a rolling stone carries no moss

There was subtle shift in the Englishman's face, to learn about this Rowan person and what happened. That Asher had had a person. His friend was always so unattached and carefree, he could hardly imagine it or what that looked like. In fact, he only realized now that he'd never actually seen it. Asher kissed a lot of people — they had even made out on a number of occasions, just for fun — but beyond that? Fitzroy couldn't recall the man ever walking down the street hand-in-hand, belonging to someone else. The person that managed that, his person, they were gone now, and Fitz was left with a sense of disappointment, that he missed such a special part of Asher's life. The sympathy was there in his gaze, that sobriety sinking in. An ugly reminder that life wasn't promised, a fact he'd never been able to escape. He hated his friend had to go through that. Alone, too? And did his best not to focus on how Agnes may very well too.

"You know I'm a romantic soul at heart," he finally spoke, once Asher had his say and laid out his ideas, "so I believe that music is a way for us to live on." It was, perhaps, the true reason Fitz had gone so out of his way to get his hands on as many instruments as he could, to involve himself as a musician. Because it was pieces of his soul being transcribed and left behind, so he may be gone but never forgotten. His music would be his legacy, the thing always available if anyone needed him again. "Music is a conversation, so.. Let's help you finish it," he said, simply, agreeing with Asher that it should be. Would be a shame to have that man's final message go unrealized.

too late.

the video started with rustling. the soft scrape of a chair leg against the floor. a quiet little curse under someone’s breath. rowan, somewhere off-camera at first, getting his guitar settled, the tuning pegs clicking as he adjusted them one by one.then his face filled the screen. asher forgot how to breathe.

rowan looked exactly the way memory made him and nothing like it at all. dark hair falling messily over his forehead, sharp cheekbones softened by the low light, mouth slightly parted in concentration as he leaned over the guitar. he had that stupidly beautiful face that always looked like it belonged half on a stage and half in some private dream, all restless energy and soft edges, eyes bright even when he wasn’t looking at anyone. when he finally glanced toward the camera, his smile came easy—crooked, luminous, devastating. alive. rowan was alive on the screen. “i’ve actually been working on this since i met asher,” rowan said.

asher’s eyes filled immediately. he heard his own name in rowan’s voice, warm and casual, like asher was going to walk through the door any second. like there was still a world where that happened. like rowan was still somewhere just out of frame, waiting for him. “jeremy, i think the drums need to build with this one,” rowan continued, glancing into the camera giving the drummer who wasn't there instructions. “nothing too heavy at first. it started from some random rhythm ash was tapping out one day…” his fingers moved over the guitar, playing a few soft chords—just enough to give the shape of it. and there it was. the rhythm. asher knew it before he could name it, because it was his. the little pattern he tapped when he was thinking, when he was nervous, when music was moving through him before he had anywhere to put it. rowan had heard it and had kept it.

asher let out a small, broken laugh, staring hard at the screen. “he always had a specific vision for each song,” he said, voice thin around the edges. he still didn’t look at fitz. he couldn’t. if he looked at fitz and saw pity, or understanding, or anything kind, he was worried he might not be able to keep speaking. on the screen, rowan adjusted his grip on the guitar, cleared his throat softly, and started to play. quiet, at first. just acoustic guitar and his voice.

“you hum like the city after midnight soft electricity under your skin every room bends toward your rhythm like the night is learning how to listen”

asher’s hand came up to cover his mouth. he remembered rowan teasing him about humming. remembered rowan looking over from the studio couch with that fond, exasperated smile and saying, do you ever go quiet, love? remembered asher grinning and saying no, probably not.

“i tried to write silence before you but the chords kept turning your name now every note i follow leads me back to the sound of your breathing again”

rowan’s voice wavered slightly on the last line, not because he was sad, but because he was still finding it. still shaping the song as he sang. unfinished. private. not ready for anyone. not ready for asher.

“and i don’t know where the music ends or where you begin”

asher closed his eyes for half a second, but that made it worse. without the screen, it was just rowan’s voice in the room. rowan’s breath between lyrics. rowan’s fingers moving over strings.

“i learned your frequency slowly between the silence and the strings tuning my heart to your static hearing you in everything”

the tears slipped before asher could stop them. he didn’t wipe them away. not yet. he couldn’t move.

“you laugh like the lights coming on in the back of a crowded bar and the world keeps moving around us but somehow you’re where the songs are”

asher remembered that too. some bar in london, maybe. or berlin. or maybe all of them blurred together now. rowan watching him laugh with the band, rowan’s gaze catching his across a crowded room like a secret only the two of them knew. asher had thought he’d been loved. he hadn’t known he’d been heard like this.

“so if you leave, leave the echo leave the noise in my bones i’ll keep the signal you gave me even when i’m alone”

a sound caught in asher’s throat because rowan was the one who left. rowan was the echo now. rowan was the signal asher kept chasing through old files and half-finished tracks and dreams where his voice still sounded close enough to answer.

