his arms. “No, wait,” he all but pleads — like John could be changing his mind now, in the middle of a make-out session like this.

“Trust me,” John simply says sealing the words with a kiss, and then pulls Buck toward the theatre’s auditorium. He figures if Buck loves this place so much, for what it is and for what it represents for him, then the quiet darkness of the auditorium is the perfect place for him to center himself; he knows he got it right when he hears him draw a shuddering breath the moment they pass through the velvet blue curtain into the bigger room, the unyielding smell of dust and wood polishing that’s in every theatre John’s ever set foot into clinging to them like a cozy blanket.

Buck leans back against the velvet covered wall and John can’t hold back a smile as he takes him in, beautiful and shy in the half-light of the auditorium, lips swollen and eyes dark and wide. Hesitant, Buck lifts a hand and threads his fingers with John’s, pulling him closer. “Thank you,” he says, a little more than a rough whisper before he’s kissing him again with unbearable softness.

John pushes back, crowds him against the wall and kisses him properly, gives him everything actually now that he can, pressing his whole body against Buck’s and lining them up in all the right spots — their hips slotting together like puzzle pieces, his cock rubbing against the curve of Buck’s from over their pants, only low moans leaving the cage of their mouths glued together. His hands start roaming down until his fingertips find the hem of Buck’s blue sweater — for how beautiful he looks in it, John’s now itching to see him without. “Off,” he demands and Buck’s quick to oblige, his t-shirt rising slightly with the movement and like that John can make the most of the warm, sweaty skin of Buck’s abdomen, of his sides, lower and lower until his fingertips are dancing along the line of his waistband, never dipping under it no matter how desperately Buck’s bucking his hips against him. He can endure a little teasing, John thinks, for what he’s putting him through.

“Tell me what do you want, Buck,” he said in his ear, tries to keep his voice calm and steady but fails miserably.

“Want you to touch me,” Buck answers choking on his own breath and it goes straight to John’s cock but he’s not yielding. He moves his hand lower, stroking Gale through his pants and bites his lip so hard he almost draws blood at the feel of the warm, hard length underneath. “Like this?”

Buck shakes his head. “More,” he gasps.

John makes quick work of his belt and buttons and lets his hand slide inside the opening, squeezing Buck through his brief. He watches in rapture his reaction, how he throws his head back against the wall, eyes fluttering shut, lip caught in his teeth. He’s doing all this because he’s touching him, John violently realizes, he likes it so much and it’s John who’s bringing him so much pleasure; he feels himself flushing, his face getting hotter for something other than arousal. A sudden wave of nervousness flickers through him, his jaw ticking with it but he tries to stave it off.

“Like this?” He teases again. He certainly doesn’t expect Buck to look at him through half-lidded eyes, the picture of utter abandonment, and only whine out a broken “John, please” in response. It’s what finally breaks him, and he can only swear under his breath before finally taking him into his hand. 

He’s so hard it must be painful and for a brief moment John almost feels sorry for having teased him so much, but the broken sound Buck lets out when John drags his palm up his cock, back arched and hips bucking into John’s hand, is enough to steal a proud, mischievous grin from him. He thumbs Buck’s slit with care, collecting enough precome to make the glide easier and smoother, and starts stroking him with slow, steady jerks of his wrist. Frenzied, Buck kisses him again, and again, and again, until he’s out of breath and goes to hide his face in the curve of John’s neck. His punched out moans reverberate throughout the whole auditorium and John thinks it’s gonna be hard to focus on anything other than their memory the next time he’s gonna set foot on stage here.

He keeps his other hand on Buck’s hip, thumb stroking the protruding bone there as if he’s still trying to soothe him; then, with kind of a mean streak, he twists his wrist in a certain way he likes a lot on himself and smiles smugly when Buck practically cries out at that, knees buckling and hips snapping frantically, fucking himself into John’s hand.

“Fuck. Let me look at you Buck, please,” John groans. He’s so close to losing it just by watching Buck, there’s must be something deeply wrong with him — or maybe deeply right with what they’re doing together. Buck obeys, he lifts his head trembling and looks at him, his eyes so dark and deep John wants to drown in them. “God, you’re so beautiful,” he tells him, then lowers his mouth to Buck’s throat, peppers it with kisses and teasing nips. He feels him getting tenser and tighter against him, the hand at the back of his head traversed by electric spasms. 

“M’not gonna last longer,” Buck pants almost sounding disappointed. It makes John laugh, a puff of air against the sensitive skin of his neck that makes Buck shiver. “Go on, Buck. I’ve got you,” John says right here, then searches for Buck’s pulse until he finds it, frantic, under his tongue, and sucks a vicious bruise there.

Buck snaps, gets impossibly rigid and shouts as he comes, his fingertips digging almost painfully in John’s flesh like his body is the only thing keeping him anchored to this world; then he goes boneless in John’s hold, head lolling back as John murmurs praises into his ear until he stops spurting hot and white over John’s knuckles. Once he’s done John lets him go, then brings his smeared hand to his mouth and licks it clean while looking into Buck’s wild eyes — he smiles when Buck groans at the sight, more affected than he expected. 

John doesn’t know what’s supposed to happen next, wether Buck is gonna jerk him off or he’ll have to do it himself. Usually it’s mutual but Buck looks so spent, so out of his head, John wouldn’t really be offended if he decided it’s been too much for him today. 

Surprising him once again, Buck pulls him closer with a finger looped through his belt. “Come here, let me,” he speaks with voice soft and raspy. 

“You don’t have to,” John assures him but Buck cuts him off with a kiss, stealing his own spent from John’s mouth. “I want to,” he says, lips hovering against John’s. “We’re equal in this, ok?”

John’s not too sure about that but still he nods, relieved and tingling with anticipation at the thought of having Buck’s hand on him — he’s not gonna last long, he can feel himself leaking into his pants, already so turned on by the way Buck reacted to his touch, and the moan he forces himself to swallow when Buck takes him in his hand only confirms it. 

Buck is tender and gentle once again, kissing softly all over John’s face as he grips him and strokes him, tentatively at first and then with intent once he gets the hang of it — and of course the guy’s a natural, jerking John off with such a minute precision it almost makes him come in a moment. He grabs Buck’s face and kisses him, harsh and with teeth to bite down the moans Buck’s stealing from him; his climax catches him almost by surprise, so sudden and violent like a kick to the back, and he cries Buck’s name as he comes, and comes, and comes, and Buck keeps stroking him until it turns pleasure into something akin to pain and he pulls back with a shaky whimper. 

He grabs Buck’s wrist before he can clean his hand on either of their clothes and brings his palm up to his mouth, licking his own spent from Buck’s lean fingers. He steals a kiss from him making him laugh and he smiles as well before remembering he’s not supposed to kiss him anymore now that they’re done.

They stumble to the floor, heaped on one another — Buck in his arms, his back against John’s chest, and it feels so natural and right John would weep if he wasn’t still hazy from his orgasm, limbs loose and head empty but heavy.

“We’ll have to get a towel or something, next time,” Buck says after a while, a soft murmur breaking the silence of the theatre. It makes John laugh, too loud as he always is, but he can’t help it: the fact that Buck said next time means this can work, it can even grow into something bigger, better. 

“Yeah, we should,” he says back, holding Buck even tighter. “Next time.”

There’s still time, he tells himself. Buck’s not going away. They have time. 

Chapter Text

The darkness has fallen traitorously fast by the time John gets home, lamplights lighting up on the side of the street as he was driving Our Baby through the lazy traffic of an autumn night. He puts the kickstand down with his foot and removes his helmet, chilly air ruffling his curls like benevolent fingers. He feels, all of a sudden, indescribably tired — for the orgasm, maybe, or maybe for the adrenaline drop or the way his heart ached when he said goodbye to Buck outside the Abbotts, the blond’s cheeks still flushed and his lips still a little swollen, inviting John in for a kiss he couldn’t give him.

He walks up to the house, fishes for the keys in the pocket of his leather jacket that’s a bit too light for the kind of winter that’s looming over him. He’s watching himself doing all this from the outside, detached from his own body as he is when he drinks too much or sleeps too little but he manages to insert the key and unlock the door, and the warmer air that hits him straight in the face sobers him up a little.

The light is on in their little kitchen, Crosby and Bubbles standing in front of the oven with a few boxes of frozen lasagnas as they debate in hushed tones about how many they’ll need to feed the whole crew, or wether perhaps a healthier dinner would not be better. Bubbles clocks him, the soft click of the door closing behind him alerting his senses. He smiles as John, glad to see him but a bit surprised. “Bucky! Already back?” He asks.

“Couldn’t leave you guys alone too long,” John answers shrugging off his jacket, hanging it from his designated hook between Curt’s and Johnny’s. The line falls easily through his teeth like it’s rehearsed, ready to go on stage. “Watcha doing there? Making us dinner like the good parents you are?”

“We have lasagnas,” Bubbles explains. “But Harry thinks maybe we should all start eating a little healthier, what with the show and all that.”

“Healthy body, healthy mind,” Crosby adds. He is that kind of freak, forbids them from smoking when they’re working on a play not to ruin their lungs and their voices, keeps them on kinds of healthy diets until they can only resort to sneak out at night to feast on greasy burgers and stuff, Bubbles first among them despite the unwavering loyalty he has for their director. 

