Archive of Our Own ^beta

John’s halfway through typing out a (group, because he can’t be bothered to send it individually today) text to his students to let them know he can’t make it in today when his studio coordinator calls to give him the bad news.

Of course Mrs. Ledford is out until January. John’s been pretending not to worry about it all week— with the way her health problems act up in the cold, he’s had the feeling that something would go wrong. He should’ve had her walk him through the piano programs just in case. The last thing he wanted to hear was that he’d be the one running everything— he’s got no clue how to do any of it. The studio has got to be kidding.

“You’ve got to be kidding me, Ron.”

“I wish I was.”

“F—” John cuts himself off. “I just do guitar. I don’t know how to run the whole show. My students show up and play and I watch from the sidelines.”

“Not this year. Look, it’s not that bad. Tina just needs you to talk to the crowd a little, announce the students, stuff like that. You’ll be fine.”

“That is not my thing. I—” John shuts up again, all too aware he’s fighting a losing battle here. “Why can’t you do it? You’ve been here longer, and—”

“Not a chance. The wife and I will be in Texas by then.”

Aw, shit. John always forgets that some people have Christmas plans that last longer than a meal day-of. “Damn. Okay.”

“You’ve got two weeks. I’ll be here for the next week. We’ll make it happen.”

Ron seems awfully chipper, and John can’t blame him. He’s not the one who has to deal with the crowd of families that’ll show up to see their kids butcher their assigned songs.

So he sucks it up and grabs his guitar and heads down to the studio. He can’t fake being sick if he’s the only one dealing with the recital.

John kicks off his shoes the second he gets home, dumping his guitar case unceremoniously on his couch (and then setting it carefully upright once he decides that’s a bad call). It’s only six, and there’s plenty of time to cook one of the five meals he has on rotation before he sits down at the TV— he’s thinking it might be time to use the box of Hamburger Helper that’s been sitting in his pantry cupboard for over a week.

He starts for the kitchen, pulling his hoodie over his head as he walks. There are only a few walls in the whole apartment; it’s a bullshit open concept, one with lines in the ceiling from where the landlord had clearly removed a few walls, and he can avoid them blind. Little step around the couch, then a diagonal path to avoid his kitchen table, and—

His socks squish.

John stops short, freeing his face from the hoodie. There’s a puddle spreading from the kitchen out into the hall, just a thin layer of water. Not flood bad, but enough to soak his feet even though he hasn’t crossed the threshold into the kitchen, where the worst of it seems to be.

“Fuck.”

He peels off his socks and tosses them in the vague direction of his bedroom, rolling up his jeans before they can get wet too. They’re his last clean(ish) pair and he does not have time to walk across the complex to do laundry right now.

He can’t catch a break.

At least he has maintenance on speed dial. He saved their number over the summer when his ceiling started leaking, and he’s grateful for it now— means he doesn’t have to Google while he’s standing in water. He sticks the phone between his shoulder and ear, awkwardly shuffling across the kitchen to grab the towel hanging from the stove’s handle. It soaks through immediately, but at least he feels like he’s doing something.

“Harbor Commons maintenance.”

John heaves a relieved sigh, pushing the sodden towel around with his foot. “Hey! Hey, I’m in 15C. There’s water all over my kitchen floor— I dunno what happened, but I came home and— yeah. Can you send someone out?”

“15C? Yup. Give us ten.”

The line disconnects, and John shoves his phone into his back pocket and squelches down the hall to find more towels.

By the time maintenance does show, John’s gone through almost every towel in his apartment and discovered that, no matter how hard he tries to mop up the water, he’s not making a dent because it hasn’t stopped leaking. From under his cabinets, most likely—he can’t see any leaks, but it isn’t the ceiling this time and his limited knowledge of flooding apartments ends there.

There’s a brisk knock. John tracks water to the front door to tug it open.

“You called for maintenance?”

John stares at the guy for a second. He’s gotta be a head taller, hair long and messy, tool belt slung low around his hips—John doesn’t think that’s a normal way to wear one of those, but what would he know—flannel undone over a graphic tee so faded John can’t quite make out the print. And he does try.

“Maintenance. Yeah, yeah, uh— come in. Sorry for the mess, there’s—” John gestures. “Water.”

Maintenance guy nods. He bends down to cuff his own jeans, and John’s eyes follow him. “I’ve seen worse. Any idea where— or, well, any obvious leaks?”

John shakes his head.

“Fun. Lead the way, then.”

“It was fine before I left. I had lessons, and the floor was dry on my way out, so— this can’t have started more than an hour ago.” John stands aside once he reaches his kitchen, letting the maintenance guy step in first. “And I tried to mop it up.”

There’s a pile of wet towels in the corner. Maintenance guy glances at it. “I can see.”

He tugs the cabinets open, pulling a flashlight from his belt and shining it around. John watches him, gritting his teeth—the leak’s still going, water flowing around his feet.

“I don’t see anything down here. Lemme pull out the dishwasher, since…” He doesn’t finish the sentence, just braces himself and tugs.

John can hear water as soon as the dishwasher shifts. “Doesn’t sound great.”

“Nope,” he agrees. “Come hold the light, will you?”

The puddle’s rising, and John reluctantly tiptoes through it—he’s wet already, but it’s cold—and grabs the flashlight from him. “Need help pulling it out?”

Maintenance guy shakes his head. He pauses to roll up his flannel, and John stares at him for a few seconds longer than he really should.

There’s got to be a time limit for staring before it gets weird. The last thing John needs is for maintenance to hate stopping by his apartment.

“You know,” maintenance guy says, rolling up his second sleeve. His forearm looks bigger with the flannel to accentuate it. “You aren’t the first guy to report issues with plumbing this week. If you ask me, management’s waited too long to do preventative work. But what do I know.”

John just hums. He can’t remember having a conversation about anything more than the weather with maintenance at his last apartment. Not that he’s mad about it, mind you—this man’s much nicer to look at than the sixty-something year old employed by the other place—but it makes the visit feel a lot different.

“Okay. Shine it right through here.” He tugs the dishwasher again to widen the opening, and John steps forward—through another rush of water—to point the light in what he hopes is the right general direction.

He can’t see shit, but the maintenance guy reaches back through the gap to mess with something. It sends another wave out onto John’s feet.

“Okay,” he says and straightens up. “I’m gonna— let me shut off the water, two seconds. Looks like a pipe’s cracked back here.”

“Hard to fix?”

He waves a hand, already heading for the front door. “Be right back.”

John’s left holding his flashlight in the kitchen. He’s half convinced the water’s getting colder.

He can hear it when maintenance does shut off the water. The kitchen grows a lot quieter, and all he can hear now is a sporadic dripping behind the dishwasher. He’s grateful for that, at least— the water won’t spread more than it already has, but he’s standing in a puddle that’ll be impossible to clean up. He doesn’t own enough towels for this, and he’s only got half a roll of paper left.

“Back,” maintenance calls as he enters.

Fuck, he’s tall. John’s head doesn’t come nearly that close to the doorframe. It’s enough to distract him from the water for a second (but only a second— he shifts his weight from one leg to the other and wrinkles his nose at the slosh around his feet).

“Seems like it worked?”

John nods. “Think so.”