“i learned your frequency slowly between the silence and the strings tuning my heart to your static hearing you in everything”

on the video, rowan stopped singing for a moment, the guitar continuing softly beneath his hands. he looked down at the strings, smiling to himself like he knew the next part was too honest and loved it anyway.

“you hear music where the world goes quiet i hear you in everything”

asher pressed his palm harder against his mouth. rowan’s voice softened.

“so if you leave i’ll still be tuned to you”

the last chord rang out, gentle and unfinished. for one impossible second, there was only silence. then a ringtone cut through the room. rowan laughed on the screen, startled and bright, and turned his head toward the sound. “oh, it’s you, ash baby.” asher broke. just a sharp inhale that caved in on itself, his shoulders folding as the nickname hit somewhere nothing else could reach. on the screen, rowan looked back toward the camera, smiling like he was sharing a secret with it. “i’ll show you this later. you know how i am.” his laugh filled the production booth. asher’s heart clenched so hard it hurt. rowan answered the phone, voice warming instantly. “hey, baby. i was just thinking about you.” then the video ended.

the screen froze on rowan’s face, mid-smile, eyes bright and alive and gone. asher stared at the still image for a long moment. he didn’t know when he had started crying properly, only that the tears were on his cheeks now, hot and humiliating and impossible to stop. he wiped under his eyes with the heel of his hand, then sniffed and let out a shaky breath. “sorry,” he said, voice rough. “i guess i should’ve… watched this before you came over so i didn’t—”

“some years they allowed apple picking but—” she tossed the notion away with a sip of her own drink. the products had slipped out of usefulness when a family dropped half their apples on the ground, the christmas trees were enough of a novelty. she’d been taught to consider it her own empire anyways, not fit for the public to trample in. she went out, they stayed out.

a hum of its own, she knew what he meant. the music of their surroundings was not just his own invention, it was the buzz of the insects, the breeze that rustled through, shaking leaves and dropping the unwanted at their trunks. it was the background to her entire life. a good day or bad day, it was there. "it stays like this," she didn't know what sort of invite she was offering. the knowledge that something existed, it could for so long that someone could come back. "until august."

she wouldn't have thrown one. it was a useless endeavor, as she said. but, he'd asked. it was a simple trade. so i'm not the only one, so i'm not alone out here at the edge of the universe. so there's nothing between us. she nudged a small green apple with the toe of her shoe, checking it before she picked it up to make sure it wasn't completely hollow. it would do, given the limited options around them.

her arc was perfect, sailing through the air until it hit the leaves of a tree a few paces away, sending the leaves shaking. harriet was not athletic, not in the way so many other were. she hadn't participated in sports; this was the throw of practice. well-worn routines of summers entertaining herself by any means necessary. the biggest splash! "come back in october, that's their time."

he took it for what it was: information, not necessarily an invitation. harriet didn’t usually hand those out plainly. she left them somewhere nearby and waited to see if people were smart enough to find them. he watched as she picked up an apple and gave it a throw. it sailed much farther than his had any hope of going, and asher let out a low, impressed laugh. “you’re a pro,” he said, eyes following where it landed. “i’m starting to think you brought me here just to humble me.” then there it was—the actual invitation tucked into october. his gaze moved back to her, and his grin softened. “put me in your schedule for an apple-throwing contest, then.”

he took another drink, letting the carbonation bite at the back of his throat. harriet leaned against the tree beside him, close enough that the air between them changed. just enough that asher became aware of every inch of space he wasn’t crossing. they were almost as close as they had been a month ago. that thought should not have hit him the way it did. his gaze moved over her slowly before he could stop it—the breeze catching in her hair, the soft line of her mouth, the way the orchard light made her look less sharp and somehow more dangerous. he had spent weeks telling himself he could be careful. that whatever happened on that porch could stay there, folded up and put away until one of them was brave enough to touch it again.

he had spent weeks trying not to make her silence mean anything. trying not to turn it into punishment, or regret, or proof that the porch had meant more to him than it had to her. he had other things now. the shop. the studio. claude upstairs. ezra, warm and steady and real in a way that should have made everything less complicated. and still, she texted, and he came.

that was the part that bothered him most. not that the feeling was still there, but how quickly it stood up when she called. how little convincing it needed, but standing this close to her, with cider on his tongue and summer all around them, asher knew the truth. the feeling hadn’t left. it had only gone still, waiting for her to look at him again.

all the sanctimonious of people who knew what they were acting in the whole time. but it was she who played as pariah. it always was. none of them pieced together the extent of it, even asher couldn't guess at half the things she still hadn't told a single person. would she stoop so low? did she tell the truth? an eye for an eye for an eye, and around again they would go. do unto emily powell what might not be done to you. kiss brothers but never fathers. she took a breath, her expression never quite so neutral when she was home, it hadn't had to be.

his tone made her stop, the odd way that he pushed around the issue. it wasn’t a question for a question, it was redirect entirely. why discuss the less than obvious, when the ground was scattered with the the dead and distracting. she almost hated the calm that came with it, the way he was able to ignore everything and gives her the choice of living in a different world. she swallowed down the urge to immediately fire back, talk about what? it would do nothing. she had asked him to be here. of all the people she could have called, she had chosen the one who came.