It’s not that John thinks he’s delivered his best performances while drunk off his ass or smoking three packs a day, but as per many other things, he believes that virtue stands in the middle. So he cocks one eyebrow at the smaller guy and says, “Cmon Croz, no one’s ever started a new diet on a Sunday. It doesn’t stick! Let’s do lasagnas tonight and green leaves from tomorrow, how about that?”

“My mum always made us lasagnas on Sunday nights,” Bubbles interjects with the kind of doe eyes that he knows will win his partner over; Crosby sighs in defeat, mumbles something along the lines of “I don’t know if we should trust Bucky over stuff like this,” and unwraps the frozen meal. Satisfied, John winks at Bubbles from behind Crosby’s back and walks into the living room. The tv’s on, Crank sitting on the sofa playing some video game John tried but decided was too hard for him; there’s an empty spot next to him and John sinks there, clasping him on the shoulder in lieu of hello and waving him off when he offers him the other joystick, too tired to focus. 

Johnny’s sprawled in the armchair, bony legs askew as he practices his clarinet on mute, earphones in to follow the music as his nimble fingers skate all over the keys, pressing and releasing them to a rhythm only he can follow. It’s such a familiar sight John’s heart aches for it, and in a pleasant way for once. Eyes closed, head lying back against the backrest, he thinks if he manages to follow the non-sound of the empty keys he might recognize the melody, start playing it in his brain.

The clicking stops before he can realize what it means. “Are you ok?” Johnny asks and when John peels one eye open and turns to the side to look at him he sees he still has one earphone in, no music coming out the one hanging off his shoulder. 

“Yeah, yeah. Just a little tired, I might go to bed a bit sooner than usual tonight,” John says.

“Did Buck wore you out already?” Crank asks, a smile in his voice while Johnny groans and rolls his eyes. “You were with him, right? Everything ok?”

“Yeah, everything’s fine. We were hanging out at the Abbotts, chatting, chilling. Nothing special, just a regular, relaxing afternoon,” John answers. He thinks he’s got it, he must have convinced them with his nonchalance — but then Crank pauses the game and turns to him, puzzled.

“Nothing special?” He repeats. “You sure everything’s ok? Just a few nights ago you spent a whole evening making out with Buck, you came home and sounded convinced you were gonna, I don’t know, be together until the end of time and today you’re saying a whole afternoon with him is nothing special?”

John feignes a shrug. “We made out again, if that’s what you’re worried about,” he says. “Didn’t think you guys would be interested in knowing every single detail of what’s going on between me and Buck, that’s all.”

“Since when?” Johnny enquires — both earphones out, the clarinet carefully placed to the side, that particular frown on his face John’s only ever seen when it’s him Johnny’s worried about. “Since when did you become someone so reserved?”

“A man’s allowed to keep some secrets, Johnny Boy. Especially about his romantic affairs, I’d say.”

Johnny scrutinizes him like John’s a new score he’s studying for a concert, chewing on his lower lip and John has a sudden flashback to when Johnny was in college and he used to smoke an old dusty pipe like he was a grandpa or something, keeping it at the corner of his mouth and chewing on it as he studied just like he’s doing right now. “I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad one,” he ends up saying and he sounds like he’s disappointed in himself for not grasping the depths of John’s secret. “But if it was something bad you’d tell us, right?”

John hesitates. He feels more than he sees Crank staring at him from the other side, the game all forgotten, worried about him like Johnny, like a brother. He thinks about the family he has in this old, crowded house, about the frozen lasagnas cooking in the oven, about his friends he’d give his life for but from whom he’s keeping this dirty little secret. He thinks for a moment about all the money he’s gambled away for the success of this family.

He smiles, his mask a bit more convincing this time. “Of course I’d tell ya. I’m ok, guys, I promise. When have you ever known me not to be ok?”

Johnny has the answer written clearly on his face and John’s certain that if he turned around he’d see it loud and clear on Crank’s too. Lucky for him, Crosby calls for someone to go help them set the table and John seizes the opportunity quickly, stands up and goes back to the kitchen before anyone can say anything else to him. The reckoning is only delayed, not avoided, but for tonight it’ll be enough. 

—

When he wakes the following morning, fairly early for a shift at Kidd's, John feels somehow better about the whole friends with benefits situation. Optimistic, hopeful even. 

Just because Buck said he's not ready now, it doesn't mean he'll never be. And maybe John himself had been a tad too hasty in wanting to jump headfirst into a relationship with someone he barely knows, someone who recently shared with him their issues with intimacy and such. So they can use this time, this limbo John's let Buck put them into, to get to know each other better in multiple ways and maybe the thing will just organically progress into a clearer relationship with sex and the whole nine yards. 

His ever present mild headache from sleeplessness eases a little when John puts it like that in his mind, his shoulders less tense. A voice inside his head tries to point out to him that this sounds a lot like a New Year's resolution, a futile attempt to keep himself upright in the face of the worst that's yet to come – but John's always been so good at ignoring that voice, he's almost whistling when he goes down for breakfast. 

Johnny looks up at him from behind the rim of his coffee cup, coffee brown eyes staring at him like he's trying to read into his soul; whatever he sees he must like it, at least something better than what he'd seen in John last night, because he lowers his glaring eyes and doesn't say a thing the whole time John pours himself a bowl of milk and cereals and eats it standing by the kitchen sink, white droplets sticking to his mustache. He even dares to stick out a hand to ruffle Johnny's hair as he walks past him to gather his stuff and the younger man dodges him with a catlike hiss, something he wouldn't do if he was trying to placate John somehow or make him feel better. 

He sends Buck his daily math pun before getting on Our Baby – Why was the geometry book so adorable? Because he had acute angles – asks him if he's working at the theatre today and whether he needs some company, then he's off.

“You look weird,” Kidd welcomes him. “What happened?”

John clasps his shoulder with amicable force, enough to have the other man stumble slightly. “Nothin' you have to worry about Jack, I promise. I'll be focused on whatever you'll have me doing,” he tells Kidd with a complementary grin.

Still looking unconvinced, the mechanic frees himself from John's grip. “Go check that,” he says pointing to a stripped naked car, its engine exposed like a vital organ. “Owner's brought it here two weeks ago and keeps saying we didn't fix shit, he wants his money back so please, find me a way not to.”

John gives him a military salute. “Copy that!”

He's in the middle of his inspection, grease smeared on his forearms and staining the front of his overalls, when he hears his phone buzzing in one of the front pockets. He fishes it out with the cleaner hand and smiles satisfied when he sees Buck's texts, one rating his pun 4 out of 5, the other informing him he's gonna be at the Abbotts for tonight's show and he has some free time after if John wants to join him.

“Egan!” Kidd calls. “How many times do I need to tell you? No phones during work, much less near so much grease! I don't wanna be paying you a new phone because you dropped yours with those dirty hands.”

“Sorry boss!” John chirps texting Buck a quick answer. “Won't happen again.”

“Will too,” Kidd mumbles. “And you look even weirder now, what did the text say?”

“Got a date tonight with a fine piece of-”

“Nuh-uh, you know what? I definitely don't wanna hear about that,” Kidd is quick to stop him, his ever frowning face all scrunched up in a grimace — he reminds John so much of Johnny he can’t help but feel endeared by him. “Get back to work or I will be cutting your lunch break short.”

John doesn't quip back at that, more because he doesn't think Buck would like it if he knew John goes around calling him a fine piece of ass than because Kidd is remotely threatening – twig looking guy, younger than John and already greying at the temples for the stress of simply living. He goes back focusing on the car, puttering about with wrench and bolts; unable to stay quiet he starts going through his lines from the first scene, under his breath so Kidd won't complain. 

“Be collected,” he mutters. “No more amazement. Tell your... piteous heart there's no harm done.”

He makes a face, not entirely convinced of the line nor of his voice. He doesn't think it fits Prospero's character – it's deep and imposing, yeah, but it lacks something. A sharper edge, maybe, emptied of the juvenile amusement of the characters he's used to play. He doesn't need Puck's humor or Cassio's naivety, the teasing or the simplicity; he needs grandeur, magnificence, he needs to be oozing charisma and power. 

Buck would surely understand, he thinks with a smile. He tries to lower his voice even more but he ends up focusing more or that than on the actual lines, messing them up in a way that would have Crosby chucking a full water bottle at his head. Kidd keeps glancing in his direction, evidently perplexed by the way John's talking to himself and making voices, but he can see John's doing the work he's paying him to do so he doesn't complain. Indeed, such a mechanical labor – pun intended he thinks, grinning to himself – helps him concentrate when he abandons his voice studies to focus back on the lines. 

“Twelve year since, Miranda, twelve year since,” he goes on, tightening a loose bolt. “Thy father was the Duke of Milan, and a prince of power.”

– 

Crank arrives just in time for the break to relieve John, carrying with him a grilled cheese sandwich and a coke from a place nearby. It smells so good, greasy and buttery, John almost weeps when he unwraps the brown paper bag and inhales with a satisfied sigh. 