“Cool.”

Maintenance guy pauses in the kitchen entry, looking around. John’s sure he’s just taking stock of the situation—looking at water levels, potential damage, all that stuff—but he’s suddenly very aware of how long it’s been since he last did a deep clean.

“We’ll need to replace the pipe. I should probably get my Shop-Vac in here first, though. Get some of this cleaned up for you.”

John’s half roll of paper towels have been spared. “That would be great, if you don’t mind. I don’t think I could get all this without one.”

He nods, and John’s stupid, traitorous eyes follow his movements as he ties his hair back. It’s not a great job, honestly—he’s got a few loose strands out, and the knot he makes is crooked—but John’s mouth feels all dry and clumsy anyway.

“Got you. I’ll be back with the Shop-Vac—oh, and the pipe, too—I think we still have a few replacements lying around somewhere, if I can find them—and a wrench, and—”

He’s still listing shit when he turns to walk off, and John watches him go, swallowing around the dryness.

By the time the maintenance guy comes back, John’s done a frantic wipe-down of the kitchen counters (his paper towel roll has maybe three squares left now) and stacked the dirty dishes from the past week or so in the dishwasher, just to get them out of sight. He’s pretty sure the few left in there were clean, but— oh well. His fault for not clearing it sooner.

He’s organizing his pantry cabinet—just in case the man needs to look in there for some reason—when his front door opens.

“Me again,” maintenance calls. He drags a Shop-Vac over the threshold with one hand, a plastic bag of PVC pipe in the other, and kicks the door shut behind him. “One of these’ll work, with any luck.”

John slams the cabinet door. Something inside it falls over. “Thank you.”

“Course. I’ll start on the water. You can just, uh—” he gestures vaguely. “Hang out? This shouldn’t take long.”

John squishes his way over to the living room. The water didn’t reach his couch, thank god. “Appreciate it. Do you, uh— need anything? Towels? A drink?”

Maintenance guy grins. He’s got a nice smile, the kind that lights up his whole face. John finds himself smiling back. “I think I’m okay. I’ll let you know.”

John sits down for a few minutes, listening to the Shop-Vac run. Maintenance guy is humming something he sort of recognizes, but can’t quite place.

“You might wanna put this outside,” maintenance calls over the vacuum’s rumble. He’s poking fruitlessly at John’s kitchen rug with the hose. “It’ll be damp for a while.”

He pushes himself to his feet and walks back over to grab it. Maintenance guy is crouching by the sink, running the hose over the baseboard, and John pointedly looks at the Shop-Vac instead of him. There’s a piece of masking tape wrapped around the handle, and another plastered to the side, a name—Adam—written in all caps. The Sharpie letters are crooked.

“Adam?”

Maintenance guy looks up. “Hm? Oh, yeah. That’s me.”

Knowing his name doesn’t help.

“I always forget to introduce myself.” Adam suctions up another puddle. “And you’re John, yeah? Unless you have a roommate?”

“Yeah. No roommate.”

“That’d be nice. I’ve lived with the same couple of guys for a few years now, and—” he wrinkles his nose, looking up at John through the strands of hair falling over his face. “Sometimes you just want quiet, you know?”

“Yeah. Yeah, totally.” John can’t even blink.

“Is it lonely, though?”

“I guess it can be. You’re the first person who’s been in here since, shit. August?”

It takes John roughly ten seconds to realize how lame that makes him sound, but he can’t backtrack— Adam’s already speaking again.

“I think that’d mess with me in a different way. What do you do for work? It gets you outside a lot, I hope?”

“I, uh— yeah, it does. I teach. Guitar. Not, like, anything I’d need a degree for. Nothing hard.”

He can see Adam grin through the curtain of hair now covering his face (it’s falling out of his hair tie). “That’s cool. Sounds hard to me. I would never have the patience—do you teach kids, then? Or—I suppose people our age need to learn, too. Whatever. I wouldn’t be able to do it.”

“Mostly kids. It’s not that bad. Other than, well—” John pauses. Adam definitely doesn’t need to hear about his recital woes. “It’s not bad.”

Adam looks up at him again. He’s got the Shop-Vac’s hose pushed against the baseboard, and it’s not picking anything up— the nearest puddle’s a foot or so away. “Other than?”

“Oh, it’s nothing. We’ve just got this recital—Christmas concert—coming up for the kids, and they made it my job. I’m decent at teaching. Less so at running events.”

“Ugh, like—” Adam finally notices he’s doing nothing with the vacuum. He moves over a few inches. “Public speaking stuff?”

“Yeah.”

“The worst. I hated that in high school.”

“It’s not my usual thing at all. I tend to just show up. Play a few songs with my kids. Let the studio director do the talking. She’s out sick, though, so— all me.”

Adam runs the hose through another puddle. “That sucks.”

“The music part of it is great. Some of our students are really good, so— it’s not just kids stumbling through a couple of chords. I mean, sometimes, yeah, but it’s a good time.”

“When?”

“Two weeks from tomorrow. I’ll be writing out something to say to the parents, and wrapping up practice with everybody.”

“Oh yeah, you’ve got time.” Adam’s knees pop when he stands up, and John remembers all over again that he’s a bit taller. God. “I’ll get the rest vacuumed up and then mess with the pipes. It shouldn’t be too bad, maybe half an hour more and then I’ll get out of your hair.”

“No rush. Take your time, really. I know it’s a mess.”

Adam waves a hand, pulling the Shop-Vac over a couple of feet. He has to hunt for a new outlet, and John grits his teeth, fighting the urge to start moving some of the stuff he’s still got scattered around— jackets on the back of his chairs, shoes near the couch, a dirty mug he missed on his last pass through.

“I’m only on call for the next hour, I think, so I can’t linger long.” He grins over at John. “It’ll be just fine. I won’t bother you much longer.”

And— no, John wants to say, that wasn’t what he was trying to get at. “Not bothering me at all,” he says instead.

Adam’s already busying himself with another puddle. “Most of the flooding was in the kitchen,” he calls over the Shop-Vac’s hum. “I don’t think you’ll have anything to worry about out here.”

“Nothing that’ll be a permanent issue, I hope.”

“Nah. You caught it in time— this stuff tends to clean up easy, and— you know the complex would— there was one time this guy had his, his whole apartment flood a few years back, and totally screwed up the flooring, where it was buckling and everything.” Adam straightens up, a hand on his lower back.

John does not stare.

“Anyway, it was buckling. Like I said. And everything got replaced for him immediately. The front door too, another time, but that was— that’s unrelated, but you know. So you don’t have to worry about anything, really— we’d get it fixed if you needed it.”

“Oh. Well, that’s good,” John says, tearing his eyes away. He doesn’t need to know the way Adam’s hand looks when it’s pressing into his flannel. “You’ve been here a few years?”

“Four.” Adam makes a face. “My dad’s head of maintenance. Hard to find something else when it’s family.”

“That makes sense.”

He turns the Shop-Vac off, looking back at John. His eyes are so dark— it could just be the lighting, but John swears they’re all pupil. “What about you?”

“Hmm?”

“How’d you get into music?”

“Oh, just— I knew Ron, who’s, well.” He needs to get it together. “Ron’s our piano guy. I did studio guitar for a few years, and met Ron on a project, and their old guitar teacher happened to be quitting, so it worked out.”