“these ciders are terrible." she disparaged finally, as though they weren't the oft donated contribution to any event in town. the stability of her lifestyle in shining glass and twist-off caps. it didn't mean she had to like them— it did mean they were the only drink ever lined neatly in the fridge. would one prefer the original or the original. she gestured to the bottles, five unopened ones patiently waiting to be picked! "after you."

he tossed it once, caught it in his palm, and nodded like she’d made an excellent point. “you’re right.” then he pulled his arm back anyway and threw the apple out into the orchard. it did not go far. asher watched it land with a dull little thump in the grass, then took another drink, his eyes staying on it for a beat longer than necessary. “okay,” he said, mostly to himself. “so not my sport.”

he looked back at hattie, a small grin tugging at his mouth, and leaned his shoulder against the nearest tree. she had taken the out he gave her. he had asked if she wanted to talk and she had chosen cider and throwing apples instead. that was an answer in its own way, or at least enough of one for now. asher could push and ask about the photo, about the tea drop, about gus reynolds, about the kiss that still lived in him like a song he couldn’t stop hearing.

but he didn’t. he had spent too much of his life trying to pull meaning out of harriet before she was ready to hand it over. tonight, she had called, and he had come. maybe that had to be enough. his gaze drifted from her to the rows of trees stretching out around them, quiet and dark and heavy with summer. for all his years of knowing hattie, he’d only ever been here when the christmas tree lot was open, bundled up with his family while they picked out their carroll-grown tree. the orchard felt different now. warmer. stranger. more hers.

“i’ve never been here in the summer,” he said after a moment. “only for christmas trees.” he looked out at the rows again, letting the peace of it settle over him. “i like it,” he admitted. “it’s has a hum of it's own.” then his eyes dropped to the apples between them, and his smile softened into something easier. “are you going to throw one, or am i the only one embarrassing myself tonight?”

where: the row of braeburn trees in the mclaughlin orchard

who: @stoneasher

she knew why she'd done what she'd done. she'd felt the itch hot under her skin, the push to take things too far. see what could be covered, ignored, handled. someone would break, give up. she'd find herself back at the same numb feeling that had blanketed the past few years. her hypothesis would be proven right: no one could truly see her. but this; the photograph that captured and posted, was still a step too far.

her business was her own. the rejection, the hurt that coursed through her. that was for her to keep tempered down, a hum which reminded her that she had been quickly losing control of her own life for months now. she knew if she stayed she would have had to talk to grace, to discuss with saffron. what would she have said? it wasn't her? it wasn't true?

she'd done it alright, and it left her with limited options. who in the world would show up for someone like that? who would walk out into the orchard, finding the rows of trees that were planted when she was born, a little out of place for the climate but hers nonetheless. no one came to the orchard, too far a drive, nothing fun to do. it was a field trip, a joke. even now, her parents were off in some far flung place, leaving the house empty. if anyone cared what she did, they hadn't called to say it.

a six pack of glass bottled ciders had barely been touched, couched in grass and the first of the small fruits which hadn't made it. she kicked the rotted green apple, hearing it roll through the grass, before the rustle of movement that wasn't her own. she'd half hoped, half disbelieved. now, it was all she had, as he turned down the row. "you came?"

the tea drop had already thrown the day sideways. asher hadn’t even had time to sit with his own feelings about it before he was sending it to aspen, checking on her, making sure she wasn’t alone with whatever the town had decided to make public. then he’d gotten ready for birch’s opening, met ezra there, spent the night orbiting around something new and complicated, and kissed the man goodnight like that wouldn’t add another layer to everything already crowding his chest.

and now he is here at hattie’s orchard.

asher kills the engine and sits there for a second, helmet still on, the quiet rushing in around him. the trees stretch out in the dark, neat rows and shadows, the air carrying that crisp sweetness of apples and earth. he pulls off his helmet, runs a hand through his hair, and tries to tell himself he is fine. he is not fine, but he goes in anyway.

he finds her between the rows next to a tree and the sight of her steals the breath right out of his lungs. had it really been almost a month since they stood on the hawkins’ front porch? since she kissed him first? since he kissed her back like he’d been waiting his whole life and then watched her leave anyway? she speaks, and his brow furrows slightly not at her words, exactly, but at the fact that she sounds and looks like this. frazzled around the edges in a way hattie rarely lets anyone see. “you called,” he says automatic and honest. like it explains everything because, for him, it does: asher stone will always come if harriet mclaughlin calls.

he steps closer, shoving his hands into his pockets before they can do something stupid, like reach for her. his gaze moves over her face, and despite the silence, despite ezra, despite the kiss he still hasn’t figured out how to name—his expression softens. this is not the woman from a month ago, sharp and glittering in the dark outside a party. this is something less arranged. less armored. and asher feels the old instinct rise in him immediately: stay. help. make it easier if he can. so he gives her the choice.