“Crank, I don't know if I've ever told you that but I love you,” he says picking it up without napkins, the sting on his fingertips gladly welcomed. The cheese is gooey, thick when John pulls the two halves apart salivating — he didn’t realize how hungry he was, caught up as he was in his work and his lines. 

“You told me once or twice, but it’s always nice to be reminded,” Crank answers with a grin, picking up his own sandwich from another bag. “It was Brady who told me to bring you lunch though, he said you surely forgot to pack something this morning.”

“Saint Johnny!” John exclaims through a mouthful of bread. “Always looking out for me like a mother hen, I wonder who he got that from. How much do I owe you?”

“It’s on the house,” Crank waves him off sipping his Sprite.

John stiffens. “I can pay you back for a grilled cheese sandwich, Crank,” he says suddenly not at ease anymore, the cheese heavy as lead in his mouth.

Crank gives him a puzzled look. “I know? Since when are we keeping tabs on each other? Last week you paid for my beer and Ham’s, he got us candies, I got you a sandwich, that’s how it’s always worked,” he tells John, talking slowly as if to make him understand better. John feels his cheeks heating up with a shameful blush — of course it’s always been like this, of course his friend’s not trying to rope into a debt. Of course he doesn’t know the secret John’s been keeping.

Crank has a “are you ok?” ready on the tip of his tongue, John knows it like it’s a play they’ve rehearsed a thousand times so he gets ahead of him, anticipates his next line with an exaggerated, theatrical laugh. “Of course, yeah! Sorry man, I’ve been thinking too much about the play, I’ve forgotten I’m not an overthrown duke.”

“Oh yeah, and I’m but your humble servant,” Crank shoots back in his best British accent and John cracks up, his laughter turning into a coughing fit when he chokes on a treacherous piece of toast. His Caliban pats him on the back, halfway through pity and amusement. “Are you ok?” He asks, the fated words finally happening as they were always supposed to.

John nods, drinking his soda to stall a moment more. “I just need to take a nap,” he says. “You know I’m not fully functional without my afternoon beauty sleep.”

“I’ve never known you to be fully functional all these years, Bucky.”

“That’s mean and I’ll take it as my clue to leave,” John announces stuffing the last of the sandwich in his mouth. He realizes belatedly that he forgot to send Buck a picture of his lunch as he usually does and can’t help but feel a pang of guilt through his gut. 

“I’m done here Kidd, Crank’s taking my place!” He hollers, a little louder than he should just so he can enjoy the irked grimace on the mechanic’s face. “See you in two days, yes?”

“Please,” is Kidd’s only response. Cackling to himself John steps out into the foggy afternoon, shivering in his stained overalls when the humid air hits his heated skin. U at the theatre this afternoon? He texts Buck, shrugging on his leather jacket and helmet.

No. West Anglia.
You can come if you want, but I’ll be working.

John smiles at his phone, endeared by Buck’s clumsy attempt at reaching out. 

Lemme just sleep a bit then I’ll come ;)

Don’t overwork yourself.

Y, u need me rested? ;)

Ahah
Wouldn’t want you to fall asleep during the show, it would be embarrassing.
And Marge would kill you, so…

Got it lmao I’ll be ready for whatever tonite 

Ellipses appear and disappear a few times on the screen like Buck’s unsure about what he wants to say. Ignoring the chill that’s washing over him John stares at the phone, curious and amused.

That’s good. I don’t have a first period tomorrow so I can stay late.
Let’s hope the show’s not too long.

U have plans?

Some ideas. :)

John snickers, amazed, the cold suddenly not a problem anymore. Can’t wait to find them out, he texts and then drives away. The city’s layout is becoming more and more familiar each day, he knows which roads to avoid during rush hour, where there are less traffic lights, which one’s the fastest way from the repair shop to the house. He wonders idly where it is that Buck lives, close enough to the Abbotts to get there by bike he supposes but he wouldn’t be surprised if he discovered the other guy stays on the other side of town and bikes to work for sheer spite. He hopes to find out, sooner or later.

The house is blissfully empty when he gets there, face flushed and fingers numb for the chill. Everyone’s out doing their own business, Crosby and Bubbles researching for the play, Johnny teaching music to some kids, Ham and Curt doing whatever it is they’ve been doing since they moved here. The empty house means John can take a shower as hot and as long as he wishes in the upstairs bathroom, usually crammed with four other guys.

He cranks the knob to the highest possible temperature, the bathroom immediately filling with steam. Undressing in front of the window John notices the already fading bruises Buck’s mouth has left on him, on the side of his neck and down to his collarbone; he traces them with his fingers, mind going back to those moments they’ve shared, to the heat of Buck’s mouth on his skin, his mean kisses with some teeth in them and Buck’s fingers pulling at John’s curls as he took him for whatever John had to give him.

He’s hard, his naked cock thickening at the mere thought of Buck’s body pressed against his in the forgiving darkness of the auditorium. Stepping into the shower and under the scalding jet of water, he debates for a second wether to indulge in those thoughts or not since Buck has some ideas for them tonight and he wouldn’t want to disappoint him, but a flash of the other guy’s frowning but affectionate face is enough to have him weak in the knees.

John starts stroking himself, slowly. His face to the water, left hand braced against the tiles, the thumb of his right one sweeping beads of precum from where he’s already leaking, spreading it along his shaft to ease the way. Though he’d never admit it in front of him, it’s not the first time John’s jerked himself off thinking about Buck nor the first time he’s let himself wonder wether Buck has ever done the same, if he has on him the same effect he has on John. 

He groans as he pictures it, Buck in the shower with his pretty cock in hand, breathy moans and whines spilling from his mouth as he imagines John’s hand being on him, pulling him off again and again until he forgets all that’s bad in the world and there’s nothing left in his mind but John. And maybe John would walk in on him, find him shaky and flushed with a pleasure that’s just a smidge out of reach and he would take the matter into his own hands, kneel on the wet tiles and take Buck in his mouth as deep as he can, down his throat until he’s gagging on it and welcoming Buck’s pleasure with his eyes glazed over from the steam and the choking and Buck pulling his hair and-

His orgasm takes him by surprise, moans low from the back of his throat as he squeezes his eyes shut and spills hot all over his hand, dizzy and breathless with it like when he was a kid, green about the trials of pleasure. He blushes at the obscenity, white dripping from his still fisted hand over the tiles, down the drain; he thinks of yesterday, when he licked Buck’s cum from the palm of his own hand, and feels his cock twitch valiantly in interest but he lets go of it, leans back against the wall with his shoulder blades pressed to its coolness in relief. 

If he was anyone else he’d feel awkward about having to see Buck later after what he’s just done; but he’s John Egan, for fuck’s sake, not a blushing schoolgirl. 

Still, when later he opens the jingly door at West Anglia and immediately spots Buck sitting behind the counter, plump lips turned in a bored frown as he flips through the pages of the book in his lap, something stirs in John’s stomach. He ignores it and goes straight to the counter. “What’s a guy gotta do to find a book around here?” He asks.

Buck lights up when he sees him, places the book back on the counter without even leaving something between its pages. “You can try and look around first, before going and bother the employees,” he says. He looks tired, John notices with a quick check out, and clearly annoyed by something. If it’s George who decided to show his face in the bookstore again, John will gladly sock him right in the face to get the message through.

“You ok Buck?” He asks, words feeling weird on his tongue when he’s been trying the whole time to avoid them being directed to himself.

“Slow afternoon,” Buck answers stifling a yawn. “And the food at school today was horrible, I barely ate.”

“That’s not good,” John says with a frown. “You can’t expect to work a shift here and then at the theatre without some good ol’ calories in you, Buck! D’you want me to bring you something?”

“There’s no need,” Buck waves him off but John insists. “Come on, Buck. I know you can’t leave your station but I have nowhere else to be, I’m entirely at your service.”

“Don’t say it like that,” Buck says with fond exasperation. “Fine. The place next door makes a mean iced coffee, can you bring me one with caramel and almond milk?”

“Sure thing Buck, but I don’t think an iced coffee is gonna give you enough calories to last the whole night,” John comments. “Anything else, a sandwich, a pizza slice?”

“A jelly donut, if they still have them,” Buck concedes. John nods, already repeating the order again and again in his mind to remember it for the future, in case Buck’s a creature of habit as he surmises he is. 

“You got a sweet tooth, uh Buck?” He says with a teasing smile. “Good thing I’m sweet, then,” he adds and only grins wider when Buck rolls his eyes at him in response, a pink blush on his cheeks.

“Can it,” he mumbles but his lips are still pulling up into a smile.

“Oh, watcha gonna do Buck? You gonna bite me?” 

It’s cheeky, but it works. “Don’t count on it,” Buck warns him with a look in his eyes that means anything but.

—

They go on like that for a while.

They flirt, send each other texts, pictures, nothing risqué. John buys Dracula and dresses up as a vampire for Halloween because Buck told him he’s partial to those creatures of the night, and Buck tells him he’s been rereading The Tempest to keep up with John’s rehearsals. 