“So no family, then?”

“God, no. My dad’s not like that. I’d be a youth pastor or something if he had his way, not—” John gestures. “You know.”

Adam grins. “I know. Damn, I know.”

“It’s just not me.”

He pulls the Shop-Vac over a few more feet. “I can tell. Hey, did you have a towel laying around anywhere?”

“Uh— hold on.”

John checks to make sure he doesn’t have anything in his teeth when he’s passing the bathroom mirror. He can’t be too careful. There’s one towel left, shoved in the back of the linen closet, thank god.

“Got one. It’s my last one, but— it’ll work, I hope.”

The towel is ratty and stained when Adam unfolds it. He doesn’t bat an eye, wiping off the hose’s nozzle and draping it over the back of a chair. “Perfect. Thanks. So, youth pastor?”

“Or something,” John says again.

The Shop-Vac roars back to life, and John has a minute or two to think about everything he did to end the conversation. He’s calculating just how badly he messed up when the vacuum turns off.

“Great,” Adam says, triumphant as he turns and stands, still holding the hose. “Dry. Did I miss anything?”

John can see several damp-looking patches of floor. A puddle in the other corner. He shakes his head. “Nope. All clear.”

“Fantastic.” Adam dries off the hose again, then drapes the towel over his shoulder, not seeming to mind when it bunches up by his neck.

John does his best not to reach out and fix it— he can feel the rasp of damp towel on his own neck in solidarity, and it’s an uncomfortable enough feeling that he walks into his dining room table when he tries to follow Adam back to the kitchen. “Oh— so, then, what’s next?”

“I’ll replace the pipe.” Adam’s already digging around in the bag he brought. “Might need you to hold that light again. I have a headlamp somewhere, but— I think the last time I used it was when I had to replace part of this guy’s ceiling, which is— man, that was tough. I had plaster all over my hands and it got on the headlamp and I haven’t cleaned it yet, and so it’ll basically be useless if I can even find it, and also— I can’t tell you where I left the batteries it needs, anyway. So—”

“I can hold it. That’s fine.”

It feels weird when Adam looks back at him. John’s all too aware he’s barefoot in his kitchen, jeans still rolled up, and somehow he’s the one who’s out of place here. In his apartment.

“I’ll hold it,” John says again, even though he doesn’t have to. “I’d offer batteries, but I don’t think I’ve got any.”

Another grin spreads over Adam’s face. It’s bright enough John doesn’t think they need the flashlight. “I have a fancy credit card for those anyway.”

“Perk of the job?”

“I’d say the main one, but I have,” Adam says, then seems to forget the rest of the sentence in favor of tugging the dishwasher out far enough he can get back behind it.

John shuffles forward obligingly to hold the light, trying his best to ignore the water that gushes out from underneath the cabinets. It’s a lazy rush, petering off into a trickle after seconds, but there’s enough dust and gunk mixed in to make it look like sludge as it crawls over his floor. “Ew.”

“I know.” Adam’s got his head behind the dishwasher and his words are muffled, but he sounds apologetic. “I’ll clean that up too.”

“It’s fine, just—” John casts a longing glance towards the shoes he left by the front door.

“Gross. I know.”

There’s a couple of scraping noises, then the squeal of plastic on metal, and John’s gritting his teeth when Adam reappears with a piece of cracked PVC.

“See?”

“I— yep.”

“Hold that,” Adam says as he passes it over, then ducks under the counter again. “That was your issue. Like I said, must’ve been old.”

“It looks it.” John gives the thing a once-over, then moves his gaze to Adam. He’s a little nicer to look at, even with his dirty jeans being the only visible part of him.

More scraping. A couple of thuds. John’s not convinced one of them isn’t Adam’s head, since he ducks quite a bit lower than he needs to when he emerges.

“Done.”

It’s just a matter of sucking up the rest of the water, and pushing the dishwasher back into place, and using John’s last clean towel to wipe up the crud left behind, and then Adam’s all finished and heading for the front door. John trails behind him, a little unsure of what to say.

“You should be fixed up,” Adam says. He’s lingering by the front door, and John decides he’d be stupid if he read into it. “Give us another call if you have any issues. I work…”

He thinks about it for a second. “Next few days. Probably. I’ll stop by whenever.”

“I, uh, appreciate it. Really. I couldn’t have—”

“Don’t worry about it.” Adam gives John another smile, and then he’s ducking out the front door. “See you around.”

John spends the next hour or so drying the rest of the puddles, then making the dinner he’d wanted to make ages ago. There’s an ominous creaking from under the cabinets when he turns on the sink, and he freezes for a good two minutes, but his floor stays dry.

The pipe must be settling in. It’ll just take a day or two to go quiet.

He’s more concerned with the bag of PVC he finds behind the table that night— Adam must’ve left it, and John figures it can’t be that expensive, but he’s not gonna find out the hard way. He sets it by the front door. Just in case Adam decides to come back for it.

Shows how much he knows about plumbing, if John’s honest. The pipe does not settle in. It creaks every time his water runs, and sometimes when it doesn’t, and he’s been scared enough to run the dishwasher that he’s turned to washing dishes by hand. Which is his worst nightmare, really— the thought of coming home from teaching kids to a pile of dishes...

He makes it two days before he caves and calls maintenance again.

“Hey, so—”

“John, was it?”

Fuck.

“Yeah,” he says, resting his forehead against his fridge. “I, uh—”

“Don’t tell me the new pipe burst too?”

“No! No, no, uh, bursting. Just—”

“What’s up, then?”

“You left your bag of PVC. I think. The pipes.” John’s words leave him in a rush. “I didn’t know if you, like, needed those. For anything.”

He can handle noisy plumbing. He’s not about to tell Adam to his face (or lack thereof, given the phone) that his fix didn’t work.

The other line’s silent for long enough that John’s eyes unfocus, then focus again on a dent in the fridge in front of him, and he clears his throat. “I can—”

“Oh! Thanks,” Adam says, and John can hear rustling over the phone. “I was wondering— give me five, yeah?”

He hangs up, and John stands in the kitchen for maybe thirty seconds before his brain catches up and reminds him, helpfully, that he’s still wearing those ratty pajama pants with a rip right in the crotch. He’s forgotten all about the plumbing by the time he makes it to his dresser.

He’s wearing basically the same outfit when he knocks again, and John’s just as stupid and slack-jawed about it as he was two days ago.

“You said I—”

“Left your stuff,” John finishes for him. The bag’s right where he left it—two feet to his right—but he looks around for it anyway. “Yeah. Here.”

“I appreciate it. PVC isn’t expensive or anything, but I couldn’t figure out where I put the rest of it and it was driving me crazy— I keep doing that, you know? Leaving stuff around and not knowing— I lost a whole sandwich the other day, when I was— I think I was taking lunch out by the playground, since it was nice out, and I didn’t have a call I had to check on, which tends to be rare. We’ve got so many people who live here, and— where was I? Yeah, I thought the swingset was creaking so I stepped over to take a look at it, and somehow my sandwich ended up at the top of the slide. Like—” Adam raises a hand. “Yea high. And I could’ve sworn I left it back on the bench, but I’d just left the wrapper, and—”

He stops talking. John’s been staring at him, and he realizes it a little too late to look away.