As Ezra stared at the choir loft from the pulpit, he wished to see someone playing that beautiful, historic organ. He was a selfish creature that delighted when the brass rattled his bones. So when a congregant member suggested her very talented son step in as the organist, the proper jumped at the chance. An audition was a great place to start. He glanced at his watch just as he finished filling the last vase. Any minute now and he'd meet with the mysterious organist. What would he be like? The last organist had been as old as the hills, maybe even as old as the organ itself with his wrinkled hands that knew each hymn by heart.

Footsteps pulled his attention from his thoughts. When the priest turned, he was surprised to see a pair of familiar brown eyes. For a heartbeat, Ezra thought he was looking at an angel. But his lips remembered the sensation and the heat from that night was seared into his skin. That night had been real. This man before him was real.

then ezra spoke again, and asher’s mouth finally remembered how to work. he grinned, the familiar shape of it coming back like a defense mechanism. “is that what my mom is telling people?” he relaxed a little once music came up. music was safe. music was where he knew how to stand. “i learned when i was backpacking across europe,” he said, taking a few steps closer because keeping that much distance between them felt ridiculous when they were the only two people in the church. “i figured i could play for a few churches for some extra cash, and it turned out they liked me.”

his gaze drifted to the flowers ezra had been watering when he walked in. they were beautiful, almost startlingly so against the quiet weight of the church. “these are gorgeous,” asher said, softer now. without thinking, he reached out and brushed his fingers lightly over one of the petals. soft. real. something to do with his hands that wasn’t staring too long at ezra’s mouth. he looked back at him anyway. “did you grow them yourself?”

this time it was him who drew her close, firm and decisive. the hesitation from her actions had been wiped out entirely by his reinterpretation. gentleness was a quality that evaded her at every turn. she didn't court it, there was no use for it in her life. she couldn't name the last time she'd been touched and hadn't wondered if it would leave a bruise. she'd wanted that, it'd been the clearest path forward. here were fingers which would tangle in her hair, pull through the carefully sprayed curls. here would be regret, something to ignore come morning, it always was.

no— it all was more tender now. here he pulled her closer to him as though she might slip away at any moment. pressed together, no space between them but the fabric of their clothing to keep the heat at bay. for the first time, she could feel the world slowing. it narrowed down to a singular point which started with the syllables of her name and ended staring at asher stone with a small gasp of air burning in her lungs.

"home, i am going home." she said finally, the words jagged from catching her breath. she might have added more, the thought of asking him to come with flashed across her mind. it was bright white hot, the sudden bad idea that she would have immediately given into if it were anyone else, any time else. she stared at him, waiting to for those words to materialize in her mouth. but, she was left staring up at him still. she could feel the smile on her face, small but certain it was there all the same.

could she do things differently? did she want to, was it asked of her?

hearing the party start back up with its bright lights and chatter was enough to pause such inquiry. she didn't want to walk back in and have another drink, she didn't want to dance or talk to anyone else. so, she took a step back, his arms still weighted around her and raised her hand to signal for one of the drivers, the sleek black town car that was waiting idly by to take her to the orchard.

she didn't know how to live this moment. she rarely ended things peacefully, she still couldn't find the cure for the way she spun so entirely out of control given a wrong turn in their conversations. was there anything she could have said that would have come close to how asher had kissed her back? she swallowed, trying to find words which couldn't maim or hurt, or be turned inside out. finally, she sighed, lingering just a little longer in his grasp before she could slip away, "enjoy your dj."

she said it again, and that was what finally snapped asher out of the daze. not completely. not enough. he could still feel her mouth on his, still feel the shape of her in his arms, still feel the impossible fact of it moving through him like a song he didn’t know how to stop. but the word landed anyway.

home.

it was such a normal word for a moment that felt anything but normal. people said it at the end of parties all the time. they found their coats, called their rides, complained about their shoes hurting, promised to text when they made it back. asher had heard it a hundred times before, but from harriet, standing this close, after that kiss, it felt like a door closing before he’d even realized they’d stepped through one.

she pulled back enough to call for a car, and asher’s arms were still around her for a second too long. his fingers flexed at her waist on instinct, some helpless part of him trying to keep her there before his brain could remind his hands that they didn’t get to do that. they never got to do that not unless she stayed because she wanted to. and he would have offered to take her home. of course, he would have. that was the asher answer. he cared about his friends that way. he cared about people that way. he’d make sure anyone got home safe if they needed him to, but that wasn’t the whole truth, and he knew it.

there was a selfish part of him that wanted to see her home. to sit beside her in the back of the car with the whole night pressed between them and walk her to her door to stand with her under whatever porch light waited there and ask, without asking, if she was going to kiss him again. if the world might be generous twice in one night. the offer sat right on the tip of his tongue. then his gaze caught hers, and his heart stumbled all over again.

harriet had kissed him.

she had reached for him. she had put her arms around his neck and pulled him down and kissed him like something in her had finally decided to move and asher had kissed her back like restraint was something that happened to other people. was that it? was that the whole story? one kiss, then another, then a car pulling up to take her away before either of them had to say what it meant?