They kiss and get their hands on each other as quickly as they can when they’re alone at the Abbotts and John learns Buck along with his lines, where to scratch and where to linger, where to kiss, bite, suck, lick. Which sounds he makes when he’s satisfied, the low groaning at the back of his throat when John teases him with featherlike fingers too loose around his cock to give him the right stimulation, how far can he pushes him before Buck retaliates with a vengeance. He learns his smell and his moods and the exact color of his eyes, the constellation of his moles, the curve of Buck’s lips and the taste of his mouth. 

Things don’t change, until they do. And one day John realizes he’s done something he probably wasn’t supposed to.

He’s fallen in love.

Chapter Text

It doesn’t happen like John expected it — he should know better by now, expecting love to go his way, but still it surprises him. 

It’s night at the Abbotts, rehearsal night to be precise so he’s waiting for the rest of the Hundredths to arrive as he sits perched on Buck’s desk in the lobby. They met outside West Anglia earlier after Buck’s closing shift and then they walked together to the theatre; Buck was looking extra delicious today with his cheeks all reddened by the cold, buried in his scarf up to his nose and John had to physically restrain himself not to kiss him right there on the street, but he managed to throw an arm around his shoulders to keep him close as they walked, relishing in the way the smaller body molded perfectly against his own. 

They shed layers quickly once they got to the theatre, crammed in one of the bathroom stalls with John pushed against the wall, hunched over Buck as he stuck a hand down his pants and his tongue in Buck’s mouth and Buck pulled at John’s hair, cold fingers wrapped around John’s cock in a way that felt almost painful for how pleasant it was. 

There’s a special kind of urge in Buck today, maybe brought to him by the cold or maybe by how things are going well with John — it’s not just a sexual urge either. It speaks of something more.

“Tell me something about yourself,” Buck asks him out of the blue. John looks down on him, curious to know what prompted him to say that and sees Buck’s blue eyes leaving the scar on his knee. It warms his heart to learn Buck wants to know more about him, even if he’s not sure how he’s gonna react when John tells him he used to be a jock in a very distant, very unlamented past. 

“Like what?” He asks. Buck shrugs. “I don’t know, whatever you like. Family, friends, past relationships… I mean, I feel like every time I’m the one talking I end up trauma dumping on you but I know close to nothing about you. So, yeah, tell me something about yourself. If you want.”

The warmth in John’s chest expands. “There’s not a lot to say,” he warns Buck — he likes to think his life is pretty uneventful, not always the happiest but devoid of all the emotional trauma Buck had to live through even with his breakups and the issues with his dad. He starts with the normal, mundane stuff. “I’m from Wisconsin, born and raised. It was me, mom, dad, and my two younger sisters Ellie and May. You’re not gonna believe it because you’re seeing me now but I swear, when we were kids I was an absolute angel and those two were menaces. Devil spawn, really, always making messes and putting the blame on me and of course my mom would believe them because with her they acted like innocent souls.”

It’s God’s honest truth in John’s book: he scantily remembers the first five years of his life he spent as an only child but when the twins came into the world and got old enough to talk, walk, and cause trouble, he lost all hopes for a peaceful life. They adored him most of the time, their older brother who would teach them dangerous stuff like riding a bike without training wheels and lying to their mom about fallen baby teeth afterwards; but they were twins, both of them the evil one of the set in John’s humble opinion, so whenever they did something by themselves they knew it was wrong, they unanimously blamed John. No one ever believed him when he tried to say he wasn’t involved in it in any way and by the amused look on Buck’s face John can see he doesn’t either. He wonders for a brief second about what kind of kid Buck was, if he was always this shy, if he had a mean streak John would’ve adored, if they would’ve been friends or not.

“People may say they got better growing up,” John continues. “Ellie’s in med school now, and May studies engineering, but I can assure you, Buck, they’re just as terrible as they were. They just got better at pretending.”

Buck lets out one of those soft, endeared chuckles John loves. “I believe you, John. And wow, both your sisters chose very demanding careers.”

That stings, even if he’s sure Buck didn’t mean it the way his dad usually does. “Yeah, they’re two smarty-pants just like you Buck,” John jabs. “Can you see now why my dad disapproves so much of my own career?”

He might’ve been a little harsher than he meant to, gone a bit too heavy on the sarcasm judging by the way Buck blushes and grimaces at his own words, like the taste of them got suddenly sour in his mouth. “Right, sorry. Didn’t mean to diminish yours,” he says and John wants to kiss him, again. 

“Not your fault, Buck,” he reassures him. “It’s just my dad, that’s how he’s built. Everyone else in the family agrees with me: Ellie and May are enthusiastic about my acting, they’ve never missed a play. Mom comes when she can get rid of dad for the evening, but she always sends flowers. It’s her thing, she’s sent flowers for every single one of her kids’ special occasions — graduations, weddings, opening nights, everything.”

“Every single one of her kids?” Buck asks, sounding perplexed. 

“Yeah! I forgot to tell you, my parents fostered kids. They still do, actually, even more now that we’ve all left home. Our house was big, we had enough money and my mom, she just loves taking care of people,” John explains. Kids of all kinds have lived at the Egans household through the years, ones that were older than him and ones that were younger, those who stayed for just a few weeks and those who grew up with him and the girls, those who keep sending flowers even now and those who caused trouble, ran away and never came back; his mom’s loved them all, cherished them, and John has learnt from her how to take care of others relentlessly, even when met with seemingly impenetrable walls and hostility. The same way he cares about Buck, really.

“Now I see where you get that from,” Buck says like he’s just read John’s mind and John feels his cheeks heating up at his words.

“That’s actually how I met Brady,” John blurts out. Johnny would probably kill him if he knew John is going around telling people his business but Buck’s not people, he’s… well, he’s Buck. No other words required. 

“He was one of the first kids my parents fostered, when I was in high school. He’d been with a few foster families with other kids but he was often bullied since he was so quiet and grumpy, but to me he was the dream of the brother I’d never had, come true. He was younger than me, and already grumpy and still just like he is now, but I can assure you no one ever bullied him again after he met me,” John continues with a nostalgic smile. He remembers thirteen years old Johnny as if it’s now, scrawny and with clothes too small for himself after a sudden growth spurt, his signature scowl already etched permanently on his pointed face. He looked like a wet cat who didn’t want to interact with anyone, and he’d won John’s heart in an instant. 

John had showered him with affection, hugs and endless chattering, gave him his old clothes he’d grown out of, took him under his wing to defend him from the mean kids at school who liked to tease him for being fostered and at some point, all of John’s efforts had paid off; now Johnny trusts him more than anyone else, he’s one of the very few people Johnny overtly shows affection to, and he loves John’s family like his own.

“And I was the one who got him into theatre! He was so shy, and I was already in the drama club so one day I just dragged him with me. It didn’t click with him on the first try, but then he fell in love with it,” John concludes. He knows Johnny’s truest love is music, acting being his mistress but he’s watched him bloom out of the worst of his shyness thanks to the stage; he’s a good actor, even if it’s not his reason to live.

“I had no idea Brady was a foster kid,” Buck says, quietly as if he’s pondering on something. “And what about you? You’ve never told me how you went from wanting to be a pilot to star of the local drama club.”

“It has to do with the scar you were ogling earlier,” John shoots back teasingly, relishing in the way Buck blushes at the idea of having been caught, of someone noticing him like that. “As I told you, there were a few things in between the pilot thing and the actor thing. I used to play baseball, for one thing. I started when I was a kid to blow off some of my unending energy but it turned out, I was pretty good at it. So I kept playing, more and more seriously as I are up and by the time I was in high school I was really fucking good, Buck, really. My dad was so excited about it, he loves baseball. He was already talking about scouting and scholarships and whatnot and I was starting to worry that the pressure might affect my playing, but then it was over before it even began. One night during a game I moved the wrong way, too quickly or maybe not quickly enough, I still don’t know what the problem was but one second I was standing upright and then I heard the most vicious sound I’ve ever heard coming from my knee, and one moment later I was down. The pain was unbearable, like someone was pouring lava on my kneecap. Apparently that’s what you feel when you tear you ACL,” he says, a shiver running down his spine at the mere memory of that fateful night.

He doesn’t remember anything about the game, what the score was, who was the other team, nothing. The only thing that’s seared into his brain is that pain: the excruciating fire running down his calf and up to his hip like he’s put his leg into a forge and someone was hammering it, the acid bile flooding his mouth, the soreness of his throat, raw for how much he’d been screaming. 

“I had surgery, and I did months of physical therapy but there was nothing to be done for my baseball career. Next year at school I needed something to do not to get crazy, and the drama club needed someone tall and outgoing for their play. Like you did, I fell in love with the theatre at first sight. And that’s what has brought me here, without the support of my father who’s probably never forgiven me for losing a career he actually cared about.”

He knows it’s stupid to put it like that; both his parents were worried sick when he got hurt, went with him through endless PT appointments where he had to basically learn how to walk again, consoled him and wiped his tears of sadness and frustration when he found out baseball was off the plate for him. But still he can’t help but thinking his father would’ve loved him more if he’d stuck with baseball, if he didn’t hurt himself. It had been his own dream to become a professional baseball player, a dream he’d had to give up because he wasn’t good enough; sometimes John still feels guilty for his carelessness, thinking it’s his fault if his father had to lose his dream twice. 