“Anyway. I found it. And you found the PVC.”

“I did.”

“So, uh—”

“Do you want to make sure you didn’t leave anything else?” John cringes as the question leaves his mouth, but Adam’s already stepping forward, and it’s way too late to backtrack.

“Not a bad idea. I don’t think there are any sandwiches in here, but it can’t hurt to check.”

John once again finds himself trailing Adam through his own apartment. He’s not sure how he got to this point—following Adam around, making a fool of himself—not sure how much lonelier he was than he thought. That’s the only thing that might explain it. “No sandwiches, but maybe—”

The pipes groan.

Adam turns to the kitchen, then to John. “How long’s that been happening?”

“Has what been happening?”

Adam’s in the kitchen already by the time John stops speaking, and John trudges after him, pausing in the doorway as he watches Adam tug the dishwasher out for the second time this week.

“You don’t have to—”

Adam reaches back behind the dishwasher, feeling for something John can’t see. His hand reemerges to pull something from his tool belt, and then John’s just waiting, hovering behind him and keeping a wary eye out for water.

There’s the sound of metal on plastic. A muffled curse. Some other, unidentifiable noises. Adam pushes himself back out, grinning up at John. It looks a bit sheepish this time.

“Looks like I didn’t finish tightening everything. I was a bit distracted, sorry— you should be fine from here out.”

“Oh. That’s fine, I didn’t notice any issues.” John’s dug himself into this hole already. He might as well keep lying. “That was the first strange noise I’d heard.”

“That’s good, at least.” Adam stands and shoves the dishwasher back into place.

John’s left scrambling for something to say. “I didn’t call you to make you do work, I swear.”

He grins again. “Don’t sweat it. Wouldn’t have answered if it was my day off, or if I was busy, or— if I was avoiding work. Which happens sometimes. More often than it should, maybe, but we’ve got another couple of guys who can pick up the slack, so it’s fine.”

“Don’t blame you. I’m always tempted to call in.”

“You get it. It’s not that I don’t like my job, just— sometimes my roommates aren’t home and it’s nice to be alone, or sometimes I’m already on site and I get a call from one of those tenants, or—”

“Hope I’m not one of those tenants.”

“Not even close.”

John’s far too close to making a stupid move here, like telling Adam he’s glad he doesn’t mind picking up John’s calls, or telling Adam his apartment is always free if he needs a break from his roommates, and he’s—thankfully—saved by Adam’s phone ringing.

Adam glances at the screen and sighs, then gives John a little shrug. “Guess I better keep making the rounds. Give me— us a call if you hear anything else, yeah?”

“For sure. I’ll see you around?”

Adam gives him another smile, one that makes his eyes crinkle up, and then he’s off, toting the bag of PVC. John rests his forehead against his front door for a minute before he locks it.

John only hears the pipes creak a few more times in the next couple of days. Not nearly enough for him to consider calling maintenance—calling Adam—again, but enough that it’s always in the front of his mind.

He has other things to focus on, and, as the week wears on, the pipes become less and less important. There’s the quick catch-up lessons with Ms. Ledford’s students, to make sure they’re all ready. There’s the multiple reassurances he has to give them to calm their nerves, and the multiple reassurances Ron has to give him, and his own students to deal with, and, by the time Ron leaves for Texas with only a week to spare, John’s nowhere even close to prepared for this goddamn Christmas concert.

So of course three of his breakers flip on a Sunday morning. John’s last day off before the concert, and power gets cut to his toaster right before his bagel crisps up.

He tries to flip them back on. The lights flare up for a moment, promisingly strong, and then turn off again. So he puts his sad, lukewarm bagel on a plate and dials Adam’s—maintenance’s—number.

“Hey, John. Plumbing again?”

Fuck. “When do you take a day off? But, uh— no, not this time. I’ve got breakers flipping.”

“Eventually. I’ll be right over.”

John has time to eat his bagel and load the worst of his dishes into the dishwasher before Adam shows up. His t-shirt is less faded today—some sort of rodeo souvenir, with a peeling cowboy graphic—but he’s in the same flannel as the first time John saw him. It doesn’t look any cleaner now than it did then.

“How’s the plumbing?”

“It’s fine. I only heard it creak a few more times, so— probably just settling in.”

Adam nods, flipping the light switch by the front door a few times. Nothing happens. “So— power’s out right here, for sure. Where else?”

“Both kitchen breakers and the hall. Everything else was good last time I checked.”

“Cool.” He heads for the breaker box.

“I tried turning everything back on, but they wouldn’t stay on.”

Adam pulls the breaker box’s door open, flipping all of John’s breakers. The whole apartment goes quiet and dark. “I’ll give it thirty seconds. Could be there’s just an overload, or you might have an outlet using too much power.”

John doesn’t think one outlet would flip three breakers, but what does he know? He’s no electrician. “Does that happen a lot?”

“Which one? Yes, for both, but— between you and me, it’s almost always an outlet causing the trouble.” Adam flicks the breakers back on, moving methodically down the line.

It only takes a few seconds for the same three to flip again.

Adam hums, then turns away from the breakers to scan John’s kitchen. “You don’t seem to have too much shit plugged in. What were you doing when it turned off?”

“Using the toaster. But— surely the toaster wouldn’t make half my power go?”

He shrugs. “It happens. Try unplugging it for me?”

John steps over to unplug the toaster. His kitchen still smells like the bagel he’d tried to heat, and he makes a face before glancing back at Adam.

Adam flips the breakers again. The kitchen light comes back on, and John’s coffee maker beeps at them, and then there’s the now-familiar thunk of all three breakers as the power cuts out.

“So— not the toaster?” John asks.

Adam makes his rounds through the rest of the apartment, checking every outlet one by one. He looks puzzled when he meets John in the kitchen again, and John’s eyes stray to the crease between his eyebrows.

“Let me grab a few things and I’ll be right back. Could be something’s leaking voltage.”

“Doesn’t sound good.”

“Nah, it’s not too bad. Shouldn’t start a fire or anything, not with the breakers cut. Give me twenty minutes— sit tight.” Adam gives him a stupid little salute and heads out, and John’s so distracted by it that he gets confused when he opens his fridge and sees the light’s off.

It doesn’t seem like the full twenty minutes before Adam returns, only knocking twice before letting himself in. John likes that. He could get used to that level of familiarity.

Adam’s got a few extra tools, and John’s pretty sure he’s never seen any of them before in his life. “I’ll just test a few things,” he says, waving one of the tools around like John should know what it is. “Shouldn’t take long.”

“No hurry.” And John does mean it— sure, it’s his only day off, and he’s got a million things he should be doing around the apartment, and a million errands he should be running, and a million more things he should be doing for the concert, but he’s happy to let Adam wander around for as long as he’d like. “I’m not going anywhere. Uh, today. It’s my day off.”

And then he starts wondering if maybe that was an insensitive thing to say, considering Adam’s right here and working, but Adam just gives him that easygoing grin again.

“Even still. Won’t take long.”