harriet slipped out of his grasp easily. he couldn’t keep her there. he wouldn’t want to, not like that. asher let his hands fall away and watched her go, his body still buzzing with the effort it took not to follow. by the time she got into the town car, his hands had found the keys in his pocket. his fingers worried over the metal edges, then started tapping against them softly—one, two, three, one, two, three—like he was trying to find a rhythm steady enough to stand on. the car door shut.

asher stayed where he was.

for years, he had watched harriet. cataloged her looks, her silences, the small ways she gave herself away when she thought no one noticed. he’d told himself it was one-sided. he’d told himself he was the only one keeping score, the only one remembering, the only one turning tiny moments into something larger than they probably were. but as the town car pulled away from the house, its taillights disappearing into the dark, asher wasn’t so sure anymore. maybe he hadn’t been the only one paying attention. maybe she had been watching too.

and maybe that was the part that would ruin him most of all.

The wall was still unpainted, though. Which confused them, because they had thought he might go with the idea mentioned before... About painting a special song in notes across the wall for others to discover or something like that.

Those stairs were totally haunted. At least nobody would be able to creep on up there without being heard. Claudio, having gotten a bit distracted in their first real look of Asher's shop, rushed to catch up with him on the stairs, passing up the second floor for now. They, too, stood at the entrance of the attic, sharing the same step with Asher now as they peered in. "You did all of this?" they could hardly keep the surprise out of their tone, let alone off their face. There was already a bed up there. Done up with sheets and pillow. That meant Asher had gone out of his way, after they had asked to stay there, to get something more appropriate to furnish the place like a real studio apartment. There was even a desk!

Now, their heart jumped back into their throat all over again as their wide-eyed wet stare turned onto Asher. "Really?" They didn't even care about the last of those storage boxes, they were already taking this extra space that Asher probably needed, and yet willingly had given over to them without question. A few boxes was nothing. The desire to hug Asher sprang upon him, wild and urgent. Something they would have done two months ago without any hesitation, because it would have just been an innocent hug. Why wouldn't it be, now? Just because of these confusing feelings that must have always been there, laying dormant? There shouldn't be a reason they couldn't hug their friend anymore, especially after he had gone through all of this trouble for them, to make them feel welcomed and safe.

Asher wasn't going to know he cared about him just because he hugged him. He could hug him, and the world wasn't going to fall apart.

his parents probably had extra sheets and blankets tucked away somewhere. his mom definitely had too many throw pillows. second chances would have lamps, maybe a rug, maybe some weird little painting that would make claude smile. they could make a day of it if claude wanted. pick things out. make the space feel less like storage and more like somewhere that belonged to them. asher had wanted this to work for claudio before he knew what their abuelita had done. now, knowing, the need felt sharper. steadier. like it mattered even more that this room became safe.

“well, yeah, i did,” asher said, a little bashful under their attention. “you needed a place, and i had some stuff that could—” he didn’t get to finish. claude stepped into him and wrapped their arms around him, and whatever else asher had been about to say disappeared completely. his face softened at once. he smiled, small and touched, and hugged them back without hesitation, arms closing around them warm and secure. not too tight, not like he was trying to trap them there. just enough to say he meant it. that they could lean if they needed to.

when claude thanked him, asher shook his head against them. “not a problem,” he said quietly, and for once there was no joke rushing in to soften it. “not even a little.” he held them for another second, letting the room settle around them, letting the keys and the lock and the little twin mattress become something real. then, softer, he added, “welcome home, claude.”

Keys were being held up. Their focus shifted to them, studying each one as Asher lifted them in turn. "Front door.. register.. attic," repeating them like some manta, reaching to take the keys. Wondering at how quickly the path they'd been on in life had suddenly forked off into this completely different direction. If someone would have told them two weeks ago that they would suddenly have keys to Asher's life, would muscle their way in like some cancer to fester in the attic and willingly subject themselves to heartbreak on the daily, they wouldn't have believed it. Maybe they should have, though.

This was all par for the course for Claudio, wasn't it? To suffer in silence.

At least here, though, it was a savage abuse of themselves. Of their own doing, their own say. None of it was Asher's fault. These bruises weren't caused by him. And ultimately, they were just desperate. They wanted their life back to some manageable mess and the only way they knew how to get that back was to press forward like everything was okay. Like they hadn't lost their entire family and their heart in the same breath. Claudio had to believe that, in time, they could get over it. Time healed, they knew that much. They had survived after Ashton... It had taken a long, miserable while, but here they still stood.

And, there was one glaring, obvious difference here. Ashton had liked him back. They had a chance to kindle and flame and burn bright. It had to be harder to lose someone you loved and loved you back, than something one-sided that hadn't even started. Right? They knew what they were missing with Ashton. They could only imagine with Asher. Damn them and their overactive imagination.