Pensive, Buck runs a delicate finger across the scar on John’s kneecap. It’s so old John barely notices it most of the times, it healed perfectly with no swelling or irritation; but now that the pad of Buck’s thumb is on it, tracing it with reverence, he feels like it’s on fire.

“I’m sorry you got hurt like that,” Buck says.

“I’m actually kinda glad it happened,” John responds. It’s definitely more truth than lie, his injury having opened up his real path in life, giving him the company, his best friends, and well, Buck. “Without it I’d never have discovered all this,” he says in fact, gesturing at the warm lobby. “And I’d never have met you,” he adds with an obnoxious wink that makes Buck blush and roll his eyes at him. 

Something moves on Buck’s face as he turns his attention back to John’s knee, a kaleidoscope of fleeting emotions — John thinks he can recognize doubt, longing, a few others. His brow furrows the way it always does when he’s deep in thought, a crease running through the middle of his forehead and John wants to press his thumb there to smooth it out and take all of Buck’s worries with it. 

He thinks he’s gotten to a point where he knows him well, by now; and yet Buck proves himself full of endless surprises, resolution setting over his features as he leans forward and brushes a kiss to John’s scar. It feels like absolution and blessing altogether, the invisible print of Buck’s lips searing on John’s skin as if he’s branded him worthy, his. “I’m glad I met you, too,” Buck says, softly like it’s a secret.

John’s hand moves quickly, out of his control as Buck’s words resemble a rumbling in his chest, a thunder of thoughts John’s not quite yet ready to face. It goes to the back of Buck’s head, fingers sinking in the soft tufts of golden-like hair, short fingernails scraping gently at the scalp. John wishes nothing more than to kiss him, as softly and tenderly as Buck kissed his scar. He allows himself to picture it for a second, his gaze dropping to Buck’s lips — how easy it would be to pull him closer, lower himself and meet him halfway in a kiss that’s really just a kiss, not a prelude, not a tease. Just a kiss.

He just lets his hand slide forward in a tender caress against Buck’s jaw, squeezes it gently for a moment before letting him go. He misses the flash of disappointment in the sky of Buck’s eyes by an instant, his own gaze trained forward not to be tempted anymore. 

“Regarding past relationships, my last one didn’t end up very well either. It was with a girl,” John says and makes a small pause to see what Buck has to say about that. In his experience gay guys don’t like it when the guys they’re hooking up with also like girls, it makes everything overly complicated and can bring to some nasty fights, but he’s not about to repudiate Paulina just to make a good impression. Lucky for him Buck doesn’t react in any way, he just looks at him expectantly.

More relaxed, John goes on. “Her name’s Paulina. We were together for two years, about four years ago. It was nice and everything, she supported me in my acting, I thought she was the one. But then she got a job offer in Poland, where all her family was, and she really missed them so she decided to move back there. We discussed it for a while, she suggested I went with her but I didn’t know the language very well and we had just started the Hundredths, so it wasn’t the right moment for me to move out of the States. She went anyways, obviously I encouraged her, but such a long distance relationship wasn’t the goal for either of us so we just called it quit.”

How weird it is to summarize someone like that, in a few sentences and a wide scope like he’s narrating a story that’s not his own. Putting aside all the pain and heartbreak it brought him, describing in clinical words the loneliest, saddest moments of his life; he’s used not to dwell on it, not wondering what she’s doing now, if she’s found someone, if she’s happy, so he doesn’t do it now either, downplaying the thing as much as he can without feeling sick and deceitful. 

“I was distraught and I threw myself in a series of random hookups,” he says. Then, realizing this might sound even worse at Buck’s ears, he’s quick to add, “But now I’ve gotten better, I promise.”

“Talk about different ways to cope with things,” Buck comments with dry self-deprecation, which makes John laugh out loud. Buck smirks at him, then continues. “So the company is really, really young. Four years, you said?”

Four years. Seems like a lifetime and just yesterday altogether. John nods. “Yeah. It’s very young and we’re very young but you know age really does matter here. If we want to actually become an important company, to make a name for ourselves, we don’t have much time. That’s why The Tempest is so important,” he says.

That, and the fact that it’ll bankrupt me and destroy my very own will to live if we fail, is what he doesn’t add. 

“And how is it going? Are you making Prospero yours?”

“You know, it’s actually harder than I thought,” John admits sheepishly, rubbing the back of his head. He thinks he’s found his voice but Prospero’s shoes are still quite big to fill. “But Cros says I’m doing ok, so I’m gonna trust him. Why don’t you sit in at the rehearsals, tonight? We’re still at the early stages, but I’d really like your opinion on it,” he adds realizing just now how much he wants, no, he needs Buck to see him act — he needs him to like how he acts, mostly. 

“On the play, or on you?” Buck shoots back surprisingly teasing. John rolls his eyes at him. “On both, Buck.”

The other leans back against his chair, shrugging with calculated nonchalance and a shit-eating grin on his beautiful face. “Oh, I don’t know how qualified I am to judge. And what if I get too transfixed by the way you look on stage?” he says feigning preoccupation and John’s not sure wether he wants to kiss him or bite him right now. “I might give you a positive opinion even if you’re shit at it.”

John plants the tip of his foot against Buck’s chair and shoves it backwards, gently enough so that Buck is in no danger but the other still gasps in fake outrage, bringing a hand to his chest and all that. John adores him and this newfound side of his, this playful Buck who seemingly exists only sporadically but now often enough when he’s with John. He thinks he could tell him.

“You’re a little shit, Buck, has anyone ever told you that?” He says instead.

“Sometimes,” Buck admits and then the little shit grabs John’s leg and aims for his weak spot, the crease at the back of his knee where he’s most ticklish. He’s found that out recently and accidentally while they were making out, Buck sitting on one of the tables in the foyer with John standing between his legs when one of Buck’s feet inadvertently touched the soft exposed skin there and John jackrabbited away with a strangled yelp — the same one he makes now, flailing so much he almost falls off the desk. A mischievous glint shining in his eyes, Buck doesn’t let go of him; he just tickles him more and more, nimble fingers strumming his skin like guitar’s cords and John would surely be getting hard if he wasn’t so busy fighting for his life.

“Are we interrupting something?”

Curt’s voice comes as a blessing; Buck, blushing fiercely at having been caught like that, immediately lets John go, and John jumps off the desk to go hide behind his cast mates. “You’re saving my life Curtie!” He announces, panting dramatically. “That guy is the devil, don’t let his appearance fool you.”

“Well, at least you’re already warmed up,” Johnny comments.

“Come on people, we have work to do!” Crosby cuts to the chase and John really hopes he’s not in one of his foul director moods tonight. He follows the others to the blue curtain, turning to take another look at Buck who’s waving at him, smiling oh so innocently.

“You’ll regret this,” John mouths at him, ready to throw himself at Buck and wipe that satisfied grin off his face in every way he knows. But Johnny knows him well and he pushes him forward, over the threshold before he can act on his impulses.

—

The rehearsal goes surprisingly well. John keeps his focus the whole time, resorting to looking at the script only a few times throughout the whole scene. Helen is a hell of a scene partner, her delicate figure so greatly in contrast with the fierce depth of the character she’s already made hers; it moves John’s heart to hear her talking about the shipwreck Prospero himself caused, and he can’t wait for their future scenes with Ferdinand, their forbidden love blooming. 

He knows Buck is in the audience, has seen him quietly step inside, but he tries not to think too much about it: he wants nothing more than to make a good impression and he knows very well that if he thinks even just a moment too much about the other guy, he’s gonna lose it. So John keeps going with his performance, moving a cloak that’s not yet there, inhabiting the place of an Italian Duke robbed of his dukedom and turned wizard.

“I like the voice,” Crosby gives him his blessing once they’re back in the changing rooms after the rehearsal’s done. “It suits both you and Prospero well, doesn’t feel forced. It reminds me of your Puck, but much more solemn.”

John sighs in unexpected relief. “Thanks Cros, I’ve been working on it for a while but I wasn’t sure you were gonna like it. So, it’s approved?”

“Totally,” Crosby nods. “Just don’t push It to exaggeration, ok? We don’t need our main character to turn into a caricature.”

“Never, Cros! You know how much I care about it,” John protests. He didn’t intend to sound this dramatic but he’s really afraid the director is gonna take his part from him; luckily, Crosby laughs at his reaction. “I was just kidding, Bucky! I know you’re a serious actor, it’s really the only thing I’ve ever seen you being serious about,” he tells him, unable to keep the jab to himself. 

John gasps, one hand to his heart as the others laugh. “You’re a monster, Harry Crosby. I was here thinking you were gonna be kind for once in your life and you hurt me with such vicious lies. Oh, woe is me!”

“You’re wrong, Cros,” Johnny comes in his aid. “I think we’ve all seen him being serious about something else, lately,” he adds with a knowing look, making the others’ laughter grow louder. John accepts the tease with a roll of his eyes, not wanting to delve too much on the topic, and goes back looking for his missing sweatshirt — he’s sure he got here wearing one, it was too cold to drive Our Baby with just his jacket on, but for the life of him, he cannot find it.

