Archive of Our Own ^beta

March, 2010

It’s been long enough that John’s almost lost two sets of memories.

Even when he tries, he has trouble recalling the way that last week felt. There were a few years where, every time he looked at his phone, all he could feel was that familiar, miserable burn of waiting and wanting deep in his chest. Now it’s hard to remember the call that never came.

The months and months of nothing are even harder to remember. They blur together whenever he tries to think about them, until it seems impossible to picture a time when Adam wasn’t in his life. The guilt, though. That isn’t difficult to pull back up, even though most of it belongs to some other version of him that never really existed at all. There’s still the what-ifs, though, and those are enough to make the guilt hide in the very back of his head and curl like smoke into his memories, making them all just slightly blurry and vague.

For some, it’s easier when they’re blurry. For others, he wishes they were just as sharp as they used to be.

This, walking into an unfamiliar house right behind Adam, feels like one of his sharper memories. They’re older now. Adam’s not on dangerous amounts of painkillers. But some things are still familiar. Some things haven’t changed at all, and the glance Adam throws over his shoulder at him while he lugs a guitar case through the door is one thing John’ll always be happy to see.

“Remind you of anything?” he asks.

Adam shrugs, clearly not processing John’s question. “Not a bad house, right? Plenty of room, good practice, uh, space.” He leaves his suitcase by the hallway table and spins on his heel to head back outside. “Good writing space.”

John’s left to look around while he waits for Adam to come back. The others are on their way, still a few hours out (at least, that’s what Adam said last time he asked), and the house is quiet. He almost tries to listen for footsteps, even though this is nothing like Adam’s family home. This house is all hardwood, not carpet. There’s no wood paneling on the walls. The glimpses of kitchen appliances he can see from the entryway are too new, sunlight glinting off of something metal just out of sight.

“Remind me of what?”

John turns to look at him. “Oh—nothing. Need a hand?”

September, 2002

John’s not feeling particularly brave, but he is feeling more in love than he’s ever been, and he thinks maybe the two are close enough to be identical when it really matters.

Like now, when Adam’s laid up on the pillows, lids heavy and drowsy and covering most of his all-pupils eyes, and those eyes keep flicking to him, over and over again, until John’s pretty sure Adam’s just been looking at him the whole time and his glances are away from him rather than towards him. His dad’s just a room or two away. John can hear his footsteps, but they’re background noise. All his focus is on Adam.

“You didn’t have to,” Adam says. Again. His voice is a little soft, his words slurred, painkillers making his tongue clumsy. He’s stuttering less than he usually does, and John misses the way he talks when he isn’t half asleep and walking through every word deliberately. He likes the way Adam rushes sentences. He likes the way he jumps stories and has to double back.

“I know.”

John did have to, but he doesn’t want to argue the point with Adam. There was no world in which he wouldn’t have followed Adam back to his dad’s house to watch him while he recovered.

Adam’s eyes stutter for him, dancing circles around them both before his gaze returns to John. “You—”

“What kind of,” John pauses here. “Friend would I be if I let you come all the way out here alone?”

And oh, he’s fucked—Adam’s attention zeroes in on him, until he thinks they’re the only two people in the world. Maybe this is where it really matters. Maybe he’ll have to ignore the door that’s cracked behind him and shift forward.

Maybe the footsteps still echoing out in the house will be enough to keep him from being brave, after all.

March, 2010

Adam hums while he unpacks.

John doesn’t know these tunes. They’re not old music, and they’re not from the albums he had nothing to do with, and he wants to ask about them. He almost does, but Adam looks up at him from where he’s kneeling by the dresser and John forgets how to speak.

“Staring.”

“Sure am.” He lowers himself to the floor by Adam’s side. The suitcase by his knees is a wreck, graphic tees and jeans and balled up socks jumbled together haphazardly. Adam’s never learned how to pack. “I don’t know that song.”

Adam takes a shirt from him when he holds it up, folding it twice and tossing it in a drawer. “You don’t have to help.”

“I know.”

That’s familiar, too. So is the way Adam’s hand feels when it brushes his, and the smile he gives John a second later, small and soft, like it’s a secret between them.

“Hey,” John says, just as soft.

There’s a faint line on Adam’s temple that wasn’t there in his old memories, curving down onto his cheek. It’s healed well. John’s glad—he remembers white gauze layered over Adam’s face. The beep of a hospital monitor.

“Hey?”

“Promise me something?”

Adam nods. He’s got another shirt in his hands, and he crumples it when he turns to give John his full attention. It’s harder to see the scar from this angle.

“If this doesn’t work.”

“This?” Adam asks, but his tone doesn’t sound much like a question. He knows what John’s saying. “It hasn’t worked before, and. We’re here. Aren’t we?”

John manages to smile.

It feels different this time. There’s been a lot of second chances, and neither of them have screwed anything up, not yet, but it took the band to fuck them up the first time. He’s got Adam back. Maybe that should be enough for him.

Adam drops the shirt back in the suitcase and leans close until they’re nearly nose to nose and John has to focus strangely to look at him. “John Nolan. If you think I’d let anything keep me from calling you this time, you’re dumber than you look.”

John has to kiss him.

They’re still kneeling by the dresser when another car pulls up outside, and there’s no going back then. John’s less frightened than he was. Or maybe he’s just feeling braver because of Adam, and that’s another thing that’s so familiar it makes his chest feel warm.

Whatever happens in the coming weeks, he thinks they’ll be okay. He’s not going anywhere this time.

September, 2002

John’s saved from a decision on any displays of bravery when Adam falls asleep, his heavy eyes finally slipping shut.

He looks good when he’s sleeping. The discomfort on his face has eased, and his stress lines have disappeared, and he looks relaxed for the first time since John helped him inside. John has a book with him, and he considers trying to nap in his armchair, but ends up just staring at Adam until he stirs again.

“Ow.”

John winces in sympathy and reaches for Adam’s glass. “Here. You slept through your next dose.”

“I can tell,” Adam complains. He pushes himself back up, though, and watches John shake out a pill from the bottle on the nightstand, then swallows it when John hands it over. “Have you been sitting here the whole time?”

He nods.

“I’m sorry.” Adam sounds like he means it. “You didn’t have—”

“If you tell me one more time I didn’t need to be here, I’ll have to kill you. Happy birthday, by the way. You slept through midnight, too.”

Adam goes quiet. He’s got this funny look on his face when John looks back at him, almost like the pill he swallowed might’ve gotten stuck in his throat. “You really wanted to come.”

“I did.”

“Then,” Adam says. He stops there, and chews on his words for a minute, then clears his throat. “I’m glad you’re here. I needed you.”

And it doesn’t actually matter that the door’s still not quite closed, or that his dad’s room is right down the hall, or that Adam’s eyes go wide when he leans in. What does matter is that Adam kisses him back, and that he doesn’t pull away when there’s a creak out in the hallway that sounds sort of like a door, but might just be the house settling, and he laughs into John’s mouth when his searching fingers knock John’s glasses askew.

“My dad,” Adam whispers when they do finally part. He’s breathless.

“Don’t care. I’m glad I’m here, too.”

Adam reaches up to fix John’s glasses, and they’re kissing again, and John keeps just enough attention on the door to watch for Adam’s dad (because he does care, no matter what he tells Adam). They kiss until the new painkillers kick in and Adam goes all pliant against him.

“Brave,” Adam says, his eyes closed. “John Nolan.”

“That’s me.”

“John.”

John presses one final kiss to the corner of Adam’s mouth and squeezes his hand. He wants this forever. “Get some sleep. I’ll be here when you wake up.”