Focus on your life, focus on being his friend. That's all they cared about. Getting back to square one and if this was how they had to do it, by exposing themselves to what made their heart jump into their throat and brain hyperfocus until they simply found a way to get used to it, then so be it.

when claude had asked if they could stay, asher hadn’t even hesitated. if his apartment had more space, he would’ve offered that too, but the place was small and cramped and asher wasn’t entirely sure how claude would feel about sharing a bed with him. not that he would’ve made it weird. he just knew sometimes no matter how close friends were, people didn't like sharing their space with their friends. claude got the door open before asher could spiral too far into that thought, and asher’s face split into a grin. “hell yeah,” he said, bright and genuine, like unlocking the door had been a victory worth celebrating. he stepped inside once claude opened it for him, then nodded toward the back. “come on. i’ll show you the attic. i can train you on the other stuff later.”

he led them through the shop, past the unfinished corners and boxes he’d been meaning to deal with, toward the back hallway. the door there opened to a narrow stairwell, the kind that creaked underfoot like the building had opinions. asher climbed two flights, glancing back once to make sure claude was still with him, then reached the attic door.

“okay,” he said, one hand on the knob. “it’s not, like, a five-star hotel. but it’s private.” he opened the door. the attic was simple—sloped ceiling, old wooden floors, a desk pushed near the window, a twin mattress made up as neatly as asher could manage. there were still a few storage boxes tucked against the wall and some random shop supplies he hadn’t found a home for yet, but there was space. a place to sleep. a door that locked. quiet above the noise of the shop.

"so what?" you did this, you did that. only now, into the evening of a party that was neither of theirs did it bubble up. she could feel her hands, waiting to be thrown up with exasperation, held to the standard of the choices that she made when she was sixteen. the reasons why she might have kept walking into his record shop were neither a. his only option; b. her only game. the third choice couldn't present itself here, her frustration clear, "it's all background."

there it was, that she was cold, unfeeling, she thought she was better than him. the same old tired words that breezed through her, never pausing for assessment. saffron asked him out— she'd been right, but that tone of voice! "i never said better." she'd changed the topic before it'd gotten out of hand. another sidestep into the injuries that he'd been keeping record of for her. was it all for this moment, to learn the cascade of ways that she'd failed his idea of harriet?

"and what if the rumor is true! what then?" it wasn’t, but she held on to the idea like a weapon, something that she could use as a last resort the more this conversation spun out of control. how often was it needed to when begging and negotiating were off the table, and she was left with respect that laced its way through the hurt and insisted that she should have seen something too among the rubble and the endless days of work. even if she had, she couldn't scream why not fight for it!

so, she blinked away whatever stupid tears had begun to form at his insistence on an us, whatever it could mean. what did she want? it was a question without answer, there was nothing she could puzzle through in the moment. the only word which still stood out was the ringing phrase: it'll ruin me. that sounded right for the evening, the tempo this conversation had, the answers that kept misaligning.

her thoughts couldn’t pass ruin, leaving her nothing but action. she reached out, finally, fingers lacing around his neck and pulling him down to her height. despite the fervor, the immediacy which she pulled his lips to hers, the kiss was slow at first, a question answered with another question. she was not an experienced kisser, finding her way through the smallest of corrections. her hands loosened their grasp, finding a softer placement near his jaw, her face tipped up further towards the moonlight to deepen the kiss.

she pulled away for a flash of moment, taking a breath. her thoughts were all unordered, and she could only manage, “i—" before the headlights of a designated car flashed on to the driveway, the party starting to ease back into its prior rhythm of chatter and dancing. it was enough of a distraction for her to let him go, though the space between them remained closed off. she looked up, hands hovering at his chest, unsure what to do with the sudden pulse she could feel in her throat.

whatever they had been arguing about—friendship, rejection, him leaving, her wanting someone on her side—still hung in the air between them. asher could feel the shape of it, could feel the ache of every word he’d said and every one he hadn’t. he’d been trying so hard to hold the line. to be careful. to be her friend because being anything to harriet felt better than being nothing at all. and then her arms went around his neck.

for half a second, asher didn’t move. he just stared at her, close enough now to see the flicker of fireworks reflected in her eyes, close enough to smell champagne and smoke on her breath, close enough to understand that something was happening before his mind could put a name to it. his heart knocked once, hard and brutal, like it had been waiting years for this exact cue.

then she pulled him down and kissed him.

his mind didn’t catch up right away. it couldn’t. harriet’s mouth was on his. harriet, who had always felt just out of reach no matter how close she stood. harriet, who had looked through him and past him and sometimes at him in ways that made him feel sixteen again. harriet, who had said no. harriet, who had somehow still ended up here with her hands at his neck and her mouth against his like she’d finally decided to answer a question he had stopped letting himself ask. asher made a soft, broken sound against her lips, almost swallowed by the night.

his hands found her waist because they had to go somewhere because if he didn’t hold onto her he wasn’t sure he’d stay standing. he pulled her in carefully at first, afraid of startling the moment, afraid if he moved too quickly it would vanish. his chest tightened so painfully it almost felt like grief, except it wasn’t grief. not exactly. it was want. it was relief. it was every stupid, stubborn feeling he’d tried to bury coming alive at once. she was hesitant for only a breath or maybe that was him, maybe that was the last shred of restraint trying to remind him this could hurt, but then her hands caught his face and the kiss deepened.