“Anyone saw my sweatshirt?” He tries. The others, already changed into civil clothes, shake their heads. “Maybe Buck has it?” Helen suggests with a fake innocent smirk — which provides John with a visual of Buck wearing his clothes, appreciated not for the first time. But the sweatshirt’s grey with red accents and would clash horribly with Buck’s black usher attire, so John’s pretty sure this time it’s just gonna be a fantasy.

“I’ve probably just stuck it somewhere,” he shrugs. “Don’t wait for me ya’ll, go home. I’m on Our Baby, I don’t need a lift.”

“Yeah, that’s why you’re so kindly telling us to leave,” Curt says picking up his bag. “No other reason.” John just gives him the finger in response to which Curt sends him kisses, then they finally leave him alone. The truth is, John is pretty tired too, and with the way he’s completely sweated through his t-shirt he feels reeking and unclean; he doesn’t wish for Buck to see him like this, he’d just want to find his civil clothes, change into them, and go back to him for a quick chat before calling it a night.

When the changing rooms’ door opens he lifts his head, startled for a second out of his thoughts, but relaxes when he sees Buck darkening the threshold. “Buck! Sorry I’m taking so long but I can’t find my sweatshirt,” he tells him apologetically, suddenly even more aware of every single drop of transpiration sticking his shirt to his skin and of the heavy musk of his sweat clinging at the air. Buck hesitates a few seconds before speaking again and John’s struck with the sudden fear that he’s gonna be disgusted by the way he looks and smell. 

“Yeah, I’ve found it,” Buck says handing John his sweatshirt. “You left it in the bathroom, erm, earlier.”

Oh, right. Earlier. 

“Oh, right! Thanks Buck, I completely forgot I had it on earlier,” he says cheerfully, taking the sweatshirt back from him. Only then he notices the weird look on Buck’s face is not gone yet, his expression tense and sheepish as if he’s somehow embarrassed of something he’s thinking of. It can’t be seeing him all sweaty after rehearsing, John reasons, that wouldn’t make any sense. “Are you ok Buck? You look… weird,” he tries.

Buck nods, steel in his gaze. “Oh I’m fine. I was just wondering if you were up for a second round.”

Now that’s unexpected. It’s not that rare for them to go at it twice the same evening, it happens actually quite often when they meet before rehearsing but it’s usually John who makes the first move thrumming with pent-up energy from the stage, teasing hands around Buck’s waist, his mouth straight to the curve of his neck, stuff like that to which Buck always responds enthusiastically; but for him to propose it, and so boldly? It’s enough for John to grow heavy in his pants.

“Buck, if you ever hear me say no to a question like that, call an ambulance,” he tells him with a grin.

“Will do,” is Buck’s serious answer then he surges forward and kisses him with a desperate hunger John’s unfamiliar with. Buck kisses him deeply, wildly, messily — teeth clacking, noses pushing one another, he walks John backwards until he’s pressed against the table, cards his fingers through John’s hair and pulls, viciously enough for John to gasp a breathy moan against his lips. He grabs Buck’s waist, in solace and retaliation, to hold him closer and Buck fucking grinds his hard cock against John’s with deliberate slowness making him whimper, every last drop of blood still to his brain focused on not humping Buck’s leg like a dog. He’s not kissing John, he’s devouring him, pressing himself in every angle, every crevice of John’s body as if he’s trying to blend the two of them together once and for all, his heart thundering wildly in synch with John’s.

It makes him dizzy and he pulls away to catch his breath but Buck follows, desperate, pressing wet, quick kisses against John’s mouth. “Fucking hell, Buck,” John pants kissing him back, the slightest slide of tongue to the inside of Buck’s lips, the barest flash of teeth nipping at him. “What’s gotten you all geared up like this?”

Buck stops at that and John immediately mourns it, the hot pants of breath against his mouth driving him even crazier. Maybe he shouldn’t have asked it like that, he thinks for a moment of fleeting guilt, but Buck leans back just enough that he can catch John’s eyes without putting too much unnecessary distance between their heaving bodies. The blue of his irises is slightly more than a thin ring around the widened pupils, dark galaxies ready to swallow John whole and never spit him out again. Kiss bitten lips shaking slightly, with effort or arousal, he tells John, “Your stage presence, so to speak.”

It takes John a moment to fully grasp the meaning of Buck’s words but when he does his mind blanks, his heart skips several beats, and his cock twitches in painful interest against Buck’s thigh stealing a groan from them both. “Are you fucking serious?” John exhales, barely breathing. 
Flushed with something other than exertion, Buck nods. 
“You got horny watching me act?” John keeps going, incredulous because it cannot be, Buck is surely just messing with him — and yet his traitorous heart beats faster and louder, screaming with hope and exaltation. 

“Not just horny, John,” Buck says, voice ragged and low. “I got so fucking hard I feared you could see it from the stage.”

It makes something inside John snap, unleash a fiery inferno in his blood, through his veins. He takes Buck’s face in his hands, trembling and gentle despite everything, and kisses him again and again and again, growling in between, sticking his tongue down Bucks’ throat, taking his plump lips between his teeth and pulling. “That’s the hottest fucking thing anyone’s ever told me. Fuck. Buck, say it again. Please.”

Buck’s fingers trail downwards, grab the string of John’s sweatpants and pull. “I couldn’t tear my eyes from you,” he says winded, his mouth on John’s jaw, soft caresses up to the shell of his ear. “You were so hot, John. So fucking good at it. Your voice, your arms… I thought I was going crazy, feeling all that just by looking at you. I had to actively distract myself to avoid making a mess of my uniform,” he adds and punctuates his words by dipping his hand in John’s pants and wrapping his palm around his length. He’s leaking already, John can feel it dribbling from the head of his cock onto Buck’s palm and when Buck moans at that he echoes it, lets his head roll back, surrenders at him. 

Buck’s pace is relentless, he pumps John wildly and even pulls his shorts further down his thighs to move more easily, twisting his wrist every once in a while in a way he’s learnt from John, consciously or not, and makes John see stars. For a wild second something flashes in Buck’s eyes and John thinks with shivering anticipation that he’s gonna get on his knees and blow him — he would last thirty seconds, max — but then Buck’s mouth is back on John’s neck, starving, teeth sinking into his flesh until he’s whining, fucking himself up in Buck’s hand. 

Words are rattling in his brain, he can taste them on his tongue as they press against his teeth to come out. High on everything Buck as he is he almost lets them out, catches himself at the very last second and goes for Buck instead, only now realizing he’s been letting him do everything; there’s very little grace in the way he grabs him, finding him pulsing and hot with precum, and again those words are there stuck in John’s throat.

They take it as a race, a competition on who’s gonna make the other one come first. John’s already half a goner, no matter how wildly he kisses Buck, jerks him off, sucks bruise after bruise in the soft pale skin of his throat just below his jaw, John’s favorite spot where the smell of Buck is so intense and pure it goes straight to his head making him sigh, and moan. And Buck plays dirty, lips now featherlike agains John’s cheekbone, now bruising his jaw, now back on his own in a kiss that’s surprisingly, intoxicatingly slow and deep. “You were so fucking beautiful,” he breathes out, voice low and winded with pleasure.

I love you.

John comes with a hoarse cry, swallowing past the words that almost came out of his mouth. He’s shaking with pleasure and with realization — he loves him, he loves him, oh God, maybe he’s always loved him. Pupils blown wide, he takes back Buck’s mouth with his own to keep the words at bay, keeps kissing him until Buck’s coming as well, John’s name leaving his lips with a gasp. 

I love him, John thinks when Buck lays his whole weight against him — he welcomes it, desperately, clings to him even after he’s wiped them both clean. He holds Buck’s shivering body against his own so tight, he almost wishes he could merge the two of them together. He’d die happily now with Buck in his arms, he’d willingly let himself be turned into stone, their bodies together for all eternity.

I love you, he wants to say. Instead he asks, “Did you mean it?”

The reverence in Buck’s voice, in his hands, it didn’t seem fake. It didn’t seem staged, an act he’d put on to have John at his mercy. For a second it seemed like Buck loved him too — too, yes, because now John knows he loves him. Loves him like he’s never loved anyone else — loves him like he loves theatre, deeply and completely, and so naturally like he’s breathing.

Buck nods against John’s neck. “Every single word,” he murmurs. 

I love you, John wants to tell him. Instead he just hold him tighter.

—

The realization remains burrowed in John's brain the whole ride home. He lays it out, examines, picks it apart. Other drivers blast their horns at him when he swerves carelessly through the lanes, too busy thinking about those three words who tried so hard to escape him. 

He's always known it was going to happen, he just didn't think it would be like this, sudden like a kick to the head. He's not actually sure if it really happened tonight, spurred on by Buck's praise, or if it was already happening and he just tripped over the edge tonight. Either way, the fact is one, indisputable, clear as day: he's in love with Buck.

It's exciting, feeling so much for someone after all this time spent with lesser things, insipid affairs, quick fucks with little to no meaning; it's also fucking terrifying because now he'll have to tell Buck, and honest to God he has no idea what he  could answer. Sometimes he feels like Buck's grown overly fond of him, thinks he can read in his blue eyes something deeper than the physical attraction they share; but he's quick to change his mood, still closed off and guarded despite John's best effort at helping him to open up, so he might laugh in John's face. Or tell him it's best if they stop this thing if John wants something more serious when he's ok with what they have.