John shuts up and sits down at his kitchen table, pulling the chair out at an angle so he can watch Adam work. It’s better than following him around the apartment. Adam has a system for whatever he’s doing— he unscrews an outlet cover, then sticks a tool into the wires behind it, waits a second, and moves to the next cover.

“So what—”

“Testing voltage,” Adam says without looking up, like he was waiting for John to ask. “With any luck there’ll be a visibly frayed wire or something, but— you know.”

John does not really know, but he nods. Then says, “I do,” when he realizes Adam can’t see him.

At a few of the outlets, Adam stops to tighten something. He messes with the wires in another outlet, and John hears him mumble something under his breath as he uses the first tool again, but the rest of the process seems to go smoothly. He smiles at John when he’s done with the final one. “Cross your fingers for me.”

John does. Then lifts his hand up so Adam can see.

Adam flips the breakers again.

The lights flicker back on and stay on, this time, and John lets his fingers uncross. “You’re the best.”

“Just doing my job,” Adam says, but he doesn’t meet John’s eyes as he waves a hand. “You had a few wires loose, so— could’ve just been that. Call me if it goes out again, okay? There’s always other stuff I can try. Checking fans, and lights, and— yeah.”

John nods. “Will do. I appreciate it. Where are you headed next? You have another work order, or—”

“Nah, not right now. I should be organizing our storage room, really— that’s our project for the month, and we’ve barely done a thing. There’s all these totes, and we don’t have room for— and then I knocked a box of screws off the shelf yesterday, and they went everywhere, all over the floor, just— everywhere. So I should be doing that between jobs.” Adam makes a face.

“Well, uh— if you’ve got a minute. You want any coffee? I didn’t have a chance to make a pot before my power went out.”

Adam looks taken aback. “Coffee? Yeah, sure, if you’re offering— I wouldn’t mind another cup.”

“Cool.” John busies himself with the coffeemaker, measuring out three times what he normally makes for himself. Just in case. “How do you take yours?”

“Black is fine.”

Cool. John makes a note of it (again, just in case) and starts the pot brewing. He pulls out two mugs, avoiding the souvenir mugs with stupid slogans in favor of the pair of solid red ones he thinks he somehow stole from his mom, and lines them up on the counter while the coffee drips. “Is it cold out today?”

“Yeah, uh— a bit.”

God, that was a dumb question. “I figured I should brave it at some point. Need to run a few errands.”

“I thought you weren’t going anywhere today.” His words sound teasing.

John looks up and Adam ducks his head. It must just be the lighting, but he looks flushed.

“Well, I mean— nowhere important. With a specific time for me to be there.”

“Your errands aren’t important?”

“They can wait. I could use a few groceries, and I should probably get my oil changed at some point, but— they can wait.”

Adam grins, then starts packing his tools in the bag around his waist. He doesn’t bother to take it off, even though John’s sure it would be easier, and John stares at the way the bag’s strap tugs at the top of his jeans, threatening to work them down.

It’s a relief when the coffee pot beeps at him. He pours out two mugs and offers one to Adam, keeping his eyes firmly on Adam’s face. “Here.”

“Thanks.” Adam takes it from him, and he seems cautious, fingers straying just shy of John’s. “I appreciate it. I keep asking my dad if we can replace the coffee pot Jeff broke last year, but we haven’t gotten around to it yet. It’s just been sitting in our workshop, totally useless— we should’ve made Jeff pay before he left for the complex down the road. But my dad was nice, and he shot it down when I mentioned it.”

John likes how animated he looks when he speaks, likes the way he moves the mug around, not noticing how close to spilling coffee everywhere he gets a few times. “Jeff was your old coworker?”

“Yeah. We’ve got Brandon now, and he’s pretty cool. He’s on call today too, but he’s secondary. We take turns. If I’m stuck in one apartment and someone calls me I’ll page him, so— it works.”

“Makes sense.”

Adam finally seems to notice his coffee. He takes a sip, closing his eyes. John has to bite down on the inside of his cheek to keep quiet.

“This is good, thanks.”

“Glad you like it. It’s just, uh—” John has to glance at his bag of grounds. “Folgers. But it’s good. I think.”

“Can’t go wrong with them.”

John nods. Sips his own coffee. “I, uh—”

Adam’s phone rings. He swears, digging for it with one hand while he balances his coffee with the other. A bit sloshes over the rim, but John pretends not to notice. “Harbor Commons maintenance.” A pause. “For sure, we can take a look. We’ll have someone out in just a minute.”

He hangs up, and looks at John, and John’s already gearing up to tell him that it’s fine, and of course he has to go, but he’s already hitting another button on the phone and lifting it to his ear.

“Brandon? Hey, 11A has a plumbing issue. Mind taking a look? I’d go, but I’m still— yeah. Thanks, man.”

John realises he’s had his mug lifted halfway to his mouth for the last thirty seconds and lowers it back to the counter. “Does this count as being stuck?”

“Course it does. I can’t leave till I finish my coffee.”

“I made plenty. If you need an excuse to be stuck for longer.”

Adam grins at him. “You did. I noticed.”

“What’s, uh— what’s it like working with your dad?”

“It’s nice,” Adam says, sipping his coffee again. “I thought it would drive me crazy, but I really don’t mind it. He’s not nearly as tough on me as he could be. As he should be, really. And I don’t live with him, so it’s not like I’m around him all the time, you know? There’s still some separation. Which is really all I need. I can’t imagine living and working together. I know this one family who owns a bar together, and it’s like—” he shudders. “They’re just together, all the time. I think I’d kill someone.”

“Sounds like hell.”

“I like my dad, but— man. If I hadn’t already moved out when we started working together it would’ve been the first step.”

“My parents are about an hour away. Which is close enough I can plan to visit them, but—”

“Still gives you space?”

“Exactly.”

“My dad lives here.” Adam nods towards John’s front door. “A few units over. Nice for the commute, but… I’m glad I opted for a different apartment.”

“It would suck to have something go wrong in your own apartment and be in charge of fixing it.”

Adam laughs, and it makes something warm bubble up in John’s chest. “Wouldn’t it?”

“Do you like doing maintenance?”

“I do. It’s nice to have something I can do with my hands, you know?”

John nods. “That’s what I like about my job. It feels— productive. Like I’m actually doing something. I can see my students improving, and it’s measurable improvement, and it beats anything else I could be doing.”

“Including being a youth pastor?”

“Especially being a youth pastor.”

Adam’s grinning at him, and John finds himself grinning back, and the apartment goes quiet. It’s a nice silence. His coffee is warm in his hands, and—as he watches—he sees Adam’s hands flexing around his mug, fingers curling to support it as he drinks. It makes John’s tongue feel dry, and he has to lift his own mug to his mouth.

He jumps as Adam’s phone rings again, nearly spilling coffee down his shirt.

Adam makes a face. “Harbor Commons maintenance. Oh— hey, Brandon. What’s— well, shit. Be right over.”

“Everything okay?”

He nods, gulping down the rest of his coffee. “Well— sort of. He needs some help with 11A— you remember how I told you I’ve seen worse? This is worse.”

“Shit. Good luck.”

“We’ll need it. Where should I—” Adam holds up his mug.

“I’ll take it.” John reaches out a hand for it. “Thanks again, by the way.”

“For what?”

“Fixing the power. And the pipes.”