and asher was gone.

completely.

the world narrowed to the shape of her mouth, the press of her fingers against his skin, the warmth of her body against his. the fireworks overhead bloomed and cracked in gold and silver, but they felt distant now, like they belonged to somebody else’s night. all asher knew was harriet. the taste of champagne. the faint smoke on her lips. kissing other people had always been sparks that were bright, fun, easy to let go of. this was not a spark. this was a match dropped into a room full of paper.

he kissed her back like he had been trying not to for years. like every coffee he bought her, every look he pretended not to hope for, every joke he made just to see if her mouth would twitch, every time he came back to town and wondered where she was had led him here. his hands tightened at her waist, not trapping her, but holding on like the feeling might tear through him if he didn’t give it somewhere to go. she was warm. real. there.

the kiss would ruin him. he knew it with absolute certainty.

he did not care.

when harriet pulled back, asher followed her without thinking, chasing her lips for one dizzy second before reality dragged him back by the collar. his eyes opened slowly, unfocused and heavy, his breathing uneven. his hands were still on her waist. hers were against his chest. she said she should go home. it took him a moment to understand the word. “home?” he repeated, dumbly, like she’d said something in another language. they were outside someone else’s house, standing on the edge of a party near the driveway where cars waited to take people away from the night. home made sense. leaving made sense. all of this made sense, technically. except nothing made sense anymore because harriet had kissed him. he had been trying to be her friend. friends. he kissed his friends. this was fine. except it wasn’t fine.

his gaze dropped to her mouth, to the smudge of lipstick there. had he done that? the thought sent something hot and helpless through him. his hand slid up from her waist before he could stop himself, thumb brushing carefully over the corner of her lip, trying to clean the evidence of him from her skin and failing to do anything except touch her again. his thumb lingered and his breath caught. life went on, didn’t it? even after hurricanes. even after grief. even after no. even after the thing you wanted most finally put its hands on you in the dark.

his gaze lifted back to hers, and whatever he saw there finished him. his palm cupped her cheek, gentle despite the ruin of him. “hattie,” he breathed, her name barely more than a confession. and then he pulled her in and kissed her again.

not careful this time. desperate, aching, all the restraint he’d been clinging to finally snapping in his hands. he kissed her like he was already lost, like she had opened a door in him and he had no intention of closing it. like if this was the only kiss he was ever going to get from harriet mclaughlin, then he was going to make sure she felt every year of wanting in it.

his hand slid from her cheek into her hair, the other arm wrapping more firmly around her waist as he drew her closer, closer, until there was no space left for doubt or pride or old hurt to stand between them. he kissed her like a song finally breaking open after holding back the chorus too long. messy with feeling, reverent with it, almost unbearable in how much he meant it. like he wanted to ruin himself properly and he wanted to ruin her a little too.

Or had they?

There must have been something there they had just quietly, unknowingly, pushed aside and to the back where this man was concerned. Who knew when it all really started? But as their confusing emotions were picked apart, Claude would find new evidence to support that this had been a slow flame lit somewhere deep inside, carefully tended, but never given air to breathe and grow. Maybe that was why each time Asher came and left, the absence lingered heavier. Maybe that’s why they couldn’t help to catalogue everything about him?

Claudio swallowed a lump in their throat. Their life was casually dismantling around them and yet all they seemed to care about, was that thousand watt smile and the adorable rumple of his hair which only made it even more delightfully disheveled. Oof, they really thought this was the best idea?! Staying here, working with him? For a whole century minute, they forgot all about what brought them there in the first place, what was on their face—

Until the stark and sudden shift in Asher, the way his features darkened with something they’d never really seen in him before: anger. Asher, angry? Everything came crashing back to reality in a jarring manner, as the other man was right there, too close, and touching them. Claude’s breath hitched, eyes widened, both hands reactively coiling into the fabric of their hoodie; their heartbeat felt loud, like something out of Jumanji, they feared Asher would hear it. A serious moment, that caused their gaze to melt and soften, the understanding that they had come to him first because they knew he would care. He hadn’t even hesitated in it. “My abuelita,” the answer soft, they wouldn’t conceal it, they couldn’t do this anymore. “She’s always had a problem with me.. because I’m.. different,” they went on, staring back at Asher and wanting to say exactly how different all of a sudden, “and I guess this stuff they put out about Ashton and I.. I’ve shamed the family, she’s asked me to leave..”

his gaze stayed fixed on claude as they explained, his hand still gentle at their chin, careful not to press anywhere that might hurt. “shamed the family?” he repeated, brows pulling together. for half a second, he didn’t understand. then it landed. them. ashton.

claude’s family was traditional in a way asher’s had never been. asher had grown up in a house where he could walk into the kitchen and tell his parents he liked a boy, or a girl, or anyone in between, and the worst thing that would happen was his mom asking too many questions and his dad telling him to invite them over for dinner. he’d never had to brace himself for love to come with conditions. he’d never had to wonder if being honest would make home unsafe. sometimes he forgot other people did.