I suppose I won't know it until I do something about it, John thinks stepping inside the house. He's welcomed with the buzzing warmth of a full living room, all the guys still awake, chattering. There's beer making rounds, and a bowl of saltines that's being commandeered by Hambone – as it usually happens in times like this.

“Bucky!” Bubble shouts raising his beer at him. “Home already?”

“We thought Buck was gonna keep you up all night,” Johnny doubled down.

John laughs, sheepishly rubbing the back of his head. “Ah, you know, he has a first period tomorrow morning, so...”

“Well, it's his loss. Give that man a beer!” Curt decrees and they shuffle on the couch to leave some space for him. John hesitates — hanging out with the guys doesn’t necessarily mean they’ll ask him what’s troubling him, if he pretends well enough they might not even notice he’s lost in his thoughts and so he won’t have to tell them. The realization can remain hidden inside him as long as he wants, there’s no need for anyone to know he’s in love with Buck yet.

“I’m in love with Buck.”

His ass has barely touched the couch and he’s already caved, words spilling from him like a cascade. The others, startled by the suddenness, exchange looks around the living room and John feels himself blushing like a damned school kid, up his cheeks to the tip of his ears.

The first to react is Ham. “Ah! Pay up, assholes!” He exclaims, shaking the saltines bowl like it’s the hat of a street performer. Astonished, John stares as the others groan and lament, pulling change out of their pockets and tossing it to Hambone. 

“Damn you, Bucky! Couldn’t you wait until Christmas?” Crank asks him looking at John like he’s personally offended him. “We were the only ones left in the race!”

“What race?” John asks dumbly. “Wait. Was there a bet going on?”

“There are several bets,” Curt informs him, counting the bills to give Hambone. “As you surely have guessed, this one was on how long would it take you to fall in love with Buck, or realize it at least. My money was on Halloween but you’ve exceeded my expectations, Bucky.”

“What are the others?”

“We’re not gonna tell you,” Johnny says. “Or you’ll be a contrarian and do anything in your power to make us lose.”

“Glad to hear my guy trouble is keeping someone entertained,” John mumbles in response, grabbing the first beer he sees and gulping down half of it. The others stop laughing, looking suddenly confused, preoccupied even. “What do you mean, guy trouble?” Crosby asks.

“We thought things were going well with Buck,” Bubbles offers. “Have you guys fought tonight? Did something happen?”

“No, I just realized I’m in love with him and now I have to tell him. Only, I have no idea how he’s going to react, if he wants me to love him or not,” John says.
“Well, I think he’d be happy to know that the guy he’s been seeing is in love with him,” Crosby reasons. “Is that not the whole purpose of seeing someone like you guys have been doing?”

John hesitates, Johnny’s dark eyes boring holes in the side of his face. “I don’t know if that’s what Buck wants,” John says eventually. “We, ah, haven’t put any kind of label on the thing we’re doing. It’s just sex and there hasn’t been a conversation about what would happen if something was to change in the way either one of us feels, so I don’t know if he reciprocates or not. I don’t even know if he wants to reciprocate, like, ever, or if this is enough for him.”
He knows he swore himself to secrecy with Buck but it’s so easy to talk about it all of a sudden, maybe it’s the beer or his friends or maybe the shock for tonight’s epiphany, he’s not sure.

“Friends with benefits?” Hambone asks. John just nods. 

“And now you’ve fallen in love with him?”

Ham sounds weirdly doubtful for someone who’s just won a bet on how long it would take John to realize his own feelings, but again John just nods. 

“You should tell him,” sentences Bubbles. “It does not good to dwell on doubts in situations like yours, I know it well.”

“Yeah, but you got lucky,” John says gesturing at Cros. “What if I’m not? What if I tell Buck I’m in love with him and he doesn’t love me back? Maybe I’m good for sex but not for anything else.”

“Sorry, what’s the alternative here?” Curt interrupts him. “Pretend like nothing changed and keep fucking the guy until he may or may not realize he’s also in love with you?”

John shrugs. “More or less,” he says.

All the guys boo at him in various stage of outrage. “You can’t do that!” Curt says. “What the fuck, Bucky?!”

“You don’t understand!” John tries to fend for himself. “It’s more complicated than how it looks, trust me. Buck is more complicated, he has… issues. He has every right not to want anything more complicated than this and since he trusts me enough to let me so close, I owe him the respect of not ambushing him with my feelings.”

“Ok, but you cannot just keep them to yourself,” Crank says. “You don’t have to hurt yourself just to help someone you love, Bucky.”

As if this isn’t the story of his life. John sighs, takes another sip of his beer to stall and think. “You’re right. I will try to let him know my feelings, but if he’s not ready to hear me I’ll keep them to myself for a little longer. And I won’t hurt myself, don’t worry.”

“Don’t make us worry then,” Johnny jabs. John shoves his shoulder, playfully. 

“You probably won’t have to wait for long,” Bubbles tries to reassure him with one of his sweet smiles. “Who knows, maybe he’s already in love with you!”

Johnny tips his beer at him with a nervous smile. “Wouldn’t that be wonderful?” He says — but in his heart, the answer’s already pretty clear.

—

He doesn’t sleep that night, playing and replaying moments from the previous weeks in his mind to try and pinpoint the exact moment his interest for Buck turned into love. He doesn’t find it, no matter how much he thinks about it. 

He’s also looking for signs, indications that Buck might be feeling the same. Buck laughs at his jokes, rates his math puns, sends him mundane texts during the day, reciprocates his flirting, and likes the way John handles him; but he’s never said or done anything that might have meant something more. No lingering looks, no stumbling words, he’s always so precise and cool in everything they do it would be a miracle if he was hiding something as big as love.

When he steps into West Anglia later that afternoon, after he’s spent his whole day craving a cigarette he didn’t dare to smoke not to incur in Crosby’s anger, he’s all nerves and pent-up energy but he’s made a resolution: he’s gonna come clean to Buck. Tell him exactly how things are, sit there and take whatever reaction the other’s gonna have. Is either that, or he’ll lose his mind in less than a week.

There’s only Buck’s friend at the counter, the mustached one who always gives John great literary advices. He smiles at John when he sees him, waving awkwardly from behind the counter. “Hello, John! What brings you here in this fine establishment, tonight?” He asks.

What a weird fella, John thinks with amused affection. “How many time do I have to tell you? Call me Bucky!” He says coming closer.

“Ah yes, of course! Sorry Bucky, I’m just not used to giving my customers nicknames,” the bookseller says. “But if I shall call you Bucky, then please call me Rosie. I know my tag says Robert, but only my father calls me that.”

John nods. “Will do, Rosie. So, where’s-”

“How are you liking your Dracula?” Rosie asks cutting him off, pointing at the book that’s tucked in the inside pocket of John’s jacket. It was him at the counter when John came looking for the book a few weeks ago and he did an extremely thorough job scanning their shelves and the system for the perfect edition that would satisfy John’s needs — he only had one, really, to read the book and know something more about Buck’s love for vampires, but after Rosie presented him severals version annotated or not he went for the less complicated one, with a nice cover and sprayed edges. It didn’t even cost him much cause Rosie gave him a “friendly customer discount”, so he definitely cannot complain.

“Oh, it’s very good!” John says taking it out of his jacket. “I haven’t had much time to read these days, Jonathan is still in the castle but he’s starting to realize something’s really wrong. Oh, and I just met Mina! Lovely girl.”

“Ah yes, the Harkers! You know, they’re the reason why I’ve always thought of Dracula as a love story. Not any of that bullshit they put in movies, Mina being in love with the Count and all that. That’s disgusting, but the Harkers? Being willing to follow the person you love through the darkness into the sweet embrace of Death not to lose them? That’s true love for me!” Rosie rambles on. 

“A love story? I’d never seen it from that point of view,” John ponders. “That’s really interesting, I’ll let you know once I get more into it.”

“Please, do!” Rosie nods. Then, ”“You’re friends with Buck, right? Are you looking for him?”

“Actually, yes. He told me he had a shift here, but I can’t see him anywhere.”

“Oh, he’s in the back. Inventory day, you know,” Rosie says. John doesn’t know, not really.

“He loves his numbers,” he offers and Rosie laughs. “Oh, he most certainly does! Never had anyone better than him at inventory, he locks himself back there for hours and when he comes out everything’s in perfect order. I’d cry for days on those sheets if I didn’t have him.”

As if summoned by Rosie’s words, Buck emerges from the door at Rosie’s back. His cheeks are flushed and he immediately smiles at John when he sees him, and butterflies rouse in John’s stomach at the sight. He’s so beautiful, it’s impossible not to love him. “Buck! There you are!”

“Hi John. It’s inventory day,” Buck explain joining Rosie at the counter. He’s wearing his blue scarf inside, probably to cover the bruises John left all over his neck and one of his students questioned him about. 

He can’t help but smile at the thought. “Yeah I know, Rosie here was telling me about it!”