“Doing my job?” Adam grins at him.

“That.”

Adam pushes himself away from the counter, straightening up and brushing off his jeans. “Thank you for the coffee. Call us if you need anything else, okay?”

“I will.” John has to bite his tongue to keep himself from thanking Adam again.

Once the front door closes behind him and the apartment’s empty again, John drinks the rest of the pot by himself, sitting at his kitchen table.

He’s got too much to do to worry about Adam, or his breakers, or anything other than the concert looming over his head. He can have a crisis later.

John’s just rolled out of bed and gone to start his coffee (only enough for one person today, something he feels weird about for a split second before he reminds himself it’s normal) when he hears the sound of the breakers thunking off again.

He groans and abandons the coffee maker, heading back to his bedroom to get dressed in the dark. It seems to be out everywhere, this time— his lights had worked yesterday, but the switch does nothing when he flips it a few times. Naturally.

He brushes his teeth in the dark, too, then calls Adam—maintenance. He has to remember it’s maintenance’s number—while he tugs on his shoes. The phone goes to voicemail.

“Hey, uh— this is John from 15C, and I had Ad— one of your workers out here yesterday. My breakers flipped again, and it seems like it’s the whole apartment, this time. If you could give me a call back, or— just stop by whenever, actually. I won’t be home, but you can come in. Thanks.”

He ends the call, feeling like the dumbest person in the world even though he can’t quite articulate why, and leaves the apartment. He has just enough time to swing through a Dunkin on his way to the studio.

By the time he gets home, his lights are back on. There’s a little work order slip on his kitchen table, too, signed by someone who definitely wasn’t Adam, and John peruses it while he microwaves a cup of grocery store ramen. With any luck, this means that Adam finally got his day off. With John’s luck, it probably means he’s joined Adam’s list of people he considers one of those tenants.

Adam never left a work order slip for him, though. John kind of wishes he had.

“Mrs. Hunt—”

“She just doesn’t get why her teacher can’t be here, and I can’t figure out what to tell her.” Mrs. Hunt’s been running back and forth across the venue for half an hour, chasing her kid—one of Tina’s students—long enough that her claw clip is coming loose, and John is starting to feel just as frazzled as she looks. “She doesn’t understand health problems. She’s six.”

And I knew what getting sick was long before that, John wants to say. He nods sympathetically instead, looking past Mrs. Hunt’s shoulder at the other assorted kids who, thankfully, are sitting a lot more still than— Ellie, he wants to say. He hopes that’s right. “I know, Mrs. Hunt, and I am sorry. I wish she was here too.”

“This went so smoothly last year,” she laments, then darts a few steps to catch Ellie by the arm again. “Sit down, my god. Anyway, Mr. Nolan, we appreciate you. It’s just—”

“Not the same,” John finishes for her. “I know.”

God, he wishes Tina was here. He wishes Ron was here. Anyone who could act as a buffer. Talking to parents has never been the easy part of this job.

“John, can we just run through it one more time?” It’s one of his student’s dads—Andy, he thinks the guy’s name is, a balding man who looks vaguely like one of his middle school teachers—and he’s got an expression almost as panicked as Mrs Hunt’s. “Liam’s so nervous.”

Liam is sitting with his junior-size guitar abandoned in the case next to him, messing with what John thinks might be a Venom action figure that’s missing a limb or two. He smashes the action figure into the side of his guitar case, making a whooshing noise, then digs through his backpack for another equally mangled toy and crashes them together, whispering what John’s sure is dialogue while they fight. He hasn’t paid attention to a single thing John’s said all evening.

“So nervous,” Andy repeats.

“I’m sure.”

“Ellie, sit down.”

“Mr. Nolan, you did make sure the reception after will be nut-free, right?”

God, he hopes Ron remembered that when he arranged catering.

“I—”

“John, I just think one more time would do it. Just so Liam remembers.”

“Ellie!”

“You’re dead,” Liam announces triumphantly. He’s thrown his other action figure across the room, and John has to retrieve the torn-up Spider-Man from a box of programs.

The poor figure looks like he’s seen better days. John can commiserate.

“Okay,” he says. “Okay, okay. From the top. One more time.”

If he doesn’t quit before the recital it’ll be a miracle.

He doesn’t like to do it often, but he leaves his guitar in the car and runs into the liquor store down the road from his apartment. The rehearsal had lasted a good forty-five minutes longer than he’d hoped, and everyone still seemed panicked by the time they left, and John’s going to lose his mind if he doesn’t sit down with a beer and a bad TV show before bed.

He’s got a hand on one six-pack, debating whether he actually cares enough to spend an extra couple of bucks on something decent instead, when someone clears their throat behind him. He starts, taking a step to the left.

“Don’t get the Coors.”

John pulls his hand back. “You have a recommendation?”

“Always.” Adam grins at him, and he looks even taller, somehow, when he’s not in John’s apartment. He doesn’t leave that much of a space between them when he steps in, lifting another case. “This one, if you like an IPA.”

“I’ll never say no to one.” John accepts it, letting the cardboard handle dig into his fingers. He could thank Adam and walk up to the counter, but he lingers, watching Adam glancing through the fridge. “What are you hunting for?”

“Whatever looks good, I guess. For my dad. I’m headed over to his place for dinner, and he asked me to stop by, but—” Adam shrugs. “He’s not the best at telling me what to grab. That man won’t answer a question to save his life. You know how dads are— or how mine is, at least.”

“Do dads like Guinness?”

“I think so?” Adam hesitates, but picks up the case. “Might give it a shot. He complained about the IPA I brought last time.”

“Process of elimination.”

Adam smiles again, turning to John. The combination of fridge and overhead lighting casts strange shadows on his face, and John can’t quite manage to take his eyes off him.

“I should probably get over to my dad’s.”

“And I should get home. Gotta sleep while I can.”

“Is the big day tomorrow?”

“Two days. We had our rehearsal earlier, so I’ll just be wrapping up some final lessons tomorrow. And calling to confirm catering. And decor. And making sure everyone can still make it in. And—”

“You’ll be fine.”

John takes a deep breath. Exhales. It sounded so matter-of-fact coming from Adam, like he didn’t doubt for a second that John would get through this. “I hope so. I’m sure I’ll have plenty to tell you next time something breaks in my apartment.”

“Or—” Adam cuts himself off. He rubs a hand over the back of his neck, fucking up his hair that, for once, had just looked sort of combed. “Yeah. Good luck, okay?”

“Thank you.” John’s voice is too soft.

“Course. I’ll see you around.”

Adam heads for the register, and John hangs back by the beer for a minute so he can pay and leave the store. He’s not interested in walking in the same direction once they’ve said goodbye. It never feels good.

Adam glances at him before he leaves and gives a little wave, then he’s out the front door, setting the bell jingling. John waits another fifteen seconds—counting them out in his head, adding Mississippi after each number—and approaches the register himself, showing ID when the woman asks and trying not to look out at the parking lot. He does think he sees Adam drive off, but he attempts not to pay attention.

The lot’s empty when he leaves. He’s sort of disappointed.