the air between them felt too tight suddenly, too charged. his hand on claude’s face, claude’s eyes on his, the bruise dark against their skin. and then claude stepped back like the closeness had become too much, knocking into the window behind them. asher’s hand dropped immediately, giving them space even though every instinct in him wanted to reach again.

then claude winced. exclaiming ow. that was all it took. asher stepped forward before he could talk himself out of it, concern overriding caution. but before he could ask where they’d hurt themselves, claude started talking fast about if asher didn’t want to be involved, if this was too much, if they could figure something else out. “claudio,” asher said, firm enough to cut through it, but not unkind. “i’m involved.”

he reached into his pocket and pulled out the keys, holding them up between them. three of them, newly cut and bright against his palm. “i made the keys,” he said, like that settled the matter. “front door to the shop. register. attic.” his voice softened on the last one. “and i put a lock on the attic door for you. so you’ll have privacy.” he looked at claude then, really looked at them, his anger folding into something steadier. something warm. something that made no room for argument. “you can stay,” he said. “i want you to stay.”

It was staggering, to think of just how much happened and changed in the course of forty-eight hours alone. Claudio hadn't spoken to anyone in his family, and wouldn't be in church the next day, either.

There was a lot to think about, a lot going on. Not even just their own business, but for their friends, too. And to be frank, they truly had no idea what they should do anymore about any of it. One step at a time, that's all they could think.

Their current step was finding a place to live. They had spent the night at the motel and thought, maybe, until the stranger two rooms down from him tried to proposition the young man for a blowjob behind the back of the shitty building. So, they weren't going to remain there. And they certainly wouldn't bother Ashton, who had once offered about his mother's house. That would be so awkward and strange, after ten long years of nothing they would just, move into their ex's mother's house out of the blue? Especially while Ashton was trying to staunch the bleeding of this NHL campaign that Claudio lowkey felt responsible for.

Pet? Knox? They would help, he knew it. Nearly called them, too.

At the last moment, with a shaky thumb, he clicked Asher's name instead. Texted him. Turned to him, for the help. Not quite explaining everything but Claudio knew, once his friend got a look at him, they would have to. That they would handle when the time came, of course. Right then, he just felt Asher had been the right person to ask. The only one he even wanted to see, too, because it'd be a lie to say there wasn't an underlying motive just to reassure themselves the new studio owner was, actually, okay. They were concerned. As much as they should be avoiding him, they couldn't. Not after what Ashton said, how suspicious it all came off and not when they now knew, it upset Asher somehow. He'd been bothered by it. Made to feel something was wrong.

There was, but Claudio was positive it had nothing to do with whatever Asher had cooked up inside his brain. It was just stupid feelings, getting in the way of everything. That would cost them their friendship, if they didn't put a stop to it. How they thought they could mend any of this by moving into the guy's attic like some cryptoid, and working for him, Claudio had no fucking clue. But that's where they were now, they'd figure something out. They'd find the balance to make everything back to being okay again, somehow.

They were in baggy clothes, because most of what they owned were just hand-me-downs from their father and older brothers, all of whom were bigger than they were. They had taken on their mother's slender form and features, one more thing for their family to be unhappy over. But today, the bagginess was especially obvious, to hide some bruises and welts along their arms and back with their hoodie, carefully shouldering their overstuffed duffle bag on the other shoulder that didn't hurt. They couldn't hide the straight, purpleish welt that crossed their check and disappeared around the left ear, though. Makeup wouldn't even cover that, so they hadn't tried. It looked like he got struck by something, though the swelling wasn't as bad today.

did claude like him?

were there signs he’d missed because he’d been wrapped up in his own mess lately with harriet, the shop, the priest, the way his heart kept doing stupid things in inconvenient moments? or was this just another case of asher being oblivious to someone else’s feelings because he assumed everyone was operating on the same friendly and affectionate wavelength as him? ashton could be wrong. he had to be. maybe ashton just thought asher and claude would be cute together and was trying to… what, play matchmaker? stir the pot for fun? asher hated that he didn’t know. he hated that it mattered enough for him to keep thinking about it.

by the time he pulled up to the shop, the sun was lower and the place looked like it was coming together lately. the mock up he showed clause months ago now was on the window and it looked like an actual shop. asher just had to finish putting inventory together and a few finishing touches. claude was already there, waiting. asher parked, killed the engine and swung his leg over and off the bike.

he yanked the helmet off and grinned automatically. “sorry for making you wait,” he said, breathless. “mrs. carlton needed help getting something off a top shelf at the store.” he pushed his fingers through his hair to flatten the helmet mess and started toward the door. “it’s nice—” the words died in his mouth. a purple mark on claude’s face.

asher’s expression changed so fast it was almost scary with an anger, immediate and focused, but not at claude. he stepped in close, lifted his free hand, and gently caught claude’s chin to turn their face toward the light, thumb hovering near the bruise without touching it.