“Yeah, and he’s lucky that is almost winter because that room is freaking hot,” Rosie pipes in. “I swear, when my dad first took me in to work here he sent me back there for a whole week in the middle of July and it was like staying in a sauna. At one point I just started sitting there in my underwear, and I still sweated like a sinner at church!”

Why is Rosie talking about his underwear? John thinks, a bit worried. “In your underwear?” He repeats, perplexed.

Rosie nods enthusiastically. “Yeah! It’s a solution I recommend, if your job permits it. Of course I wouldn’t just stay here upfront half naked with all the clients roaming around, but back there? It’s the only way to survive!”

Buck looks seriously worried, but John just laughs imagining the poor guy handing books around in his undies. “You know, it’s usually something they tell us to do, imagine the audience naked on in their underpants to feel less pressure. I don’t know how they would react if I were the naked one!”

“Oh, I’m sure no one would mind!” Rosie laughs.

“We should get going,” Buck interjects stepping out from behind the counter. “My shift starts in fifteen minutes and we have to get to the Abbotts.”

“Sure, Buck!” John says, tempted to give him a military salute. “By Rosie, see you soon. And thanks for the book!”

Once they’re out John starts rambling about his day, words coming so fast they almost overlap on his tongue for how nervous he is — he has his confession in the barrel but now is not the time to speak it. He proceeds to tell a story about Kidd, how he’d threaten to send him in timeout for fifteen minutes for a joke John told that he didn’t like. “I don’t think Jack likes my sense of humor very much, I’m pretty sure it annoys him a lot actually, but since I’m quite good at a mechanic he lets it slide. Most of the times, anyway.”

“You are pretty annoying when you get into it,” Buck says with fondness.

“I know, it’s kinda my thing. I annoy people until they get mad at me and never want to see me again, or until they start appreciating being annoyed by me. It works almost all the time.”

“Yeah? Did it work like that with Rosie, too?” Buck asks

John laughs. “No. I’ll have you know, Buck, that I am perfectly able to behave like a normal, responsible adult when I am interacting with strangers, shop owners and such. I saw him once when I went and ordered that book, I was polite and educated, I said good morning and thank you, have a nice day. I didn’t even think he’d recognize me but today when I stepped in to wait for you he greeted me, asked me if I was your friend and then we started chatting. He’s a very cool guy!”

“I know,” Buck sighs. “He’s my friend. Although, he’s not usually that much outgoing.”

“What can I say, he must have fallen victim of my innate charm!” John grins, slinging an arm around Buck’s shoulder to haul him closer. He almost trips on the bike’s pedals but manages to come off smoothly, even if Buck is uncharacteristically stiff against him — it’s probably the cold, so much and so sudden after the warmth of the backroom.

“How are you not cold dressed like that?” He asks a few minutes later, as predicted. “You don’t even have a scarf.”

“Wisconsin born and bred, Buck. If you find this cold unbearable, then you wouldn’t survive an hour near Lake Michigan,” John tells him. He’d keep him warm if Buck came visiting, of course, he’d shove one of his mum’s knitted sweaters on his head and bundle him with warm scarves and hats until only his sparkling eyes were visible, their blue deeper and brighter than the lake’s.

“Well, luckily I had no plans of visiting Wisconsin,” Buck scoffs, effectively destroying John’s fantasies. 

“You ok, Buck?” John asks, suddenly on edge. He has no idea what he’s done wrong to piss off Buck so much in so little time. Luckily, Buck just sighs and says, “I’m a little tired, and I hate the show we’re hosting tonight.”

Poor darling, John thinks rubbing his thumb in circles on Buck’s shoulder to comfort him. “Is it really that bad?”

“It’s a nightmare. You don’t have to sit through it if you don’t want to.”

“Are you kidding me? I loved puppets as a kid! They’re like, the stuff of nightmares!” John laughs, remembering how his sisters used to be absolutely horrified by them and how he’d used their fear against them, hiding puppets in their beds and inside their closets just to terrify them.

“I bet you were a weird kid,” Buck says, resigned and fond altogether. “And you grew up into a weird adult.”

“Says the guy who reads about calculus in his spare time and learned to name the constellations when he was what, eight?” John shoots back.

Buck can’t suppress a smile. “Seven, actually.”

John loves him so much it hurts to breathe.

—

Something is indisputably wrong, and John has no idea what it is. Buck is being cold, bordering on rude, ever since John stopped by West Anglia to pick him up; he’s bossed him around the theatre, didn’t sit close to him during the puppet shows as he usually does, didn’t laugh at his jokes, he even punched him in the crotch when John suggested one of the puppets in the erotic performance sounded like him — it’s not John’s fault, it did sound like him. Frighteningly so. 

He changed so much from yesterday John’s filled with the ice cold fear that Buck might know. That he might’ve read something in John’s eyes and feels disgusted by it, by John’s love and now he’s trying to suffocate it. Burying it in dirt before it can bloom properly. Some kind of heads up, “I know what you wanna say, don’t you dare say it or that’s what you’ll get: dirt, cold, void.”

Once the closing round is done, once Marge and Ken say goodbye and slip away into the foggy November night, John takes the matter in his own hands because whatever this is, is worse than actual rejection. He grabs Buck’s arm as gently as he can while still being firm and forces him to look at him, scouring his face for signs of what has turned him so sour. “C’mon, Buck! I was joking. It was just a stupid joke,” he says trying to place all the blame on the puppet joke.

Buck, other than mad, also looks strangely hurt. “You can’t say stuff like that while I’m working, John,” he says sternly. “The things we do are reserved for before work, or after. Not while I’m on the fucking clock.”

The things we do. That can’t be good.

“You’re right. I’m sorry, I thought it would be funny,” John tries.

“Oh yeah? Like flirting with Rosie, did that sound funny too?” Buck snaps.

“I was not-” John says automatically but stops, abruptly. 

Wait, what? 

“I was not flirting with Rosie,” he says, appalled. Is that the problem? Is Buck-

“Oh sorry, my mistake! Then he definitely wasn’t flirting with you either, uh?” Buck goes on, wildly pissed off. There’s no fucking way.

“Are you jealous?” John asks after a few beats of silence, unable to keep a grin from spreading on his face.

“I am not jealous,” Buck proclaims. “I would just prefer if you didn’t flirt with my friend and boss, not even if he’s flirting right back at you!”

“Buck,” John interrupts him, trying to sound as serious as he can even if he can’t wipe the grin off his face. “That’s not what was happening. I don’t think Rosie was flirting with me, and I can assure you I definitely wasn’t flirting with him. We were just talking.”

“About his underwear,” Buck points out like it personally offends him and John’s almost cackling.

“That was weird,” he concedes. “But I still don’t think it was his way of flirting with me,” he adds, and gently places his hands on Buck’s shoulders to soothe him, to tame the wild animal inside him unleashed by the unexpected jealousy — because that’s what it is, no matter how much Buck tries to deny it. Buck lets him touch him, still glaring at him like a cat.

“I’m sorry I pissed you off, it wasn’t my intention,” John says. “I swear I wasn’t flirting, I was just making conversation — that’s who I am, you should know it. I would never flirt with anyone but you, Buck: when I agreed to your, ah, proposition I agreed to be exclusive too. And I keep my promises, Buck. You don’t know me that well yet, but this is a thing that’s very important for me that you understand: you can trust me. Ok?”

He’s saying I love you with all these words because he's too coward to speak it properly, but he hopes Buck understands. John’s outgoing and flirty by nature, that’s indisputably true, but ever since he’s laid eyes on Buck there’s been no one else in his mind. He should know it, John wants him to know. He stares into the clear abyss of Buck’s eyes and finds them searching for something in his own; the crease that has formed in between Buck’s brows smooths out after that — maybe he’s found what he was looking for, maybe he’s happy he didn’t, John couldn’t say.

“Ok,” Buck mumbles, his shoulders relaxing in John’s hold. “But the next time I catch you and Rosie flirting at the counter I’m gonna rip both your heads off.”

“I’ll never set foot in West Anglia again if that’s what you want,” John declares valiantly, more worried about Rosie’s health than his own. It makes Buck smile, John watches him cave to it like it’s impossible for him to stay mad at John for just a minute more. 

“That won’t be necessary. I kinda like meeting you there and walk here together,” Buck says, dusky pink on his cheeks. “Just, don’t talk with Rosie about his underwear stuff like that.”

“I won’t,” John promises daring to stroke Buck’s flushed cheek with his thumb, lovingly. His heart flutters when Buck instinctively leans into the touch and he almost tells him. But it’s not the right moment, maybe it would sound like John’s trying to get back into his good graces and John doesn’t want to sound dishonest. There’ll be other moments, better than this one, moments not following a whole night of Buck not talking to him because he was jealous — jealous, Buck, of Rosie of ll people! Unbelievable!

So instead he says, “Any other requests from the King of the Abbotts?”

Something mischievous sparks in Buck’s eyes. “Actually, yeah. Why don’t we go back into the other room and you remind me what’s that thing with your hand that you were talking about earlier?” He asks.

John almost bursts out laughing at the uncharacteristic boldness of Buck, who never ceases to surprise him. “I thought you’d never ask.”