The last day before the recital is just as crazy as he’d assumed it would be. He calls catering while he’s getting ready to leave the house, and they put him on hold—he has to listen to Christmas elevator music while he brushes his teeth and collects his stuff, holding the phone awkwardly between his ear and shoulder until he remembers speakerphone is a thing—and then they have to double check that yes, the booking is still good, and no, there’s no nuts in anything, and yes, the balance was paid in advance, and no, he won’t need to do anything day of, and then he’s finally able to leave the house and rush to lessons.

His students are all on edge, and he’s on edge, and it’s the least productive day he’s maybe ever had. But all the guitars are back in their cases by four, and he’s ushered the last kid out the door and cut off conversation with the last parent by four-fifteen, and now all he has to do before he can head home is visit the venue to make sure the decor is in place and everything will be ready to go by five tomorrow, when he’s told all the students to show up to tune their instruments.

The venue does look very nice when he walks in, he has to admit.

There’s a few Christmas trees scattered around, one by the entry doors and a couple flanking the door into the actual concert hall, and they’ve been decorated tastefully with strands of warm lights and metallic ornaments. The stage has a couple of smaller trees, shrubs really, lit with the same warm lighting, and the piano (an upright— Ron had vehemently opposed renting a grand for the occasion) is covered with fake snow and a few candles. The programs are already set by the door. Everything’s clean, and folding tables are set up in the reception room for catering, and John’s going to be just fine.

He chats with the staff for a few minutes, just to clear the remaining nerves, and heads back to his car. The temperature’s dropping— at least it’s on theme. Last year’s Christmas concert was held on a day in the mid sixties, and John had sweated through the wool blend turtleneck he’d bought for the occasion.

John gets his car started, and he’s in the middle of buckling his seatbelt when his mom calls about Christmas plans. And then he’s home, and hanging up the phone, and he manages to get all the way inside before the nerves hit him again in full force.

“Welcome,” he mumbles, digging through his fridge. It doesn’t sound quite right. He straightens up and changes tactics. “Hi, everyone— fuck.”

While his dinner spins in the microwave, he stares at the rotating tupperware and tries to think. “Welcome to— hello, thanks for— happy to see you all—”

The microwave beeps.

He doesn’t have much of an appetite for reheated takeout, but he forces it down anyway and scrawls out ideas on the back of that work order from a few days ago. It doesn’t have to be good. He just has to greet everyone, and then the kids will play, and then it’ll be over and he won’t have to think about another concert till summer. And he can force Tina and Ron to do the work for that one. He’ll plan his own vacation. Or get sick.

John’s pretty settled on “Hello everyone, and welcome to” as his opening phrase by the time he heads to bed. He’s not sure about the rest of the speech yet, but at least he’s got that down. It’ll be fine.

By four the next afternoon, John is absolutely certain that it will not be fine. He can’t think of a single thing to say to the parents, and he’s got the feeling that he’ll show up to the venue and find something completely, irredeemably messed up, and the whole event will be a trainwreck, and he’ll have to go into hiding and change his name and Adam will never know what happened to him. Not that Adam would care, but— maybe he would. John hopes he would.

He puts the (itchy) wool blend turtleneck from last year back on, since he doesn’t think he owns anything else nearly nice enough. And tries to fix his hair. And then he drags his guitar out to the car, and makes sure he has all his notes, and everything he could possibly need to run an event, and then he sits in the driver’s seat for a few minutes, leaning his head against the wheel and staring at the dashboard.

His phone alarm—set that morning after he spent half an hour worrying he’d somehow manage to miss the event entirely—goes off at four-fifteen, and he starts, then takes a deep breath. It’s just one night. He’ll get through it. He will.

“Hello everyone,” he mumbles, fumbling with his keys. “And welcome to—”

His car makes a sputtering noise.

John lets go of his keys, leaving them hanging in the ignition. Then tries again, turning harder, gritting his teeth as the car sputters again, engine trying valiantly to turn over.

“Fuck. No, not today, you are not doing this to me.”

The third time he tries, the car only gets halfway through a sputter before going quiet.

“Fuck.”

He pops the hood and looks inside, but he can’t see a thing out of the ordinary. He’s never been a car guy. It all looks like— like a car, and since nothing’s leaking or on fire, he has no idea where to even start.

His second phone alarm goes off. Four-twenty.

John turns it off and makes a call.

“Harbor Com— John?”

“There’s no chance you’d know how to fix a car, is there?”

Adam pulls his car next to John’s in less than four minutes. John would know— he’s been anxiously watching the numbers change on his phone screen.

“What’s the matter with it?”

“It won’t start. I don’t know if it’s the battery, or— or what, but— I’ve got like half an hour to make it to the venue, or I’ll be late, and I’m the only one to run the show, and—”

“Okay. Hop in.”

John blinks at him.

Adam opens his passenger door. “Come on.”

“What?”

“I don’t know a thing about cars. But I’ll drive you. Get in— I’m not letting you miss your concert.”

John’s speechless, but he pulls himself together and moves all his stuff into Adam’s backseat. “You’re sure?” he asks, even as he transfers his guitar. “I could try to call a cab, or—”

“Sure.”

“But you’re working— I don’t want to get you in trouble.” John lets Adam usher him into the passenger seat.

“Don’t worry.” Adam shuts his door, then circles the car. “I told my dad I had to take the night off. He’s got it handled.”

“You did?”

“I mean— I can’t fix a car. I figured I’d drive you.” Adam places his hand behind John’s headrest as he backs up, and John swallows his tongue. “Where are we headed?”

“Shit.” John fights to get his phone out of his back pocket, pulling up maps. “Downtown— uh, take a left.”

Adam’s not a particularly good driver, but John’s so grateful he can’t even begin to care. Adam (mostly) follows his directions, and they only make the wrong turn once, and they pull into the parking lot with roughly five minutes to spare. John scrambles to unload.

Adam helps him get everything out of the car, but he hesitates as John starts to head inside. “Do you want— I can come in, or pick you up later, or—”

“There’s a reception after. Free food, if you want to stay.”

His mouth quirks. “I would want to stay anyway.”

John doesn’t have time to process Adam’s words or let himself think about the physical reaction they induce in his chest. He nods. “Then come in. Please.”

He’s immediately waylaid by Mrs. Hunt, who looks absolutely horrified. “Mr. Nolan, we thought you weren’t coming. Where have you been?”

“Car trouble, I’m here, it’s fine— not quite five yet, we’re okay.”

“It’s four fifty-six.”

“See? Not quite five.” John forces a smile and steps past her, gesturing for Adam to follow.

“And who’s this?”

He pretends he didn’t hear, sidestepping Ellie as she sprints after her mom. “Hey, Ellie. Nice dress.”

“There are a lot of people,” Adam whispers, hands tucked in his pockets as he watches John unload his guitar by the stage. “You’re in charge of all of them?”

“Unfortunately.”

“I feel underdressed.”

John looks him over, shaking his head. “There’s always a few dads who show up in shorts. You’re fine. You look, um.” He clears his throat. “Nice. Don’t worry.”

“Mr. Nolan?”

John glances up from his guitar. “What’s up, Liam?”

“Can Venom play my song with me? My dad said I have to ask you.”

“Yeah, of course he can. Make sure you practice before your turn, okay?”

Liam beams at him, showing off a gap in his teeth that John doesn’t think he’s seen before. “I’ll make him practice too.”

“You do that, bud. Tell your dad I said it was fine.”

Adam’s grinning at John when he looks back at him. “Venom?”

“He’s got this toy— you’ll see.”

“How are you feeling?”

John exhales, not answering while he runs through a quick scale and adjusts his tuning. “Okay,” he says finally. “I think. We’ll see what happens when I actually have to talk, but—”

“I’ll be cheering you on.”

John doesn’t quite know how to handle the way Adam’s looking at him— his gaze is fond, confident, dark eyes meeting John’s steadily.

“Or maybe not cheering. This doesn’t seem like a cheering kind of concert.”

He laughs, ducking his head. It’s easier to talk when he can’t see Adam watching him. “You can clap. I think that much is allowed.”

“I can do that. Am I allowed to sit in the front row?”

“You might have to fight a bunch of parents with cameras for a spot.”

“I’ll aim for the second, then.”

“Good call.”

John props his guitar up by his chair on the stage, and then he loses track of Adam for a bit in the hurry to get everyone ready. It’s an absolute cacophony— the tuning guitars aren’t too bad, but all of Ron’s students have violins, and the sound of twenty kids sawing at their out-of-tune instruments is grating. He gets his own students situated, then helps the violinists, and slowly the noise subsides.

Just in time, too— it’s five-fifty, now, and the remaining Christmas concert attendees are beginning to show. John ushers the students back to their seats, makes sure everyone has their cases stowed away or leaned against a wall so nothing can get stepped on or sat on, makes sure everyone has the list of who’s playing in what order, and then hangs out by the stage for a few minutes while everyone else files in.

Adam’s over to the side, last seat to the left in the third row back, and John catches sight of him right after he stops moving. He’s watching John—not chatting with anyone, not moving in his seat, just staring—and he gives John a broad smile when their eyes meet.

John’s going to lose his mind.

But then it’s six, and then it’s five past, and the front doors haven’t been opened for a minute or so, and John musters up every bit of his courage and takes the stage. There’s a microphone near the front, ready for kids to play violin into, and he lifts the height of the stand and clears his throat.

“Hi, everyone, and welcome to our tenth annual Christmas Concert.”

There’s a round of polite applause, and John’s eyes are fixed on Adam in the third row, whose smile seems to have only grown.

“I’m so happy you could all make it out tonight to see what our students have been practicing for the last few months. A bit of housekeeping, first,” John says, and then—somehow—the rest of his talk is a blur. He finishes up to another round of applause, and the first student walks onto the stage with their violin, and all John has to do is lower the microphone and escape to the side while the violin students play.

He can feel eyes on him the whole time. It would normally make him nervous, but—every time he looks over—nobody’s paying any attention to him besides Adam.

The violin students finish up after about forty minutes, and John takes the stage again to accompany his own students. It goes smoothly. Thank god it goes smoothly, and even Liam bringing Venom on stage doesn’t disrupt the program’s flow. His final student finishes up, and he carries his chair and guitar off the stage to make room for Tina’s piano students, and then the concert ends and John reaches for the microphone again.

“Once again, a big thank you to all our students and to everyone who came out to see them play. Mrs. Ledford and Mr. O’Brian both wish they could have been here, and they’ve told me to send their love to all of you. For everyone who can stick around, we’ve got a reception downstairs. Have a good night.”

Short and sweet. He escapes the stage to a more distracted round of applause as parents start to gather up their children’s things.

John loses track of Adam once again in the chaos, but he’s able to stay out of the worst of it this time. Only a few people flag him down on his way to the reception, and the first thing he sees when he does finally make it downstairs is Adam, fingers wrapped around a paper cup that seems too small for his hand. He’s leaning against a wall in the corner, avoiding the crush of kids and parents around the tables of food.

John doesn’t bother to brave the crowd for food before he approaches him. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Adam says back. He’s not smiling, but he’s watching John, eyes fixed on him. “You were great. I thought you would be.”

“I’m just glad it’s over,” John confesses, taking a step closer and lowering his voice so none of the students will overhear him.

“You were great,” he says again. “Really. I couldn’t even tell you were nervous.”

“You didn’t see me shaking?”

He does smile then. “Not for a second.”

“Hopefully that means nobody else did, either.”

“I guess you’re required to stick around until everyone’s gone home?”

“Unfortunately.” John glances at the tables. They’re mostly picked over, now, everyone chatting while they eat. “You don’t have to stay, though. I can find a ride home if you need to go.”

Adam shakes his head. “Not a chance.”

“You—” John has to cut himself off. “Thanks. I owe you one.”

“I owed you one for the coffee.”

John waves a hand. “The coffee was nothing. You left work to drive me across town.”

“I really didn’t mind.”

There’s a tug on John’s pants, and he looks down to see Ellie. “Mr. Nolan, Mama said I should say bye. Bye.”

She’s gone before John can say a word. He waves after her anyway.

“Mr. Nolan.”

“Don’t start,” John says, turning back to him. Adam looks so pretty like this, tall and strong, all his focus on John. “I wanted everyone to call me John, but Tina insisted. Said it was more professional this way.”

“You don’t strike me as a very professional guy.”

“Not at all.”

Adam looks like he wants to say more, but he raises his too-small cup to his mouth instead.

Ellie and Mrs. Hunt were the first to leave, but everyone else trickles out over the next couple of minutes. John chats with catering and the venue staff—everything gets packed and cleaned and carried outside—and then it’s like the event had never happened and John’s carrying his guitar back out to Adam’s car, now the only vehicle in the lot.

It’s colder now, and the sky’s clouded over— John’s grateful all over again that Adam drove him, and that he isn’t waiting by the curb for a cab.

“Thanks again for waiting for me.”

Adam pulls open the back door, holding it for him. “You really don’t have to thank me.”

“I really do.” John sets his guitar in the back, then straightens up. Adam hasn’t moved— he’s got his hand on the top of the door, and he’s watching John, a strange look on his face. “I do. I’ll have to make it up to you.”

“You could buy me coffee.”

John starts to open his mouth. Then closes it. He thinks he know what Adam’s getting at, but— then again, coffee could just be coffee.

“Or dinner,” Adam continues. He’s stuttering a little, and John doesn’t think it’s the cold. “Your choice. Just—”

“Both?” John asks.

Adam pauses. “Both?”

“I could buy you coffee. And dinner.”

Adam eases the car door shut. There’s nothing left between them but air, and John doesn’t think he can breathe it if he tried.

“You’d wanna be around me that long?”

“Of course I— fuck, come here,” John says, and then they’re kissing, John’s back cold where he’s leaned up against the car, Adam’s fingers frosty in his hair.

“Coffee,” he says when Adam pulls back. “Tomorrow, if you can.”

“Tomorrow,” Adam echoes. “And I’ll try to jump your car.”

“And you’ll come over without trying to fix anything.”

Adam kisses him again, and John doesn’t have to tell him that he’d rather take the car to a professional, since it’s taken Adam two tries to fix every maintenance call John’s made. Or that he’d rather just have Adam drive him around for a while longer, even though he’s just as mediocre at driving as he is at installing plumbing.

John can deal with creaking pipes and flipping breakers for the rest of his life if it gives Adam the chance to keep kissing him just like this.